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In the cool, salt-shadowed antechamber of the manse, Viserys Targaryen received the fruit of the Swordswoman's labors. She had not brought him a bravo or a common sellsword, but a genuine knight of the Seven Kingdoms.
The man was perhaps forty, his hair a salt-and-pepper shock that spoke of years spent under foreign suns. He was robust, his frame hardened by a life of violence, but he wore no silk. His attire was a pragmatic suit of boiled leather and a surcoat that had seen better days, embroidered with two crossed black warhammers in a saltire—the sigil of House Lake of Duskendale.
As the knight's gaze fell upon Viserys, his eyes clouded with a sudden, raw emotion. He dropped to one knee, the leather of his armor creaking in the silence.
"Your Majesty. Your Highnesses," the knight whispered, his voice thick. "I did not know a true dragon still breathed in Braavos. Had I known, I would have found you years ago. I thought... I thought the Swordswoman was spinning me a tavern tale."
Viserys stepped forward, his violet eyes locking onto the warhammers. He remembered the history: House Lake had risen from the ashes of the Darklyn rebellion, eternally indebted to Aerys II for their elevation. "Ser Roland Lake," Viserys said, recognizing the man's lineage. "Duskendale's loyal sons."
"I am but a distant branch of the tree, Your Majesty," Roland replied, still kneeling. "But I am a knight, anointed in the Light of the Seven and sworn to the dragon."
Viserys reached out and helped the man to his feet. In the lonely mists of the Free Cities, meeting a countryman who still held the old loyalties was like finding a guttering candle in a gale.
The Swordswoman smiled, sensing her work was done. "The man you sought has been found, King Viserys. Now, if you will excuse me, my pleasure barge requires my attention. Business never sleeps, even for dragons." She was a creature of Braavos—perceptive enough to stay out of the politics of restoration, and shrewd enough to know she had earned a powerful favor.
"Your kindness will be repaid," Viserys promised, seeing her out.
When the door closed, he turned back to Roland. "How did you find your way to the lagoon, Ser?"
"I was at the Trident," Roland said, the wrinkles on his face deepening like knife marks. "I saw the Prince fall. When the line broke and the leaderless army began to melt away, I knew King's Landing would be a slaughterhouse. My house had... offended Tywin Lannister years prior. I did not dare return to wait for his 'mercy.' I fled across the sea."
"How did your house offend the Lion?" Viserys asked.
"A foolish joke, Your Majesty. At a feast for the Lady Cersei's presentation, my patriarch made a comment regarding Lord Tywin's legendary ability to 'produce gold.' Tywin did not laugh. He simply stared until my lord turned tail and fled the hall. The Lannisters have long memories. I heard later that after the sack, my kin were coerced into taking the black."
Viserys nodded. He knew his father, the Mad King, had spent his final years lashing out at Tywin, humiliating his Hand until the bridge between them was ash. House Lake had simply been caught in the crossfire of a madman's bullying.
"You fulfilled your duty," Viserys said, offering no judgment. "When the dragon died at the river, the realm died with him. You chose survival over a pointless execution."
"I have spent these years as a sellsword," Roland admitted, his shame visible. "Fighting Dothraki, Lyseni, Myrmen—whoever had the coin. The Golden Company tried to recruit me, but I would not serve the Black Dragon's ghosts. My heart belongs to the Red."
He knelt once more, his hand reaching for the hilt of his sword. "If you do not disdain a failed man, Your Majesty, allow me to serve. I have no home but your shadow. If I can see the three-headed dragon fly over the Red Keep once more, I will die content."
Viserys drew his Valyrian steel dagger, the dark, rippled metal catching the candlelight. He touched it lightly to Roland's shoulder. "Rise, Ser Roland. You are the first knight of my new Kingsguard. You have been a traveler, but now you are home."
Rhaenys watched the old knight with a mix of curiosity and pity. He reminded her of the stories of the Great Bear, Ser Jorah—a man displaced, skilled with bow and horse, surviving in the East but longing for the West. But where Jorah was a man of shifting loyalties, Roland Lake was a staunch Royalist, a piece of the old order finally returned to the board.
"I have been a deserter," Roland said, rising with a glimmer of hope in his eyes. "But I will be a shield for as long as I have breath."
Viserys looked at his first soldier. The "Beggar King" finally had a knight. The restoration was no longer just a song or a meal—it had found its first blade.
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