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Chapter Text

The Red Keep - Seventh Moon, 283 AC

He was a kingsguard—a knight of the highest order, among the likes of legends. It was something like a fairy tale, some story he and his brothers would tell one another back at Sunhouse, in their youth.

Of course, all those heroes were gone, traitors, or dead. Information was hard to come by these days, but Raymund knew nothing good came from beyond the walls of King’s Landing. The kingsguard hadn’t fared well in the past few months, and he feared worse was to come.

Barren, that was the only word that Raymund would use to describe their vaunted order. Gerold Hightower, Arthur Dayne and Oswell Whent had vanished off the face of Westeros following Harrenhal, nowhere to be seen even when Rhaegar returned.. Lewyn Martell and Jonothor Darry had fallen at the Trident, sacrificing themselves like good soldiers should. Barristan Selmy - well, the less said about him, the better. 

Jaime was the only one left - a boy of six and ten, still wet behind the ears. Raymund couldn’t help but feel sorry for the lad, despite the fact that he was in the same boat.

Raymund wasn’t the only one to receive a White Cloak. No, far from it. With the status of Rhaegar’s Kingsguard still up in the air, Aerys could only appoint another three. Raymund was the first, followed by Jorgen Massey, the Lord of Stonedance’s stone-faced grandson. Lyonel Ryger was the last, a monster made flesh, wounded in the Battle of the Bells- now recovered. Raymund liked him not, but when Aerys said the words the two became sworn brothers. Four white beacons, dim in the light of wildfire. 

He hated it, but burning to death was worse.

The brotherhood had naught to do but guard their king - and worry. Worry while the madman burned all his perceived dissenters, while Wisdom Rossart spewed out more and more secrets of fire. Jaime told Raymund of all the times he’d been forced to wait beyond Rhaella’s chambers - how this was nothing. Raymund hadn’t known what to say.

“We’re knights,” Jaime had confided in him, while Qarlton Chelsted was shackled to the stake. “Why must we do nothing in the face of such horror? Why must we break our oaths to follow the others?”

Raymund hadn’t known what to say to that, either. “This will all be over soon,” he’d told the boy, hoping to calm him. There was naught else to be done, not as flesh sloughed to the floor. Raymund closed his eyes, and he prayed.

Blessedly, the Seven answered.

King Aerys sent him to Dragonstone, along with the young Prince Viserys and the Queen. “The city is too dangerous for my wife, as frail as she is,” said the madman, atop his molten throne. “Pregnancy has never been easy for her. Dragonstone would suit her well, as it has our family in years past. Ser Raymund, you will escort her.”

Next to Aerys, Rhaella stood, bowing to her lord husband. The powder did little to hide her scars, which in turn did little to hide her beauty. “Thank you, Your Grace. Your consideration in these harrowing times is not unnoticed.”

Tyrian eyes twinkled, a mix of amusement and anger dancing in wild harmony. “Yes, yes,” said the King. “I am ever considerate of my dutiful wife. Just… don’t forget the purpose of your visit.”

“I am to await my pregnancy, and birth a wife for Viserys,” Rhaella recited, a flicker of fear trembling across her features. “Then, once the war has been won and the rebel Baratheon burnt, I shall return to resume my wifely duties, and bear you more heirs.”

“Yes. Your duties. Good.” Aerys’ claws waved, and Rhaella was dismissed. Raymund followed behind the Queen, outwardly a dutiful, beaten hound, tame for his master. But inside, his soul was soaring.

He was free.  

Jaime was the first to say goodbye, waiting in the Round Room until it was time for a shift change. As Raymund was returning, the boy embraced him, murmuring and doing his best to hold in the fear he felt. Raymund had forgotten how singularly young the heir of Casterly Rock actually was, but it all came rushing back in that moment. In a way, Raymund was abandoning Jaime to Aerys’ clutches, leaving him with solemn Jorgen Massey and vicious Lyonel Ryger. Raymund was free, while Jaime sat as a hostage to the Mad Dragon.

“I’m sorry, Jaime,” Raymund whispered, trying to make the boy understand that Raymund wasn’t any stronger than him. Raymund didn’t feel like a man of twenty and nine, older and wiser than his compatriot. He felt like a boy whose body had aged ahead of him, caught in a never-ending catchup race with time. He couldn’t do any more for Jaime than Jaime could have for him. “Be strong.”

Jorgen Massey gave a stiff goodbye when he heard, and Lyonel laughed bitterly. “Running to Dragonstone, are we?”

“I was assigned, by His Grace himself-”

“Sure, sure,” the knight sneered. “Hide well, Cuy. We’ll win the war without you.”

Raymund had nearly challenged his brother on the spot, were he not worried that any injuries incurred would prevent him from performing his duty to Her Grace, and guarding her at Dragonstone. That could not be.

And so he left, taking one of the few ships that hadn’t already been deployed to the Narrow Sea, the White Hart . Three-headed dragons roared atop the masts of the great warship, and Raymund set sail to Dragonstone.

The Sunflower Knight would not set foot on Westeros again for many a year.

…

The Gullet was not kind to the White Hart as it sailed, buffeting and slamming the ship like a drunken husband. Raymund was not inclined to it, despite all the years he spent sailing around the Cape of Westeros. Prince Viserys, on the other hand, was jubilant, racing across the deck and making a general nuisance of himself.

Good. The boy deserved some joy after life under his father.

“I am grateful for your companionship, Ser Raymund,” confessed the Queen, shocking Raymund from his trance. He was behind her and to the side, while Rhaella stood confidently atop the deck. Sailors rushed about, but she was an island in a sea of chaos. “My family needs strong knights to protect us in these troubling times.”

Raymund hesitated, his gut churning with guilt and with fear. “T-thank you, Your Grace. My sword is yours.” You are the only royal to ever earn it.

“I should hope for more than your sword,” Rhaella laughed, absently running a hand through her bone-white hair. It was starker than typical of the valyrian stock, yet did nothing to discount her beauty. “Your mind will be needed in the coming months, just as much if not more. The Dragonstone garrison needs whipping into shape, and I know not anyone better than you for the role.”

“The Master-At-Arms has a duty to-”

“The Master-At-Arms is an old man. I should know. Willem Darry is kind and loyal, but he has no strength to train the youths of Dragonstone.”

What worth did she place in him? “And I do, my Queen?” 

“Of course,” Rhaella smirked. “You are the Sunflower Knight. Who better?”

Raymund found himself blushing beneath his helm, for the first time in many a year. He wasn’t aware that his moniker had reached the ears of someone like the Queen. “A title afforded to be by the smallfolk. They like their lancers, that's all.”

“The sight of a knight thundering across the grounds, lance out, piercing towards a foe.” Rhaella’s eyes twinkled as Viserys peered over a rail. “What’s not to like?” she mused.

“Nothing, Your Grace,” said Raymund. What else could he say? His tongue was in knots.

Rhaella continued to fill the space he left. “Do you think it wrong to declare your skill?  To be proud of who you are, what you’ve accomplished. I should hope not. If so, I could not feel pride for my Viserys, or for the child I now carry. Do I not deserve to feel that way?”

“No, Your Grace,” Raymund was quick to assure her. She had endured more than most could imagine. “You should be proud of your strength, your courage. Your resilience.”

The Queen smiled, crows feet wrinkling at her eyes. “Thank you, Ser Raymund. But that means 

“So I shall train the garrison, as you command.”

“Good,” Rhaella turned away from him, returning her son scampering about. “And it won’t just be the green farmers, the scattered fishers, and the rusty guards who you shall train. Prince Viserys needs an education as well, and I see no one better to give it than yourself.”

The prince? He was but a boy of seven, and Aerys had always been paranoid about Viserys’ safety. Now, more than ever. Viserys was now the Crown Prince. “His Grace the King-”

“Is not here. Is he? Nor will he be at Dragonstone.” Rhaella sighed, some tension seeping from her shoulders. “My son is growing up in dangerous times, Ser Raymund. I will not have him sheltered and soft, quick to cry and to fail. I would have him survive.”

“No, Your Grace. I-I mean, yes, Your Grace. But are you sure-”

“Ser Raymund.”

Viserys took up a training sword later that day. Raymund placed it in his hand, coaxed him to stand properly. He gave the boy a tie to keep the hair from his eyes, and chose fitted gloves to enclose around Viserys’ hands.

On the deck of the White Hart , a warrior was born.

Chapter Text

Dragonstone - Eighth Moon, 283 AC

Soldiers trained in rows, alternating between a half dozen different positions while Raymund watched over them like a gopher, strict and diligent. The men of Dragonstone, be they fishers’ sons or sellsword wannabes, needed work, and fast. The balance of the rebellion was in a deadly equilibrium, and the stability of the Crown rested on a razor’s edge. Dragonstone needed soldiers, and it needed them now. Ever since the last batch had gone with Rhaegar to the Trident and died…. well, the soldiers of Dragonstone was in rough shape. 

Not for the first time, Raymund wondered why it was he who was responsible for training them. Surely, there were other knights, more qualified men who could handle this. Sure, Willem Darry wasn’t doing anything, but the old man wasn’t the only knight on Dragonstone.

But Her Grace had given him her support. She believed in him, far more than Raymund felt justified. But he would not let her down. And to start, that meant making her an army.

There were very few horses on Dragonstone with which Raymund could make a mounted force, but he made do. Nine in ten of them were lean, toughened garrons, smaller beasts used to the island living that Dragonstone offered. Their coats bore the ashy coloring of their home, but they were far more even-tempered than the Dragonmount. 

One in ten horses were rounseys; better than garrons, but worse than destriers. These horses were fierce, bred for warring, and Raymund purchased any that he could get his hands on. Thirty-three of the beasts from the stables of landed knights, seven more from the Targaryen’s own limited menagerie. The males were bred with all the garron females, in Raymund’s hope of creating a dedicated cavalry force. After that, they were mounted up for training.

Rhaella and Viserys would often watch Raymund work in the yard or in the fields, racing his recruits up and down the short length of the island. He could sense their interest, and they occasionally called out to him with questions or, in Viserys’ case, requests to join in. The new Prince of Dragonstone had taken his training to stride, but seemed to think that meant he could join the men when it was their turn, as well.

It was after the training when they would take their chance to speak. “That was fantastic!” Viserys said, excited beyond the scope of Raymund or even Rhaella. He bounced up in down in place, the way only a child of seven namedays could. “I demand you teach me the same!”

“In due time, my Prince,” Raymund chuckled. “In due time.”

“Is this all necessary, Ser Raymund? I ask you to train the garrison, and I find you building an army. It seems to me there’s a gap between the two you might have forgotten.” Her eyes would be full of approval, however, so Raymund knew there was no true condemnation. 

He looked at her, and let a small grin get past his lips. “In times of war, Your Grace, there is little difference. Your family fights a battle for their very existence. I am doing naught but my part as your loyal servant and Kingsguard.”

“Well continue, then,” she said, with a voice as soft as silk, “and make me a legion to rival Ghiscar.”

So he did.

Raymund had no formal experience training a garrison, much less an army, but he’d been around soldiers his entire life. His father - Lord Robbett Cuy, one of the most paranoid men in the entire Honeywine basin - had insisted on Raymund being present during the training of his older brother, Branston. The man had never voiced his fears about Branston’s possible death, but the specter of his anxiety hung over those sessions, always.

As such, Raymund knew a thing or two about drilling, building morale and camaraderie, and above all else, loyalty. Robbett had instilled the values of a loyal regiment to both his sons, stating over and over the importance of a conceptual whole beyond the individual soldier’s life. You had to make an army feel like an army and value the concept of their unity. That way they wouldn’t break at the slightest hesitation and could be relied upon to maintain a structure of command even if Raymund were out of the picture.

Easier said than done.

He made sure to include Viserys in as many drills as he could, allowing the boy to observe, and more importantly, be seen by his prospective soldiers. Personal feelings and loyalty were best cultivated through direct exposure, and seeing the precocious young Prince of Dragonstone in all his glory certainly did that.

While he was training a new army for Dragonstone, Rhaella got to work on the Lords of the Narrow Sea. Lords who would be needed in the second wave, when the Targaryens had the strength to go on the offensive once again. She invited ladies of assorted noble houses to attend her, choice among them from House Sunglass, Velaryon, Celtigar, and Bar Emmon. Even the houses of Crackclaw Point were included. Ladies of Brune, Byrch, Staunton, Crabb, and more were called to serve at court, either as personal handmaidens to the Queen or as some prestigious (but ultimately meaningless) title, such as Arella Velaryon, the ‘Mistress of Embroidery". 

Young squires and heirs were also called from the Narrow Sea houses, brought to serve alongside the Prince as friends and peers. Monford Velaryon, a young boy some years older than Viserys, was the first to arrive, alongside his half-brother - a bastard- named Aurane. They were followed by Calidan and Cormick Celtigar, grandsons of old Lord Adrian. A Brune boy - Raymun didn’t happen to learn his name - came too, but was quieter than the likes of Viserys and the others. He would follow behind their antics, a silent shadow in a group of childish revelry. It seemed that he was accepted by the others, so all was well.

Viserys’ court was just coming into its own when the capital was put to siege.

King’s Landing - August, 283 AC

Jorgen Massey was having some serious internal conflict.

Bolts of red and gold fluttered at the gates, heralding the some twelve thousand men that carried them. The sun glinted off plate and pike alike, and grim looks gave their true intentions away in an instant. Lannister and their lions had come to scavenge what the stag had started, and Jorgen had no intention of letting that happen.

Unfortunately, his King didn’t agree.

If they held the walls, there was perhaps a chance. Jorgen commanded some six thousand men within the city, made up of the City Watch, peasants levied from the population, and forces taken from the surrounding Crownlands houses. Stokeworth, Hayford and Rosby had all sent soldiers when the Lannister army was sighted, bolstering the defenses with well-trained recruits. They had the lords to command them, and the Kingsguard - Lyonel, Jaime, and himself. Although the other two were kept closer to Aerys. 

Tywin Lannister might choose to starve them out, rather than risk his twelve thousand men against the walls, towers, and other defenses of the capital. That would have allowed for support to be sent, for the armies mustering at Duskendale, Stonedance, and Dragonstone to reinforce. The Tyrells at Storm’s End could even be roused, joining House Targaryen to unleash fury on the rebels.

But the missive in his hands rendered all that a needless worry, a future that would never arrive.

Aerys wanted to let them in .

“Are you sure?” he asked, pleading with the messenger. Please , let it not be true. Don’t make me doom these men. As a Kingsguard, his duty was first to the King, then to the royal family, then the rest. He couldn’t disobey the King’s orders.

“From the King’s own hand, Ser,” replied the messenger, as nervous as Jorgen felt. The boy’s olive skin was slick with sweat, while his flinty eyes were aflame with dread.

The men around him looked the same. All warriors, all captains or knights with experience in their own personal battles. Manly Stokeworth was the Commander of the City Watch, not a knight like Jorgen or most other previous commanders, but digiligant and wary of corruption. Stokeworth was far older than Jorgen, and had the experience to match. Lords Hayford and Rosby stood together, and other gate captains filled out the rest.

They all knew what this would mean for the city.

“We should let them in, my lords,” said one Janos Slynt, the frog-faced captain of the Iron Gate. “His Grace the King expects his orders to be followed with haste, and this meeting is anything but. Lord Tywin Lannister has always been a friend to the Crown.”

Malcolm Hayford glared at him. “Think, boy. Look at the tides, the ways of war. Tywin Lannister has never been a hero. He will not put his neck on the block for us! Before the Trident, perhaps, but not now.”

“Agreed,” said old Lord Rosby, red-nosed and sickly. At six and fifty he was the most aged among them, but Jorgen needed his men and his coin far more than he would ever need his fighting skills. “I am no one to question his Grace, but it would be tantamount to suicide if we were to open our gates. I could not be more against it.”

One of the younger captains - Jorgen didn’t know his name - chose that moment to interject. “Just look at them! They aren’t marching to defend us, but to attack. Only a madman would think otherwise.”

“Careful, lad,” warned Manly. “That kind of talk is treason. Our loyalty lies with the King, above all else.” His gaze swept the tower room, staring down all others who might dare speak. The Stokeworth lamb seemed a poor allegory at this time, what with the strength he projected. “We obey his orders. His commands.”

Jorgen swallowed. He’d spent a long time in King’s Landing, serving the Targaryens in whatever way they’d asked. His grandfather had demanded such of him, back when he was sent to King’s Landing. “The dragons are fickle, my boy,” he’d said, staring intently towards Jorgen from his bedridden state. “They turn against you as quickly as they turn for you. You can earn their favor, but never count on it.” He’d been among those to seize Brandon Stark, and he had heard Rhaella’s screams just the same as any other Kingsguard. It was not knightly of him to stand idly by. But he’d done so all the same. His cloak, while snow white, had been reddened time and time again.

Not today.

“You mean to follow the King’s orders, then?” he asked Manly. Jorgen searched the man’s eyes as he responded.

“Aye, I do,” he replied. The man set his jaw, daring him to respond. The tension was thick.

Jorgen’s blade flew from his sheath, flying across the table to Manly’s supply. The Commander of the Gold Cloak’s blood splattered across the map of King’s Landing, dotting the streets like puddles in a flood. Jorgen’s heart was pounding in his ear, but he forced the panic down. No one spoke.

“Spread the word,” he managed, finally breaking the silence. “No one goes in, no one goes out. The Lannisters mean to take this city, and I mean to prevent that. No blind sheep or mad King will prevent that.”

All around him, men saluted, eyes hardening as they gazed upon the corpse of Manly Stokeworth. To many, that man was their superior. He’d need a replacement. 

“You,” said Jorgen, pointing to the captain who’d spoken out. “You’re the new Commander of the Goldcloaks. See to it that this body is dealt with, and that a replacement for your previous position is found immediately.”

“Yes, Ser.” the captain replied. He bowed, and left. Soon, too, did the others.

That night, the attacks began.

Chapter Text

Dragonstone - Eleventh Moon, 283 AC

King’s Landing had fallen.

It had held out for three moons, fighting back-and-forth skirmishing battles with the Westerlander forces besieging it. Tywin Lannister’s turned coat had been clear for all to see, and the city’s commanders had done their best to bar him entry. Aerys Targaryen, Raymund had learned covertly from Rhaella, had been imprisoned within Maegor’s holdfast, toothless but unharmed. Among others, the Kingsguard had turned their cloaks, it seemed, and done their best to protect the city.

This had been a long time coming, in Raymund’s opinion. Even he knew that Aerys had been abusing his power for decades, doggedly working his way to throw the kingdom into chaos. Tywin Lannister’s rebellion was just another symptom of the broader disease, and Raymund was glad the others hadn't been caught unawares.

When the capital finally fell, it was due to the overwhelming strength of the rebels. Baratheon, Arryn, Stark, and Tully had joined the siege en masse, and with their combined efforts they were able to overwhelm the defenders. The King’s Landing garrison had done well enough to fend off the Westerlanders, equipped with the best arms money could buy, but even their fortitude was not enough against such odds. The city fell, and with it, the royal family within. King Aerys, Queen Elia, her children… none of them survived the subsequent sack.

When the ravens arrived with the news, Rhaella called the residence of Dragonstone together. She collected them in the castle’s great courtyard, overlooking them from a balcony. “All is not lost,” she proclaimed, radiant even in her late pregnancy. The babe was showing, now, and Viserys stood proud at her side, clad in the fineries befitting his station. 

The boy had grown much in the past few months, and now stood with the approximate confidence of a prince. A king, now. “My husband may have fallen, but the rebels have not won. Think, my people, of our allies, and our own strength. The Reach still stands beside us, putting the Stormlands to siege and turning north to challenge Baratheon. Dorne grieves for Queen Elia and her children, and will not rest until Tywin Lannister lies dead and buried. Further still is our own strength,” she continued, “The mass naval might of the Narrow Sea and our fleet stands unchallenged. We control the waves, and with it, the war.”

“While our own Kingsguard, the gallant Ser Raymund, has trained our soldiers here, the other white knights have taken up arms around the Crownlands. Stokeworth, Rykker, Staunton and more are mustering at Duskendale, under the command of Ser Jorgen Massey, who escaped the capital during its fall.”

“So take heart,” she continued, “and go about your duties. Do the best you can, be it training, sewing, fishing, or anything else. We shall make it through this. Together.”

Raucous applause burst from the crowd, the people of Dragonstone in love with their ruler near as much as Raymund was. The strength of Queen Rhaella shone brightest when away from her husband, and she seemed to grow stronger every day. When the sept of Dragonstone held a ceremony to crown Viserys, she stood by his side, watching the new king say vows he hardly understood, but meant all the same.

The next king of the Seven Kingdoms inherited a war. He inherited a coalition devoted to destroying him and everything he held dear, bound together by a wrath he did not deserve. He inherited the wrongs of his father, his brother, and his ancestors beyond them, wrongs done without his control, permission, or even understanding. Raymund pitied him. And, however he could, he would help him.

Rhaella named him Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, in the absence of any in the old guard. No one knew where Rhaegar’s white knights had gone, but Barristan Selmy was said to have turned his cloak on the banks of the Trident, sworn to the Usurper. Lyonel Ryger was still a Kingsguard, gathering forces at Duskendale in the name of the Crown, drawing from both the scattered remains of Rhaegar’s host, and the green soldiery of new recruits in the Crownlands. Jordan Massey had done the same, sailing 

So the mantle fell to Raymund.

The White Book was lost, perhaps in the hands of the enemy.

In his makeshift solar, Raymund swept a hand across his desk, scattering reports, censuses, and messages to the side for the evening.

He would make another.

…

“Ser Ryam of House Redwyne. Second-born son of Lord Manfryd Redwyne of the Arbor. Served as a squire to his father, Lord Manfryd Redwyne. As a young knight, he was the victor in Jaehaerys’ 10th nameday tourney, unhorsing many, including Ser Lucamore Strong of the Kingsguard. Defeated that same Lucamore Strong in single combat during his trial, slaying the adulterer knight. Co-champions with Ser Clement Crabb in the 89 AC Tourney of Oldtown. Briefly named Hand of the King in 99 AC.” 

“What are you doing?”

Raymund looked up, peering through his own dark locks at a patchwork image of King Viserys. The boy’s crown hung low on his head, but he stood straight, keeping it from falling further. He’d grown out in the past few months, filling what had previously been a dangerously gaunt frame with near as much muscle as a child that age could achieve. His gaze, previously skittish, fearful, was now possessed of a self-assurance he’d previously lacked. This early, it was a good sign for the times to come.

“Re-recording the White Book, Your Grace,” said Raymund. It would not do to forget honorifics. “The old one was lost when King’s Landing fell, so I thought it prudent to begin another.”

“The White Book is for all the Kingsguard throughout history.” Viserys said, slipping into the room with Willem Darry shadowing. “You know them all?”

“Aye,” he nodded. “Or at least most of them.” With one hand, he tapped a stack of books, leather tabs lining the important pages. “The library of Dragonstone carries many historical accounts, and can fill the gaps where I need.” 

Viserys hopped into the chair beside him, showing a confidence Raymund hoped was becoming more deep-rooted. “Including the Kingsguard of old?” he asked. “Ser Gyles Morrigen, Ser Aemon the Ser Dragonknight-”

“And Ser Ryam Redwyne,” Raymund finished. “Hence the books, and the records.”

He gestured to the page he’d been working on before the prince- no, the king had arrived, at the start of Viserys I’s reign. He’d managed to make his way through Aegon I, Aenys, Maegor, and Jaehaerys, and now the current king’s namesake had him distracted. 

“Can I become a Kingsguard?” asked Viserys, guileless. Innocent.

Raymund winced. “No, Your Grace. You’re the King, and as such, will be guarded by the Kings guard . You could become a knight, if you wish. I’m already training you, so it's a natural next step.”

“Oh,” said Viserys. He picked at some scratches in the table, tracing his finger along the line of candlelight. “That’s all right, I suppose.”

“Did you want to be a Kingsguard, Your Grace?”

He shrugged his shoulders, in the sullen kind of way that acutely reminded Raymund of his younger brother. Emmon, years behind his brothers, would take every inadequacy as a personal slight. No one’s fault, mind, but for the natural barriers of time. Viserys reminded him of it now. 

Raymund got up from his char, and knelt on the stone before his king. “Your Grace, may I be candid with you?”

The crown slipped forward on Viserys head as he nodded, before bringing his arms up to adjust it. “Yes, Ser. 

“You are a younger brother. Your brother, Rhaegar, was a decade and some older than you, and a full man in his own right.” He pursed his lips, trying to puzzle how to phrase this. “He had more experience, more time to be alive, and his deeds will be spoken of for many years to come. But he is not better than you.”

Viserys looked confused. “Why would I think he is better than me?”

“Because, for much of your life, you will find yourself always being compared to him. You are his brother, his inheritor, and some decades younger than him. His feats, his deeds, they will hang above you like a scythe, as his enemies punish you for his actions and his allies look upon you and demand to see him.” Raymund gripped Viserys’ shoulder, begging his king to understand. “You are your own person, Viserys. Please learn that.”

It seemed as if an inkling entered into the boy, and he nodded, lilac eyes bright. “Yes, Ser Raymund."

The knight and the king stood in silence, for a moment, before it passed. Raymund bade Viserys return to his bed, while he resumed recording names in the White Book. It was just one more step he had to take to ensure the realm survived.

But the king was not the last visitor that Raymund got that night.

In the hour of ghosts, Queen Rhaella appeared, in all her majesty. She still wore the royal garb, the magnificent, night-black gown, the Crown of Queens that had passed on to her grandmother to her mother to herself. She was escorted by Ser Willem Darry, the old but sturdy knight who had taken to guarding Queen Rhaella when Raymund was assigned to other duties.

When she arrived, Raymund stood, showing the respect that the queen was due. His armor clanked, and Rhaella smiled at his haste, and said nothing. She entered the study, closing the stone door behind her, and sat where her son had been in just an hour past. Smiling up at Raymund, she gestured to the chair across from her. “Sit.”

“My Queen.” Raymund did as she bade, closing the White Book as he did so. He dried his quill on some loose parchment, and tucked it away.

Rhaella pursed her lips, partially distracting Raymund as she did. “The rebels believe themselves the victors, Ser Raymund,” she said. “Much of the realm believes it too.”

Raymund grimaced. “Indeed, my queen. Despite our efforts here on Dragonstone, King’s Landing is the symbol of authority for the realm. King Viserys is young, and untested. His reign seems a sham to those looking upon it from afar.”

“I would see that perception destroyed, Ser Raymund. My son is King, and all the realm would be a fool to deny it.”

Rhaella’s eyes were blazing, and within them Raymund saw the will to see her vision a reality. It was magnificent.

“There are many things that can be done,” he began. “You would know ruling better than I, but it seems that legitimacy is where your current reign is lacking. Viserys would benefit from a council, from official appointments to daily meetings. So far, we’re operating informally. The kingsguard cannot run the war alone. For legitimacy’s sake, we might wish to organize it.”

“All of Aerys’s councilors were toads, simply seeking favor.” Rhaella’s look of remembered disgust showed how she felt about that. She leaned forward, elbows resting on Raymund’s desk. “How would that be avoided this time?”

Raymund shrugged, his armor clinking. “I know not, my queen. You would be performing the appointments in Viserys’. You must rely on your own insights, over anyone else.”

“Very well, then.” Rhaella gave a small smile, looking at him with a curiosity Raymund did not understand. “I shall think about who I might appoint. What else would you do, were you in my position?

“I would show my vassals that the war was not over. The longer we sit here on Dragonstone, doing nothing across the realm, the more time the Usurper has to consolidate his power. His hounds, Stark, Arryn, Lannister, can run our loyalists down, isolate them, and incorporate them. The more we do nothing, the more Baratheon wins.”

Struck by some font of inspiration, the Queen Dowager rushed to another table in the room, one where Raymund kept a map of the Seven Kingdoms, laid out with troop markers and significant terrain features. She gave Raymund a wolfish - nay, draconic smile as her hands deftly moved soldier and ship markers around the board. “Then we shall have to show Baratheon and the Realm how much he is truly losing.”

Her manicured hand gripped tightly to the dragon-headed piece and thrust it to land on Storm’s End.