Dragonlord Chapter 169: Broken vows

Ser Barristan Selmy awoke with a start, his chest heaving as if he had surfaced from the depths of a cold, black sea.

For a moment, he could not breathe, his vision swimming in shadow, his ears full of the distant roar of battle, or perhaps it was only the rush of blood in his head. He tried to sit up, and the pain came—sharp, searing, hot as a sword driven through his chest. He gasped and fell back, clutching at his side, fingers brushing bandages wet with sweat and sticky with dried blood.

“Easy, Ser,” came a familiar voice, warm yet trembling.

A hand pressed lightly upon his shoulder.

“Don’t move too quickly. You’re still mending.”

Blinking hard, Barristan’s eyes adjusted to the flicker of firelight. He was in a tent out in a forest, shadows dancing as a fire burned low nearby. Straw lay beneath him, with blankets pulled tight. Beside him knelt a boy, his squire, grown taller since the last time he remembered—a boy with the dark hair and blue eyes of the king he served. For a moment, Barristan wondered whether he was dreaming it all.

“Edric,” Barristan rasped, his throat dry as sand. “How…?”

“Thank the Red God, ser,” Edric Storm whispered, his eyes glistening. “You… you were gone. Aegon cut you down, I saw it, I swear. Your blood ran over the ground, and I thought—” His voice broke, and he looked away. “But Thoros… Thoros brought you back from the Stranger.”

At that name, Barristan turned his head. In the corner of the tent sat a portly man in red robes, his scalp bare but for a fringe of greying hair, his beard ragged, his ruddy cheeks stained with dried blood. Thoros of Myr cradled a wineskin as if it were a child, but his eyes were weary, far older than the man himself. He gave a crooked smile when Barristan’s gaze found him.

“I would have wagered all my coin you were too stubborn to die, old knight,” Thoros said, his voice thick with fatigue. “Yet die you did. And so the Lord of Light saw fit to drag you back from the darkness.”

The words struck Barristan like another blow. He swallowed hard, memories flooding back—the clash of steel at Bronzegate, Renly’s banners rippling in the wind, Aegon Targaryen’s face pale and fierce, the flash of his blade piercing through Barristan’s guard, followed by pain and then darkness.

“I died,” Barristan whispered, as though saying it might make it less accurate.

He could still feel pain in his sides, and he suspected he had one or two ribs broken. That was proof he was still alive and not dreaming.

“You did,” Thoros confirmed, his tone neither cruel nor kind, simply a statement of fact. “And now you live again. Make of it what you will.”

Barristan let out a breath he was holding and closed his eyes.

How was he supposed to make sense of what he just heard? It was impossible to be dead and walking again. But somehow, that was what Thoros and Edric were saying. Somehow, against his own better judgment, he believed them.

Barristan stared at the red priest, then back to Edric. The boy’s lips quivered, his eyes red-rimmed from weeping. He turned his eyes back to the Red Priest who had once tried to sway the heart of Robert Baratheon from the Seven. The man failed, but King Robert had offered him an allowance and occasionally invited him to drink wine in the Red Keep. Though not a knight, Thoros was granted a commission among the knights who answered solely to King Robert. The man was a poor priest and would’ve made a poorer knight, but the man remained a good swordsman.

“Why? Why would your god send me back?” Barristan asked.

Even as he asked this, he felt silly for trusting something so ludicrous.  

“How should I know what the Red God sees in you, Ser Barristan?” Thoros shrugged his shoulders. “He does as he pleases. I’m merely an instrument of his will.”

Barristan wanted to press the man for more answers, but he felt a warmth at the edge of his mind. In the deep recesses of his mind, he felt as if there was a warm flame whispering and lighting the way forward. At the same time, he felt the pain in his ribs disappearing. It was an experience Barristan couldn’t explain, but nonetheless, he felt it in his heart.  

“What has happened?” Barristan asked, turning his attention back to his squire. “Tell me truly, lad.”

For a long moment, Edric only shook his head, as though the words themselves were too heavy to carry. Then, with a trembling breath, he lifted his gaze to the tent’s open flap.

Barristan’s eyes followed his squire’s gaze.

Through the slit, Barristan saw the night sky glowed a ghastly yellow, brighter than any moonlight. A column of smoke stretched upward, dark against the stars.

“It is Bronzegate,” Edric said at last, his voice hollow. “The castle burns. The Tyrells have come, and the Dornish with them. The siege is ended, and not in our favour.”

“The Tyrells?” Barristan asked with wide eyes.

“Aye. Garlan Tyrell struck from the north of Broonzegate, siding with the Targaryen boy. It seems the Reach has declared for the boy against Stannis Baratheon.” Thoros said while sharpening a dagger with a stone.

Barristan forced himself upright despite the flare of pain, his old warrior’s will stronger than his wounds. The sight outside seared his heart—the distant fires licking high, devouring stone and timber alike. The seat of House Buckler, proud and steadfast, was reduced to a pyre. He closed his eyes, grief pressing down on him like a mailed fist.

“So, we lost,” he murmured, the words heavy with shame.

Edric’s tears spilt freely in shame and grief, his face pale in the firelight.

“We tried to flee, Ser. Uncle Renly led us out, Ser Parmen and Lord Bryce at his side. But the Tyrell riders were everywhere, and the Dornish closed the roads. They… they caught him. They caught Uncle Renly.”

The boy’s voice broke into sobs, and Barristan felt as though another blade had pierced him. Renly—bold, brash, foolish, yet full of life—taken. The young stag who had dreamed of glory and fame equal to his fallen elder brother was now taken prisoner.

“Captured,” Barristan said dully, his mind struggling to grasp it. “Renly… taken alive!”

Edric nodded, rubbing his tear-stained eyes.

“They wanted him alive. Dornish spearmen cut through our guard, and then the Tyrell knights rode us down. I tried to stay with him, I swear it, but there were so many. Thoros and Ser Rolland pulled me away. They saved me. But Uncle Renly… he’s gone.”

Barristan bowed his head, the weight of failure heavy upon his shoulders. He had sworn his sword to Stannis, sworn to guard his brother with his life, and yet here he was—living, breathing, while the one he was sworn to protect was caught by the enemy. He clenched his fists, hating the weakness in his bones, the miracle that had spared him when it would have been more fitting to lie among the dead.

“Your uncle was brave,” he said softly, forcing his voice steady for Edric’s sake. “Brave, and perhaps too bold. Do not think less of him for falling. Few men could have withstood what came against us.”

“But what now?” Edric’s eyes searched his face, desperate. “Without him, what do we have left? Storm’s End is all that remains, and even that… how long can it stand? What will become of us and the Stormlands in uncle’s absence?”

Barristan had no answer.

He looked again to the burning sky, the ruin of Bronzegate, the distant screams carried on the wind. The Stormlands lay broken, with Renly a captive. And yet here he lived, dragged back from death for some purpose he could not yet see.

“Now,” Barristan said at last, his voice low but firm, “we endure. We gather what strength we can. So long as one sword remains unbroken, the fight is not ended. Remember that, lad.”

Edric nodded through his tears, clutching the knight’s hand as though it were the only anchor left to him in a world of fire and ruin.

Thoros of Myr shifted in his corner, his eyes gleaming in the dim light.

“The Lord of Light has given you back, Ser Barristan. Do not squander the gift. Whether you fight for your stag, your king, or something greater, the fire burns still. And while it burns, there is hope.”

“What can be something greater than fighting for your king?” Edric asked.

“Boy, there is a great war being waged far in the North against the darkness that threatens to consume the entire world in cold and death. The war over the Iron Throne is nothing but a distraction.” Thoros said with a snort.

“A war in the North? Are the Starks waging war on us?” Edric asked with a confused look.

“The Starks are the only sane ones in Westeros, lad.” Thoros said with a harsh laugh. “They were smart to turn away from the Iron Throne and declare themselves independent. This has allowed them to focus on the rising darkness coming for us all from beyond the Wall.”

“What rising darkness?” Barristan asked with a frown.

“The Long Night,” Thoros said, as if naming an old and bitter enemy. “You were dead, Ser Barristan. Dead! And the Lord of Light saw fit to return you, not for Renly’s sake, not for Stannis’s crown, but for the war that stirs in the cold and dark of the far North. The Great Other gathers his strength. Shadows move beyond the Wall, and the cold winds rise.”

“The Long Night is an old tale,” Barristan said, though his voice lacked conviction. “A story to frighten children. Winter comes, aye, but this…”

“Not a tale,” Thoros interrupted sharply.

The Red Priest jabbed a finger toward the flame burning outside, his voice carrying a strange conviction.

“I have seen visions in the fire, knight. Armies of the dead, pale riders upon monstrous beasts. A darkness that seeks to smother every spark of life in this world. Do you think your lords’ quarrels matter, or who sits a chair of swords, when such an everlasting night consumes all souls? The Red God calls his servants to fight it. That is why I breathe still. That is why you breathe again.”

Barristan stared into the fire, seeing the glow shift and crackle, as if the fire was alive and watching.

“You would have me believe I was spared for… prophecy?” Barristan asked incredulously.

“For purpose,” Thoros corrected, softer now. “The Lord of Light cares little for prophecies written in books or crowns hammered of gold. He cares for the war eternal, light against dark. And when the dark comes howling from the far North, every sword will be needed. Even yours, old knight. Especially yours.”

“Why me? I’m an old man far past his prime. Why would your god need my services?” Barristan asked, still refusing to believe this sordid story.

“I do not know, and I do not question the wisdom of the Lord of the Light. I merely follow where he shines his light without question.” Thoros said with a grin.

“This is ridiculous.” Barristan shook his head.

“Is it also ridiculous that the Lord of Light led me to you when you needed me the most. Do you think it’s a coincidence that you were brought back from the dead by the Lord and your squire wield a weapon only he can lift? Do you think our encounter is by chance and not by His will?” Thoros asked, his eyes blazing with a fire that made Barristan silent.

“If you still harbour doubts in your mind, look to the flames. The Lord of the Light will show you the truth.”

Barristan, against his better judgment, forgot the teachings of the Seven and looked into the flames on the Red Priest’s urging.

At first, he saw nothing.

But soon whispers came into his mind, and then he saw it. He saw an endless land of snow with massive storms raging in the sky. He saw an eerie darkness that hid a vast army of dead men and women. He saw the rotting flesh on their faces as the army of the dead assembled against the Wall. Leading them, he saw creatures made of ice with cold blue eyes that shone with malice.

The vision suddenly shifted to the Wall, where the brothers of the Night’s Watch stood guard against the dead. He saw dragons circling the sky above and a massive army standing behind the Wall defending the Seven Kingdoms. There he saw himself and his squire at the helm of the army.

“Oh gods!” Barristan gasped as he jerked back in horror at what he saw in the flames.  

“Ser!” Edric cried in alarm, seeing the look of horror etched on his teacher’s face. “What did you do?”

“I? Nothing. The Red God must’ve shown him why he was brought back to life.” Thoros said with a grunt.

“I’m alright, Edric.” Barristan said, patting the wrist of his squire, before his eyes turned to Thoros.

“You saw, didn’t you.” Thoros said with a knowing look.

Barristan could only nod as no words could describe what he saw. Even now, sitting before the flame warming the tent, he could feel the cold grip of eternal winter that hungered for all life.

“Then you understand the Wall was raised not for men, but for what lies beyond. And when the ice breaks, when the shadows march… it will not matter if you are stag or lion, wolf or dragon. All will fall before the Great Other unless those with light in their hearts stand against it.”

“I understand.” Barristan breathed heavily.

He didn’t truly understand, but he was starting to see the folly of what he was doing here when a greater battle needed to be fought in the North.

“So, what will you do, Ser Barristan the Bold? Knowing what you know, will you fight battles that decide which king gets to sit their ass on a worthless junk of metal or fight for a higher cause?” Thoros asked.

Barristan didn’t answer. He merely stared into the flames, his thoughts revolving around his vows to serve as a kingsguard to Stannis Baratheon.

He could choose to serve the king or the realm. Knowing what he knows now, the choice was easier to make than he thought.

‘What is one more broken vow?’ Barristan thought as his mind settled on a course of action.

******

Aegon Targaryen sat at the head of the table, lounging on his cushioned seat. His violet eyes were fixed upon a map, stones weighing down its corners, while his hand toyed absently with a dagger. At his side, Prince Oberyn Martell lounged with wine in hand, his dark eyes glittering with satisfaction.

Both men were in a merry mood as there was ample cause for celebration.

“Bronzegate is ash,” Oberyn said softly, swirling his cup. “The Bucklers fought bravely, but stone burns as well as flesh when enough fire is set to it. The Reach has shown its worth.”

Aegon nodded, though his gaze did not lift from the map.

“Lord Buckler’s defiance was admirable. But Renly…” Aegon paused, and the knife stopped spinning between his fingers. “Renly is worth more than a hundred castles.”

A trumpet sounded outside the tent. The flap was drawn open, and into the lamplight strode Ser Garlan Tyrell, his face set with stern purpose, his green surcoat streaked with soot and blood. Behind him came knights of the Reach, their prisoner between them.

Renly Baratheon.

Gone was the golden stag of his armour; gone the easy smile that had made him beloved by lords and smallfolk alike. He was clad in plain mail now, mud-caked, his dark hair dishevelled, his hands bound before him in chains that rattled whenever he moved.

The knights shoved him to his knees before Aegon’s table. Oberyn sat forward, wine forgotten. Aegon leaned back in his chair, regarding the fallen stag in silence.

Garlan bowed his head.

“Your Grace,” he said, voice steady. “Bronzegate is yours. And Renly Baratheon, Lord of Storm’s End, is your prisoner.”

Aegon’s eyes flicked to the Reach knight and his future goodbrother.

“You have done well, Ser Garlan. The valour of Reach knights was clear for all of us as you broke Bronzegate upon your knees.”

Renly lifted his chin and glared at him defiantly.  

“Do not thank him too soon, boy. You may have me in ropes, but you will not have Storm’s End. The walls will hold, as they always have. And my brother’s sword will not stay sheathed forever. You’ll soon taste his steel against your neck, and I’ll be the one laughing at you.”

Aegon smiled faintly, amused by Renly’s defiance.

“Your brother is leagues away, struggling to defend King’s Landing against a bunch of sellsails while you kneel here. Storm’s End is empty of its lord, and soon it will be empty of hope. You speak of walls—yet walls do not fight wars. Men do. And your men have left you little stag.”

Renly’s jaw tightened, but he did not bow his head.

“Tell me, stag—did you think your pretty banners and smiling face could win you a crown?” Oberyn asked, his dark eyes glinting with mirth while the men around him chortled.

Oberyn circled the kneeling stag like a viper enjoying its hunt of the prey.

“You fancied yourself Robert reborn, did you not? All charm and girth and laughter. But you were never Robert. You were never a warrior.”

Renly’s lips curled in distaste as he glared at the Dornish Prince.  

“You are a snake in silks, poisoning others’ wars with your whispers.”

“Your brother laughed at the mutilated corpses of my sister and niece as he ascended the throne. Don’t think I won’t do the same to you, little stag.” Oberyn’s smile widened dangerously, but Aegon lifted a hand.

The prince halted, though his eyes never left the prisoner.

“Renly Baratheon,” Aegon said, his tone steady. “You are beaten. Your cause is broken. Yet your life remains because I willed it so. Do not mistake mercy for weakness.”

Renly barked a laugh, filled with bitterness and anger, as he glared at Aegon with red eyes.

“Mercy? Is that what you call it? You burned villages to drive my folk to Storm’s End. You bled the Stormlands dry to feed your war. I see no mercy here, dragonspawn. I only see madness, the same as your grandfather, the Mad King.”

The words stung, though Aegon’s face betrayed nothing.

He leaned forward, hands steepled.

“Call it ambition if you wish. The Iron Throne is mine by right, and I’ll reclaim it the same way Robert Baratheon did, by wiping out my enemies.”

There was an uncomfortable silence in the tent as the knights and lords gathered in the tent looked at Aegon on what he’d do to Renly.

“Take him,” Aegon said at last. “He will live. For now. But he will watch as his banners fall, one by one, until even Storm’s End bows.”

There was a collective breath of relief as Renly was dragged outside the tent by the Reach knights. Everyone knew Renly was far more valuable alive than dead at the moment. With Renly’s capture, they had the opportunity to offer clemency to those rebelling Stormlords. They’d trust the offer with Renly alive rather than dead.

Aegon then turned his attention to Garlan.

“Ser Garlan, please sit by my side. Tell me of your battle and how fares your family in the Reach.” Aegon patted the chair beside him and poured wine from a flagon into a silver chalice before offering it to his future goodbrother.