Chapter Text
Among all the wide array of colourful characters at the court of King Jaehaerys the Conciliator, the one to whom eyes were most often drawn was his sixth daughter, Princess Viserra Targaryen. Even by the standards of her house, she was a rare and surpassing beauty, and thus was never lacking in suitors, especially after the departure of her equally popular older sister Princess Saera. She enjoyed the attention, though she paid her entourage of squires and young knights little heed, preferring to let them pine for her. The only man at court she paid any attention to was her older brother Prince Baelon the Brave, not least because he was heir to the Iron Throne.
It was therefore not difficult to understand why, on the day he arrived at court, Princess Viserra was the first thing Ser Garth Greenwood saw. He entered in the gallery, accompanying his lord, Robert Wylde, and even before the great twisted mass of the Iron Throne his gaze fell upon her, her long silver hair flowing loose down her back, shaking like rippling water as she laughed with her lady-in-waiting.
But Ser Garth was not foolish enough, despite the way his chest tightened at the sight of the princess, to think that she would spare him the slightest glance, or that her family would consider a sworn sword with no house worth their consideration. He exited the gallery that day the same way he had entered, and said not a word to anyone.
For those first few weeks at court, when Lord Wylde did not require his services, Ser Garth kept himself busy in the training yard, which was large and well-appointed compared to its counterpart at Rain House. He acquitted himself well in sparring with squires and other young knights, though he mostly avoided those young lordlings who also took the opportunity to train. With their fine clothes and easy pride, they seemed altogether too good for the son of a cobbler.
On one fine morning, with the sun still emerging from behind the Red Keep and casting long shadows across the yard, Garth was hacking at a straw dummy with a blunt sword. He was stripped to the waist, his muscles flexing, beads of sweat forming on his skin. He moved through the motions almost on instinct; his purpose was more exercise than practice. A few others were also present in the yard, but most were still at breakfast or prayer or whatever other morning ritual they might have enjoyed.
“You have some skill,” a voice called out, and Garth paused in his practice, turning to see Prince Baelon approaching. He was not tall, but he was solidly built, and his face had an easy smile. His silver hair was cut short and his eyes were pale lilac. Neither armed nor armoured, he wore a simple red leather tunic and linen breeches tucked into his boots. You would not have guessed it from looking at him, but he was a renowned warrior. “I’m told you’ve put half a dozen of my father’s knights on their arses,” he said.
“Thank you, my lord,” Garth replied, somewhat nervously.
“Who instructed you in arms? Your father?”
Garth couldn’t help but smile at that. “My father was a cobbler. He never held a sword in his life. Rain House’s master-at-arms taught me. Ser Cedric Howe.”
“I don’t know the name.”
“It is not a known name,” Garth shrugged. “But he is an able teacher. If a little dour. Lord Robert had to forbid him from predicting bad news every time a rider approached the castle.”
Baelon chuckled. “You are not highborn, then?” Garth shook his head. “I must confess to my surprise. You carry yourself like you were born a knight. How did you come to be so?”
“My mother worked in the castle kitchens and so Lord Robert saw me playing once. Apparently he saw something in me, for he sent me to Ser Cedric, who approved. I was knighted on my sixteenth nameday.”
“No small thing, to be knighted so young. I also was knighted at sixteen.”
Garth nodded. “I’ve heard the tale. The tourney at Old Oak. I have no such deeds to my name.”
“There’s still time.”
“There you are!” a playful voice called out across the yard. All heads turned to see Princess Viserra approaching her brother, who shot Garth an unhappy look. “You crept away from breakfast to bash swords together, did you?”
“Sister,” Baelon said, turning to her with a polite smile. “May I introduce Ser Garth Greenwood, sworn sword to Lord Robert Wylde. Ser Garth, you have the honour of meeting my sister, Princess Viserra Targaryen.” Garth bowed as deeply as he could manage, and she looked him up and down with the demeanour one might expect from a lioness observing a deer she does not consider worth the effort of hunting, before returning her attention to her brother.
“I had thought to invite you out riding with me, but perhaps you would prefer to strip down and spar with your new friend,” Viserra suggested.
“What do you think, ser?” Baelon asked.
“Far be it for me to gainsay a princess,” said Garth.
Baelon removed his tunic and undershirt and fetched another blunted training sword while Viserra sat down on a set of steps, reclining gracefully. The other young men in the yard gathered round to watch, and Garth began to wonder whether it would be rude to outfight the prince. He needn’t have worried. Though he did not shame himself, the older man outmatched him handily, achieving three disarms to Garth’s one. After the third, Garth did not bother retrieving his sword. Both of them were breathing heavily, with sweat trickling down their limbs.
“Well fought, my lord,” Garth panted.
“Likewise. Lord Wylde is lucky to have you with him.”
Viserra rolled her eyes. “Yes, very chivalrous. Come brother, there is still time for riding.”
The prince and princess took their leave, though Viserra did steal one last look at Garth over her shoulder. Baelon sparred with him several more times over the next few weeks, and he found his star rising at court thanks to the prince’s attention. He also noticed that wherever Baelon was, Viserra would not be far behind, often accompanied by a gaggle of hopeful young men if she had not managed to give them the slip. A few of them also tried their hand at sparring with Garth, no doubt hoping to impress Viserra, but he was able to beat them all, and none of them dared test the prince. For his part Baelon seemed to prefer avoiding his sister as much as possible, and that much more when she was accompanied. Garth found the prince easy to like, but the princess was intimidating to him, for her beauty, her station, and not least her haughty demeanour. She was never rude, but she carried herself with an air of arrogance. In some ways, she seemed far more the dragon than her brother.
It was therefore a great surprise to Garth when one day, while he was walking the Red Keep’s gardens, he suddenly came upon Viserra, hidden in an alcove, with tears in her eyes. She spotted him moments after her saw her, and wiped her tears away with the sleeve of her red silk gown. “Forgive me, my lady,” said Garth, half-expecting her to bite his head off, “is something amiss?”
“Oh, only my mother,” Viserra replied angrily. “The perfect queen who everyone loves and can do no wrong, except to me. She has sold me off like a sow at market.”
Somehow, Garth doubted Viserra had much experience with markets, but this didn’t seem an appropriate moment to bring it up. “Sold you?”
“To Lord Theomore Manderly.” The name sounded like a curse on Viserra’s lips. “A fat old lord in the North. Older than my father.”
Garth felt a surge of outrage on Viserra’s behalf. It might be the way of the nobility to marry for political reasons, but surely there was a more appropriate husband for the princess than that. “Why would she do such a thing?”
“Because she hates me. I am more beautiful than she ever was and she hates me for it.”
“Perhaps your father will overrule her,” Garth suggested.
Viserra laughed at him. “He will be glad to be rid of me. He only cares about his precious princes. I wish they would all drown!”
They were not far from the river, and her comment made Garth glance over at it, hoping that this was just talk. “What about Prince Baelon? He-” Garth had been about to suggest that Baelon might plead Viserra’s case to his parents if he truly was more favoured, but she interrupted him.
“Baelon barely looks at me no matter what I do. He still pines for his darling Alyssa, the ugly cow that she was. What kind of man would choose her over me, especially when she is dead and I am full of life?”
“I cannot say, my lady,” Garth replied, though it wasn’t that hard to imagine quite a few reasons why a man might choose another woman over someone so vain.
“Will you sit with me?” Viserra asked with surprising vulnerability, patting the bench next to her. Garth was not confident he was allowed to get so close to the princess, but with some hesitation he did as she asked, and she leaned against him, resting her head on his shoulder. “Does your mother try to marry you off like mine?” she eventually asked, breaking a long silence between them.
Garth couldn’t help but smile at that. “My mother was a kitchen maid. No lords and ladies ever paid her any mind.”
Viserra lifted her head off his shoulder, looking up at him with some surprise. “And your father?”
“A cobbler.”
Viserra’s wet eyes flickered to and fro in confusion. This close to her, Garth was struck by their rich shade of purple. “I had thought you must at least be the son of a knight.”
Garth shook his head. “Lord Wylde knighted me.” He thought she was going to suddenly lose interest in him, but after several more seconds of thought she just returned her head to his shoulder.
“You’re more handsome than I expected a commoner to be.”
“Thank you, my lady.”
“Well spoken, too.” There was another long silence between them, during which Garth expected at any moment to wake from this dream, and resisted the temptation to run his hand though her silky silver hair. “Any other man would have tried to kiss me by now,” Viserra finally said.
“Would you have let him?”
“That would depend on the man.”
Garth paused before replying. “You are the most beautiful woman I have ever laid eyes upon, a princess of the House Targaryen, and I am a landless knight whose father was a cobbler. I am not foolish enough to try. Even sitting here with you seems like madness.”
“Not madness,” Viserra murmured. “Just…kindness.”
Nothing more was said between them, though they sat there for a long time, watching the sun slowly set over the water. When Viserra at last rose and departed, she did so without a word or backwards glance. Garth remained there for a while longer, wondering at this strange turn his life had taken. When he finally left it was dark, and the moon’s silver light flowed across the water.
A cloud fell across the court in the days that followed, as Viserra made her displeasure known. Garth felt for her, but there was nothing he could do to help. One bold and unwise lordling proposed to challenge Lord Manderly for her hand, but the enthusiasm of her admirers swiftly dried up when the king promised to cut off the hand of any man who interfered with the royal betrothal.
Viserra did not exchange so much as a word with Garth until one day he happened to pass by the Royal Sept just as she was leaving with her handmaidens. “My lady,” he bowed.
“Ser Garth,” Viserra greeted him tersely. Garth took that as a sign he was not wanted, so he made to keep walking.
“Is that it? Do I not merit even your attention now that I am bound for the distant North?” Viserra called after Garth. He stopped and turned back to her.
“I apologise, my lady. I thought-”
“You thought me beneath you,” Viserra interrupted, her tone spiteful. “I am a princess of the blood of the dragon. You are a cobbler’s son. It is you who are beneath me.” Her handmaidens laughed. Garth, stunned, said nothing. “When I am queen,” Viserra hissed, drawing closer to him, “my enemies will suffer.” With that, she swept past him, leaving him to puzzle over what had just happened.
It was but a few days later that Garth had another unexpected encounter. He was walking the battlements, enjoying the way the late afternoon sun glittered gold on the waters of Blackwater Bay, when he was approached by a small, grey-haired man whose plain wool robes belied the chain of golden hands around his neck. This could only be the King’s Hand, Septon Barth, depending on who you asked either a man of surpassing wisdom or surpassing wickedness. “Ser Garth Greenwood, isn’t it?” he asked, but Garth suspected he well knew the answer.
“It is indeed, my lord Hand.”
“Prince Baelon has spoken of you. According to him you are a fine and true knight. I wonder if perhaps he hopes to steal you away from Lord Wylde.”
“Prince Baelon does me great honour. I had not thought to ever merit discussion by princes and Hands.”
A smile twitched at the corner of the Hand’s thin mouth. “Nor I, indeed. Our fathers bore no great names nor sigils, and yet here we stand in the Red Keep, with the heir’s name on our tongues. The gods raise us up in their wisdom.”
“I suppose if you go back far enough, every great house of the realm began with a blacksmith, or a cobbler, or a fisher.”
“Is that your ambition, then? To found a great house?”
Garth snorted. “My ambition is to be a good knight, no more than that.”
“‘No more than that’,” Barth repeated. “I wonder if King’s Landing can endure a good knight. We have so many bad ones, at least it will make a change.”
“Why are you really speaking to me, my lord?”
Barth smiled. “Perhaps you are better suited to the capital than I thought, if you see hidden motive behind every friendly conversation.”
“You are the Hand of the King. You would not approach a man such as me without motive.”
“Perhaps I simply wish to converse with a man like me, raised from the smallfolk. I have been so long at court, I have quite forgotten what it is like.”
Garth said nothing, just shot Barth a sceptical look.
“Very well. I am concerned about you and the princess. She has taken an interest in you.”
“On the contrary, she has made her disinterest clear.”
“Ah, but that is precisely it. You have not seen her grow up, as I have. You do not know how to read her. Would-be suitors cling to her skirts like barnacles, and she games with them as a cat does with mice. You are the first young man other than her brother I have ever known her angry about. I think you confuse her by not pursuing her. Do your tastes lie in other lands?”
Garth couldn’t help but smile at the sheer obliqueness of the question. “She is beautiful beyond compare. And she is a princess. I would only make a fool of myself by trying. Besides, the king has made his position clear.”
“Has he? In truth, that is why I am here. I wish to ascertain your feelings about Viserra. Are your harbouring notions of some romantic elopement?”
That made Garth raise an eyebrow in bemusement. “Elopement? What sort of man do you take me for? The king has spoken, and nothing I could do would ever change his mind.”
“And if a more agreeable suitor could be found?”
“Then I would be glad for the princess.”
“You do not approve of the match then?”
“Do you?”
“I am the Hand of the King. His will is mine.”
“The King shits and the Hand wipes,” Garth grinned.
“A crass way of putting it.”
“I thought you were here to talk to a commoner.”
“Neither of us are commoners, Ser. Not any more.”
“We are not Targaryens either. You are asking questions both of us know the answer to. I am not going to sweep Viserra onto my horse and ride off with her. Does that satisfy you?”
“It will have to do.”
If Garth didn’t know better, he would have thought that Barth was trying to plant ideas in his mind. The notion of rescuing Viserra from her unwanted betrothal washed around his thoughts for the next few days no matter how hard he tried to suppress it.
And then it was the night before Viserra’s planned departure. A ship sat in the harbour with the merman of House Manderly flying from its mast, and it seemed to have brought a pall of depression with it that sat heavy on the Red Keep. Garth chose to escape it by going down into the city and getting drunk. He had never paid for sex, but that night he was sorely tempted, especially by the silver-haired girls who had become so sought-after since the Conquest. The large and finely appointed inn he found himself in offered flesh but also gambling, and he turned his attention to cards and dice instead.
“Bollocks!” a meaty fist slammed down on the table, making the dice bounce and the pile of coins jingle. “No-one’s luck is that good.” Its owner was a ham-faced man with a regularly-broken nose and a shaved scalp, with the look of a butcher about him.
“Mine is,” a golden-haired young man in fine velvets grinned, leaning over the table to scoop up his winnings. Garth saw the dagger and caught it below the table, giving the butcher a grim look. Despite looking red enough to burst, the man wisely relented and sheathed his weapon. As consolation, he grabbed a passing whore and pulled her down onto his knee.
“Then I should stop playing with you while I still have money left to pay for comfort,” said the butcher, allowing himself a rueful smile.
“Will no one test their fortunes against mine, then?” the youth peacocked, but suddenly no-one was looking at him. All eyes were on the doorway, where several young men had entered, flanking a silver-haired maiden who was no whore. Garth swore inwardly. Viserra was supposed to be confined to her chambers, awaiting her departure in the morning, and her presence now could only mean trouble.
Viserra crossed the room with her admirers in tow, ascending the stairs to where a private room would no doubt be made available. She kept her nose in the air, not deigning to look at the patrons, and Garth almost got away without being spotted, but as she reached the top of the stairs she glanced over her shoulder and laid her purple gaze on him directly. With a slight motion of the head she gestured for him to follow before turning back and disappearing from view. As the room returned to its previous atmosphere, he rose to obey despite his trepidation, aware of the curious looks on his erstwhile companions’ faces.
Upstairs a large gallery overlooked the main common room, with its own tables and chairs for those who preferred a more quiet environment. Along the back wall were several doors, and Garth caught sight of young Lord Edwyle Gaunt disappearing into one of them. With some reluctance, he followed.
The room was spacious but not perhaps as large as Garth would have liked, for with eight people present he felt quite enclosed even before the door swung shut behind him. There was a long table and chairs along one side of the room, a large space in the middle, and a fine four-poster bed at the other side. Several windows were open, the cool evening breeze blowing through gossamer curtains. Viserra had seated herself at the foot of the bed, her dress simple blue cotton, which was quite unusual for her, and stood out all the more among the finery of the admirers who clustered around her, though none dared join her on the bed. She smiled at Garth as he entered, though it was a playful smile that he found little comfort in. “Ser Garth Greenwood. You know my companions?” she asked. Garth nodded. There was Lord Edwyle Gaunt and Lord Martin Peasebury, young lordlings with more servants than sense, and four knights: Ser Steffon Morrigen, Ser Alyn Brune, Ser Jason Erenford and Ser Boris Chester. Garth had bested them all at sparring, and did not think much of any of them. For their part, none of them looked particularly happy to see him.
“I had thought you were confined to your quarters, my lady,” said Garth.
Viserra waved a hand airily. “For one last night of laughter, a maidservant’s dress is a small price to pay.”
Garth wanted to be happy for her, but he couldn’t help feeling uneasy. The king was known for coming down hard on men who behaved unwisely around his daughters.
“Is it true you’re a commoner?” Gaunt asked, in a tone that set Garth’s teeth on edge.
“I am a knight, my lord.”
“Yes, but a knight from common stock, that’s what Viserra said. What was your father, a fishmonger?”
Garth glanced at Viserra, who still had that mischievous smile playing about her lips. “He was a cobbler.”
“Fetch us some wine then, cobbler’s boy,” Erenford laughed. Garth’s hand closed around the hilt of his dagger, but before he could reply a serving wench bustled in carrying a tray heavy with wine and goblets.
“Apologies for the delay m’lords, m’lady,” the woman mumbled, her eyes downcast. “Would you like this on the table?”
“Stay, and serve it for us yourself,” Peasebury commanded.
If the woman was going to protest, she thought better of it. Meekly she poured wine into the goblets and passed them out, and the young hangers-on drank with the speed of men trying to prove something, haughtily holding out their goblets to be refilled. Viserra drank more slowly, watching them over the rim of her cup.
When the woman offered a goblet to Garth he refused it, and Viserra pouted at him. “Are you determined to be dull, Ser?” she asked. “I would not have had you join us if I thought you were going to be so serious.”
“Then perhaps I should take my leave, my lady.”
“No! We’re going to play a game!” Viserra pronounced, raising her goblet dramatically. “The man who drinks the most before the wine runs dry may join me on the bed and lay his head on my lap. The man who drinks the least will tell my father where I’ve been in the morning.” Her lackeys cheered and set about chugging the wine. With some reluctance, Garth reconsidered and took the offered goblet. He had no desire to face the king’s wrath, and he suspected he was going to need to get more drunk in order to tolerate the night.
When the bottles ran dry the serving girl was sent to fetch more while Viserra declared the winner and loser. “Ser Boris, a poor showing,” she said to the young knight, who looked somewhat green around the gills. “Be brave for me when you speak to my father.” Lord Gaunt’s cheeks were flushed and he looked very pleased with himself. Garth had to admit he had drunk an impressive amount. “And Ser Garth, a fine performance. Come, join me.”
“But Viserra-,” Gaunt began to protest before Viserra silenced him with a look.
“Take your defeat with good grace, as you did in the practice yard, Edwyle,” Viserra said. “Ser Garth is the winner.”
“I…yield the contest to Lord Gaunt,” said Garth.
“There is no yielding. You won, now join me on the bed. Your princess commands you.” Viserra’s voice was honey, but there was a sharp edge to it that brooked no disobedience. Garth did as he was bid, stepping between his jealous rivals to lay himself down uneasily on the bed. Viserra guided his head into her lap, running her fingers through his dark hair, and he had to suppress a shiver.
“My dear sweet boys,” Viserra sighed. “I will miss you terribly in the North.”
“Then we will not let them take you! No princess of the dragonblood should have to endure the cold North with its fur-clad savages!” Ser Jason declared. He was slurring his words, but he spoke quite eloquently considering how much he had drunk.
“Will you defy my father, then, Ser?” Viserra asked him, not sounding opposed to the idea.
Ser Jason flushed red and looked down uncomfortably. “That is to say…” he mumbled.
“Perhaps we could visit you in White Harbour,” Lord Peasebury suggested, more reasonably. “Ships bound for the North depart King’s Landing all the time.”
“Perhaps you could,” Viserra nodded, sounding much less interested in that idea.
Somehow Garth suspected that if they were separated from the princess for long, these gallant young men would soon lose interest in her and leave her alone in the North. The thought made him sad, and the wine made him foolish enough to say so. “I do not wish to see you abandoned in the North, doomed to wander unfamiliar halls as a stranger far from home. I would see you free and happy in a place filled with laughter.”
Viserra looked down at Garth, her violet gaze transfixing him. “Perhaps we could run away together,” she said, so softly it was almost a whisper. “Forsake all our wealth and live simple lives, free.”
Looking up at her, Garth realised that she was completely serious, and he struggled to think clearly through the wine-haze. “Wealth is not so easy to give up for those who have known it all their lives,” he said.
“Spoken like a true peasant,” Lord Gaunt sneered, tearing Garth and Viserra’s attention away from one another.
With the wine whispering in his ears, Garth pushed himself off Viserra and rose unsteadily to his feet. “I tire of your tongue, my lord. Hold it still or I shall remove it for you,” he said. A deathly quiet settled across the room as Lord Gaunt’s wine-flushed cheeks turned purple with outrage.
“How dare you?!” Gaunt hissed, lurching forwards, but before he could act Viserra held up a hand.
“Ser Garth is right, Edwyle. I tire of you as well. Go,” she said, in a voice soft but commanding.
Gaunt seemed to crumple, all the fight going out of him. As he looked at Viserra, Garth thought he was going to cry, but then he turned and walked out with his shoulders slumped, passing the serving girl who was returning with more wine. One by one the other men left, either making their excuses or pressured into leaving by Viserra, until it was just the two of them with the pre-dawn light creeping through the windows. Viserra was standing by one of them, looking across the city towards the harbour. Watching her, Garth could only think of how beautiful she was.
Viserra turned away from the window, and Garth realised that she had been crying. “You can’t see the river from here, but I know the ship is there,” she sniffled. She strode forwards and before he knew what was happening she had fallen into his arms. After a moment’s hesitation he held her close, letting her sob into his chest. Septon Barth’s words came to his mind once again, whispering treason in his ears. Could he really do it? She was without guards or chaperones, if there was ever a time, this was it.
Such thoughts kept Garth from noticing Viserra’s hand wandering until she snatched his dagger from its sheath and pulled away from him, holding it to her throat. “Princess!” he shouted, taking a step towards her but then halting as a line of blood trickled down her neck.
“I won’t go,” Viserra insisted, her voice and hands both trembling. “I’d rather die.”
“Princess, put the knife down,” Garth said, trying to keep his voice calm and even.
“No!” she hissed. “Don’t come any closer!” she added, backing away towards the window.
Garth kept his distance, holding his hands up in a gesture of peace. He had no idea what he was supposed to do. She was right to not want to go. He would feel the same way in her position. So was he to lie, and tell her it wouldn’t be so bad? No.
“I will take you!” It was a spur of the moment decision, but the instant the words left his lips he committed to it. He would not tolerate this injustice, though he feared the consequences of his choice. “We will run away together, if that’s what you want. But first, put down the knife.”
“I don’t believe you!” It was clear that Viserra wanted to believe him though. Garth could see the knife wavering.
“I swear to you, I mean what I say.”
Slowly, Viserra lowered the knife to her side, still holding it tightly. Garth took a cautious step closer, and when she didn’t react he closed the gap and took the knife from her gently. She looked up at him, trembling, and he ventured to put a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “We must be quick,” he said softly. “It won’t be long before there are men out looking for you, if they aren’t already.
After slicing one of the bedsheets to make a makeshift shawl that hid Viserra’s silver hair, Garth took her by the hand and led her through the door, down the stairs and out of the inn to the stable, where he recognised her white palfrey. He helped her mount it and then climbed onto his own bay gelding. Together they rode through the streets to the Dragon Gate. Garth fully expected to be stopped, but the guards on duty waved them through without so much as a second look. That was all it took for him to elope with the princess.