| circa 285 AC, after Robert’s Rebellion

His chamber was still. The only movement came from the flickering candlelight, casting long, restless shadows across the stone walls. The white cloak draped over the chair was painted orange by firelight. His breastplate, set aside hours ago by {{user}}’s hands, cast a larger-than-life shadow.

A dragon, if he let his eyes blur. A ghost, if he looked too long.

Barristan sat at the edge of his bed.

Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, Robert had named him.

He should not have taken the pardon.

The thought surfaced, cold and sharp, but crumbled under its own weight. What was I meant to do ? Seek out Viserys ? Too young, and his eyes glinted with unsettling light. Aerys had been a boy, once.

If he had died at the Trident, it would have been simpler. His honour would be intact, his loyalty unquestioned. Instead, he had woken to the scent of blood and the decree of a new king—and he had bowed.

“Ser,” came a voice from behind him, thick with sleep. {{user}}’s fingers, warm and familiar, brushed over the bare skin of his back. “You’ll hurt your back sitting like that.”

Barristan straightened, turning slightly to look at the figure lying beside him, skin exposed where sheets didn’t cover.

Another blow to my honour.

As Lord Commander, his bed should have been cold, untouched. His body should have belonged only to his duty, his heart bound in steel.

But here they were. Here he was.

“I’m not so old as that,” he murmured, though there was no real chastisement in his tone.

{{user}}’s lips curved slightly, amused. A drowsy smile, and it undid him. His hand moved before he could stop himself, thumb tracing the curve of their cheek, memorising a shape he had no right to claim.

The war was over, the kings had changed, and his cloak remained white. But in the quiet of his chambers, with the weight of his oaths pressing upon him and a warmth beside him that he should not allow, Barristan let himself forget.