Inscript

Every ruler of the Iron Throne had their own Kingsguard, ever since the days of Aegon.

The Kingsguard, also known as the White Swords or white cloaks, are the elite royal bodyguards of the Iron Throne.

They are considered the finest knights in the Seven Kingdoms and are sworn to protect the king and the royal family with their lives, obey their commands, and keep their secrets.

Kingsguard knights serve for life and are not allowed to marry, father children, or own land, but they can hold non-hereditary positions like Warden or Hand of the King.

The Kingsguard comprises seven sworn knights, a nod to the Faith of the Seven, and their Lord Commander serves on the king's small council.

The White Book is a voluminous tome over a thousand pages thick, in which the notable deeds of a fallen member of the Kingsguard are inscribed.

Usually, updating the book falls on the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard whenever one of his sworn brothers meets their end.

However, in the rare instances when the Lord Commander himself dies, someone else must step up to complete the task.

And so it was, not long after I had been knighted, some time into the new year, that this duty fell to me.

High in the White Sword Tower, the place in the Red Keep where the Kingsguard was housed, I sat in the common room. Alone, the white book opened in front of me.

I'd been in here ever since Ser Ryams recent passing only yesterday. I wanted to make his white book entry something special.

I didn't want to simply write his life's deeds. That alone would not be enough to rid my sorrow. So I interspersed illustrations, pretty borders, fancy calligraphic first letters of paragraphs, the whole nine yards.

All my grief and love — inscribed into letters — colored between margins.

By the time I was finished and the ink was dry, Ser Ryam's entry in the white book was the cleanest, most decorated, most impressive entry in our kingdom's century-long history. All topped off by his final and arguably most notable entry:

[… Knighted Rhaenar I Targaryen in 105 AC.]

"Sigh…"

I slumped back in my chair, staring at the ceiling, my wrist pulsing with pain.

"Are you finished, My Prince?"

"I am."

Accompanying me was Ser Steffon Darklyn.

He wasn't the comeliest of fellows, somewhat chubby around the cheeks and sporting a school-shooter haircut, but he had a soft-spoken way about him which I found endearing.

House Darklyn were the rulers of Duskendale, a keep not too far from Kings Landing.

At the start of Aegon's conquest, some families in what we now call the 'Crownlands' yielded without a fight, such as House Rosby and House Stokeworth. Technically, they became the first on the mainland to bend the knee.

However, some of the more powerful families in the Crownlands wouldn't give up without a fight. As such, House Darklyn allied with House Mooten of Maidenpool and marched south.

Their 3000-man army outnumbered the small 1600-man contingent that Aegon brought to the mainland.

This event became known as 'Aegon's first test', though it was a futile effort. Aegon sent his best friend, Orys Baratheon, to face them while Aegon rode atop Balerion the Black Dread to provide aerial support.

House Darklyn has been loyal to the Targaryens ever since. A Darklyn was among the first ever Kingsguard, and they have had multiple family members join the Kingsguard since, becoming the House with the most Kingsguard appearances in history.

There was a rumor circulating that the Kingsguard drew straws every day to decide who would be assigned as my escort. However, there were conflicting accounts of the reason for the straw drawing, depending on who you asked.

I never found out if they did it to have the honor of being my escort or if they did it to avoid being assigned to me. If it was the latter, they did a damn good job hiding it.

I decided to stop getting upset about the opinions of sheep. After all, ignorance is bliss.

"Guests will be arriving soon," announced Ser Steffon, "The King wants you and Rhaenyra to be prepared to welcome them."

I rubbed my nose and felt the tension build, "Father always has to stress about everything, my nameday espicially. If only he would let me organize the festivities as requested, he would have a much longer life."

Ser Steffon smiled at that, "You almost got approved until you mentioned the budget."

I chuckled, "Tell me about it."

Some months prior, I presented my proposed schedule for my nameday to the small council.

I managed to hook them with the usual pomp of feasts and tournaments, but I also suggested significant improvements while keeping the budget vastly lower than previous namedays.

I proposed several suggestions to cut back on costs for the upcoming event.

One idea was to re-use decorations from previous celebrations and improve upon them. I also suggested leveraging my connections to hire high-quality entertainment in exchange for their exposure.

Additionally, I presented some practical suggestions that came from Theodore, but I took credit for them as my own.

Looking back, this may have been a mistake, as my father did not react positively to the idea of reducing the tournament prize winnings or sourcing child labor from Fleabottom.

The meeting eventually spiralled into a dick-measuring contest between Uncle Daemon and Ser Otto Hightower. It started with Daemon teasing me lightheartedly about my frugality, 'A dragon doesn't count pennies'.

Otto countered by complimenting my resourcefulness, and things devolved from there.

Ultimately, my father dismissed my proposal, believing the lack of spending would detract from the desired level of royal glamour.

And so, we went ahead with business as usual: a fortnight filled with excessive spending, extravagant decadence, and over-consumption.

Ser Steffon and I strolled through the Red Keep.

"Who do you think will be among the early birds this year?" I asked.

(Many lords would arrive much earlier than the expected event date. In fact, even though the festivities were still ten days away, we had already received word of people arriving. Lord Cameron of House Tarth held the record for the earliest arrival to my nameday celebrations. He was so enamored with the festivities after my ninth that he remained in the Red Keep for the entire year, eagerly anticipating my tenth.)

Ser Steffon responded dryly, "I already know. They briefed me this morning."

I clicked my tongue in disapproval. "Tssk tssk. Didn't they also tell you that I can't stand spoilers?"

"It's my responsibility to be aware of any potential risks to your safety and the King's."

"Relax, Ser," I reassured him. "I'm only teasing."

As I strolled past one of the rooms in Maegor's Holdfast that had been repurposed as my art studio, I saw my mother standing inside, gazing at a recent painting I had completed.

The piece depicted my and Rhaenyra's birth, with my mother cradling us in her arms while she and my father looked down on us with loving smiles.

"Do you like it?" I asked.

"I love it," she replied. "You have no idea how accurate this is to the actual day. It's almost as if you remember it perfectly."

I rubbed my neck awkwardly, "A lucky guess. How are you holding up?"

As she answered with her Queenly voice, it brought a sense of melancholy over me. I had a voice of my own, that Princely tone which surfaced instinctively, a product of a lifetime spent responding to what I deemed to be perfunctory, checkbox-type questions.

"I'm fine, my son. Truly," she reassured me. "You and Rhaenyra needn't fuss over me like I'm a ch—"

The word clogged her throat.

"Ch-.. Child."

All I could do was nod and gently kiss her cheek. Since the recent stillborn tragedy, my sister and I had perhaps been overprotective and overly affectionate towards our Mother.

Our father refused to let us see the body of our deceased brother. I could only glimpse the small bundle of cloth as I commanded Sundance to set the pyre ablaze, ashes to ashes.

The midwives seemed hesitant to disclose what they had witnessed, almost as if they had taken a vow of secrecy. Whether my parents instructed them to keep quiet or chose to do so of their own volition, I never bothered to find out.

But I did manage to squeeze some information out of Nancy, a midwife whose favor I earned when I saw to it her mother got medical attention from the Maesters when she got a fever.

I ordered her to cut the bullshit and tell it to me straight. This is what she said:

"Your brother never lived. He came out monstrous… Scaled like a lizard, eyes milk-grey, with webbed wings like a dragon hatchling. I'm sorry, My Prince."

I didn't believe it at the time.