Ser Alban Whitesteel POV
Ser Alban Whitesteel. The name was my pride, earned not inherited. Great-grandson of Aegor Rivers, they said, though that bitter legacy felt like a story about another man. My truth was forged in the squires' melee at Harrenhal and sealed when Ser Julius Harlane tapped my shoulders with his sword. I was a knight.
It has been nearly two years since Ser Julius left us in King's Landing with a mission. My brother Alaric and I were disappointed to miss the tourney's climax, but his orders were clear. The letters he sent with us for My mother Miranda and Rolf spoke of a coming storm, a war that would make the capital a death trap for those under his protection. He commanded a secret exodus to Braavos.
We were skeptical. War was always a lord's game, played in distant fields. But My mother, with a grim certainty I now recognize as a spy's instinct, took it as gospel truth. She and Alaric went ahead to Braavos, using the funds Ser Julius had provided to secure a compound through the Sealord's office. Rolf returned to oversee the final stages, while my sisters and I managed the slow, careful dismantling of our interests in the city.
When the scandal at Harrenhal broke and Prince Rhaegar's folly lit the fuse, I understood Ser Julius's foresight. This was not a petty squabble; it was a conflagration. We moved with quiet urgency, sending the non-combatants—the women, the children, the elderly—across the narrow sea in small, unremarkable groups.
Staying behind was my choice. King's Landing was my home, its stink and splendor both woven into my bones. My family had no love for the Red Dragons, but this city, teeming with life, mattered to me. I felt a duty to see our people to safety and to watch how the wind turned.
It was mother who finally told us the full truth of our bloodline before she left. She was not just a merchant; she had been a shadow guard for the last Blackfyre king. The ghost of Bittersteel was in our veins. The revelation was a shock, but it also clarified things. Our loyalty was not to the Iron Throne, but to the man who had given us a future free of failed rebellions: Ser Julius.
As the rebellion erupted, I stayed, listening to the rumors in the taverns. Robert Baratheon's victories at Summerhall, his defeat at Ashford, his flight. The capital grew tense, paranoid. The Mad King's madness seemed to leak from the Red Keep's very walls.
When Rolf finally sold the last of our properties, the plan was for us all to leave. But I had a different notion. "Go without me," I told him. "There's something I must see for myself."
I did not tell him I intended to join the royal host gathering to crush the rebellion. I needed to understand the enemy, to see the war not through Ser Julius's strategic lens, but with my own eyes. Perhaps some part of me, the part that was Bittersteel's heir, wanted to see the Targaryens fight for their survival.
I used a portion of our gold to equip myself properly and joined the contingent led by the new Hand, Lord Jon Connington. I made myself useful, capable, and quiet. My commanding officer, a grim knight named Ser Alliser Thorne, appreciated my skill.
We marched for the Stony Sept, where Robert Baratheon was reportedly cornered. This was it, the hammer blow that would end the rebellion.
But when we reached the town, Lord Connington's strategy confounded me. Instead of a swift, brutal assault or setting a trap, he ordered a house-to-house search. It was madness. We were giving the rebels time we did not have, fumbling in the streets while a rebel army was surely marching to relieve him.
I rode up to Ser Alliser, my frustration boiling over. "Forgive me, ser, but this is a fool's errand. We should ring the town with fire and archers and burn them out! This dithering will be our doom."
Ser Alliser gave me a grim, approving look. "Aye, Whitesteel. I said the same. But we are not the Hand. We follow orders."
It was then that the sound began—a single, deep, resonant bell from the sept, ringing not for prayer, but for alarm. Then another joined it, and another, until the air itself seemed to vibrate with the clamor.
My blood ran cold. This was not a search anymore; it was a trap, and we were the prey. I looked at the narrow, confused streets, the perfect killing ground for a relieving force. A profound regret washed over me. I had sought glory and understanding, but in this chaotic, bell-choked town, I saw only a pointless death. What use was seeing the war if I died in a losing battle for a king I despised? The thought that echoed in my mind was not of Bittersteel, but of Ser Julius: "A smart knight knows which battles to walk away from."
It was time to leave.