Ser Alban Whitesteel POV
Escaping the chaos of the Stony Sept was simpler with Morty, Alfy, and Rick at my side. Disguised in looted loyalist armor, we melted into the stream of fleeing soldiers. We found Ser Alliser Thorne, and I presented my "feats"—the near-killing of Lord Tully and the slaying of Ser Denys Arryn. His grim approval was our ticket back to the capital, cloaked in the guise of royalist heroes.
We returned to my family's house in King's Landing. Linda, a childhood friend who had stayed to watch over the property, greeted us. Her presence was a comfort, a tether to a simpler life. After introductions, I announced a feast, a necessary celebration to maintain our cover and provide a reason for my companions' presence. Rick, ever dutiful, voiced his concern about our mission, but Alfy and Morty argued for one night of normalcy before the work began. I agreed; we needed to look like triumphant knights, not conspirators.
For two weeks, we played our parts. Then Rick departed for Braavos with messages for Rolf and Miranda. Morty vanished into the city's underbelly to begin his search for the alchemists' caches. Alfy and I prepared to infiltrate the gold cloaks.
Our plans were interrupted by a summons. A squad of gold cloaks, led by a Captain Tom, stood outside my door. "Ser Alban Whitesteel? By order of the Crown, you are to come to the Red Keep."
We armored ourselves. The weight of my plate was a familiar reassurance. As Captain Tom escorted us, I pumped him for information. Lord Connington was exiled for his failure. Ser Barristan and Prince Lewyn were gathering a new host. The King was planning a final march north. The information was vital.
The Red Keep was a fortress of pale red stone, every corridor whispering of Targaryen power and paranoia. Dragon skulls lined the walls of the Great Hall, their empty sockets seeming to watch our approach. The air was thick with incense and fear.
We knelt before the Iron Throne. King Aerys II perched on the jagged steel, a gaunt specter of a king. Beside him stood a single Kingsguard, Ser Jaime Lannister, his golden armor and white cloak a stark contrast to the king's decay.
"So," the King's voice was a dry rasp, scratching at the silence. "You are the knight who claims to have wounded the trout and broken the falcon's wing. Where is your proof?"
"My word, Your Grace," I said, keeping my head bowed but my voice firm. "And the account of Ser Alliser Thorne."
The King leaned forward, his long, unkempt nails tapping on the throne's arm. "Words are wind. Even Thorne's. I need something... tangible." His eyes, burning with a feverish intensity, scanned me. "Perhaps a demonstration? Ser Jaime! Test this man's steel. See if it is as sharp as his tongue. But do not kill him," he added with a ghastly smile. "If he lies, I should like to have that pleasure myself."
Ser Jaime Lannister stepped forward, drawing his sword with a soft hiss. His expression was unreadable, a mask of perfect knightly composure. This was it. Our carefully constructed cover, our mission for Ser Julius, my very life—all hinged on this duel. I stood and drew my own blade, the one Ser Julius had gifted me. The Great Hall fell silent, the only sound the crackle of the distant hearth and the mad king's soft, eager breathing. I had to win, or everything was lost.
Ser Alfy Blacksteel POV
The Red Keep was a fortress of whispers and dread. I had seen the majestic Eyrie and the haunted halls of Harrenhal, but nothing compared to the palpable fear that clung to these red stone walls. The dragon skulls lining the Great Hall felt less like trophies and more like promises of violence.
When we stood before the Iron Throne, my blood ran cold. King Aerys II was a living corpse, his long nails and wild eyes confirming every horror story I'd heard. The pots of wildfire placed around the hall were a madman's decoration. One wrong word, one misplaced glance, and we would burn.
Alban, damn him, offered to prove our worth through combat. My heart hammered against my ribs. I remembered Ser Julius's lessons about Lord Rickard Stark. This was the same man who had cooked a Great Lord in his own armor.
When the King named Ser Jaime Lannister as his champion, I felt a grim relief. At least it would be a clean death by steel, not fire.
The fight began. Alban was stronger, his style forged in the brutal, practical drills Ser Julius had hammered into us. But Jaime Lannister was a blur of golden steel, his skill breathtaking. They were evenly matched, a fact that seemed to disappoint the King. I watched Aerys's face—not concerned for his champion, but leaning forward with a hungry, eager expression, waiting for bloodshed.
Just as the clash grew most dangerous, a voice cut through the tension.
"Stop this madness!"
Crown Prince Rhaegar stood at the entrance, flanked by Ser Barristan Selmy and Ser Jonothor Darry. The spell was broken.
Ser Alban Whitesteel POV
Disarming Jaime Lannister was proving far harder than I'd anticipated. His arrogance had vanished, replaced by a focused, fluid skill that met my every attack. My strength and endurance from Ser Julius's grueling training would eventually win out, but the Mad King's gleeful stare promised this wouldn't end at first blood.
Prince Rhaegar's intervention was a reprieve I hadn't dared hope for. He dismissed Ser Jaime, who shot me a look of pure, unadulterated fury before departing. The Prince even remembered me from Harrenhal, a detail that surprised me.
Then he turned to his father. "Father, what is this? If Jaime was harmed, Lord Tywin would—"
"SILENCE!" the King shrieked, spittle flying from his lips. "Do not speak to your King so! Where is my Lord Commander? Where are my knights?"
"I do not know," Rhaegar replied, his voice tight.
"But I do! Traitors! All of them!" Aerys hissed. "I hope they guard your Stark whore well. Get out! Crush the rebels and do not return until you do!"
After Rhaegar and the two Kingsguard departed, the King's burning gaze fell on me. "Ser Alban Whitesteel. Kneel."
I dropped to one knee, my head bowed. "Your Grace, I am yours to command."
He demanded my history. I gave him the story we had crafted—a tale of a loyal gold cloak father, exile from House Tarly, and a family forced to flee to Braavos after being wronged. I painted a picture of a loyal son seeking to serve the crown that had favored his father.
The King's eyes glinted with a possessive satisfaction. "Your father was loyal. Those who wronged you shall burn. I will deliver justice." He leaned forward, his voice a raspy whisper. "Tell me, boy, are you as loyal as he was?"
"I am yours to command, my King," I repeated, the words ash in my mouth.
He questioned Alfy's loyalty next, and I vouched for him without hesitation. Satisfied, the King ordered his master-at-arms, Ser William Derry, to give us chambers within the Keep.
That night, a soft knock came at my door. I answered with a dagger in hand, finding a hooded figure in the corridor.
"That is not necessary, good ser. I am no killer," a soft, effeminate voice said from the shadows.
I lowered the blade. He had taken the bait. "Please, come in, Lord Varys."