The sun was slowly declining behind the towers of the Red Keep, casting long shadows over the arena now silent. A few hours earlier still, it had vibrated under the enraged cries of the crowd, under the echo of shattered lances and neighing horses. The dust had not settled when the first spectators were already leaving the stands, heavy with fatigue and drunk on stories to tell.
The great tournament organized in honor of the heir princes, Aemon and Rhaegar Targaryen, had just come to an end.
The archers had shot, the fighters had fought, the melee had bloodied the earth. The duels had revealed prodigies, and the joust had offered a spectacle worthy of ancient ballads. All were leaving with a burning conviction: Westeros had lost none of its power.
This evening, however, the excitement was not quite extinguished.
Something else was going to be announced.
A rare decision.
An event that happened only a handful of times per generation.
The king was going to choose the seventh member of the Kingsguard.
The nobles remained grouped around the royal platform, some feigning indifference, others showing themselves particularly attentive. The knights, dusty but proud, waited to be dismissed. Squires wiped down the armor, masters-at-arms put away the weapons, and the last shattered lances still littered the ground like pieces of abandoned history.
The finalists of the joust drew all conversations:
• Prince Lewyn Martell, finalist, serious contender and master of duels.
• Ser Arthur Dayne, barely an adult but already a legend in the making.
• Ser Brynden Tully, whose strategic skill and mastery in combat had impressed the entire court.
All three were possible.
All three were worthy.
And everyone knew that one of the three might, a few moments later, become a sworn brother of the Kingsguard.
The trumpets sounded.
A heavy silence fell instantly over the arena.
Even the horses stopped pawing.
King Aerys II Targaryen rose slowly, draped in a dark red cloak embroidered with gold and black.
He moved with the quiet assurance of a sovereign accustomed to having every gaze turned toward him.
The reflections of the sun made his silver hair shine like a glint of Valyria.
Around him, the Kingsguard stood motionless, statues of whiteness and steel:
• Ser Gerold Hightower, the Lord Commander
• Ser Barristan Selmy
• Ser Jonothor Darry
• Ser Oswell Whent
• The other white knights of the Kingsguard.
The crowd waited.
The nobles held their breath.
The drums stopped beating.
The king lifted his hand slightly, and his voice rose, clear, controlled, carried by the natural acoustics of the platform.
— "Westeros, today we have celebrated the strength, loyalty, and bravery of our finest knights. The tournament is over… but there remains an honor to bestow."
The murmurs resumed for a second, then fell silent again.
Aerys continued:
— "The Kingsguard has known only six brothers these past years. Today, I will name the seventh."
The nobles thrummed with excitement.
The three candidates exchanged tense looks.
Gerold Hightower stepped toward the king.
His stride was calm, heavy with solemnity.
He leaned very slightly toward the sovereign's ear.
And murmured only three names:
• Ser Brynden Tully, the Blackfish
• Prince Lewyn Martell
• Ser Arthur Dayne, future Sword of the Morning
The conversation that followed was brief.
Two minutes, perhaps three.
To the crowd, it seemed an eternity.
They saw the king speaking softly, his face focused.
Gerold sometimes inclined his head slightly, replying in a half-voice.
No one could hear the reasons, the arguments, the hesitations.
But all knew: these moments would decide a man's life and the future of the Kingsguard.
At last, Gerold took a step back.
Aerys stepped forward again.
The silence was absolute.
— "Let the three knights whose names have been submitted to my consideration step forward."
The three men stepped forward:
• Brynden Tully, upright, his features firm.
• Arthur Dayne, young, but with an already royal bearing.
• Lewyn Martell, calm, holding his helm under his arm.
Aerys looked at them for a moment, as if he were still weighing their fate with his gaze alone.
Then he spoke:
— "One of you will be tonight a sworn brother. But only one."
The tension rose another notch.
— "Let this be remembered: the duels have revealed the excellence of Prince Lewyn Martell…"
Enthusiastic murmurs rose from the side of the Dornish delegation.
— "…his honor has never been in doubt…"
The Dornish held their breath.
— "…and his mastery of the lance even today during the joust bears witness to his worth."
Lewyn lifted his chin slightly.
Aerys concluded at last, voice high:
— "Let it be known to all: the new brother of the Kingsguard shall be… Prince Lewyn Martell."
The crowd erupted.
Cheers.
Acclamations.
Sustained applause that echoed off the stones of the Red Keep.
Lewyn Martell remained motionless for a second, as if struck by the announcement.
Then, as the cries spread through the arena, he made his way toward the pavilion in the colors of sun and spear.
There, his sister,
the ruling Princess of Dorne, Loreza Martell,
waited for him standing, her face lit with dazzling pride.
At her side stood her three children:
• Doran, serious and composed despite his young years, fixing Lewyn with admiration.
• Elia, shy, clutching a small flower between her fingers.
• Oberyn, still very young, hopping with excitement while waving a small Dornish flag.
Loreza was the first to step forward.
— "Lewyn… you have represented Dorne beyond our hopes."
Lewyn inclined his head, moved.
Doran stepped forward.
— "Uncle Lewyn… I knew you would be chosen."
Lewyn placed an affectionate hand on the boy's hair.
— "And you, Doran, will one day wear the crown of Dorne with wisdom."
Elia approached timidly.
She held out the flower, her cheeks pink.
Lewyn knelt before her.
— "For me?"
She nodded.
He took the flower gently.
— "Then I will keep it as my first gift as a White Knight."
A burst of laughter rang out behind them: Oberyn, unable to stay still, was already running around Lewyn.
— "Uncle! Uncle! Are you going to put on the white armor? Are you going to be shining like the sun!"
Lewyn lifted him with a sure motion.
— "Yes, Oberyn. And I will wear it with as much fire as you carry your flag."
Oberyn burst out laughing.
Loreza finally placed a hand on her brother's forearm.
— "Even far from Dorne… even in the king's service… you will always remain a Martell. And you will remain my brother."
Lewyn nodded, sincere.
— "Always."
In that family embrace — Loreza proud, Doran grave, Elia tender, Oberyn overflowing with energy —
Lewyn Martell felt for the last time the simple warmth of being a son of Dorne
before becoming
one of the seven White Knights.
The banquet given in honor of the new White Knight surpassed everything King's Landing had seen in years.
The great hall of the Red Keep glittered with light: hundreds of candles shone in golden chandeliers, and red and black draperies hung from the walls like the wings of a dragon spread wide.
The nobles come from the four corners of the realm had gathered in dozens of circles of conversation, each animated by its own euphoria.
Everywhere, people spoke of the same name:
Lewyn Martell.
At the table of the Riverlords, a lord nodded with respect:
— "I had seen him fight in the Marches once… but today, he surpassed everything I could have imagined."
— "The Dornish know how to handle the lance, but he… he's an artist," a knight chimed in.
A little farther on, at the table of the West, two young nobles spoke in low voices:
— "Imagine the Kingsguard now… Hightower, Selmy, and Martell in the same room. It's almost an army by themselves."
— "The king chose wisely. Dorne can only appreciate this gesture."
At the table of the Reach, an older lord chewed slowly on a piece of meat before adding, thoughtful:
— "Martell or not, that boy has the grace of a dancer and the precision of a master archer. The Crown won a jewel tonight."
Even the Northmen, more reserved, nodded.
— "He fights cleanly. With honor."
— "Yes… it was a fair choice."
The mood was light, warm, almost brotherly.
The entire realm seemed ready to welcome Lewyn as one of its own.
Everywhere Lewyn passed, the nobles rose to offer him greetings, toasts, sometimes even martial salutes.
A lord of the Vale, moved, declared:
— "I have never seen a duel like the one you fought. I will remember it until my death."
A lady of the court bowed deeply:
— "Ser Lewyn, you are living proof that chivalry is not a myth."
Dornish lords kissed him on the cheeks, proud, moved.
They offered him cups of wine, flowers, promises of friendship, political alliances.
Young squires watched him the way one looks at a legendary hero.
— "Look at him… He's a prince, but he walks like a simple knight. Without arrogance."
— "That's what makes truly great men."
Lewyn received all of it with humility, inclining his head, thanking each person, yet refusing to be exalted too much.
Tonight, he had only one thing in mind:
The oath.
The musicians slowed their notes.
The conversations quieted.
A breath ran through the hall.
For at the center, upon an altar of white marble, rested:
The White Book.
The great registry of the Kingsguard.
The living history of Westeros.
Each page contained the legend of a man become a symbol.
A blank page awaited him.
His.
Faces turned toward him.
The lights seemed to concentrate on his silhouette, dressed in white.
Lewyn Martell walked with a slow step toward the altar.
Each step echoed in the hall.
Each breath seemed to mark history.
Gerold Hightower waited for him, motionless, straight as a stone tower.
The other Kingsguard formed a half-circle behind him.
Lewyn stopped at the foot of the altar.
He knelt.
The silence became absolute.
Gerold opened the White Book.
The pages rustled, heavy with centuries.
— "Prince Lewyn Martell…"
The Lord Commander's voice rang like a sacred knell.
— "Are you ready to renounce your name, your lands, your line… to take your place among the seven?"
Lewyn drew a slow breath.
— "I am."
Gerold placed his hand on his shoulder.
— "You will live without wife, without child, without inheritance. Your life will belong to the king and the realm. Nothing else will bind you. Is this your will?"
Lewyn lifted his head.
— "It is my will."
Gerold continued:
— "Then rise… and swear your oath."
Lewyn placed his right hand on the blank page.
It seemed warm, as if the marble itself recognized his destiny.
His voice was clear, strong, worthy:
"I swear to protect the king and his house.
To watch over his heirs, to defend the weak, to hold justice high.
I swear to live without ambition, without title, without heir.
I swear to serve until my death.
I swear to be a brother… of the guard that never sleeps."
The words hovered like oaths carved in the air.
Gerold closed the White Book with solemnity.
He stepped forward and declared in a powerful voice:
— "Rise, Ser Lewyn Martell, knight of the Kingsguard!"
The hall erupted.
The Kingsguard came one by one to place a hand on his shoulder:
— "Welcome, brother."
— "Welcome among the seven."
— "Welcome… to the guard that never sleeps."
Even the red dragons on the tapestries seemed to dance in the candlelight.
Lewyn Martell had entered legend.