A Vow Without Honor

The Conflict

Barristan

"You ever regret anything, Selmy?"

Ser Barristan looked up from the hole his boot had kicked into the dirt. Early that morning, the king had come to him and demanded that they go on a hunt. Never mind that the tournament's closing festivities were later that afternoon and that he had several dignitaries he had yet to greet over the course of the whole affair. When King Robert wanted to kill something, it was best not to get in his way.

Admittedly, he had thought the man was still drunk. Sobriety was not a state of being Robert liked to be in, but in the hours since they had departed the Red Keep, Barristan had come to realize his king was far more serious than usual. Lancel, he noted, was still carrying a full wineskin, despite multiple attempts to give some to Robert. The last time he had been threatened with disembowelment, so the poor squire had taken to sulking some yards behind them. Robert not taking to wine was something to worry about, strange as it sounded.

He had received no reports of anything unusual in the night, but Ser Mandon never had been one for talking. Barristan always thought it odd a man as respectable as Jon Arryn could have had such a glum character in his entourage.

"And I don't mean eating some piss poor meal that has you shitting your guts out," Robert continued, not noticing the knight's scrutiny. "Real regret. The kind that chews your insides up till you can't take the pain anymore."

He blinked.

This was...different.

Barristan was used to more jovial conversations, the ones that drunkenly mocked death and women and decorum, anything a proper king should not venture to discuss. Rare were the somber moments, and short-lived as well.

"Are you going to answer me or stare at your boots all morning?"

The thing was, Robert was not even looking at him. He was seated on a rock, picking at his spear like he had nothing better to do with it. The man hunted for many reasons, to get away from trouble, to get into trouble, never just for the sake of hunting. But this felt like more. He had only half-heartedly tracked what few prints there were in the Kingswood and was not agitated in the least that there had been no sighting of their quarry. Had he not served by his side for the better part of two decades, Barristan might have wondered if he'd gone hunting with the wrong man.

Even so, he still did.

"The tourney at Harrenhal, Your Grace," Barristan spoke eventually, giving in to the king's question. He shuffled closer to Robert, but not within eye view. "I regret not winning it."

The king huffed. "Not enough victories for you?"

"No, nothing like that. Perhaps if..." His voice trailed off as he thought of how to best phrase his answer. A smart man knew there were certain names to never mention to Robert; a wise man would not have bothered at all. "If someone else had been crowned the Queen of Love and Beauty, things might have been different."

He could still remember how Prince Rhaegar had passed by his wife in order to crown Lyanna Stark. The crowd had fallen so silent as she took the flowers in hand. Her brothers were furious, Elia Martell shamed, even King Aerys did not look favorably on his son's actions, and he, too, was a lecherous sort. But at that moment, the prince saw no one but her.

Robert was watching him. Barristan recalled his face as well. Younger and thinner, but still full of the famed fury of his house.

"And who was your queen?"

Ashara Dayne. With her violet eyes and dark hair, she still haunted his every step. He could pretend, just this once, that he regretted not winning for the sake of the realm, but all the dead across the kingdom for a stolen girl and a rebellion could not mean a thing next to the loss of her.