Chapter 64 – The True Name
Across the lists, Ser Barristan Selmy sat astride his steed, the sunlight glinting off his white armor — but his mind, uncharacteristically, was elsewhere.
He had fought in more tournaments than he could count. Since the age of ten he had ridden with a lance, facing knights twice his size. And through the decades, his discipline had never wavered — every tilt, every duel, he faced with the same solemn focus.
To him, that concentration was the highest form of respect — both for himself and his opponent.
But today… his heart was not steady.
The man known as Barristan the Bold — the embodiment of knightly virtue — found his iron will shaken.
And the cause of that distraction sat only a few rows away, radiant beneath the banners of Dorne.
"Ashara…"
He whispered the name behind his visor, almost reverently.
As a man who had dedicated his entire life to honor and service, Barristan had never truly loved. He had admired women before, of course — but never one who could pierce the armor around his soul.
Until the day he met Ashara Dayne.
Those violet eyes, bright as sunrise over the desert dunes, had thawed the cold steel in his heart from the very first glance.
But now, those same eyes that haunted him night and day were not on him at all.
No — her gaze was turned toward another.
Toward that white-clad upstart — Ser Lance Lot, seated beside the golden daughter of Casterly Rock.
Barristan's jaw tightened. Even through the steel of his helm, one could almost feel the heat of his restrained frustration.
He told himself it was unbecoming of a knight to feel jealousy — and yet, the emotion burned within him all the same.
On the field, his would-be opponent, young Jaime Lannister, was making his own silent vow.
"Watch me, Cersei. I'll prove I'm no lesser man than that white-cloaked pretender."
"Ashara," Barristan thought grimly. "When I reach the finals, I'll make that charming bastard pay for toying with a lady's heart."
Two knights.
Two hearts burning for recognition — neither thinking of the other as their true enemy.
And yet, in that moment, their gazes met — green and blue, youthful fire and tempered steel.
Sparks leapt invisibly between them.
No boasts, no taunts, no words were needed.
In perfect unison, the red and white knights lowered their lances, spurred their horses — and thundered toward each other.
---
"Pardon me, Lady Cersei."
As the horns signaled the start of the match, Lance suddenly rose from his seat.
Cersei blinked in surprise. "You're leaving? But the bout has only just begun."
"There's no need to watch," he replied softly.
His blue eyes held hers, calm and unshakable, as he raised his hand and extended three fingers.
"Three… two… one."
At the instant he closed his fist, the sound of splintering wood and a sharp metallic crack echoed through the air.
The crimson-armored youth was flung from his saddle, crashing into the dirt in a cloud of dust.
It had taken exactly one exchange.
Cersei gasped, leaping to the railing, eyes wide with panic.
"Your brother is gifted," Lance said gently behind her. "Give him a few years, and perhaps he truly might stand equal to Ser Barristan."
Then, lowering his voice, he added, "But not today."
He placed a gloved hand lightly upon her shoulder — reassuring, steady.
"Do not worry. Ser Barristan never strikes beyond what is needed. Your brother will live — and learn."
Lance's tone softened, almost like a mentor's. "Tell him this: if he wishes to be trained by the Kingsguard, he may come to the Red Keep. My brothers and I would gladly guide a boy with such spirit. If he's willing, I could even ask Ser Arthur Dayne himself to take him under his wing."
With that, the white knight inclined his head and strode away.
Cersei watched him go, her worry for Jaime fading into something else — a deep, admiring glow.
Compared to Lance's effortless grace and quiet strength, her brother's fall looked pitiful — like a beggar sprawled in the mud.
"Lance…"
Her lips curled into a confident smile. She knew where he was headed — to that Dornish woman, of course.
But the thought no longer filled her with anger. Instead, she whispered, with a certainty born of pride:
"One day, you'll belong to me — when I become the Queen."
---
On the field, Jaime Lannister was gasping for breath, struggling to rise. He tore off his red-plumed helm and tossed it aside, staring down at the dented plate on his chest.
The pain beneath it throbbed sharply — a reminder of the gulf between himself and the legends he idolized.
One pass.
That was all it had taken.
He let out a short, bitter laugh.
He had known defeating Barristan would be hard — but to lose in a single exchange? To be tossed aside like a child?
Humiliation burned hotter than the pain in his ribs.
"Cersei…" he muttered, lifting his gaze toward the stands — only to see his sister staring dreamily after that same white-cloaked knight.
Her eyes were soft. She hadn't looked at him once.
"Heh…"
The sound escaped him — half laugh, half groan.
For the first time, doubt crept into Jaime Lannister's heart.
Am I really meant to be a knight like Arthur Dayne?
Or has everyone simply lied to me — flattered me because I'm Tywin Lannister's son?
Before the thought could fully darken him, a shadow fell across his vision.
A gauntleted hand reached down.
"You have talent, boy."
The voice was calm, steady — and carried the weight of true strength.
Jaime blinked up through the haze, and for the first time, truly saw Ser Barristan Selmy — the man he had once dreamed of becoming.
"To mount a horse, don armor, and challenge me in the lists — that alone shows courage beyond most men."
"Train well, and in time, you will become a true knight."
With those words, Barristan turned his horse and rode away, leaving the young Lannister staring blankly after him.
For a long while, Jaime simply stood there in the dust, his chest aching from both the blow and the weight of humiliation.
But as his eyes followed the fluttering white cloak receding into the sunlight, something stirred in him — not shame, but longing.
"So this… this is the Kingsguard," he murmured under his breath, awe softening his voice.
---
Barristan didn't look back. His horse's hooves struck the ground in a steady rhythm as he made his way toward the exit tunnel.
He himself didn't quite know why he had spoken those words to the boy. Perhaps because when he'd seen that lost, uncertain look in Jaime's eyes, he had seen himself — the boy he once was, ten years old and trembling beneath the jeers of the crowd.
He still remembered that day, when the others had mocked him for daring to challenge Prince Duncan.
And yet, Duncan hadn't laughed.
The prince had treated him as an equal, honored him as a true knight — and given him the name "the Bold."
That one moment of recognition had shaped his entire life.
Had it not been for Prince Duncan's faith in him, there might never have been a Ser Barristan the Bold.
So now, he carried that same fire — that same duty — to pass it on. Not for politics. Not for power.
But for the one thing that mattered most.
Chivalry.
The sacred bond between knights.
"Duncan Targaryen…"
Barristan murmured the name. His memory of the prince's face had faded with the years — but suddenly, another image rose in its place.
A sharper one.
A younger one.
A man with glowing hair gleaming under the sun and eyes clear as sapphire.
"Lance… Lance Lot," he whispered. "Are you truly a Lot… or are you a Targaryen?"
---
Feeling the weight of that intense stare, Lance turned, puzzled.
Barristan was still astride his horse, helm in hand, watching him in silence — gaze firm, almost searching.
Lance gave a polite nod, offering a faint, disarming smile.
To him, it was nothing out of the ordinary. The old knight was a man of honor — and the Kingsguard did not strike from behind. Whatever thoughts weighed on Barristan's mind, Lance assumed they weren't directed in hostility.
And so, with a small shrug, he turned to leave.
But Barristan didn't speak again. He simply exhaled, replaced his helm, and strode off without another word.
Lance frowned slightly.
"Strange…"
Still, he didn't dwell on it for long. Perhaps the old knight had something urgent to attend to.
He started toward the corridor — only to see a lone figure descending from the stands, walking directly toward him.
---
"Ser Lance Lot."
The voice was quiet, measured — almost cautious.
Lance paused, turning toward the sound. The man before him was a stranger: tall, weary, and travel-worn.
He was dressed as a septon, though unlike any holy man Lance had ever seen. Dust clung to his robes, his beard was untrimmed, and exhaustion had carved deep lines into his face.
But what caught Lance's eye most was the sword hanging openly at his hip.
"I don't believe we've met… Septon?" Lance asked, frowning.
The man smiled faintly, inclining his head.
"Bonifer Hasty, ser," he said, his tone formal but sincere. "As you see, I am a man of the Faith."
He took a slow step closer — close enough that Lance instinctively shifted into a defensive stance.
And then, Bonifer spoke words that froze him in place.
"I have come from Duskendale, Ser Lance Lot."
"The Seven have guided me here — to bring you what is rightfully yours…"
He paused, eyes glinting with something solemn, almost reverent.
"…your true name."