Chapter Text
King's Landing, 87 AC
Prince Baelon the Brave
Every day of his life feels longer than the last.
Every day drags on, more voices blending into the incomprehensible din that surrounds him each and every hour—drowning him and his thoughts away. The shortness of the days were additionally maddening, the longevity of the winter sun as effective as a kitchen fire for all the works that needed be done.
Over the past few years, after Saera and Daella and Mother’s increasingly long absences, Baelon found rest, true rest, nearly impossible to come by. His bones were those of a man a decade his elder, he would complain to Aemon, who only ever scoffed and indulged Baelon with a round in the training yard to remind them both they were still young men. With blood running hot through his veins and the sheen of sweat on his muscles, all his worries dissipated like the frost of the morning did from the petals of plants. But when he looked to the sidelines and could not find those mismatched eyes (the green one was emerald, the purple one amethyst, and they both laughed with a pure joy only she ever had, for he never did anymore), the heaviness always returned.
Instead, the only sister he found in the crowd was Viserra, who was surely the prettiest maiden Baelon had ever laid eyes upon. She reminded him of a fox for some reason, sly and graceful, always effortlessly twisting her way into the hearts of those around her. If only she had been Saera’s elder, none of those boys would have even glanced at his now disgraced sister...it does none of them any good to think of her, Baelon reminds himself.
You will make peace, and I will make sons, he had once boasted to his brother. Well, he had the sons, but he was no longer convinced his was the easier lot in life, Baelon thinks humorlessly.
Was there ever a six year old as troublesome as Daemon? If there was, Baelon never had the displeasure to meet them. The boy spoke in High Valyrian constantly merely to anger his maesters and teachers, who could not hope to command the language as a true son of the Dragon could. Viserys did not temper his younger brother whatsoever, and indulged his bad behavior. Aemon would have had Baelon’s hide if he ever placed a salamander in a septa’s drawers, but evidently Viserys was of no such ilk.
Then again, neither was Baelon. He often meant to punish one or the other boy, but when he went to gather a switch, or raise his hand—he found he could not do it. Alyssa would not have been pleased to see him beat their precious children, no matter how naughty they were. And they were all he had left of her, truly.
Viserys and Daemon and a lifetime of memories, he reminded himself. That, and two graves on Dragonstone that I have never visited. Because I am a coward.
He dreamed of her nearly every night. Aegon was sometimes there as well, always a babe no matter that he would have been three years old now. Sometimes he wasn’t there, and Alyssa was naked, teasing and taunting him with the body he knew as well as his own. On those blessed nights, he would wake achingly hard from the visions of his sleep, finishing himself with his hand with his eyes screwed tight. In his nightmares, she was pregnant, straining and screaming in birth.
Tonight would be a bad night, he could already feel it. Dinner with Daemon and Viserys had been excruciating, the brothers fighting and nasty. Were Aemon and I ever so belligerent? I think not.
Then again, it had not been just him and Aemon and Alyssa and Jocelyn at the dinner tables, even though it felt as if it was at times. Perhaps through some property of transfer, he was being punished for failing to mediate between Vaegon and Daella, or too often leaving Saera’s venomous barbs towards Viserra unchallenged.
Entering his chambers, Baelon exhales deeply, closing his eyes as the doors shut tightly behind him. There is a fire in the hearth, although not as strong as he would like, and he places logs on it himself rather than go through the ordeal of calling for a page. It was their duty of course, but Baelon simply could not be fucked after the day he had. He tears at the ties on his tunic instead, ripping it off and throwing it to the floor. He does the same to his boots.
He should do his ablutions, of course, but he merely wishes to lie down for a small moment, just to relax for a blink first. The day had been so long, and the night was already so unforgiving…
A feminine giggle interrupts his thoughts.
It comes from his bed, and after the shock wears off Baelon rushes to tear back the curtains and discover who the culprit is. A rage hits him—did these women of court respect his wife’s memory so little as to be so brazen? They were always throwing themselves at him, letting their breasts go half uncovered or wearing gowns tight around the flesh of a generous arse if they had one. Alyssa had been well endowed, particularly after birth, but it was fundamentally her, not her assets that he’d loved, when would these ambitious girls understand that?
He did not look at any of them even once. Viserra often sat by his side during public feasts these days, chatty and excitable with him and his boys, at times successfully cajoling him to dance. She was still half a girl to Baelon, but he appreciated the intimidating effect she had on others of her sex.
Viserra was the only girl he had danced with since Alyssa had left him all alone, for he did not wish to give any lady the wrong idea. And it was a naked Viserra who was artfully arranged on his bedspread now, all skin and curves, cheekbones flushed pink as could be.
Oh Viserra, his heart sinks, the red rage leaving him, even as he could not help but notice her petite figure. When did you become this?
“Baelon,” she smiles happily, eyes heavily lidded and not meeting his, not while they are attached to his bare chest. She glides to him, raised up on her knees before he can even form a word of warning. She is normally graceful, but now she wobbles slightly now, and he instinctively attempts to catch her. She lays her warm hands across his chest for balance and Baelon resents that the touch makes him shiver.
I have not been touched in so long, even the hand of a maid barely flowered affects me, he realizes bitterly. But he does not wish for a woman’s touch, spurns it at every chance always. Such was his fidelity to the queen of his heart; to Alyssa.
“Dear me,” Viserra giggles, grasping his shoulders firmly and tugging him backwards with surprising strength when she falls to the bedspread behind her. It is only his warrior training that stops him from collapsing on top of her, merely landing on his knees.
“Viserra,” he says sternly, the same tone he used with his children not an hour prior, rolling off to the side. She moves quickly, though, spreading her body eagerly across his and straddling him.
“Oh, Baelon,” she murmurs, balancing on one hand next to his head while she touches his face tenderly with the other. It feels good, damn him. Damn her as well.
“What are you doing here?” he asks harshly, pleased at the pout on her face. He hopes she only needs a few harsh words, for she is merely young and foolish, and upset with her betrothal.
“What am I doing here?” she repeats, eyes cloudy, “I am here out of my feelings for you, Baelon. I love you and I have for so long. I wish to be yours and to give you my maidenhead on this auspicious night.”
She throws her hair back, sitting up and letting him see her breasts more clearly. When he glances for a moment, she gasps in glee, and cups them in her hands playfully.
Soft, full, and firm, with nipples the colour of dusk roses. He tears his eyes away in shame and anger.
“And what would I want with your maidenhead, when your maidenhead is for your husband,” he barks at her, the tone of affection and jest he normally gives her erased completely. It is a less effective reprimand because he refuses to look in her eyes.
She laughs bitterly. “My husband? That hideous old man? Nay, Baelon, you can see yourself that he is no fit husband for me. You are the one I desire, the man I love above all—”
“What do you know of love?” he demands, meeting her eyes and grabbing her small hands that are rubbing his chest. She is taken aback by the force employed, even though he is using none. Despite their situation, she was still his little sister, and he could not hurt her.
Her claim of love pains him, however. The only woman who ever knew him is Alyssa, and she is the only one who ever loved him in the way Viserra believes she does.
“I know I love you,” she insists, turning her wrists inside out to clasp over his, tricking them into cupping her firm rear. He would tear his hands away, but she begins to rock herself lightly against his body, and he uses the grip to hold her still instead. The situation might be repulsive to him, to the memory of his beloved, but his cock has a mind of it’s own, and it is already hard. More than, in truth, and he hates himself for it.
The body did not rule him, though, his mind did. Viserra’s unblemished flesh could not tempt him truly, although he could see now that she was fashioned without flaw. Her betrothal was a waste of a beautiful girl, that was clear; but it was Mother’s wish, and she had lost so much already. Surely they must trust her wisdom, now more than ever.
“I know you are a Prince without peer, kind and generous and loving,” she cries, frustrated at her immobility, “I know the sight of you makes me wet, Baelon. I know I hate those bitches who try to flirt with you, not when you should be mine. Who else should you wed but me? I swear that there is nothing I would deny you Baelon, just as all know Alyssa denied you nothing.”
Speaking on Alyssa was the exact wrong move. Even her name was sacrosanct to Baelon, and it had no place being associated with this...disgrace. He was struck with the sudden urge to fuck Viserra, to ride her hard until she saw that she was no match for him at all, that she was a stupid girl with fanciful dreams, no better than the courtly women she claimed to hate. To take out his frustrations on her, show her why she should never speak Alyssa’s name again.
Just as the urge hit him it fled. His body sags for a moment, something she takes as acquiescence but is actually the complete opposite. He could never do such a thing, not in a thousand decades.
She attempts to kiss him, sloppy and inexperienced, and he finally snaps. When he throws her onto the bedding and stands up in one movement, she yelps, turning her large eyes onto him. He takes deep breaths to calm himself and force his body into submission once more.
“Baelon,” she says once more with a pleading note to her voice now. “Baelon, please, I wish to be yours. I will be a good wife to you, I already love your sons, and I will give you such pleasure as you desire, however you wish it! Such is my love, now come have me—”
He laughs darkly, and she loses her words at the sound. The worst part of him is pleased to see this reaction. She must learn that her beauty will not get her everything she desires. Men are not so malleable as she thinks they are.
“You wish for me to wed and bed you, so that your Manderly Lord will be without his bride,” he says, emotionless. He does not look at her, grabbing his tunic from the floor and donning it once more. “You wish to undue moons and years of diplomacy Mother and Father have done, all so that you may have a handsomer groom, is it not? You have no love for me, Viserra, only for what I may give you. And that is no excuse for such wanton behavior, for being in my bed naked when you are promised elsewhere.”
He looks to the desk that lies to the side. A discarded glass sits besides the uncorked decanter.
“Naked and drunk,” he amends, finally placing the brunt of his disapproving look upon her. As a parent, it comes to him naturally.
She worries her bottom lip as she sits up, enticing even in her innocent pose as she forgets herself. She is no accomplished seducer, that is for certain, he observes drily.
“I only drank for my own maiden nerves, and to ease away any pain so you might have your pleasure more easily,” Viserra insists, her small hands fluttering. He frowns in disgust.
Did she think that was what would happen to her on her wedding night? She had not been prepared well for this at all. Unbidden, thoughts of his own wedding night came to mind, how Alyssa had served up her maidenhead after teasing him with it for so long. He spent an hour with his face between her thighs, until she was so relaxed and wet that sliding inside of her had felt like coming home.
It had been that. Being with Alyssa, the days and weeks they lost within their bedchambers, it was where he belonged, and where he could never be again. The memories turned to ash and smoke as Viserra stood from the bed and threw her arms around him, pressing her face to his chest.
Baelon felt his dead heart lurch when Viserra gazed up at him, tears in her eyes.
“I do love you,” she whispers.
“Nay,” he disagrees, shoulders dropped low. There was no honor in this, not even in turning her away. But he could not blame her, not truly. She was begging him for a love he could not give, her reasons as human as breathing, “you do not, nor do I wish for your love. It is time you take your leave, sister.”
He picks up her folded dress from the floor and maneuvers her into it. She cries softly, trying to touch his fingers with her, to make him look upon her. But he is in no mood to indulge her any longer, nor has he ever been a source of comfort and guidance for her. Perhaps that had been his failure.
“Men all desire me,” she exclaims fitfully as a last ditch effort, when he has wrapped her in his cloak to make her decent. “You would be the envy of all Court, brother, if you had me, and I would never shame you. I would be proud to be yours and only yours. For I have never wanted any man but you, Baelon.”
“It is not I you want,” he tells her sadly, and does not miss the indignance that passes over her eyes. Who are you to tell me what I want, they scream at him. “It is a place of honor as my wife you covet, an escape from a marriage you resent. And that I will not give you.”
He delivers her to her chambers, detaching her small grasping hands from him and bidding her goodnight hastily.
It has been such a long fucking day.
Baelon had given it thought, and came to the conclusion that he did not have a choice but to approach his parents. He understood Viserra’s actions somewhat, even if he hated himself for his reaction, but after Saera…
If King Jaehaerys and Queen Alysanne had to suffer another daughter such as Saera, he fears the Realm will not survive it.
That, and Viserra requires guidance. A woman’s hand, to teach her softness for the husband she already despises. She will be better off for it, he tells himself. It is nearly convincing.
The anger from his father surprises even Baelon, and Aemon’s attempts at calming the situation are wildly ineffective. Jaehaerys calls for Viserra, and as soon as she steps a timid foot into their father’s solar, she levels an accusing glare at Baelon, as if he had done all of this.
Gone are her pretenses of the previous night, he thinks. Now he is equivalent to all the other men and boys she looks down upon. So be it, he has no need for her affection.
“Who taught you such methods, Viserra,” Jaehaerys demands darkly, every inch the King who had slain young Lord Beesbury with Saera forced to watch. “Did your sister teach you this? Tell me now, girl!”
“No,” she shrieks, face red and panicked, “no, I was never part of Saera’s games, Papa! I only—” love Baelon, is likely what she was going to say, but one sharp look from him and she reconsiders, “—I only wished to show how unfit that Manderly Lord is by finding a more fit match of my own!”
“So you would make yourself a whore?” he bellows, righteous fury raining down on Baelon’s ten-and-five year old sister.
To her credit she does not weep, although she is taking deep breaths to make that happen.
“I am no whore,” she persists, “but neither am I a broodmare, to be sold to some fat old man to get children upon me who will inherit nothing!”
Queen Alysanne interrupts, soothing and kind as she always is. She coos, cradling Viserra’s head. “Darling girl, do not despair so. Lord Manderly is good and honorable, and he will love you as no other can. During my time in his home, he showed such grace and generosity to me, and I have no doubt he will do the same for you. You will see, your mother loves you and she made you a good match.”
“I don’t want this match, mother! You are not listening,” Viserra pleads. She rips her hand from Alysanne and their mother dons a look of hurt.
Baelon and Aemon exchange a worried glance. This is not going well at all…
“Father,” Aemon interrupts, a born peacemaker, “perhaps we might request the presence of the good septon at dinner this eve, to guide us forward with the wisdom of the Crone, for we are accomplishing little with our blood running so hot.”
Jaehaerys shakes his head. When his mind is made there is no diverting him. “There is no need for that. I see plainly what is before me.”
Viserra turns to Baelon with her large orchid eyes, beseeching him one last time to save her, but he dares not open his mouth. Not when their father is in a black rage such as this.
“You will not set foot in court,” Jaehaerys begins, “you will spend your days in your rooms, in the sept, or in the library with a guard. I will not suffer you shaming our House, or our blood, and that is not a negotiation. Should you set even a hair out of line, I will ship you to the Silent Sisters without delay, and leave a Kingsguard with you to ensure you cannot escape. Do not test me, Viserra, or you will not like my response!”
Viserra sobs then, unable to hold it back any longer. “I have not done anything but attempt to fix the disaster you insist on making, you blind old man,” she chokes out.
“Viserra!” Alysanne exclaims.
“Your insolence knows no bounds,” their father seethes, and Baleon can see that his heart is broken by this. How much can one man be expected to bear from his daughters; Baelon cannot help but sympathize. “It seems you have no need for your family’s guidance. Well, I shall grant you your wish—when you go to White Harbor, it will be alone, with none of your blood standing beside you. That is your father’s wedding gift to you.”
Baelon cannot abide this any longer. Viserra was undoubtedly foolish, but this reaction is too cruel by half, and he is her big brother.
“Father, there is no need for such a measure,” he reasons, “she is of the dragon blood and spoke thoughtlessly, acted even moreso, but she has learned her lesson.” Viserra is blessedly silent.
Aemon seamlessly agrees with him, always Baelon’s partner. “Yes, and if you please father, let me escort her away now. Kinder words will be spoken later, I am sure.” He goes to take Viserra’s arm lightly but she flinches violently.
“Do not touch me!” she screams, as if the words were torn from her throat, but then composes herself; smoothing back her hair and looking every bit the haughty princess that she is.
“Your Grace,” she calls, voice shaking, and Jaehaerys raises his head to meet her head-on.
She shrinks but does not wilt. They do battle with their eyes alone for a time and Baelon’s throat feels cramped. Is peace never an option for her?
“You Grace, I will take Saera’s punishment if it pleases you. Rest assured I will never forget this lesson.” She sweeps from the room then, leaving behind her the wreckage of her words.
Aemon gathers their mother into his arms, soothing her as only he can. His father collapses into his chair, head heavy in his hands. Baelon looks out the window that faces the adjacent courtyard, and watches Viserra fall to her knees, heaving in Lady Darke’s armored embrace.
Perhaps he should have spoken to his mother alone, Baelon winces. Alas, today is just another long day in a stretch of long days.
“Where is Aunt Viserra?” Rhaenys complains for as many times in the past two weeks. She stabs her fork into her boiled potatoes, scrunching up her face when they are not to her liking. Aemon sprinkles salt and powdered pepper onto his one-and-ten year old daughter’s dinner, devoted to her every comfort. She smiles sweetly at him and he kisses her upon the forehead.
Was there anything Aemon desired beyond the company and happiness of his daughter and his wife? It did not seem so to Baelon. Other men would have wished for sons, but Crown Prince Aemon was much unperturbed and never displeased.
The girl was spoiled, Baelon thought, but no more than any other princess. Now that she was coming of age however, her quirks were not quite so adorable any longer.
“She rests and prepares for her upcoming travels, my love,” soft-spoken Jocelyn replies. Baelon does not look up.
“Well I am tired of having no one but two little boys running around underfoot always,” Rhaenys declares imperiously. Born to be Queen, that one. “Can she not come to sup with us even once? She does not even like her betrothed to be so concerned with pleasing him.”
“I am not little!” Daemon yells, sticking his tongue.
“Enough!” Baelon brusquely ends the argument before it can start. This is why he does not enjoy intimate family dinners any longer. They are always chock full of tantrums from his and Aemon's much-loved brats, who fed upon each other and became incorrigible in each other’s company.
Daemon sniffs, and Viserys ruffles his hair affectionately. It needs a trim, Baelon notes, but as all things were with Daemon, making him part with his hair was an ordeal on par with the Doom of Valyria.
Only his grandmother Alysanne could bring him to do something without fuss and hassle. But she had much bigger concerns recently. Baelon’s parents had been quiet thus far on the topic of Viserra with the rest of their family, yet Court was beginning to whisper of her disappearance. It was not difficult to guess that her upcoming wedding had something to do with her sudden absence from all public functions, and rumors flew through the air as if carried by messenger birds.
“May I be excused?” Rhaenys requests as soon as she can.
“But we haven’t had dessert yet!” Viserys exclaims, and both Rhaenys and Daemon rolled their eyes. So they were capable of getting along after all, Baelon thinks wryly, so long as Viserys was their common target.
Aemon lets her go, however, and so Viserys begrudgingly fulfilled his duty of escorting his cousin to her chambers at night. It was his, Aemon, and Jocelyn’s hope that affection might bloom between the two of them on these late night walks, perhaps they may even trade a few kisses, and then a happy marriage could be made in several years' time. So far, nothing had been accomplished but separating Viserys from his beloved dessert.
Baelon dismisses himself soon after, and takes Daemon with him despite the boy’s protests. The pitying eyes of his parents follow him, but they know enough not to attempt to speak to him on the elephant in the room this evening. Any other, but not this evening.
“Papa,” Daemon hesitates when Baelon has brought him to the chambers that Viserys is likely already within. Soon they will be old enough to be separated, but was it so bad that he wished for his boys to remain children for as long as they could? Keep them as they were when Alyssa was here?
“Yes, son?” he replies gruffly, kneeling down to Daemon’s level.
“Viserys said...Viserys said tomorrow is an important day.”
Baelon smiles sadly. “Aye, sweet boy. Tomorrow is your mother’s nameday. Her twenty-seventh.”
Daemon scowls at being named sweet, but his face softens at mention of his mother.
“I miss her,” he mumbles, his six-year-old who had been motherless for nearly three years already.
“As do I,” Baelon agrees, and embraces the boy. “I miss her as much as I love you, Daemon. You and your brother both.”
“I love you too, Papa,” Daemon only whispers, uncomfortable with words of love. It was not his fault, he was born to two who were all harsh laughter and fast-paced love wrapped in layers of good hearted mockery. His and Alyssa’s love was a daring one, love borne on the back of a dragon, fearlessly streaking through the air with no place for doubt or tender courtly kindnesses. Daemon came by his emotional reticence honestly, even if that version of his parents no longer exists.
They lived on only in their children, perhaps. And thus his sons were his greatest pride, his sole joy.
Baelon keeps himself in check only long enough to make it to his own bedroom, and when he finally collapses into bed he is struck with the urge to destroy it, to rip apart the pillows he had once shared with his lover, shred the comforters and throw them down to the depths of city below.
“Alyssa,” he sobs and growls, wishing he could follow her wherever she had gone, wishing she was once again following him closely, never giving him a moment to breathe before her jokes had him bursting with laughter, or lust, or anything. How long can I be expected to live this way? How much longer? “Alyssa!” he yells, boiling with rage and shaking with grief, ripping the sheets and curtains from their bed unless it is bare, bare as his life is, bare as his heart.
“Alyssa, please,” he begs to the crisp air around him as he falls to his knees, winded, willing her to hear him, willing her to be with him once more.
He falls to sleep with her name on his lips, fitful in his repose.
He does not sleep for long.
A clamor from the hallway woke him up at the hour of the wolf, making him groan. Casting his eyes around the room and the minor destruction he had wrecked caused him shame, but the din from outside is a welcome distraction from his own heartache.
“What happens here?” he asks, when he sees his father’s soldiers in the hallways. His parents chambers are near, and when he receives no response he hurries over, dressed only as much as need be. Dressed, with Dark Sister in his belt, just in case.
Lord Commander Redwyne is emerging from his parents’ chambers when Baelon skids to a halt in front of them, the white knight's eyes low and heavy.
“Ser Ryam—”
“Oh, Baelon, thank the Gods you are here,” his mother comes crying, a pristine white robe over her equally fine nightgown. His father follows, although his face are hard, harder than Baelon has seen them since Braxton Beesbury claimed his ancient right to a trial by combat, and King Jaehaerys had raised his own sword in response.
“Mother,” he catches her by the shoulders, “what is the meaning of this?”
“Viserra,” she sobs and takes his hand, shallow breaths belying her panic. What have you done, sister, Baelon’s hackles rise.
“If Your Graces would come with me,” Ser Ryam interrupts, and with a short glance at Baelon's royal sires, their flustered party of four makes their way to the infirmary. Baelon is practically carrying his mother by the time they arrive, clutching his tunic like Daemon still does at times.
He supposes he has never seen his mother this way. When Daenerys died, he was kept from the rooms for fear he might develop the disease. The blood curdling shriek he heard from the chambers his elder sister died in was rattling, yes, but he had not seen his mother for weeks following.
After Daella, his mother had only returned after the initial grieving was done, and with Alyssa, he had been trapped by the crushing weight of his own despair, unable to know his mother from a horse for all he was lucid to the outside world. After Saera, he suspects his mother grieved immensely, but he was more concerned with curtailing his father’s rage, which flew and deep and red as a sea transformed by blood, as the smoking seas bordering Valyria were said to have become.
It is a sea of blood Baelon sees before him when they enter the rooms, blackened and oozing from the side of Viserra’s pale thigh. The girl herself is half delirious, head lolling around aimlessly as a dozen and one of the Keep’s healers rush around the room.
Bile rises in Baelon’s throat. “What—what is this?” he demands, and the midwives exchange looks.
“Your Grace,” Ser Ryam says tentatively, “the Princess was thrown from her horse.”
“At this hour of night?” he nearly shouts, not comprehending.
Viserra rouses at this moment, rolling over and spewing bile into a bucket kept next to her for that purpose, likely. The stench of it hit Baelon, and it smelled of something other than mere vomit. The remnants of ale hits him all at once, and he gapes.
“Is she drunk?” he says aloud, and Grand Maester Elysar chooses now to make himself known. He sits by the fire, warming an ominous looking flattened blade in the flames.
Baelon thinks he may heave bile himself at the sight of it.
“The Princess was riding her horse drunk and was thrown near the Red Keep,” the nasally man tells him, his thick brows drenched in sweat from his proximity to such heat. A drop of it fell from his nose, and sizzled on the floor. “She races, the girl. Seems she was racing this night, tripped on a cobblestone. The mare will be put down, although it is no fault of hers that her rider took her on such a fool’s errand.”
There are no sounds but his mother’s soft sobs as she clasps Viserra’s listless hand and smooths her hair away from her face. She urges Viserra onto her side so that the midwife can apply a foul-smelling deep green poultice to the wound running parallel to the line of Viserra’s thigh, too much of her inner flesh visible from the cut.
It will scar, no question. There are a few scattered cuts on her face, blood in the silver gold hair, but those will fade with time. A wound like this was liable to infection if not cared for, but even if it was well-tended to, it would never go away. A reminder of her foolishness.
I only drank to ease my maiden nerves, she had told him only a few short weeks prior, when she was on her futile endeavour to seduce him. She was drunk now, only a few nights away from her departure to White Harbor. She was only nervous, Baelon realizes. Afraid and alone.
“Who was she racing?” King Jaehaerys asks, tone deadly and cold.
Even with the room sweltering, Baelon shivers when he hears those words spoken so icily.
“Jaehaerys,” Alysanne calls, voice cracking with pain. Her eyes are wide and disbelieving, but even when Jaehaerys looks upon his queen, his wife of decades, his resolve is not weakened. He goes to her, for he will never not go to her when she needs him, but his eyes remain with Baelon.
“Find her companions. Her maids, whatever squires she entertains, gather them and question them sharply. I will join you when I am able,” he commands, and Baelon bows his head.
“Look at her. Look at her, husband,” Baelon’s mother begs, and Jaehaerys reluctantly does.
Baelon does not announce his departure as Maester Elysar stands, the blade glowing red and harsh. The midwives have tied Viserra to the table with thick rinds of rope, and he is not sure he can stomach what is about to follow. She was still so little, the wound so large, and simple stitches would not do. He knows this procedure, he has seen men undergo such treatments before, has seen flesh sizzle as life threatening lacerations are forcibly closed, but never upon his own blood. He slips away, chest heavy.
Halfway down the hallway, Viserra’s spine-chilling scream overtakes him, and he has to lean against the wall as his stomach seizes.
The Black Cells are dank and freezing, winter as it is, but a dozen torches illuminate the young faces of half a dozen lordlings and maidens that Baelon found to be those who Viserra kept by her side, amongst the many who sought her favor.
Lord Leon Hayford stands foremost with his hands locked behind his back, a tall and strong knight of perhaps nine-and-ten years. His face cannot truly be said to have a beard, although a righteous effort is being made at facial hair, but his eyes were unflinching even when his Prince Baelon Targaryen, wielder of Dark Sister herself, stands before him. His eyes were bloodshot however, and he had still been dressed in bloody clothing when Baelon came to claim him at first light, as if he expected to be roused sooner.
He was the one to come galloping to the Keep with news of Viserra’s accident, Maester Elysar had told Baelon, so he was correct to expect it.
The rest are not so headstrong. Jonathan Dondarrion was a promising young squire, and he was saying his prayers, apparently a particularly pious boy. But even the pious could be swayed by beauty, and Viserra had that in spades. Bartimos Celtigar was less interesting despite being the heir to Claw Isle, his wicked wit likely what Viserra found delightful about him, and he sat with his head hanging, shaggy silver hair a mess over his narrow shoulders.
Besides them Lady Delena Fossoway was sitting seemingly unperturbed, ever bit the sister of the brave brothers Baelon had once unhorsed handily in a tourney at Ashford, where he named himself the Silver Fool, a name Alyssa had cheekily suggested to him. Lady Pearl Piper and Rue Crabb clutched each other in fear.
Baelon sits, Dark Sister unsheathed across his thighs. His hair is tied back, and he drums his gloved fingers on his knee. Every moment that passes thus raises the room’s tension another degree.
“So,” he drawls. Six pairs of eyes behold him. “Which of you accompanied my sister last night?”
“Not I!” the Piper and Crabb girls insist immediately, babbling their innocence. Baelon holds up his hand to stop them—he believes them, and his nerves are already frayed enough that their protestations grate on him unimaginably.
“Not you,” Baelon repeats, mockingly. He looks at the Hayford lordling, who does not break the gaze no matter how venomous Baelon is sure he looks. “You, there is no question. Who else, boy? This is your Prince asking, and I will not ask again.”
Lord Leon sucks his teeth and does not speak.
Before Baelon can rise, Lady Fossoway speaks up. “All the rest of us,” she states plainly, no timber of fear or the like in her tone. She opens her eyes and shrugs the accusing glares the Dondarrion and Celtigar lads give her off her shoulders. “The Princess merely wanted to enjoy the city on one of her final nights here. We did nothing we had not done a dozen times before.”
Baelon grunts. Sneaking out is a vice all the Targaryen children have indulged in at times, and he cares not for that. He might have guessed that was a possibility, and he isn’t surprised.
“Fine,” he says, impatient, “where did you go?”
“Last night, or the others?” Lord Jonathan asks when Baelon fixes his sight on him specifically.
“Last night first, then the others. And do recall the Seven punish liars.”
The black haired boy gulps. “Aye. We went to a tavern, your Grace, for food and ale. We played games with the commons, and we three, Bartimos and Leon and I, gambled for a time, may the Gods forgive us. On other nights we rode the Blackwater, or watched mummer’s shows and travelling singers.”
Baelon hums. “And what of brothels?”
The youth appears scandalized. “Brothels, your Grace? Never. The Princess...I would never have permitted such filth in her presence. Nor would the Princess have despoiled herself so. She is beautiful and good.”
This blathering septon is madly in love with her, Baelon thinks, suddenly uncomfortable. He turns away, not wishing to speak to the boy any longer.
Lord Bartimos is sweating when Baelon turns to him. “And you? What do you have to say for yourself, Lord Celtigar? Did you lie with the Princess?”
Those Valyrian features transformed into a scoff. “Lie with her? Princess Viserra? She found me amusing to keep by her side but she loved me not, your Grace, and besides, I have no wish to become a second Stinger.”
If Baelon closed his eyes, he could recall smug Stinger as clear as day.
”Which of these old men will you have me fight?" Lord Braxton, vain and haughty, asked from the floor of the Great Hall. The Kingsguard stood stock still, the old men young Stinger thought to best with his morningstar. Saera’s stupidity was shared by all her companions, it seemed.
“This old man,” the King said, face placid and final. “The one whose daughter you seduced and despoiled.”
The Beesbury boy looked as if he had swallowed a scorpion.
“And you,” Baelon turns to Lord Leon expectantly. It was eerie, how long he could go without blinking. “The same question.”
“The same answer. Never.”
“You will refer to me by my title, Lord Hayford,” Baelon spits, if only because he has had enough of this. “Fine, you did not bed her, let us say I believe you. My sister lies broken and bleeding upon a maester’s table—what explanation have you fools for that? Endangering the life of a royal is still treason last I checked.”
The pair of insipid girls begins sobbing and pleading, wearing the last threads of Baelon’s patience. “Silence!” he booms, and they quiet as much as they are able to, shaking with apprehension.
The serene Fossoway girl is the one he looks upon for a response. “Well?” he probes impatiently.
“We were returning to the Keep, your Grace. Her horse tripped upon a cobblestone, I believe, and she fell upon a wagon barbed with steel. Leon went forward with the Princess, for he commanded the fastest horse.”
“You were racing,” Baelon corrects, “you were racing to the Keep.”
“Yes,” she admits. Baelon does not bother to acknowledge the lack of honorific.
“And you three,” he turns to sneer at the males of the room, “are none of you men that you would stop a drunk girl from riding hard in the black of night? One of you is even a knight, all three of you heirs. Will your ruin your Houses through your idiocy or through your lack of balls, I wonder?”
Finally Lord Leon averts his stare downwards. Bartimos remains silent.
Jonathan breaks, confessing his sins as if Baelon held anointed oils to forgive him with. “She promised us a kiss, your Grace. We all said it was a stupid idea but she promised to kiss the victor and rode off in a cloud.”
“A reward she offered a hundred times,” Leon interrupts, rage in his blue eyes directed at Benjamin. “We raced often and the reward was ever a kiss, but she always won and never kissed any of us. Your Grace.”
For some reason it bothered Baelon that this lordling was defending his sister’s honor. That is my responsibility, to defend her virtue, but I am the one making accusations upon it instead. And on behalf of our father, who already half believes her a lost cause.
He changes direction.
“And you,” he levels at who may as well be the only girl in the cell, for all her female companions were useless.
“Myself, your Grace?” she asks, surprised. Baelon nods. “Did I kiss Princess Viserra, your Grace?” Baelon nods again, sharply this time.
Saera kissed her female companions, he recalls. That was how it all started.
“Aye, we played the kissing games of ladies, my Prince. She was...sweet, when it was only us. But girls often play such games, and she never spoke to me of any man whom she favoured.” The muscles of Delena Fossoway’s face tighten then, and she looks to Baelon with more heat than prior. Any man except you, her accusatory gaze seemed to say, she wished to kiss you and even more, and you rejected and exposed her, and now look what has happened. Baelon shifts uncomfortably. He is better suited to violence than to delicate interrogations.
He rises, and returns Dark Sister to her home at his side. This is enough for him, he needs no further explanations. He calls for the gaoler, and instructs the man to bring hard bread, cheese and water to the group. He will report his findings to his father, tell them he pressed them hard although he didn’t, and recommend their fast release. They would have to leave King's Landing naturally, but it was a fate far better than others in recent memory.
Before he leaves, however, the voice of Lord Hayford calls to him.
“Prince Baelon,” the man says, forging past the stone glare Baelon bestows upon him, “the Princess. How does she fare? We have heard no news.”
How dare you, Baelon wants to tell him. But it is clear to him that young Leon’s heart is entrapped in his sister's hands, even if he knows it folly, folly does not change that Viserra is sacred to him.
They love her, Leon and Jonathan and Bartimos, and likely even Lady Delena. If Baelon had the ability to feel anything any longer, he would feel a pinch of shame—Viserra is his family, not theirs, that they might love her better.
The issue lies not in their love for her, Baelon amends, it is in their acceptance of her nature. Somehow his parents, particularly their father, could not accept her so easily, and it is clear from this interaction that all of Viserra’s companions know that much.
“She lives,” Baelon responds, and relief floods the cell. “And is forever scarred for it.”
The white dove signaling the start of winter had arrived from the Citadel merely five moons prior, but it feels as if it has been a lifetime. Five lifetimes. He could not say any longer.
The best portion of winter was, by far, the hunting.
On a winter’s day, with frost painting the kingswood pale, and the wan rays of the sun selective in their fields, game was more vulnerable than ever. The cold permeated boots and cloaks alike, but the thrill of blood rushing when a kill was done made it all worth it, in Prince Baelon’s opinion. Aemon was an undefeatable shot with his bow, and Baelon efficiently slaughtered beasts that sought to escape while injured. It was a system they had perfected from the first time Jaehaerys had taken them on a hunt; they were meant to be spectators, Aemon twelve and him ten, but naturally they had snuck off with only a dagger and a net between them, and caught three rabbits for their efforts.
Their father laughed and congratulated them, their party toasting to them. They were even allowed a mug of ale each, which both of them vomited before the night was done. Nonetheless the memory is a happy one.
They are grown men now, and rabbits no longer a prize. Nay, their prize of that day’s hunt had been one of the fine, rare red elks inhabiting the forest. It was large, so large both he and Aemon were needed to carry it to the tent where they stand now, methodically skinning the beast.
A flagon of hot tea sits to the side of the enclosed area, and Baelon breaks from where his knife has loosened the final of the four hooves. A sleek slice from Aemon releases the diaphragm of the animal, and Baelon welcomes the stench of a good kill.
They will present it to their mother. Elk is one of her favorites from her time spent in the North, and it is not so easy to come by in the South where herds of elk are heavily diminished.
Perhaps Viserra is will be welcomed by a feast featuring elk when she arrives in White Harbor in a day or two's time, Baelon thinks with some guilt. It would certainly outdo the farewell feast she had in King’s Landing…
“Brother,” Aemon calls, a wry and knowing look on his face. “You are thinking again. That is a dangerous sight.”
Baelon rolls his eyes, sipping his steaming tea.
“Will you not share,” Aemon probes. Baelon supposes he should be grateful—Aemon is one of the few who still jape and cajole Baelon, after he became this husk of his former self.
“I think of our departed sister,” Baelon admits. Aemon winces, as if the same thing has been on his mind. “And our mother,” he adds, although it goes unsaid. They will always worry for their mother.
Aemon sighs, loosening his knife and flapping the hide off to reveal the red and white musculature beneath.
“Our father is not a man who takes well to his daughters misbehaving,” Baelon muses, a massive understatement.
Finally Aemon sets down his knife, removing his gloves coated in the animal’s insides and takes a cup of tea along with Baelon.
“You know, brother, I feel for young Viserra,” Aemon says, and meets Baelon’s eyes. “But I believe it is good she is no longer within the walls of the Keep. Distance...often distance is the solution to the souring of a relationship. It may be that when she returns next, words of apology and forgiveness will flow as if a river from the mouths of father and daughter alike.”
Baelon grunts. He doubts that.
”Will I ever be allowed to return?” Viserra asked, biting the inside of her cheek to hold back tears.
“Of course,” Queen Alysanne rushed to console her, “you are recovered now and you shall be on your way to establishing your happy home with Lord Manderly. He will care for you, daughter. Yet we will always be your family.”
But it was their sire Viserra looked to for her answer.
“When you have a child, you will come to King’s Landing to present them to Court,” he replied. And not before, went unsaid. He was speaking not as a father, but as a King.
“He sent her away with much ill-will,” Baelon voices his disbelief, “and alone.”
Aemon nods. “He should not have done that.”
“No?”
“No,” Aemon affirms, setting down his drink. He sighs again. “I am the father to a daughter, Baelon. You are devoted to your boys, but it is not the same as having a girl.”
Aemon adopts a wistful look, thinking on Rhaenys, the girl he would fall on a sword for her if it meant she would always be free from pain or strife. “For one, as a father, you must always remember that the daughter you raise will one day be a wife, and that her husband is an unknown animal. If my daughter, upon my knee, learns that a man might hit her or yell at her, punish her harshly—then what protest might I make when I find my daughter broken and abused in her marital bed, believing she has no recourse from such treatment?”
Baelon winces. “You have clearly given this some thought, Aemon.”
“How not,” the Crown Prince rhetorically asks, a fire in his eyes. “Rhaenys is my sole heir, and she will one day be Queen. She must be a strong woman who will tolerate no mistreatment or else our House suffers for it, do we not?”
When Baelon does not respond, Aemon relaxes slightly. “So yes, I believe our father will regret his words. Our sister was rash to insult him so, but she was correct that she is being punished for Saera’s actions. The wounds are simply too fresh to our father.”
Baelon considers this. “The wounds are fresh indeed, but he must have anticipated such a thing occurring. Even I could have known Viserra would not be pleased with her betrothed.”
Aemon whistles. “Careful, brother, that was strangely close to a political opinion.”
Baelon snorts. “You are not the only one with half a head for the games of lords, Aemon.”
“I should hope not, for you will be my Hand one day,” Aemon huffs and for a moment Baelon laughs with his closest friend from birth, and they are as they always were. It felt good. Why did they not laugh like this more often?
Because I lost the love of my life and placed my heart upon her funeral pyre, and sometimes I cannot stand to look upon Aemon with Jocelyn and remember when we were four, instead of two plus the shade of what was once a man. Because I love them all too much and I do not want him to see how empty I am.
As if sensing the course Baelon’s thoughts had taken, Aemon nudges him. “I plan to fly for Dragonstone soon, so that Rhaenys and I might spend a few days learning skills upon dragon's back that the good people of King’s Landing would faint to witness. You should join me, brother.”
He knows his brother is only attempting to assist, to guide him to the memorials for Alyssa and little Aegon and help him heal. But Baelon can't.
He did not wish to begin healing. The pain was unbearable yes, but the thought of being without pain, of being left hollow instead of housing the raging storms of mourning that churned within him...that was worse.
He promised Alyssa he would be hers until the end of his days. He will never let her go, not for anything, much less a temporary peace.
He wonders for a moment if Viserra feels the same way in her new frozen home. If she will dig her nails into her pain and suffering, make it her lifeblood, live and stew in it each day until it is ingrained in her bones as Alyssa, always Alyssa, is engraved into his.
He hopes not.
“Perhaps I will,” he replies to Aemon, simply because it is what Aemon wishes to hear. The tightening of Aemon’s lips tells him that he sees through Baelon’s lies, but they will both go on pretending, acting as if they are still the boys they once were who never attempted to deceive one another, confiding in one another their secrets and inner thoughts alike. The boys who were in step with each other at every moment, telling one another ghost stories in the room they shared, communicating in a language all their own.
Baelon has a sinking feeling those boys do not exist any longer; that they died the day Aemon was declared Prince of Dragonstone, for the first time reaching a height Baelon could never follow him to.
Aemon pats him on the back, and they resume gutting the elk in silence.