Chapter Text
Baelor Targaryen was many things, loyal, dutiful, a warrior but a believer in prophecies and dreams he was not. He believed that the dreams his nephew Daeron had were nothing more and induced by imbibing too much wine or ale in a tavern, that some of the events had actually happened was nothing more than chance.
Besides as hand of the king to his father and a widower, his time was often spent in endless council meetings and governing the realm on behalf of his father. Whilst his eldest son Valarr was now a man grown with his own wife, his youngest Matarys was 11 and whilst a mature and honourable boy, he had much to learn from Maesters and from his father in the ways of the sword.
However, as the hand of the king slept that night he had the most vivid dream of his nine and thirty years. He was in what appeared to be a tourney melee, a brutal one at that. The crowds around the ground were cheering the fighters on, shouting the warriors names. He could make out his own name, his brother Maekar’s and someone named Duncan. As he took in the melee around him he was struck from behind with what he thought was a mace and if it was a mace then it would be Maekar who struck him. His helmet crushed his head and he collapsed to the ground. As his blood pooled around him the crowd began to scream, some crying for a Maester. Over the crowd he could hear his brother and a woman screaming his name, begging him to wake up. And over them all he heard the heartbreaking howl of a wolf.
When Baelor woke from the dream he was coated in sweat, his sheets stuck to him and he was breathing heavily. The dream had felt so real that he touched the back of his head to check there was no blood. He shook his head and rose from the bed, making his way to splash cold water on his face and looking in the mirror. What looked back at him was a tired, pale and drawn face but no signs of injury. He mentally shook his head and muttered “only a dream” before getting ready to break his fast with his father before his last small council before departing King’s Landing with his youngest brother Maekar to travel to Ashford.
Some time later he found himself in his fathers solar breaking his fast when his father spoke
“Tybold Lannister has proposed a marriage between yourself and his eldest daughter Jenna. Certainly it would build stronger ties with the Lannisters and from all accounts Jenna is growing into quite a lovely young woman”.
“Emphasis on the growing father, Jenna is but 14 and I have no desire to remarry, I have my sons and heirs” Baelor replied and it was the truth. His wife Jena had died when Matarys was one, never fully recovering from his birth. Whilst not a love match he did care deeply for Jena and her death wounded him deeply. With Valarr now married and Matarys well on his way to becoming a fine young man he had no need nor desire to marry again. Particularly to a girl who was younger than his eldest son.
“My son, it has been ten years, you are my heir and will sit upon the Iron Throne when I am gone, a King needs a Queen” his father replied kindly, sympathy showing in his eyes before he continued “whilst Valarr and Matarys are both fine boys and a credit to our house, no one can foresee the future. Were you to remarry you could shore up the succession and may find a sense of comfort from the burdens you carry”.
“Father, I am nine and thirty, I will not shackle a girl to a man old enough to be her father. And there is no need to shore up the succession, you have three further sons, all of whom are married and you have many grandchildren. Were I and my line to end then you have Rhaegal and Maekar’s children. Perhaps by then Aerys will also have children”,
Baelor snapped back, in all honesty this was not the first time his father had broached the topic of remarrying nor had noble houses only now sent offers of marriage to their daughters. Jena was not gone 6 months before house Frey decided to reach beyond their station and propose a match. This was followed by house Baratheon and so on, all of which he refused, some more firmly than others.
“Rhaegal is more interested in eating than ruling, Aerys will never get a child upon his wife and Maekar’s children…Daeron is in his cups, Aerion would destroy the realm, Aemon is at the Citadel and Aegon is far too young. My son if you will not consider Jenna then will you at least consider the prospect of remarriage. If not for your own benefit then that of the realm?”
His father was not wrong, he loved his siblings and he loved his nieces and nephews but the thought of Aerion sitting on the Iron Throne was not appealing. He was cruel and bloodthirsty and it would be like Maegor all over again.
“I will consider it, no more and no less father that is all I can do” Baelor sighed, shuffling the eggs on his plate around. Deep down he knew that if his father truly wanted to force his hand then he would select a match for him. That he is getting given the choice is more than most get in their life, and yet in the back of his mind all he could think about is the woman screaming his name as he lay dying on the sand of tourney field.