Chapter Text
The forests are growing restless and warmer by the moment as the royal entourage nears the border of Dorne and the castle of Blackhaven. Or mayhaps it is merely the mind and body of the people after such an exhausting journey made on horseback, first all the way to Summerhall, and finally, through the whole disgrace of the Stormland mountains.
His mind and being are certainly restless. He cannot doubt that. He feels the thoughts gnawing at him from the deepest of his conscience. Certainty is not born out of the situation his sire kindly put him in. Not that he put up much of a defence — or he ever would. A humble servant of the Realm and the firstborn son and Heir. What excuse had he? None that would suffice, surely. Still, none the matter if he is a Prince of the Seven Kingdoms, or the Protector of the Realm itself, the ranks and gaudy honorifics do nothing for the fine arts of diplomacy.
Everyone hates the dragon house, after all; the banners and symbols of the three-headed beast he wears so proudly on his chest and doublet. Here, they were all but foreigners, who conquered the land decades ago upon a flurry and ruled, governed, destroyed its people as much as their own kin. None of the actions, and no matter how hard they have tried to rectify the wrongs, would make them ever belong.
Baelor can see their reason effortlessly and can not blame them, either.
He urges his black horse forward with a tender kick of his heel and lets his thoughts flow, albeit being careful to only watch them from a distance and detach any emotions with effort. Now is not the time to doubt oneself.
Not when his father counts on his political skills and charm, he nearly forgot how to deploy. Yet, the Marcher houses are important enough to dust down the old skills — if only for a short amount of time. To bring them into a closer circle, as was the intention when he first sought his late wife’s hand in marriage. A perfect political alliance, it was said. A beautiful and kind-hearted woman, too, whom he grew to love after a long while; perhaps more so after his boys were born.
Now, years later, with five years behind his back as a windower, he returns to the very same castle, forced to seek the aid of the same family, yet a different branch.
The Lady Alysanne Dondarrion proved to be a worthy opponent through their brief exchange of letters. He wrote to her father, initially, yet upon learning that the man was bedridden with an illness, and the two sons he sired not yet of age, he was made face of the fact that a Lady rules over the castle of Blackhaven and the Border houses, too. A particularly headstrong lady, at that.
Hence, he had to insist on bringing his son along on this unpleasant journey. As Valarr was as much blood of Dondarrion as Targaryen in his eyes, and the Realm, and he was certain of the fact that Blackhaven would not reject kin, by any means.
As far as inexplicables would go, that wasn’t the most terrible sin, either. He had sent notice of the visit two moons ago, knowing that the raven would hardly arrive much before than they did. By which time, none would have time for a formal, or even kindly phrased rejection.
“The fuck is your problem?” comes his brother’s, Maekar’s voice from behind, as he trotts his horse to catch up with Baelor’s pace.
“Pardon?”
“You appear to be brooding, brother,” Maekar states simply, lacking even the faintest of decorum. “Perhaps even worse than you did when arriving at Summerhall.”
Baelor feels his front tooth pierce his lower lip as he regards his brother, then sighs heavily.
“I am…curious of our welcome, is all,” he replies. “I cannot help but think of how our father’s ambitions may have moved too far.”
Maekar scoffs, looking ahead of him and forcing his horse to sidestep a large trunk that had fallen after a storm.
“You’d know best. But he hardly asked you to marry Al—that girl or take a boy for a squire to gain sympathy. Merely to negotiate to the best of your abilities.”
Maekar was right, of course. Well, partially. Their father explicitly stated to make do of the opportunities and choices handed to him. Baelor was fairly certain that it meant to consider one of those choices as well, if the situation permits.
“Negotiate with a house that hates us,” Baelor says, finally.
Maekar chuckles rudely.
“And so they can get behind the rest of them,” he guffaws. “Concern yourself with that not, brother. It’s not worthy of your time or capability.”
That was all, for the conversation, as the castle slowly comes into sight, with the banners and symbols of Dondarrion house, Baelor knows all too well.
Meanwhile, true to the masterful calculations of Baelor Breakspear, the raven arrived merely hours before the Targaryen banners were sighted up north of the castle, leaving the Lady of the house in nothing short of a state of distress. She instructs the maids to tend to the guest wing, let the servants run about the castle while she herself paces up and down, twisting the signet ring nervously on her right hand.
“ — make sure that the stables are not left unattended, and most importantly that no one even nears my father’s room, nor is he left without company, even for a moment,” she rambles on.
“Of course, my —”
“ — and the boys, too,” the Lady Alysanne continues, “they cannot utter a single word about his…condition to the princes or their company. It would bring us nothing but shame, a tremendous amount at that.”
“He will not —”
“Not to me, but to them, especially. I cannot bear the thought,” Alysanne says.
“And you shall not shame your house, Lady Alysanne. Nor will he,” replies the housekeeper. “We will keep an eye on him, as you wish. All will be well.”
“So I hope, Eysa,” Alysanne inclines her head, sighing.
“You’ve been attentive down to the tiniest detail, m’lady, even on such short notice. And I am very rarely wrong.”
Lady Alysanne smiles at that.
“That I know, and still, I find myself more and more doubtful by the moment. More than ever before, mayhaps. Angry, too, but I cannot act, nor show that now.”
“It is but the nerves, m’lady. Don’t take it to heart as so. It does not do good to one’s health.”
“I’m afraid we might be beyond that, already,” Alysanne replies with a weary smile, letting her hands stroke her forehead to soothe the crease of her brow. “I merely…do not wish to hasten the growth of my grey hairs while I’m still a maid.”
Eysa laughs at that, kindly.
“You’re but six and twenty, m’lady, far too young to concern yourself with such ideas.”
Six and twenty, indeed, yet none the wiser. She has been raising two small boys ever since their mother passed away, all while running the Marcher council and sparing no effort to conceal a father whose only joy was to drown in his cups from dawn to dusk. Her Lord father, Cedric Dondarrion, received the privilege of being the Head of his House upon his cousin’s passing, and still, came his lady wife’s death, and he drowned in the task and sought other joys in life. If it could even be called that.
From the highest tower, the banner of House Dondarrion stirs in the heated breath of the Dornish wind — purple silk cut by the sigil of lightning, striking as though in warning rather than welcome. It cracks once, then twice. A sound not terribly unlike a whip.
There is only a short number of men upon the walls, their armour worn at the edges and no children in the yard.
Baelor’s jaw sets upon the sight, though none but the observant would remark upon it. Valarr rides some lengths behind, straighter than the boy’s years warranted, the Dondarrion blood in him betrayed only in his softened features, which he got from his lady mother. A calculated sight, that.
The portcullis soon groans upward, inch by inch, the iron scraping against iron in a tone most displeasing to the ear, and Baelor Breakspear watches the ascent without blinking, the reins of his horse resting steady in his gloved hands.
Maekar clicks his tongue beside him.
“Well,” he mutters, “they have not barred the gate. We may count that as affection.”
Baelor does not answer. He lets his gaze settle upon the slight figure descending the steps of the inner yard with little rush.
The Lady Alysanne Dondarrion wears no ostentatious display of mourning black, nor does she adorn herself as though for a feast. The gown is severe in cut, storm-grey in colour, clasped at the throat with the sigil of her House. Her hair is bound in a tight bun, a signet ring glints upon her right hand — and is twisted, once, before she stills it.
She descends the final steps right as their horses cross the threshold and they are presented with all lenght of the princes’ titles, by the newsman.
Alysanne inclines her head when the man is done.
“Your Grace,” she says, and the title sits in her mouth like something tested for poison.
Baelor dismounts unhurriedly, letting his boots meet the stone. He removes his gloves finger by finger.
“My lady.”
Up close, she finds him taller than she expected. Broader, too. Not soft with courtly ease, but built like a man who has seen tourneys and fields alike. His hair is dark, the gaze of his mismatched eyes is steady — too steady. There is nothing of the careless dragon about him. That, more than anything, unsettles her.
Alysanne steps forward before he can speak further.
“You must forgive my lord father’s absence,” she says. “His health does not permit him the honour of greeting such distinguished company.”
“I am sorry to hear of Lord Cedric’s illness,” he replies. “I pray it is nothing grave.”
Lady Alysanne almost smiles.
“How kind.”
There’s a flicker of an emotion behind her blue eyes that he cannot truly place, yet before he could search for an explanation, two smaller figures move into place behind her.
The elder of the boys stands straight-backed and light-haired, perhaps three and ten, already trying to fill a man’s shadow. The younger lingers half a step behind, narrower in the shoulders, eyes quicker.
“My brothers,” Alysanne says, gesturing, without truly looking at them. “Ryon and Simon Dondarrion.”
Ryon bows properly. Simon copies him a heartbeat too late. Baelor inclines his head to each in turn.
“Blackhaven breeds fine sons,” he says, meaning it as a sincere compliment. The boys take the words with a small smile, yet do not find their voices as to reply.
Soon, Maekar swings down from his horse, boots striking the stone with less grace.
“You look well enough to me,” he says bluntly, glancing at the brothers.
Valarr approaches more slowly, dismounting carefully, keeping his back straight. He removes his glove as he has been taught and steps forward.
“My lady,” he says, voice steady despite his youth. That only, is enough to make Baelor unreasonably proud.
Alysanne’s eyes fall upon him, and for the first time, something shifts in her piercing gaze. It softens, only slightly.
“You look just as your mother,” she says before she can stop herself. “Only the eyes…they are your father’s.”
Valarr straightens slightly.
“I am told so.”
Baelor watches the exchange carefully, letting his shoulders drop, and his lungs let out the excess of air that has been held down due to the nerves. Yet, he can see the calculation return to her face like a veil drawn back into place.
“You have travelled far,” Alysanne says at last. “The guest wing has been prepared. You and your household will be given every courtesy owed to you.”
“Owed,” Maekar repeats under his breath.
Baelor ignores him, gladly so.
“You are generous.”
She does not reply to that.
“You must be weary,” Alysanne continues. “We shall have food brought to the hall within the hour. I trust Stormlands fare will not offend Dragonstone's or the Red Keep’s sensibilities.”
“I am not easily offended, my lady.”
Her gaze flicks over him once — assessing, unimpressed.
“That remains to be seen.”
Simon shifts slightly, glancing between them, uncertain whether he stands before diplomacy or the edge of a blade. Ryon simply watches Baelor with open suspicion.
Alysanne steps aside at last.
“If you would follow me, Your Grace.”
Later, left behind in the temporary accommodation, Baelor cannot find his footing. The disdain behind the blue gaze, the familiar creaks across the wall and the urgency of the situation that has expelled him to be so far from home. Whichever place is even meant to be called his home, truly. Between the Red Keep in King’s Landing and his own residency at Dragonstone, which he rarely visits, there is no true place that earned the title of ‘home’ in his heart. Perhaps home is simply where his family is. In which case, he is home now, too.
The servants attended to his needs, preparing him for the feast so lightly promised by the Lady Alysanne. Then, joined by his son and youngest brother, he set off to face the consequences of his long voyage — preferably over good food and even better wine.
And from that perspective, he could not find the feast lacking, once they arrive.
The hall of Blackhaven not grand, nor ostentatious. Stone walls worn smooth with years of storm and siege, banners faded to muted purples and lightning grey, the silver threads in them frayed but polished where they catch the light.
Alysanne takes her seat between her brothers. Ryon to her right, Simon to her left, smaller, narrower, eyes darting like a hawk’s, hands folded but restless. She does not invite him to sit beside her; she does not offer any gesture of welcome, either.
Maekar throws a careless glance at the arrangement, leaning slightly toward Baelor.
“Odd,” he mutters. “A woman between her brothers. I’d have thought tradition…” His words trail, uncertain of how to finish without sounding far too rude.
“We are but intruders here,” Baelor replies, letting the corner of his mouth twitch as he takes the chair on Ryon’s side. Valarr joins him soon after, while Maekar settles across from Simon, stretching his legs as though already bored of ceremony.
The food is served without further pause—platters of spiced lamb, oranges cut and glistening with honey, flatbread still warm enough to steam in the cool air of the hall. The wine is deep red and strong, Dornish in its boldness, and Baelor feels the tightness of the road ease from his shoulders at the first swallow. They had ridden long through rain and wind; even Maekar seems softened by meat and warmth.
Alysanne lifts her cup with both hands, fingers curved carefully around the stem, her gaze never quite leaving Baelor’s face. The question she poses is courteous, shaped properly for a royal table.
Baelor answers in the same manner, allowing his voice to remain light, though he does not rush. The Stormlands are named, their temper and stubborn skies acknowledged. Simon huffs a laugh. He tries to hide in his cup. Ryon corrects him with a glance sharp enough to draw blood. Alysanne does not rebuke either of them.
It does not take long for the first tightness at the table to thin.
Ryon asks about roads and borders and whether the passes grow safer in spring. His curiosity is plain, but genuine. Baelor answers easily, describing river crossings, the stubborn mud that clings to a horse’s legs, and the mercies of a good inn after days beneath open sky. Valarr adds a tale of a broken wheel near Bitterbridge, and even Maekar cannot resist correcting a detail with dry amusement.
Simon proves quicker of tongue than his elder brother, offering small jests that hover just at the edge of impropriety before he reins them in. He studies Maekar with frank interest, perhaps searching for temper there, perhaps for rivalry. Maekar meets it without flinching, the faintest smirk curving his mouth as though he enjoys being measured. Perhaps he is used to it, having four sons who do much the same.
The talk drifts as meals do—first of roads and weather, then of hunts in the nearby forests, of hawks and hounds, of which horses fare best on stony ground. Alysanne speaks little at first, but when she does, it is never without weight. She knows the lands around them intimately; she names rivers by their older titles, mentions which villages flood when autumn storms come too hard, recalls a harvest ruined three years past.
Baelor, too, listens more than he speaks. He notes how Ryon defers to his sister without seeming to, how Simon’s boldness fades when she stills him with nothing more than a shift of her gaze.
Servants refill cups. Bread is torn and passed without ceremony now. The earlier stiffness dissolves into something almost companionable. Valarr leans closer to hear one of Simon’s quieter remarks; Maekar reaches for the last of the oranges without asking, earning a brief arch of Alysanne’s brow.
“Do you plan to stay long, Your Grace?” Ryon asks, looking towards Baelor at first, then Valarr.
The Lady Alysanne shoots the boy a look, telling him that the behaviour, as well as the question, is rude in such company.
“I only meant…that if he has time enough, perhaps we could show Prince Valarr the mountains and the vale,” Ryon adds quickly.
Baelor smiles at the boy’s eagerness to please and is delighted to find company for his son. Especially since both the eldest Dondarrion boy and Valarr were around the same age and seemingly, attitude, too.
“Well, what do you say, Valarr?” Baelor asks the boy.
“I shall like that very much, father,” Valarr replies. “If our time permits, of course.”
“Then it is settled,” Baelor smiles at his son. He is weary, no doubt, yet welcomes the ease of the conversation, the stillness and the absence of hurry as they fall into an easy discourse. Politics can be left behind for a few hours, as none will fall away now that they ventured so far. The Lady Alysanne is within his reach, the diplomacy and practised speech still fresh and vivid in his mind.
“I do wonder, if you could summon the Border Council, Lady Alysanne,” Baelor finds himself saying once the younglings depart and they remain behind.
“As you have stated in your letter, yes,” the Lady replies.
“I do hope that it arrived in time,” he replies, inclining his head, the lie falling off easily from his tongue, without doubt.
“Two days ago, my prince,” a lie comes as a reply, too. “There is no need to concern yourself with that. We’ve had adequate time to prepare for your arrival.”
“Good,” Baelor nods, slowly. “I did not wish to bring you discomfort.”
Alysanne takes a long sip from her goblet, letting the Dornish red wine scrape through her tongue and throat before she could say something foolish.
“You did not, Your Grace,” she says, at last. “As for the Council, they have been invited to my brother’s nameday tourney in four days. Mayhaps it would be wise to stay and…celebrate with us, so you can conclude your business then.”
A gathering of the Border Council beneath the guise of celebration. Lords in good humour are often more pliable; grievances are more easily smoothed when wine flows, and banners snap proudly in the wind. It is a sensible suggestion. Clever.
He agrees without resistance.
“As you will it, Lady Alysanne,” he replies.
“Although I feel I must caution you, the Prince Martell will be in attendance, too,” Alysanne adds, deep in thought. “I know of your Dornish roots, yet if it is a subject of your disdain…”
Baelor Breakspear cannot help but smile at the implication and phrasing of the idea. To speak of disdain when her own hatred is clear through her eyes appeared to be diabolical, if not hypocritical.
“I have met Prince Albin on several occasions, Lady Alysanne,” he replies, then, considering his words carefully. “There will not be a problem on my account; you can rest assured.”
“‘Tis only that my uncle can be quite…headstrong and strange, if that is a fitting enough word,” she explains, letting her hands drop and clasping them in her lap.
“A quality running deep in the family, it seems,” Baelor hums, noncommittal. He does not mean it as an offence, of course. Yet believes that it matters not. He could tell the prettiest of compliments, and the feelings rooted deep in her blue eyes would still not change for the better or worse.
She laughs, half-heartedly, tilting her head only slightly as so.
“You must not hold that against us, Your Grace.”
The rest of the conversation is pleasant, altogether. Nothing informal or personal is shared, merely ideas set upon the table like pieces in a cyvasse match—moved forward, considered, withdrawn again. They speak of borders first, of course. Of patrol routes along the marches, of caravans that prefer certain crossings in autumn, of the old watchtowers that crumble faster than coin can mend them. Alysanne knows the names of captains and minor lords without pause, recites small grievances as though they were lines long memorised. Baelor answers with calm assurances, with measured promises that sound neither too eager nor too distant.
There is a rhythm to it. She presses; he yields just enough. He inquires; she reveals only what serves her purpose.
And meanwhile, the wine lowers in their cups. The hall empties slowly around them, servants clearing plates in careful silence, the scrape of wood against stone softened by distance.
Baelor studies her when she does not notice—or when she pretends not to. She sits straight-backed still, but no longer rigid. One hand rests loosely in her lap, the other curved around her goblet. There is strength there, yes, but also fatigue. He wonders how long she has carried this alone — brothers to guide, lands to steady, lords to appease. Yet he does not ask. He cannot.
At last, the hour grows late enough that propriety demands retreat. Chairs scrape softly as they rise. Alysanne offers a bow measured perfectly between courtesy and distance. Baelor inclines his head in return, equal parts prince and guest.
As he leaves the hall, the warmth of it fades quickly into the cooler corridors of Blackhaven. The torches there burn lower, the wind louder beyond the stone. His footsteps echo faintly, accompanied by Maekar’s slower stride and the murmur of Valarr’s quiet excitement ahead.
The next morning dawns grey, and Baelor wakes before the bells, the unfamiliar ceiling above him traced in shadow. For a moment, he does not remember where he is. When he rises and crosses to the narrow window, the mountains sit heavy against the sky, wrapped in mist.
Alysanne rises earlier still. By the time Baelor breaks his fast, she has already met with her steward, reviewed stores of grain and wine, and sent riders toward neighbouring keeps with sealed letters pressed in dark wax. The tourney, once merely a convenient excuse, becomes something living under her direction. Lists are drawn. Names weighed. Which lord may be placed beside which without blood being spilt. Which banners should hang nearer the dais. Which knights might take offence if uninvited.
She moves through the halls, her brothers trailing in her wake when needed and dismissed with a look when not. Ryon is given small responsibilities—overseeing repairs to the outer lists, ensuring the armoury inventories are complete. He takes them with solemn pride. Simon is sent to watch the training yard and report which squires show promise, though he lingers longer than necessary to spar with himself.
Baelor, meanwhile, discovers the particular strain of patience required when one must wait without appearing to wait.
The Border Council will not gather for four days. His purpose here, though urgent in intent, now stretches thin across idle hours. He attends morning drills in the yard, observing the Stormlander knights test one another beneath a sky that threatens rain even when it does not fall. He notes their discipline, their rougher style, the way they favour strength over grace. Valarr joins them eagerly, blade flashing with youthful enthusiasm. Ryon stands opposite him more than once, and the two fall into a rivalry both earnest and respectful.
Baelor watches with quiet satisfaction. His son laughs more here than he has in months.
Maekar finds less contentment in observation alone. Restless by nature, he rides the perimeter of Blackhaven on the second day, returning with mud along his boots and a faint curl of disdain upon his mouth. He speaks little of what he sees, but that evening he requests parchment and ink. Baelor does not ask the contents of the letters; he knows well enough.
Maekar writes to his sons.
The thought of them — of Daeron’s sharp temper, of Aerion’s bright and dangerous pride, of Aemon’s quiet mind and Aegon’s eagerness — hangs between the brothers as the wax seals are pressed.
If they come, Blackhaven will feel smaller for it. Louder. Baelor cannot decide whether that would be a blessing or a burden.
By the third afternoon, the rhythms of the castle had begun to include them. Servants bow less stiffly. The guards at the gate no longer stare quite so openly at silver and dark hair, mismatched eyes and princely cloaks. Valarr disappears for hours at a time with Ryon, returning wind-flushed and dust-streaked from the mountain paths. Simon lingers near Maekar whenever he can, absorbing sharp comments and sharper lessons as though they were coins.
Baelor spends more time walking the walls than he would ever admit. From there, he can see the winding road that leads toward the Dornish Marches, toward promises and tensions yet to arrive. The wind is stronger up high. It clears the mind.
And still, he finds himself thinking of Alysanne more often than circumstance demands.
She does not seek him out during these days, nor does she avoid him. When their paths cross — in the courtyard, in the solar where maps are spread across oak tables, once in the chapel where she kneels alone for a fleeting hour—there is a polite exchange, nothing more.
From her side, the prince becomes another consideration to be balanced.
She notes his patience first. Many men of higher birth would have pressed already, would have demanded private audiences and swift resolutions. Baelor does not. He allows the days to unfold as she dictates, as though he understands that this is her ground and he is merely permitted upon it.
It unsettles her more than impatience would have.
In quieter moments, when the lists are reviewed and the household quiets, she permits herself to consider him without the armour of diplomacy. He walks as though accustomed to command but does not wield it carelessly. He watches more than he speaks. When he stands upon the walls at dusk, hands clasped behind his back, he appears almost solitary against the storm-dark horizon.
She wonders which place he truly calls home.
By the end of the third day, preparations for the tourney had begun to alter Blackhaven itself. Carpenters hammer at fresh wooden stands. Banners are aired and beaten free of dust. Horses are inspected, hooves cleaned and shod anew. The castle, once simply enduring, begins to anticipate.
So too do its inhabitants.
There is a quiet sense of gathering—of threads being drawn inward from distant corners of the realm. Lords will come. The Prince Martell will come. Maekar’s sons may yet ride through the gates with Targaryen colours snapping behind them.