Chapter Text
“King Aegon the Unworthy did much in his life to make him worthy of the title ‘the worst king the Seven Kingdoms had ever seen.’ In his life, he sired many bastards—some of them known as the Great Bastards, born to noblewomen and raised at His Grace’s court, and many others born of women of lesser renown. Those boys, taken from their mothers, were raised in the Dornish Marches, trained to fight, kill, and die in the king's conquest of Dorne.
King Aegon died before the army of his bastard sons could march south, and his firstborn son, Daeron, sat upon the throne. The new King made a coward's peace with Dorne by offering his sister, Princess Daenerys, to the Prince of Dorne, his brother-in-law.
When Daemon Blackfyre, the Greatest Bastard, rebelled against his brother and denounced him the bastard of the Dragonknight and himself the one true King, their numerous half-brothers raised the Black Dragon sigils and marched on King’s Landing amongst his other supporters. On the Redgrass Field, they faced the most formidable host the Seven Kingdoms had ever seen, led by Baelor, Prince of Dragonstone—widely known as ‘the Blackest Dragon’ for the raven-black colour of his Dornish hair—and another Great Bastard of King Aegon named Brynden Rivers, known as ‘the Whitest Dragon’ for his white hair, or ‘Bloodraven’ for the colour of his eyes or for the birthmark on his cheek.”
Some of his half-brothers often joked that they doubted if King Aegon had indeed sired them, but he himself had no such doubts, for his fair hair had most certainly come from the King's loins. Now he sat on the damp ground, eyes cast down, arms and legs bound, among his half-brothers and other prisoners—cravens who had let themselves be captured alive when the King lay dead, foully slain by their traitor half-brother, the bloody Bloodraven Rivers.
He himself had a few cuts and bruises on his body from the battle, all sore and aching but none deadly, whilst his royal half-brother’s body lay somewhere out in the dark, bled out and ready to be brought before the false-born king.
The guards returned again, and this time it was his turn. They dragged him to the massive pavilion, lit by many lanterns and filled with the false king’s judges. Forced to his knees in front of the supporters of the Red Dragon, he looked at them with anger and disdain, hoping that they might not see his fear.
“May Fair,” intoned a clerk, reading from a roll of parchment. “Claimed to be a knight, although he could not prove it; of unknown birth, having killed many of the King’s loyal men.”
“How do you plead?” asked a lordling sitting closest to him, but he only looked forward, at the Blackest Prince, who had not so much as cast an eye in his direction.
“Guilty of every sin,” he pronounced with a dry tongue, and the false prince instantly raised his head.
“Death by hanging,” concluded the lordling. “Any last words?”
“Fuck you and fuck your bastard king,” he spat the words out and frowned, regretting that he had no spittle to spit on the ground.
“Take him to the gallows,” said the lordling to the clerk, who had already started scribing his sentence.
“Stop scribing,” a sharp command came from the prince, rose and approached them.
Silence fell, and he felt his heart skip a beat. He cast his head down as the false dragon approached, only to have his head yanked up by one of the guards.
“Careful,” warned the prince, taking his chin in a firm grip and tilting his head back until his neck was bared. The dragon prince studied his face, and he forced himself to frown, for his calm features had often been described as girl-like. A princely thumb touched his broken lips, and he thought about biting, but the hand was already gone. “Raise him up,” came another order, and he was hauled to his bound feet.
The prince looked him over and narrowed his eyes. All the other people in the pavilion remained silent and unmoving. “Remove his clothing,” the prince commanded, and the clothes were stripped away. They did not bother to untie his limbs; they simply cut and ripped away his pants and shirt.
He tried to lower his hands to cover his cock and stones, but a guard held them to the side, preventing any obstruction to the prince’s gaze.
The false prince tilted his raven-haired head and circled him with slow steps. From where the prince had been a moment before, he saw a Kingsguard in white armor looking right at him with a strange expression.
The prince completed a circle and returned to look at him; on the Dornishman's face, he saw the terrifying smirk of a man looking upon what had been long sought after. The prince moved to the Kingsguard and beckoned one of the knights to his side. They exchanged a few short words, and the Kingsguard held his hand out, pointing at him.
At that moment, he knew his doom. “Your filthy bastard king can suck my cock and choke on it!” he burst out. The prince turned, the smirk gone and his brow now furrowed. “And your Dornish mother-whore can lick my cum off his lifeless corpse!” he continued, committing to his fate, though he knew the first part alone had earned him a different kind of impaling.
“Gag him,” the prince ordered in the calmest voice, and he was gagged. “Gently,” the prince added when it was already done. “Now take him away from prying eyes and redact the records.”
A huge cloak was thrown over his bare shoulders, wrapping him completely, covering even his head. He tried to struggle, but was easily carried away by more hands than those that had brought him in.
They laid him not on the hard ground, but upon a soft cot. The cloak covered his head, and once he realized that nothing else was happening, with his hands and feet still bound, he struggled to crawl from under it. Having managed to roll over and shake off the heavy wool, he found himself staring into the eyes of three guardsmen and a knight, standing watch over him. The cloak was put back over him, and this time he lay still, listening to everything around him.
They quickly brought in two more guards in chainmail, and two women brought in a tub and buckets of water. In a few moments, the cloak was removed and he saw another Kingsguard looking him over with an unyielding gaze. “Commence the Wasing,” the knight proclaimed, adding, “Remove the bindings, but leave the gag.” When the guardsmen followed the order, the Kingsguard stepped aside, opening a passage to the steaming tub and the washerwomen near it.
He stood, unbound for the first time in days, and thought of sprinting out of the tent, perhaps making it to the nearest bushes and taking his fate back for himself. Instead, he stumbled towards the women waiting and got into the tub. The water was hotter and the soap more fragrant than any he had ever known. And the washerwomen far more comely than he could ever have afforded.
They scrubbed him all over, soaped his messy hair, and washed him clean with hot water, then dried him, brushing his hair and the short beard that had grown on the march. None of the women touched him suggestively, but as they were leaving, he heard one of them whisper to another, “He’s hung like a Dornishman,” and giggle.
He stood naked and clean in front of the Kingsguard’s dark gaze and the five guardsmen, and knew that they saw his soft features and thin muscles, uncommon for a true knight. “Just give me a battle mace,” he thought, “and I’ll take out all of you, and bury it deep into the skull of the false Kingsguard.” He also knew that his cleaned hair had a silver sheen, just as his purple eyes gave away his heritage. He never knew what manner of whore his mother had been to catch the Dragon King’s eye, yet the King had spilled his seed in her, and she had borne him another bastard to raise and train to wield His Grace’s weapons against his enemies.
A Maester—not a very old man, with a full head of brown hair and a massive chain of many metals around his neck—entered the tent.
“Maester,” spoke the Kingsguard, “tell us if you need anything.”
“Yes, yes, but not right now. We shall start with the inspection. Put it down,” the Maester told the boy who followed, and the boy put down a deep basin filled with strange-colored water.
The Maester circled him many times, touching and pressing every bruise and scar, old and new alike. Several times the Maester told the boy what to write down, and other times the boy already knew what to record. Then came the moment when the Maester stopped and called the Kingsguard. “We shall need to inspect the private parts.” And at that moment he jerked, even though he already knew what was to come.
The guardsmen kept him bent and unmoving while the Maester studied his anus, his stones, and his cock. “Do you see it?” “Yes, Maester.” “Do you know what to write?” “Yes, Maester.” “Add that it is not recent; lest any good men lose their heads to false accusations of foul play.”
Once he was straightened, the Maester demanded he be un-gagged to check his teeth and gums. Whatever foul magic was used to make his jaw stay open, he could not tell, but not a muscle moved to let him bite.
“Six and seven upper left and six lower left are gone,” the Maester dictated, “all the rest are present and seemingly healthy. No bleeding, but the gums are dry and there is no saliva on the tongue. The whites of the eyes are bloodshot; nose and ears clean.” The Maester did something, and the jaw finally closed. “Pox scars under the beard, a few years old.”
“Did you get the urine?”
“None has come yet.”
“How much water was given?”
“None,” the Kingsguard answered. “We prepared a bath — that's all”
“Four cups, no less; a hearty meal four times a day, and a full night’s rest.” The Maester took the paper from the boy's hands and gave it to one of the guardsmen. “Bring this forth to Prince Baelor.”
They once again gagged him and brought in a knight's garments—simple and colorless, with no sigils sewn. “Let the garbing begin,” the Kingsguard proclaimed, and he was made to shove his hands, legs, and head into the clothes. They put boots on him but gave him no belt or lacings. Once he was fully clothed, chains were brought forth. Two nights before, right after the battle, there were not enough chains even for the highborn prisoners, so he wondered which noble lord or renowned knight had succumbed to his wounds and surrendered his shackles. They chained him, legs and arms, so that he could walk but not run, and move his hands, but not spread them.
“The prince awaits,” the Kingsguard said, and he was led towards another group of tents, dark-colored and menacing. They opened the flaps, removed the gag, and there he once again saw his captor, heir to the false-born king and Dornish cunt. All the guardsmen were gone; they were left alone, with two Kingsguards between them.
“Come and share my supper,” he was told. “We have much to discuss.”
He did not move a step, and when the false dragon raised his eyebrows, he said as slowly as he could manage: “I had supper with your lady wife.”
“Do not dare—”
“She said you were bigger than your dragon-cunt sire.”
The Blackest Dragon made a face as if he had been given the sourest of Dornish lemons.
“Bring him forth,” the Prince ordered. And he was brought and sat on a low stool; one of the Kingsguards kept him in place while the other forced his jaw open. The prince brought a plate with some kind of porridge, grabbed a spoon, filled it, and shoved it in. Once the food was inside, his jaw was forcefully closed, and the dragon prince pressed on his throat, forcing him to swallow all the unwanted food. In this manner, they fed him seven full spoons and then three cups of boiled water. Then the dragon-prick took a cloth and wiped the mess from his face.
“Gag him,” and the gag returned. “See that he keeps his supper down.”
“As you wish, my prince.”
They did not drag him far, only into another pavilion, and placed him on a bed. One of the Kingsguards stood over him, as well as two more guardsmen. He lay still, silently suffering as his stomach cramped and burned, protesting the sudden weight of the meal after days of forced fasting. Dawn came, and he could see that the pavilion’s cloth above him was red and black, the opposite of the True King’s black and red colors. Once morning came, he could no longer hold it. He sat up and looked at the Kingsguard, then gestured toward his lap with bound hands. The Kingsguard motioned, and one of the guards left and returned with a cup. Once the guardsman left with the filled cup, he was once again forced to lie on the bed, and he stayed there for many hours, not daring to close his eyes even for a brief moment.
When the new guardsmen came, he was once again brought out and led to the dragon prince's pavilion. It was the same as before, only the table was set anew.
The Prince looked him over and motioned for him to come closer. He didn't move, so the Kingsguards made him move, and once again, they removed the gag.
“We have some tasty fruits and puree, and Dornish olives and sweet wine; you may have a cup if you behave this time,” the prince spoke with a gentle voice, as if talking to a child, not a captured foe.
“Do you fuck your horse too often?” he rasped.
“...Did you get any sleep at all?” the dragon-prick asked, as if no rudeness had been spoken.
“I could not sleep for the poor beast’s suffering cries.”
The prince silently took a steaming cup from the table. The Kingsguards pushed him to his knees in front of the dragon-cunt and forcefully made him unclench his jaw. This time the porridge was watery and was poured easily down his throat. It had the taste of chicken broth, and after three full cups of porridge, there came a cup of pure broth, then three more cups of boiled water. Once again, the false prince carefully cleaned his mouth and his beard with a cloth, and then the Kingsguards replaced the gag.
He was once again placed on the bed in the next pavilion, and several men stood watch over his chained body. “Fuck me,” he thought, “This dragon-cock of Dragonstone has always been a cunt.”
The Dornish-looking heir of the false-born king used to come to their camps unannounced and cause an uproar. He would catch a fair-haired lad, talk gently to him, and give him fruit or sweets; then, he would take the lad away, despite all of Lord Quentyn’s outcries. They all knew to hide from him or muddy their hair, for none of the boys he had taken ever returned.
He closed his eyes, listening to the silence of the encampment. Unlike the main pens where the other prisoners were kept, there was no shouting of guards or tortured people yelling, praising gods, screaming their confessions. Some horses whinnied; somewhere far away, somebody played the flute. He dreamed of days long gone, when they were taken on hunting trips and taught to skin and forage—still young and always unwanted by everyone, save for their sire, the King. Then he dreamed of things he never had: of home, of lullabies. Then he slept.
It was long after evenfall when he opened his eyes. The air was chill with rain, and he was covered with a large woolen cloak. He blinked and realized that the Kingsguard standing watch over him was not the one who had stood there before.
“Inform Prince Baelor,” came the order.
They gave him a bucket and an empty cup, and after they were filled, a guardsman carried them to the Maester. He thought lazily that the dragon-cunt must not have been laid for quite some time, for a Maester and a Kingsguard watching over a low-born arse were far too many precautions for a mere prisoner.
He was walked to the Prince's pavilion again and ungagged. The Prince welcomed him with a table full of rich food and a smile to win a maiden’s heart and break it in the same breath.
“Would you like to join me for this late supper, or will we hear more slander?”
This time, he walked over and sat at the table. He did not have an answer for the royal prick, so he chose instead to indulge in the meats and cheeses. He made sure to make a mess of everything he touched, tearing the bread with his teeth like a hound, chewing loudly to ensure the false dragon saw the food being chewed. Then, he dared to look upon his captor and stopped mid-bite. The fucking Prince had a smile so wide and happy that he was scared shitless in an instant.
The Prince saw his fear, for he almost jumped, and the Kingsguard moved but stopped at the motion of the Prince’s hand. “Finish your meal,” he said gently—far too gently, to be honest. “We depart for King’s Landing at the break of dawn, and our next supper will be at the Red Keep, if the gods allow it.”
Red Keep, not a city tavern or elsewhere. He was to be brought into the dragons’ lair.
“So you mean to march us to the city?” he asked, pretending he was still with the rest of his brothers.
“You will ride in a carriage,” the Prince answered shortly.
He picked up another slice of meat and put it down. “I have never been to Aegon’s city before,” he admitted, and saw a dark shadow cross the Prince’s Dornish features. The smile did not vanish but became somewhat bitter, and the Prince did not answer.
He gathered his strength and breathed in before wading into shallow waters.
“You should not waste such good food on me,” he said. “I’m not some pampered prince who cannot live on stew.”
The Prince did not answer, just fiddled with the rings on his royal fingers.
“You also should not wait for King’s Landing to fuck me,” he added. “Why not be done with it here and now?”
The Prince looked at him, the smile now gone, and he felt the presence of the two white-clad knights behind him in his very bones.
“Were things different,” the dragon prince finally pronounced, “I would have had you seven times before dawn—seven before and seven after evenfall.”
“What’s stopping you?” he asked, feeling sweat forming on his palms.
“Honor,” the dragon answered. “Love,” he added with a haunting softness. “Finish your meal and go to sleep some more.”
He ate more of the meat and sweets and drank all the sweet wine they gave him, as well as all of the boiled water. Once the Prince was satisfied with how much he had eaten, the dragon smiled again.
“On the morrow, you will ride with me. We will have to put a hood and mask on you, and your hands will be tied to the saddle. Ser Roland will hold the reins.”
“Thank you, Your Grace,” he spoke before he could stop himself.
One of the Kingsguards led him away, back to his bed. He lay awake the whole night, thinking about what he had heard from the dragon prince. They were bringing him to the Red Keep, keeping him pampered and softened. They had chosen him from among thousands of captured enemies, instead of some trained girl from a pillow house. The Kingsguard stood watch over him.
Dark thoughts consumed him through the night. Baelor, despite his Dornish looks, was still a dragon prince, a warrior, and a knight; he could live with that. But the False King—the false-born bastard sitting on the Iron Throne—was a filthy toad of a man who could not even see his own cock behind his belly. They said he could not tell a man from a woman and conversed with magicians and false priests.
When dawn came and they came to put him on a horse, he fought for his life with his chained hands. He kicked the Kingsguard, shoved two guardsmen. He tried to bite as they gagged him, struggling while they bound him anew. All the reward he got for his struggles was a carriage floor covered in cushions and a cloth over his eyes. He tried to roll, to yell through his gag, but to no avail; his captors stood silently and awaited the signal for departure.
The Prince of Dragonstone was bringing the spoils of war to present them to his father, the King.