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PRINCE BAELOR TARGARYEN, ONCE-WARD OF PRINCE ADDAM196Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ1Iuy4ZyJQo
"Had I known that was in her, I'd never have sent you to her," Baelor said, voice thick with remorse.
Saera had taken hours to recover; she'd stormed off into the streets of the city and, having the pangs of guilt for fear that she might get lost or worse, he chased her down. Her place of choice was an inn near the gate she'd entered through—the inn she'd had a bed hired in. Baelor, of course, suppressed the impulse to offer her the hospitality of the Red Keep—there were more rooms of luxury than one could count—reminding himself that not only would she now refuse bitterly, but that, if Rhaena went to Aemon with her complaints, Saera might not be permitted their hospitality.
"I shouldn't have advised you to begun with. I'm sorry, Saera. I wish I could do more."
She shook her head slowly, red locks falling over her face. "You did all I could have asked and more, my prince. It's me, not you, who failed."
He huffed an exhale and clenched his teeth. It didn't sit right with him.
"I… could have rode as a mystery knight," she sighed, her tone bitter. "But no. It wasn't enough. I had to have the glory to mine own name…"
"If you win a tilt," Baelor snapped, "you deserve the credit."
Rain had begun to pick up outside. The inn wasn't as densely packed as those at the larger gates, such as the Gate of the Gods or the Dragon Gate… but there were a handful of patrons seated in the room, minding their own tables. The dim warmth of torchlight scattered along the walls colored the inn; the sweet, permeating scent of slow-roasted pig fogged up the smells of the room. And yet Baelor hadn't a stomach for food just now; half of him was wondering if his attempt with Saera had just now failed—the other half, pondering what his king-brother would do when Rhaena got to him first. Should I have followed her out here, instead of seeking him out myself?
"I didn't get the credit with Saelarr, either," she grumbled.
"Saelarr? How do you mean?"
"He came to the Kingswood broken, you know," she said, before snapping her fingers over at the barkeep who pretended not to notice. "Long ago, after the Dornish shot him down in the mountains."
"Daenys the Defiant," Baelor said somberly.
"Yes. A monster, that woman," she said just as she stood and walked over to the bar.
Many had thought Saelarr dead, until Lord Orys announced otherwise with the astonishing news that his daughter had claimed him for his own. This was not so long after things had reached a boiling point between the three dragon houses; the Trident, the Stormlands, and the Crown. Much had happened in those years. Baelor was a different beast; it was only under the care of Lord Addam that he changed for the better, that he got over his childhood woes. And yet here was Saera, a hopeful friend, who had claimed the thing Baelor had been denied, had wanted most.
I have forgiven him, Baelor told himself. It is in the past. And it was a poor past besides. They made poor princes; Baelor was a better man, and some part of him desperately hoped Aemon would make a better king. Yet the few times he'd engaged with his brother privately since his return to court had left him spurned. He had no good read of the man.
If only I had taken Viserion, and not him, there would be no need for the realm to watch in fear. And he couldn't blame the lords of the realm—the allegations levied against his brother were serious, and, if true…
"Wine, Baelor?" Saera asked, sitting back down with two mugs. "It's mayhaps cheaper than the sort you're used to."
"You don't have good wine in the Stormlands?" Baelor queried, taking the cup and inspecting the red. It smelled cheap, for certain.
"Not as good as you had in Harrenhal, I'm sure," she retorted just before taking a draft.
Baelor shrugged and let go of the mug, folding his hands atop the table. "Lord Addam did not let me drink. I had obligations to tend to."
Saera lowered the mug to reveal that a concerned frown worried her face. "Prince," she began in a low voice. "My brother is coming. You know this."
Baelor nodded, twiddling his fingers together mindlessly.
"As is your teacher. Lord Addam, I mean."
"Your point, Saera?"
"My point is… Rhaena has little reason to hate me. But Targaryens of the Trident…"
Baelor pulled his hands apart and pondered her words, calculating a reply. Her silence gave him the window.
"I don't blame you for what your brother did, Saera," he said. Her eyes met his, and he saw at once that she recoiled; he had to correct himself. "Who am I to cast blame upon anyone, besides? I was a boy when it happened, as was he. Is your brother a changed man?"
She looked down at her hands, then. "Yes."
"Well, that settles it. It was long ago. It was tragic. And there is only one way to move forward: to bridge the gap."
She shook her head. "I did not come to bridge the gap. I came to joust."
He smiled, then. "We came for different things, I know. I bear true love and loyalty to Lord Addam. And yet he is a grieving man, who has lived with his grief far too long. Lord Orys cannot be a bad man, either. All it takes is a talk, Saera. I ask nothing of you, but this is what I want."
She stared at him and then took a second draft from her cup. When she lowered it, she told him brusquely she'd wanted for rest, and wished him a safe return to the keep. He took the queue, and thought better of trying his luck any further. Saera was young and short-sighted; she wanted one thing at this moment. Baelor, on the other hand, had many things on his mind, many things he'd hoped to attain, and he understood that, try as he might with all of them, only a few would turn up in his grasp. Peace, father, he thought to himself as he made his way through the wet, muddied streets of King's Landing along the Muddy Way in the direction of Maegor's. Peace is what you wished for. Peace is what I want, now.
He'd lost out in his attempt to sway Saera to diplomacy that night, but the loss of Saera's opportunity to compete fairly was a worse sore on his mind. Had Rhaena only agreed… You've changed too, sister, he realized. I hadn't noticed it this past month, since I've been back. But you're different.
Nothing stayed quite the same for very long. He traced his way through the gates to Maegor's Holdfast, and found his way into his quarters, passing by scarlet guards and finding posted outside his door Ser Olyvar Arryn in his white plate.
"Ser," Baelor said, making for the door. Olyvar stepped aside and nodded respectfully. Baelor had just opened it when he'd turned to the young knight.
"Haven't you the guard of the Crown Princess?" he asked, squinting.
"Aye, my prince," Olyvar replied. "She is with her father now, though, and Ser Emory Marbrand, your normal guard, is ill."
"Ser Emory Marbrand," Baelor repeated. "I scarcely see the old man around. How old is he, now?"
"I could not say, my prince," Olyvar replied slowly. "He says he joined with Ser Lewys Lychester, however."
"Ah, old Lewys," Baelor grinned, his mind steeped in sudden memory. "Well, that would make Emory old indeed. Don't toil too hard out here, Arryn; I assure you of my safety. Would you like me to bring you a seat?"
Olyvar smiled shyly and shook his head. "Not on my account, my prince. I will do my duty. It's only standing."
Baelor closed the door behind him and had just begun undressing when his mind had caught the dent of a memory. Emory Marbrand… he was one of the lesser Kingsguard, to be sure—not a man as known as was Ser Lewys, who trained them hard in the yards when they were young. Yet Ser Lewys was a man of chivalric stock; his sort was traditional, careful, honorable. He'd trained Aemon and Baelor for the tourneys, rather than for true war. Our father's influence, as well.
Baelor had some experiences with tourneys himself, in the Riverlands. First as Lord Addam's squire, then as a knight in his own right, he'd fought—and won—three melees. He'd come second in a joust at Riverrun, bested only by Ser Gunthor Blackwood, the best lance in the Trident; perhaps even the best in Westeros. But his time with the tourneys was short-lived. When his father died, it sapped him of the sense for the spectacle that the events brought. They felt meaningless. Lord Addam had welcomed the somber change. "Tourneys are to men what juice is to children," he'd told him. "They distract you from the true thing. True war, true wine. Neither are to be made playthings."
And yet…
Baelor smiled. She might not win the king's favor, he thought. But I would.
He slept that night with a pleasing idea. Slumber came to him swiftly, softly, and simply: he woke with a new feeling of confidence. So long as Rhaena has not yet sabotaged me, he thought, Saera will have her chance in the lists. And if Saera could do this—if she could have her moment in the sun, and see what Baelor was willing to do for his friends, then, and only then, the door was open, the drawbridges laid down… and I'll have my talk. There was nothing more important to a man than his daughter; he trusted that Lord Orys would be no exception. As he had given a word for her, she would give a word for him.
That night, though, he did dream. It was the sort of dream that is forgotten at once when it ceases, and the dreamer returns to their waking day; but slowly, it draws again into the mind until it is as whole as a memory. The fragments came together later in the day, as he made his arrangements for the grand tourney and entered his name formally into the lists. It was an old dream.
Viserion, he'd called. If I can only take Viserion, it will all be alright, Ser, he reasoned. But the Lord Viserys was dead; he had been thrown off his dragon by the quarry of a ballistae. Baelor was too young to understand; he'd imagined he'd meet Viserys again soon. He couldn't understand Ser Addam's grief. He'd lost a father and a brother—no words, no promises, could make things right.
And yet there was a war on. There were flames engulfing the Riverlands; not dragonfire, no, the fire of man, ravers and raiders from the west, banners of the crimson dragon ripped and torn asunder and replaced with the reverse; the black dragon. Baelor had never even met Aegon VI's son Rhaegar before the war. He was too young to understand any of it—and yet it still left its marks on him, it still altered the course of his life. If I can only take Viserion.
The dream left him as quickly as it had come, and it only returned to his mind slowly, in fragments. In a way, the realm had fragmented, back then, only to slowly coalesce again. But just now it was not whole; it had come apart after the Good Queen, and it had not yet been made right again. I can make things right, he reminded himself. This is what I was made to do.
He departed that afternoon in search of Saera Summerstorm, a plan in hand that would set things on their course forward. It was no easy endeavor, not without its risks; but, if pulled off well, the first scars between his house and hers might be mended. She would get what she wanted, and it would come without cost; with boon, even. You will get your glory, Saera, he told himself as he roved back down the Muddy Way. And I will have mine, when it is all done.
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