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King’s Landing

98 AC (Twelfth Moon—Day 27)

Baelon III

“…I never thought you would give him Dark Sister.” Maelys was the one to say it, seated quietly, eyes upon the rogue prince dancing about the hall with the Valyrian sword fixed at his hip. “He has an heir’s handling of it.”

“I shall have little use for it. And father gave me leave to pass it on at my own accord.” Baelon was glad to see the softer celebration. It had been a wise thing to divide the feasts. Bloating the hall with all the nobles at once was an ill and dangerous arrangement. “You approve?”

Daemon danced with his betrothed — he had been doing so with her for some time now. Attraction was clearly not lacking, and his son had not argued the girl was without wit.

It was no easy thing to find a match for his wild son, yet the Rogare girl seemed to have gotten a handle on him. That was gladsome. It was also, in some measure, concerning. A man too easily swayed by his wife was a weak man. The thought was ill — his youngest brother was a pawn in Gael’s hands, though in their particular situation it was a complicated and largely harmless thing.

It would not be so harmless if Daemon gave himself over to the sway of a woman’s counsel, much so one with strong loyalties to her house.

“I do, very much so.” Maelys inclined his head. “It will do him some good — more pride than good, but he will be happy.” His brother took a sip of his wine — or was it juice? “Had he won the melee before its bestowment, it would have been an epic.”

Baelon laughed. “Had many things been different, it would have been an epic.” He shook his head. His brother had daft laments, as though he was not the primary architect of the very lack of epic he mourned. “You stole from the melee’s spectacle, Maelys.”

“I heard the event did not lack for eyes.” The winter prince argued.

“Softer eyes were in short supply. Women — maidens — are what stoke fervour in men’s hearts.” That was not to say the melee had lacked for display or anticipation. “Please tell me you have no separate frolic planned for the joust.”

Maelys hummed, eyes still fixed upon the dance floor. Whatever lay behind that subtle gaze of his was a mystery Baelon had grown too curious about unraveling. Left to his own leave, Maelys had a tendency to disrupt order with his queer ideas.

Left to his curiosities, he might undo carefully laid schemes and intrigue years in the making.

The king — their father — was far too annoyingly impressed and prided by the youngest of his sons. The spring prince was measured low, and he knew it well. It was only by the odd affections his younger brother spared him that he felt himself possessed of no true resentments.

He was owed them. But Maelys knew how to smile.

What was it that King Jaehaerys saw — that made him so willing to surrender so much to this child of winter? Naught by Baelon’s measure. Though again, Baelon could well be considered a daft fool when set beside the two monsters beloved of wit.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

“You have no cause to worry, brother.” He was smiling, his brother. “You needn’t take these plays too seriously, and further still the cries of nobles who have fallen in love with your shoulder.”

Baelon made to say something. He was stopped.

“I shall be watching the joust alongside all the rest, and I believe most of the nobles will be in attendance as well.” That did assure him somewhat. Maelys continued, his tone settling low. “Though I implore you to stop lending ear to these lords. There is little of substance to their cries. Give Viserys their attention instead.”

Baelon laughed with no small measure of genuine amusement. “The faith you place in my son is something of a mystery to me.”

“Less faith than a complete betrayal of it.” Maelys sighed in the manner of a mummer given to performance. “You and father possess it to a frightening degree, though. I would sooner have Viserys exposed to the demands of governance while there is still time to shape him by it. The lords must know him long before he sits the throne. He ought to learn to disappoint their schemes — so that when he is king, they will have no expectations left to hold over him.”

“I ought to hate you for measuring my son’s wit so low.” Baelon said it, though it was a jest — if a hollow one. “However there’s no lie in it. Your counsel is heard, brother.”

His eyes moved across the nobles. They talked and laughed amongst themselves, those who had not followed in his father’s calculated attendance of all the feasts. Tonight the king was with the lowest of the houses — the landed knights and the young houses.

All were owed the king’s ear and mercy. Or such was the aim behind the farce of his father’s actions.

King Jaehaerys was already beloved amongst the nobles. He would be more so when this tourney came to its close.

“I had hoped you would stand by his side when he took the crown.” He admitted, frowning just so. “It would make for a calmer and more fruitful kingship.”

“I have my own duties, brother.” Maelys was quick to reject the suggestion.

Baelon had known he would. He had expected it, even.

“Do you truly?” He looked at his brother, shaking his head, his expression turning earnest. “No, I know well that you have duties of your own. But you give far too much of your time to amusements and to Gael. It baffles me, if I am being honest. Do you truly have duties?”

Maelys quieted, running a hand through his hair. He did not quite look troubled, but he was focused. Baelon had never known how to read him — or rather, he had never troubled himself with such disciplines.

“I will not repeat how I find time for myself — that is no secret. As for my duties, Gael is my duty. I know it is unorthodox, and frowned upon by daft lords besides. But she is my most important duty, and such is why I surrender so much of my time to her.” He raised a finger. “As for the amusements — they are not such. I am seeing to things I might introduce to my lands and my people, to ensure happiness, works, and opportunities are abundant.”

The song changed and a new form of dance was displayed. The ladies and lords who had been long in the city had much to show and impress upon their more rural peers.

This too would follow his brother’s departure. A certain dullness would settle upon King’s Landing once its favoured royals removed themselves to Havenhall.

“Peace is an expensive thing, Baelon.”

The spring prince made a face, reminded of his father’s wisdom. There was no pride in Jaehaerys about his rulership, though there was much anticipation and optimism surrounding Maelys’s princedom.

Baelon took a sip of his wine, feeling the bite of it. He disliked finding bitterness in himself toward his own kin. He already had complicated enough relations with his younger siblings. Vaegon still disliked him. And the less said of Viserra the better.

“The throne would have suited you, Maelys.” Admitting such gave him no difficulty.

His brother received the words well — barely a twitch. Thinking on it, little about Maelys had shifted since his childhood. The most measured of children. More observant. More true to his own emotions and self. A maturity beyond his years, and little offence taken even through ill treatment.

The spring prince would not have borne such treatment with anything like the same grace.

“Mayhap.” His brother wore a sad smile. “Or mayhap not. I have no patience for the nobles, as you well know. Entertaining their egos is the very reason I believe this stagnation has persisted so long. Had I held the throne, there would have been cause to deny any descendant of our house a name beginning with M.”

Baelon laughed, for what else was there to do at so frightening an admission. “That bad?”

Maelys nodded. “The authority permitted to our imperial rule is a sad thing. We are owed far more than mere political supremacy.” He touched at the back of his hand. “Our blood ought to be divorced from that of common nobility.”

It was as though Daemon were speaking through his brother’s mouth. Baelon was amusedly unsettled. Maelys continued.

“Look upon my lands, brother. Watch as I spawn paradise.” His brother’s eyes were lost to some private imagining. The spring prince listened still. “I will set a new example for noble governance. Just you see.”

King’s Landing

98 AC (Twelfth Moon—Day 28)

“…Maelys has a madness about him.” So Baelon admitted, watching as the mummers enacted prophecy as play.

A mummery of old snow. Of pale monsters clasping blue swords in dead hands, followed by a host of corpses given cold life. It was a sad and tragic thing — the dreamt Long Night bearing down upon the realm as lords squabbled and skirmished over matters of no consequence.

Disbelief. Disunity. Distrust.

By the time the threat of legend was discovered, it was already too late. Far from the cold undead being the true peril, it was the lack of preparation that brought the realm low. Famine, disease, greed, and arrogance.

It was a tragedy. And if the Long Night was truly as his brother portrayed it, the spring prince saw no way through it. Not even with dragonglass put to use from the first.

“Brilliance is often stalked by such low traits, Baelon. Pay it no great mind — little ill will come of it.” His father said, though he frowned at the mummery all the same. “Though this does speak volumes of his view of the lords.” A pause. “And of our house as well, I suppose.”

Baelon inclined his head. “There is a clear absence of dragons and heroic Valyrians, I noticed.” It ought to have been a Targaryen leading the charge — not some unnamed warrior with brown hair.

It annoyed him somewhat, he would admit. Though the mummery was entertaining enough. He found he would like to see more of such nature — it seemed a fine way to pass the time.

“Tell me, son.” The king looked at him. His youth was fading with each passing day, even as he seemed happier than he had been in some time. “What have you done, or planned to do, since I informed you of Aegon’s dream?”

Baelon worked his jaw, though he had nothing to think on. What exactly was he to do, save know of it and pass it on?

“Nothing.” The word came with a grimace.

Far from what he had expected, his father merely nodded, his face betraying no judgment. “It is the only thing to do — so I had thought as well.” The elder Targaryen looked to the mummers once more. “Though now I am convinced that is not so. While the date remains unknown, one could still prepare. Your brother is doing just that.”

“Through a mummery?” The spring prince lifted his brow. This seemed like ridicule to him. It was also how he learned that his younger brother had been told of the prophecy.

Baelon was not certain he agreed with that decision.

“That is certainly part of it.” King Jaehaerys agreed. “Far from a lesson, he is merely betraying the weakness of the Others here — everything else is air and amusement.” He continued. “What do you think Maelys is doing in Dragonstone?”

Dragonstone. Baelon gave it thought, and then understood what his father was referring to — the volcanic ash being collected by his brother’s men. It was a lucrative trade, many men finding work in such toil.

That was part of why their ancestral seat had found some measure of prosperity.

If memory served him, the ash was among the materials needed to produce that quick stone of his brother’s devising.

“I believe he is collecting ash from the volcanoes.”

“Was collecting ash — that was once his primary aim. That has since changed. What he does now is collect dragonglass and fashion weapons from it.” Jaehaerys enlightened him. “It is no grand undertaking, nor is great priority given to it. But he is preparing. He intends to establish caches of such weapons in the riverlands and the north in time.”

Baelon chuckled, feeling rather a fool. “He truly betrays nothing, does he?”

It was a baffling thing — how much his brother accomplished with seldom a show of effort. Things simply seemed to happen. A great many things simply seemed to happen. And he was still so young, barely two decades behind him.

Baelon had four, and had not yet earned himself a legacy worth noting. He doubted he could ever be so subtle and quiet a schemer as his brother, though mimicking him was not entirely beyond his reach.

“It is in his men.” His father told him. “The counsel I would give you is this — never hesitate to share your plans or grievances with him. He may complain of it, but he will always act to realise them, or better them, even when he gives no outward sign of it.”

The spring prince held that counsel close, for it was indeed sound. Once he took the throne, he would call upon his brother many times — he had a great many things he wished to accomplish.

A thought came to him then, and he looked to his father. “Did you tell him of Dorne?”

King Jaehaerys had resolved to seize upon the opportunity the sand lords had provided and conclude the conquest begun by the Conqueror. Missives were already being exchanged with the Yronwoods.

Baelon did not much trust the Dornish lords — least of all those who would accept the aid of their enemy to wage war against their own kin. It was craven and dishonourable.

“He should have his suspicions, though I would have him remain focused upon his own lands.” His father admitted. “I believe drawing him into it might make of it something far beyond what it ought to be.” He paused. “The manner in which certain lords and the smallfolk love him is an eerie thing.”

More than that — it was frightening. The Valemen especially. Who knew that burning a few mountain clans would garner such grand worship? Baelon shook his head. Aye, he knew well enough that the appreciation ran deeper than that. Maelys’s efforts in the Vale went far beyond the burning of wildlings.

Then there were the crownlanders and riverlanders. It was disquieting, seeing so much love directed toward a boy who had barely sired a babe.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

King’s Landing

98 AC (Twelfth Moon—Day 30)

The day of the joust came, and as promised, near all the nobles and folk of high standing were in attendance. The grounds were filled to near bursting, and only knights of renown and significant backing had acquired entry. Nevertheless the men were aplenty, and it would surely be a full day’s worth of entertainment.

Baelon was seated in the royal box, his entire family gathered about him — save for Rhaenys, who had not left the side of her husband’s princely family.

That was a blow to the pride. The spring prince was not beyond admitting it.

Viserra showed no such loyalties to her marital house, choosing instead to sit amongst her kin. Loras did not seem disturbed by that — hardly noticed, if Baelon was being honest. The man was deep in conversation with Maelys, looking entirely entertained by whatever dreadful topics the two of them were jawing about.

To witness a man so entirely absent of wounded pride as his good-brother was truly a sight. A man with no qualms and no trouble about him.

Granted, many did laugh at the Lord of Sunglass and speak foul of him. Though much of his ill reputation was born of envy. Loras was a man wedded to a woman most beautiful and far beyond his station — and Viserra was not above lavishing her husband with grace and open affection, even with eyes upon them.

Such conduct made bitter and jealous folk of lords and ladies shackled by the heavy chains of tradition and loveless arrangement. It invited hostilities, though nothing so overwhelming as to demand interference.

A roar of shouts and cheers erupted as two knights rode out onto the jousting grounds, brown destriers prancing and neighing beneath them.

And so it was begun.

The prince melted into his chair, turning his attention firmly to the spectacle. Showings of knighthood and warrior’s courage had ever been his keenest thrill.

“Your fancies have remained loyal to you, my son.” His father said beside him, dressed richly and kingly for once. “Make of your kingship these happy moments.”

“Do not speak as though death is upon you, father. You have years yet to be drained by the throne.” They both chuckled at his jest, and it was such moments Baelon felt he would miss most dearly when they were gone.

Still, he was taking such counsel to heart. Kingship was only desirable for the power and authority it promised. Strip it of those, and it was a dreadful thing of duty and endless headache.

He was taking from his brother’s example — building a foundation that refused to be unsettled by the daft discontents of lords.

Baelon’s eyes fell to the knights riding out.

On the south side stood a knight enamelled in dull plate, his shield bearing the proud sigil of a swooping black stag. A stormlander of the Baratheon household.

The paramount lacked any close kin to put into this joust, though it seemed he was proud enough still to enter from his knightly retinue. An admirable effort.

Opposing him from the north was a reachman, his armour a gleaming silver and his surcoat rich green silk, embroidered with golden apples.

Though he praised the stormlander, the reachmen were folk who delighted in the joust and made sport of it. Knighting for the joy of it, as the whispers went.

Tourneys were a constancy to them.

“The reachmen have come in numbers for this one.” Baelon uttered softly. “It feels as though they might stand victorious.”

The northerners had taken the melee, and the celebration that followed their victory had been a grand affair. Though it was a victory won through monstrous folk — no offence intended toward the Umbers.

The prince shook his head at his own thought.

“Do not be so quick to write off our crownlanders, son. They have strong valour.” His father argued. It was all pride and jest between them. “Though I fear you may be right — and yet I believe you might still find yourself surprised.”

A glance was sent toward the Kingsguard. Redwyne and Crabb were absent from their posts. Representatives of House Targaryen.

Baelon hummed, a frown upon his lips.

Ser Clement, mayhaps. He was the younger of the two, though still a greybeard himself. It was difficult to say with any certainty — the Kingsguard had each earned their place and renown. There was cause enough to extend them the grace owed.

“We shall see.” He murmured.

Whoever the victor, he cared little for it. His curiosity lay with who would be crowned the Queen of Love and Beauty. What scandal was that sure to promise?

Looking upon the lords seated about, he noted that wagers had already been struck. So quick to waste coin, these fools. And many among them lacked the coffers to sustain such a daft habit.

Upon the ground, once the knights stood ready, the herald raised his hand. Silence fell.

“In the name of the King! Lay on!”

The white cloth dropped.

The echo of iron-shod hooves beat like thunder against the earth as the two chargers surged down the lists. The knights lowered their lances, tucking them tight beneath their armpits, leaning forward until they were near one with their mounts. Speed blurred the heraldry into smears of colour. And then —

A cracking sound broke the silence, folk flinching at the impact. There was no suspense to be had here — it was a showing of clear skill, and the victor was plain.

The stormlander fell hard, a loud cry tearing from his throat. The crowd roared, the sound shaking the very air. Gods be kind, he almost wished Maelys had contrived some spectacle of his own.

“A fine clash.” Baelon praised graciously, his eyes upon the Fossoway. A skilled knight, that one.

Squires rushed in to clear the splinters and make way for the next clash. The stormlander was dragged off by fellow knights and suspect maesters — or whatever queer title those chainless learned men of his brother’s called themselves.

And so it went in such fashion. Tilts rarely went above five passes.

Yet that did not make the joust dull — quite the opposite, truly. The excitement held at fever pitch until the very height of the spectacle. At some point, the joust being a long affair, time was given for breaths to be taken and throats wetted. An hour was granted, and he and much of the noble folk enjoyed a light meal and no shortage of passing delights.

This was a very queer tourney. He was not above admitting it.

Following the break, the ladies and maidens came to the front so that the crowning might be done with ease when the time came. Surprisingly many women took to the act — Viserra, Rhaenys, Aemma, and even Gael amongst them. Wedded women all, yet the two kingsguards remained the heart of the contest.

The joust resumed, lances broken in high and stubborn numbers as the kingsguards were at last matched against one another. It was a clash fit for legend and hero’s songs.

Greybeards breaking lances in staggering number — ten, twenty, thirty — and just before they could continue this mad spectacle further, the old king put an end to it, visibly excited and proud.

“Quit of this, my brave knights.” His father’s voice carried with its old authority. “The realm has witnessed your valour, and thus seen a living legend made. Give the other great sers the ground, and let curiosity take root in the hearts of the folk.”

The crowd cheered at the king’s proclamation, caring not a whit that the favoured champions had been removed from the contest.

“Stubborn old fools.” The king said, smiling broadly.

“You have cost me a lord’s ransom, father.” Maelys uttered petulantly beside him, arms folded across his chest. “What am I to tell Gael?”

“What idiocy compelled you into so low a habit as wagering?” Baelon shook his head. “Who did you place your coin on?”

His brother answered — Ser Crabb. A fine choice in hindsight. Daft all the same.

The king barely looked troubled by it.

“If you want coin, you ought to have taken to the grounds yourself.” He was told. “The realm is owed your show of martial grace, Maelys — you most of all. Then Gael would have been all the happier for the crowning.”

Maelys scoffed. “Glad that you see in me the warrior made manifest, father. But I would have been made a fool of. I have no great skill for riding or the joust.”

In truth, Maelys seemed skilled chiefly in brutality and archery — an odd blend, though Baelon supposed he would flourish well enough upon a battlefield.

The contest continued until a victor was found — a northerner again, and a Manderly of all people, who surprisingly gave the crown of flowers to Rhaenys, to the roaring cheers of the crowd.

“Well, that certainly is not concerning.” Maelys murmured.

“Shut up.” Came the response in simultaneous unison from Baelon and his father, deep frowns upon both their faces as they looked upon the Velaryons.

A/N: I was unable to convey something important in this chapter. It might straight up ruin the next chapters. On the other note, fluff is officially completed.