King's Landing
98 AC (Tenth Moon—Day 23)
Baelon II
Baelon felt grandfatherhood ill-fitted him. He was scarce versed in elder wisdoms to grant his grandchildren the sage guard they would crave. In truth, he doubted his readiness even for fatherhood, errors riddling his sons' rearing.
Yet ask if love fled him for his granddaughter, and he'd swear his heart swelled fuller for her than ever it had for his boys.
Rhaenyra broke her fast with them, perched on that queer high chair Aemma had coaxed from the carpenters. It was ever with new trifles from that lot. Now the babe dined amid them, flinging her mush, shrieking whatever whimsy tickled her simple fancy.
Fairest flower he'd known. His grandchild was without a doubt birthed from the warmest summer and dusted with adore's essence.
He savoured her glee. It rid him of the gloom his Hand's burdens heaped upon him.
"…this the messiest feast I've ever graced," his younger son grumbled, caked at his side with the babe's hurled gruel. Served the boy right for claiming the seat nearest her spark. "Never had food flung at me."
"Best seek a Stormlands revel, then," Baelon allowed, "or one in the North. Those men of barbarous bent are versed deep in feasting." He pondered if the lad might wing there and have patience etched into him.
When he'd flown north with his elder brother, the old warden had welcomed them warm. He had treated them fine—more than that—and acquainted them histories the maesters left untouched.
In those days, he'd stood awed by that Stark, finding in him what his own father lacked. Patience.
Yet now, aged as he was, he wondered how much of it was feigned for favours and promises. The man had a daughter ripe of age and with that chill beauty of the harsh north. He'd jested with his brother on her icy shell and her blade's keen edge.
She had been skilled enough to spy his wife in her. Women meant for boyhood were ever his favoured sort. He should have gutted her cold cunt. Mayhap boys of three types of bloodlines might have bore in them whatever was lacking in his sons.
He wondered now what befell Alarra. Hoped she'd not been dispatched to warm some dull lord's bed with dreams of a timid and passionless lady.
Baelon shook himself free of those senseless drifts. Was he wine-mad?
"Is there wine laced in these cups?" he asked, lifting the glass to sniff its depths. Then he sipped at it, and sifted through the sweet tangs and for that sly burn of fyre wine. "Why am I being served deceitful drink scarce past dawn's crack?"
He took another gulp—this damn thing was seductive.
"You asked for the mix yourself, Father," Viserys said with brow creased with worry. "Have you slept enough?"
Scarce any, truth be told. He was wrestling yearly tributes and the headaches from his brother's latest contraption. And if the master of whispers spoke true, a pilgrimage of smallfolk trudged toward King's Landing—for some fool reason.
That was another sennight of toil and meetings that would linger for hours without end or solutions.
Why hadn't such plagues fallen under Barth? What sin had Baelon wrought for the gods to heap dull and loud petitions on him?
"A bit," he muttered, drawing back and stretching his spine with a crack. "Though I'd ask the same of you—word comes the nobles demand their manses take first claim on the works."
His eldest dragged a hand down his face. "And I tell them there's no favour to grant." He said. His boy had that fatigue that all lords ought to have. "I give my all, but no swelling of crews will hasten this sewer mess."
"Just ape Maelys," Daemon drawled as he tickled Rhaenyra's cheek. The babe squealed, smearing more gruel on her fine garb as she slapped her plate. She was bound to shatter that one too—whose folly was it to gift a babe gold-rimmed porcelain? What was this wastage?
"I know not what that means, Daemon." His eldest sounded bone-weary.
Daemon shrugged with that ease he'd mastered to a fault. "Nor I, but his lands are rising swift—too many ditches dug, half-houses sprouting. There's even a road underway." He shared. "I can't tell you how much coin he must throw at those work-starved so—I mean folk. My heart bleeds."
That echoed the traders' tales. It drove their father to madness, casting harsher eyes on Baelon's Dragonstone labours—his brother made him seem a sluggard.
Didn't he not give those dragonseeds works near the volcano? What else could he have done?
"Maybe if he took the shi—ow!" Aemma pinched her husband, ending that crude word he was about to spit. Viserys grinned sheepish under her stern glance. "I mean, things would move at a swifter pace if the maesters ceased their queer demands."
"I heard from Gael they brew some unseen air to feed and fierce flames," his niece said, cutting into that sweet wrap with cut berries, chocolate and a few other things. "Like the Hightower blaze."
"That's sorcery—Maelys's maesters traffic not in arcane, even if it reeks of it." Vexing most: his brother's miracles could be copied. Hence the houses' nagging.
His father had begun limiting the flow of coin to various ventures, all in deference to that new bank of his, though Baelon argued there was gold enough now for both the frivolous and the essential.
Yet the king remained fixed on hoarding the finest portions for his grand vault.
"It's all fair, I'd like to think," Viserys said after a moment's pause. "We've even begun laying that witch stone—I went to see it a sennight past, and I could walk my full height through it without hindrance."
"They'll be lucky folk, ensuring their cleanliness," Aemma added softly. "Frightening revelations have been emerging from the maesters about the dangers of poor hygiene."
Baelon still wasn't convinced that plagues arose from mere unclean environments, for all those deadly sicknesses seemed to stem from Yi-Ti, where those queer folk were forever mixing things that ought to remain apart.
Still, desiring washed bodies and streets free of filth was hardly a burdensome ask, reminiscent of his brother's childhood tantrums over the servants' grime, when he'd rail about them eating shit-tainted food, vexing their father fiercely—and their mother too, as the boy gathered his own sons to refuse meals unless they observed the preparation and confirmed proper cleanliness at every step.
It was fortunate that his brother had possessed wit for the odd and useful even at that young age, making soap easier to obtain in various types; Baelon had recently tried one that left his entire body breathing freely, as if steeped in the coldest waters.
"That they have, though the Citadel has yet to corroborate most of those findings," he replied, finding it good news indeed to avoid more complaints from the guilds demanding mad sums for trifles. "Yet it would be wise if you sent word to your family in the Vale, niece—have them stock up on soaps before the Citadel starts sending ravens."
The girl smiled at him, offering a gentle incline of her head; she was kind and soft-hearted, much like the mother who had died birthing her, and Baelon loathed how many of his kin had been lost to death.
He longed to see all his remaining kin, even that cold brother of his who had taken to bedding the Sloane lass, wondering if Vaegon had ever fancied women with gold hair and dull wits, or what had compelled him to betray his vows for that girl.
Now he was deep in some foolhardy scheme to shed the title of oathbreaker, for House Targaryen could not abide such shame.
The hardest part lay in providing sound reasoning for a marriage between the royal household and the Sloanes—he hoped Maelys could produce something convincing.
Baelon sipped from his drink, pondering why their father hadn't bestowed the Hand's mantle on his youngest brother instead; he wouldn't have minded, and would even welcome the Iron Throne passing to Maelys, as the gods knew that brother had a mind better suited for it.
He yawned as weariness washed over him, fortunate that he had few duties this morning save breaking the news of marriage to his youngest, which he'd best finish before midday struck, for he wanted time to have his back stepped and loved by hands who knew how to ease his aches.
Rhaenyra, the lovely girl, laughed at his wide-mouthed expression of exhaustion—truly a sight for sore eyes, his granddaughter.
"Daemon, I'll want to share important words with you in my solar before midday strikes." He stood and kissed the babe's cheeks, where she clawed her sticky fingers at his beard. "I'm heading off to rest a bit more—you do the same, Viserys, and quit your habit of sleeping in Rhaenyra's room."
The boy nodded sheepishly, and Baelon departed with just the smallest touch of dizziness.
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A grand tourney loomed a moon away, set for the twenty-fifth and spilling over into the second day of the new year.
Baelon had forgotten it entirely, his mind burdened with matters far weightier than such inconsequential revels. What did he care for the prancing of lords and ladies? They would only drain the royal coffers and pile more drudgery upon his shoulders afterward.
He dragged a hand over his face and muttered, "Gods, I'm old," the words laced with jest and a touch of irritation. In days gone by, he would have been sharpening his blade for the grand melee ahead.
"Not so old, Father," his youngest replied from the table's edge. "Grandfather's the ancient one, though you'd scarce know it from the way he strides or bellows these days."
King Jaehaerys carried a lighter mood of late, and Baelon couldn't help but wonder what schemes he wove with Maelys.
"Have you set your heart on the tourney, son?" he asked, knowing the realm would thrill to witness his blade-work once more. "A reward awaits if you claim the win."
"I'm not short of coin, I fear," Daemon answered dryly.
"You are, in truth," Baelon countered, "but I don't speak of gold—your allowance will be gutted come the new year." The boy squandered it on follies, and worse than follies at that—who tossed gold dragons to whores for their favors, or paid tenfold for watered ale?
It would have been wiser for him to forge bonds with the nobles, yet his youngest fancied himself king of Flea Bottom, or whatever foolish title he claimed there. Baelon felt half-tempted to set the lad to scrubbing that filthy pit clean.
Yet it was a hard task, thick with nuances and deep in wasted coin; with proper jobs and oversight, he might tackle it properly. When he claimed the throne, he vowed to scour that sty at last.
"I already apologised to Grandfather, though," the boy said, his brow furrowing in confusion. "Must I remind him?"
"Your apology shifts nothing, boy—discipline held firm is what matters," Baelon explained, for a knight lived by deeds rather than mere words. "But I've not called you here for that. I bear joyous news instead."
He grinned wide, weaving in a thread of teasing mischief, and the boy met it with an anxious gleam. There was anticipation flickering in his eyes.
Baelon spared him no further wait. "You're to be wedded off, my son," he announced, the smile lingering. "The rite will come six moons into the new year, giving you time to know the lass."
Daemon, unlike what Baelon had anticipated, merely gaped in dumbfounded silence, his mouth working open and shut like a landed fish. The Spring Prince granted his boy the moments needed to gather his wits.
It settled after four dozen heartbeats, his face hardening into anger softened by bewilderment. "I don't—who? It had best not be some ill-bred Andal cunt, Father. I'll fly to the world's end if you force such—"
"Calm yourself, son," he commanded with a hard stare. Baelon had no patience for theatrics. "The girl's blood matters not—you'll do as bid. Am I clear, Daemon?"
The boy shot him a glare, sealing his lips and folding his arms like a sullen child, yet Baelon craved more than that, he wanted vocal submission.
"I've asked a question, son," he pressed, his voice edged with threat; he'd slap compliance into the lad if necessary.
Daemon hesitated, then nodded. "I… understand, Father."
The damned boy carried too much of Alyssa in his veins.
Baelon turned his gaze to the window, sighing a weariness he no longer truly felt. "You're too old for these foolish ways, Daemon. Cease letting your heart rule, and let your head do the thinking instead."
He looked back at the boy. "Have you settled on what you want for yourself?"
Daemon stiffened before shaking his head.
"You need aims, son—hobbies even, or dreams not too witless for sense," Baelon said with a faint smile. "I once dreamed of riding the realm with a host, scouring bandits and wildlings alike, making the roads safe and playing the true knight."
Of course, he had known Aemon would pull him back as king and thrust this cursed mantle upon him, but by then he would have tasted the dream, with Alyssa at his side.
"That sounds… dull," Daemon replied. There was a faint smirk tugging at his lips.
"Well, it was my dream, not yours," Baelon countered, shaking his head. "You'll not wed an Andal or First Man. I've found you a match from Lys—the Rogares. A daughter your age, fair as any Targaryen maid."
That was a lie, and his boy called him on it. "Doubtful."
Baelon scoffed. "You shouldn't peek into Maelys's chamber when he's with Gael, Daemon. What they do in there isn't… normal."
From the moans that leaked through the stone, and the whispers swirling like smoke in the halls, coupled with his own knowing of the wild twists his youngest sister's body could bend to, Baelon could well guess the sinful rutting unfolding within.
Maelys had nursed that lust since his balls first dropped, while Gael had adored him long before she even grasped the word for love.
"You should see them, Father…" the boy murmured, red creeping up his cheeks. "I've never felt so lacking in my life."
Baelon shook his head in amusement. "Don't carry those expectations into your own marriage. Don't even attempt it—not many women burn so hot or bend so supple."
His niece on Driftmark did, though—Rhaenys, and Viserra too. They'd grown up thick with Gael, twisting through those queer exercises she and Maelys devised. Yet he wondered if the others kept the habit into wedlock.
No, Corlys wouldn't prickle so sharp if that were true. As for Viserra's life, he knew little. He still nursed a bitter knot from her bold seduction scarce moons after his beloved wife's pyre cooled—that ploy had curdled much of the fondness he once held.
"So it's a Valyrian, then—though common-born. The coin-lenders, aye?" his boy asked after a thoughtful beat.
"The very same," Baelon nodded. "House Targaryen stands to reap fine benefits from this merging. Mayhap some bold funding and investments spilling into Westeros."
He'd chewed it over with his father, and they agreed the mere 'possibility' of Daemon claiming the Iron Throne would stir recklessness in the Rogares and loosened their purses wide.
"That… doesn't sound so bad," the boy conceded. "I'd thought I might wed Corlys's daughter—once she flowered—to mend the rift between us."
Baelon rolled his eyes. "Was that Maelys's whisper?" He scarce credited Daemon with such scheming wit—most of his bright notions, or courtly scraps, were mere echoes spat back.
"Well, Maelys says a great many things," the boy admitted with his arms folding. "Was it ever a true possibility?"
"Aye," Baelon allowed freely. Then, recalling his father's words: "The Velaryons are our truest vassals—none of the others even come close in loyalty or blood. We mustn't let petty squabbles sour that bond."
A snowball, as Maelys termed it—if House Targaryen so swiftly cast aside its most faithful over trifles, what minor slights might unravel ties with lesser lords?
Good faith must endure through discord. Yet Baelon misliked the princedom granted the Velaryons—too much privilege heaped in that title.
What if the Wardens clamored for the same? Nay, they'd not taste it. Scarce possible for any other, truly—it hinged on blood ties. The Velaryons were near a branch house in all but name.
"Well, since my handsome face is out of the bargain, how will that mending come?" Daemon arched a brow.
"Don't swell so arrogant, son. We've Rhaenyra yet to wed Corlys's boy—or other paths to knit the tear."
Plainly his granddaughter would never wed Rhaenys's son—Aemon would just have to punch his face in once Baelon breathed his last—that knot would only tangle worse.
After that was said, his boy walked out. Baelon followed behind him, walking to Maegor's Holdfast to be tended upon. He'd also need to have words with his brother about Saera and what her future would be after the father passed.
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