Prince Baelon Targaryen
In all of Westeros, scarce a man could be found with the temerity to accuse Prince Baelon Targaryen of cowardice. Yet even should the Seven bereave some poor wretch of his wits, tempting him to speak such slander against the rider of the mighty Vhagar, he would be swift to part with his tongue, if not his head.
Yet, in the eighty-fourth year After the Conquest, Baelon the Brave knew fear such as he had never known in all his days. His beloved wife, who had rewarded him for his victory over the Dornishmen at Cape Wrath with a new pregnancy—her third—fared worse the nearer her time approached. Maesters and midwives hovered about Princess Alyssa like bees about a blossom, yet their aid proved of little more worth than that of the septas. Milk of the poppy was administered in such meager draughts that it scarce dulled her agony. When a desperate Baelon, seeking to offer his beloved some respite, demanded Grand Maester Elysar administer a stronger dose that Alyssa might at least find oblivion in sleep, the old man looked upon him as one might a foolish lackwit:
"My Lord, the poppy shall grant succor to the Princess, to be sure, yet it is guaranteed to bring harm upon the babe."
"Then administer as much as may be given without harm," Baelon snapped in irritation.
"My Lord, we administer the utmost measure already."
"Then give more!"
In answer, Elysar merely bowed and set to tinkering with the vials upon his table. It was Baelon's elder brother, Aemon, who led him from his wife's chambers, managing to distract him with talk of some martial trifles and the indemnities due from the Dornish. Day after day, Alyssa's condition showed no sign of mending, and Baelon's hopes were fed only by the fact that she grew no worse. The Spring Prince grew irascible, anxious, and pious beyond his youthful custom; in the castle sept he sought solace, praying to the Mother to spare his beloved wife and their unborn child.
One early morn, the Red Keep was roused as if under siege—Princess Alyssa's labors had at last begun. If the weeks of agonizing waiting had been a torture for Baelon, that day was for him the very Seventh Hell. Powerless to aid her, Baelon could not find the strength to attend the birthing bed—so sweetly and terribly did Alyssa scream—and was banished from his own chambers by his mother, Queen Alysanne. Wine brought the Prince no desired oblivion that day; the company of others felt stifling and burdensome, and to look upon his elder sons, seven-year-old Viserys and three-year-old Daemon, was a pain too sharp to bear. Only deep into the eventide did the Queen send a servant for Baelon with the tidings that he was a father for the third time.
The Prince, rushing to the summons, found his wife lying upon linens damp with sweat and blood, not yet changed; she was wearied unto death, pale as milk, yet alive and smiling. A stout wet nurse held a tightly swaddled bundle wherein slept a pinkish babe.
"A boy," Queen Alysanne announced to her son from the threshold.
Alyssa shifted upon the pillows, attempting to sit.
"I know you desired a daughter, but..." she began.
"To the Seven Hells," Baelon swore, and kissed his wife. "I thank you, my soul!"
He sat gingerly upon the edge of the bed, gazing into her dear features. Fear, it seemed, was so plainly writ upon his face that Alyssa lightly slapped her husband's hand and, with a quiet laugh, said:
"The Maesters say the worst is behind us. I do not intend to die, and neither does our son."
Baelon laughed in relief; the fear that had seemed etched beneath his skin, gripping his heart in icy vices these past weeks, retreated. Pressing his forehead to his wife's brow, the Spring Prince murmured:
"They name me Brave, yet you are far braver. I would sooner fight in a dozen battles than endure such torments."
"You are made for battles, and I for this," Alyssa laughed. "We have three now, and when I am mended, we shall make another. I wish to bear you twenty sons, that you might have an army of your own."
A quiet cough sounded nearby.
"Have you chosen a name for the babe?" their mother asked, drawing attention to herself. Baelon thought that Queen Alysanne had already begun to tally potential brides for the new prince of House Targaryen. Exchanging a brief glance with his wife, and with her approval—voiced not in words, but in a look—he reached out to the wet nurse. She knowingly passed him the bundle.
"The boy is quite calm, my Lord," she said. "He has scarce cried. Others scream so they cannot be soothed, but not this one."
"To be born into the world is no easy labor, 'tis small wonder the lad is weary," came a voice from the doors. On the threshold, embracing his wife, stood the newborn's grandfather—Jaehaerys, King of the Seven Kingdoms, the First of His Name. "So, how is my new grandson named?"
Baelon peered into the bundle. As if understanding the gravity of the question being decided at that moment, the infant, upon whose head shone a soft silver fuzz, yawned and opened his eyes—eyes that proved to be of a bright green hue, a color scarce seen in Old Valyria.
"Aegon," Baelon decided at last. "His name is Aegon."
The King, stepping closer, peered over his son's shoulder.
"My daughter," he addressed Alyssa with some surprise. "Why, he has your eyes!"
"Which of the twain?" Alyssa replied with a weary smile. Her right eye was a pale lilac, whilst the left was green, like the young leaves of spring.
"Whichever they be, they are both yours," Baelon laughed, and his laughter was taken up by his parents and wife. In some inscrutable manner, understanding that they laughed at his expense, the little Prince Aegon Targaryen took offense and finally began to weep.
The first days and weeks flew by in quiet felicity, interrupted only by the official feast in honor of the birth of the new member of the Royal House. While King's Landing reveled beneath the pealing bells of the septs, and his father's courtiers toasted the little prince, Prince Baelon remained almost inseparable from the recovering Alyssa and their small son; their elder children, Princes Viserys and Daemon, were there as well. At first, it seemed the anxieties of the pregnancy were left far behind, and before the young parents—beloved alike by the royal family, the nobility, and the smallfolk—new horizons of a long and cloudless life together were opening. Yet the Gods can be so cruel to man as to snatch away his most precious treasure in the midst of his life's happiest hour.
In the fourth month of his life, little Prince Aegon fell ill. Tormented by colic, he scarce ate and grew weaker by the day. Following him, from worry and strain, Princess Alyssa fell ill. For whole weeks and months, the Maesters waged a stubborn war against their maladies; having tried every possible remedy with the Prince, Grand Maester Elysar advised Baelon and Jaehaerys to place a dragon's egg in his cradle—for more than once had the weak children of House Targaryen been saved by that peculiar bond with their dragons. Baelon himself journeyed to Dragonstone and, personally scouring every cavern beneath the Dragonmont, found the finest and most beautiful egg: golden, with veins of copper. Laying it beside his son, who had fallen into a fitful sleep, the Spring Prince prayed first to the Seven, and then to the old gods of Valyria, that whatever unknown power holds sway over the race of men might spare his little Aegon: "We possess dragons in plenty; take this one, but spare my son!"
The Gods, be they Andal or Valyrian, seemingly had no need for the life of the hatchling encased within the gold-and-copper shell, yet they left the babe in peace. From that day, though the boy did not grow robust, he began to eat and to cry, whereas before he had only wept softly. However, Prince Baelon's joy was premature. The Stranger was firmly resolved to take someone from his family, and since the babe had been ransomed by prayer, He stretched forth His hand over Princess Alyssa. With each passing day she faded more, like a candle burned daily in the septs by her parents, husband, children, and siblings. In her chest beat the heart of a true warrior, yet even it could not contend with the sickness. At the close of the eighty-fourth year After the Conquest, Alyssa Targaryen passed away, being four-and-twenty years of age, leaving in this mortal world a disconsolate widower, Baelon, and three orphaned sons.
In the first weeks following her demise, Baelon and the Maesters feared that the frail Prince Aegon would follow his mother, but a second tragedy was averted. The little Targaryen was sickly, to be sure—suffering more fiercely and often than other babes of the Royal House, who, as the common folk believed, were generally immune to the pestilences that mowed down shopkeep and lord alike. With each new illness, the heat of the dragon's egg lying in his cradle grew fainter and fainter. Scarce had Aegon turned one year old when a frightened Prince Daemon sought out his father and, eyes round with terror, barely found the strength to whisper in his ear:
"Aegon's egg... It is stone cold! Does that mean it is dead? Will Aegon die now too? Like Mama?"
Scooping his son into his arms, Baelon made for the nursery, where he discovered his youngest sleeping peacefully and, for once, even slightly pink of cheek. Taking the egg—cold as a stone in the shade—into his hands, Baelon realized that someone had heard him that day after all, and accepted his sacrifice. Smiling encouragingly at Daemon, the Spring Prince said:
"Nay, certainly not, he shall not die! You shall see, all of you together—you, Viserys, and he—shall fly on dragons over all of Westeros, from Dorne to the very Wall, and over the Narrow Sea, and even beyond it! And do you know how I know this?"
"How?" Daemon asked trustingly.
"Because the dragon has three heads. And I have three of you as well. The three heads of the dragon shall always be together."