Baelon Targaryen (193 A.C. Nineth Moon)
King's Landing - Courtyard
Baelon yawned as he was woken by his nursemaid and his mother. He looked at Ella brightly; besides having a mother, his life as a babe was incredibly boring. The only things he could do were look around, stare at his bronze and jade egg, and feel something familiar pulse through him as he touched it. Or happily look at the interior of the newly constructed Summerhall. Apparently, his father and mother had moved into the castle shortly after Daeron's birth.
Still looking and thinking, wondering what little there was he could do. He could not even crawl yet, which he hoped would kick in soon. Maybe even draw something crude, to warn of the Blackfyre Rebellion.
Yet now, he was curious to see the Red Keep. He had seen it in his previous life, when he had come to an agreement with Daenerys, after she had fought the last of the Blackfyres and Cersei. Yet even the agreement had not been enough to quell her anxiety or jealousy of him. All had gone to shit when they fought at the Wall together. He had taken a wound. Drogon had died, and soon the Wall fell. They had fought the last battle at Winterfell, yet it had not been enough. He had fallen mortally wounded, Rhaegal was dying, and the last thing he remembered were Sansa's blue eyes.
He did not know what he could do yet. He had speculated that at least keeping Baelor alive was a must, as Baelon thought he was one of the few men who perhaps could have steadied the realm for many years.
Yet could he save the realm from the Spring Sickness? He knew some of the symptoms, having heard of it in his lessons, but his knowledge was vague. Still, he knew that his greatest ally would likely be Bloodraven, someone who knew more than he let on, standing by the Targaryens for many decades, guiding the throne, and even Maekar, whom by many accounts did not like him.
For now, though, he could only watch and learn.
Then a bright light broke through the door as it opened, and he let out a wail. "Easy, my sweet prince."
He gave a grumbling cry as the light grew brighter.
As they stepped outside, a voice announced, "Prince Maekar of Summerhall, with his wife, Dyanna Dayne, his son and heir Prince Daeron, and his two newborn sons, Prince Aerion and Prince Baelon Targaryen."
"Your Grace," he heard Maekar say respectfully.
Oh, King Daeron. He was about to meet King Daeron.
"Come, son, please rise," King Daeron said, his voice kind, yet regal, similar to Aemon's, if less old.
"Father, Mother, may I present my two new boys," Baelon heard Maekar say.
"My second-born, Prince Aerion," Maekar said, and Baelon looked and saw the King more clearly then. Clad in red, black, and gold, the three-headed dragon upon his chest, and the elaborate golden crown of Aegon IV upon his head. Far too elaborate for his tastes.
He himself had worn the crown Robb had worn, bronze with black iron, the crown Arya had brought to Winterfell after taking it from the risen Catelyn Stark. Arya's tale still made him shiver. He was grateful nothing like that had happened to him, even if he had felt more bloodthirsty, with streaks of white in his hair and eyes that held red flecks.
Warging into Ghost and staying for more than a moon had preserved his mind, if changed, unlike Catelyn Stark's, who had, by Arya's account, become a ruthless killer hell-bent on revenge.
His musings were broken by Maekar introducing him to his grandparents. "My third-born, Prince Baelon."
"Oh, look at this hair, black as coal," he heard a woman say.
He looked and saw a woman of darker skin and black hair, an orange sun and golden spear upon her chest. His grandmother, Myriah Nymeros Martell.
"In him is quite a lot of Dorne," she continued. "Unlike his twin, who is more like his handsome father."
"Well, my wife is lovely, so I can't complain," Maekar noted.
"Indeed, son, Dorne has its beauties," his grandfather said to laughter.
Baelon then looked toward another man wearing the Targaryen sigil, yet he did not have Maekar's look. He had black hair, darker skin, and one black and one purple eye.
"Baelon is a good name. I am sure he will live up to it. Perhaps we will have another Baelon the Brave in the future."
He did not know who the man was.
"Thank you, brother. I am quite sure they will both make me proud."
Maekar called the man brother, and considering his looks, he knew who he must be.
Prince Baelor Breakspear.
The prince who had been killed at Ashford. The one many had thought could have kept the kingdoms together for a bit longer. Perhaps long enough for the realm to be stable when the Long Night came.
Baelon let out a small wail of excitement.
"Hush, little man. Soon you will have supper," his nursemaid said.
He quieted, though his eyes never left Baelor.
Baelor clapped his brother on the shoulder, then looked toward his eldest brother. "Hi, little nephew."
Daeron looked toward his uncle with searching eyes. "Hello," the small boy replied tentatively.
Baelor smiled and ruffled his brother's hair.
"Baelor, how are your sons?" his mother asked.
"Growing like wheat. One moment they are only crawling on the floor, the next they are running around the castle, playing up Uncle Aemon's heroics."
That made Baelon's heart quicken. The great Dragonknight was his great-uncle.
"Hm. I am sure my boys will play that as well, though not for many years," his mother replied.
"Indeed. Future knights like Baelon the Brave, and Uncle Aemon," Maekar added.
"Let us see you settled," his grandmother said. "And tell me all I have missed about my grandsons. Though I do hope that one day I might have a granddaughter."
The group laughed.
Maekar Targaryen (193 A.C. Nineth Moon)
King's Landing – Corridors of the Red Keep
Maekar walked beside his brother as they made their way through the long, echoing corridors toward the council chamber. Tapestries bearing the three-headed dragon watched them pass, their colors muted by age and torch smoke.
"So it is true," Maekar said at last. "Uncle Daemon's wife is with child once more."
He had heard the rumors already. Daemon had begun quite the brood. Six children in nine years since his marriage, a marriage that many at court had found distasteful. Yet Daemon had done his duty, both by his wife and by his new House. House Blackfyre, named for the family sword, given to a bastard by their shit grandfather.
The memory of that man still stirred bitterness in him.
His grandfather had been rude, fat, crushing, and a terrible ruler. A man who had nearly dragged the realm into war with Dorne, despite the alliances his father had forged through marriage. Maekar's own mother, a Dornish princess, had sealed the peace King Baelor the Pious had wrought after Daeron's first failure, a failure Maekar had studied closely. Ruling was a duty. Warfare and combat, however, were something he enjoyed.
And he was good at it.
It had always been a point of rivalry with his eldest brother. Aerys and Rhaegal had never been meant for the saddle. Aerys was a bookworm through and through, happier with scrolls than steel. Rhaegal… Maekar loved him, but the truth was plain. He was slow-minded, though kind, and gentle where the world was not.
The betrothal to the kind and well-spoken Alys Arryn, daughter of Lord Donnel Arryn, Master of Laws, had therefore come as welcome news.
"Indeed," Baelor replied. "Daemon is expecting another child. I do not know how he manages it. After two, I would have had enough children myself, even if Jena had not passed away."
It had been five years since Jena's death. Maekar knew his brother had loved his wife deeply. He could not imagine Baelor ever remarrying. Baelor smiled faintly, the expression tinged with something quieter beneath it.
"Dayana says she wishes for a whole brood as well. She has always wanted many children. She hopes for at least a daughter or two. "Maekar chuckled.
"May the gods grant her wish." He added, as they laughed together as they walked on, their footsteps echoing softly against stone.
"Speaking of children," Maekar said after a moment, "is our brother expecting any? Aerys and Lady Aelinor have been wed three years now."
Baelor shook his head. "No. Aerys and Aelinor spend their days with books. They speak together lovingly enough, but soon it is back to texts and histories. Father made quite the match for him."
He laughed quietly.
Maekar smiled. "To each their own, I suppose."
They soon reached the doors of the council chamber. Outside waited Ser Donnel Arryn and Aldrick Santigar.
"My princes," Ser Donnel said with a respectful bow. "The rest of the council is already inside."
He opened the door for them.
"My sons, welcome," their father said as they stepped into the room.
The council chamber was already filled. Around the council table an extra seat had been placed for Maekar. His brother's seat stood empty to their father's left, as befitted the heir. Baelor had taken their father's steward's place after Ser Manfred Goodwind had passed away. Not a council seat, yet close enough to observe and learn.
To their father's right sat Lord Ambrose Butterwell. Maekar disliked the man. He found him fat, unskilled at arms, and far too soft. Yet his father had named him Hand, perhaps believing they complemented one another. Maekar himself would have preferred the more pragmatic and martial Lord Daven Hayford, commander of the City Watch.
The other seats were filled by Lord Donnel Arryn, Master of Laws; Garick Manwoody, Master of Coin; and Lord Martin Redwyne, Master of Ships.
Yet the man who unnerved Maekar most sat quietly at the far end of the table.
Lord Brynden Rivers.
Master of Whispers.
Maekar forced the feeling down and took his seat. Valarr approached at once, carefully pouring him a cup of wine.
"Thank you, nephew," Maekar said.
Valarr gave him a bright smile before moving on.
As Maekar watched him serve, he imagined Daeron in the boy's place one day, his own son learning the ways of court. A worthy heir to Summerhall, he hoped.
"With all refreshed and seated," his father said, "let us begin. My Lord Hand?"
"Indeed, Your Grace," Ambrose Butterwell began. "To start, petitions from southern lords seeking an increase in taxes on passing Dornish merchants have been rising. It seems that ever since unification, tensions in the south have begun to increase."
Maekar watched his father closely as the king frowned.
"Why would they wish to increase the taxes?" he asked.
"Apparently," Ambrose said, "southern merchants are losing wealth and opportunity because of Dornish trade. Before, they often served as middlemen between goods from Dorne and the Seven Kingdoms. Now Dornish merchants trade directly, and the increase of Dornish goods is causing a shift."
The council chamber murmured faintly. Most faces were indifferent, save for the Master of Coin, who frowned deeply.
"I see only a matter of wealth," the king said at last. "I see no reason to allow the tax increase. Dornish merchants have their own rights, just as ours do. If our merchants wish to compete, they must find other sources of income."
He turned to Garick Manwoody.
"I agree," Garick said. "While I understand the grievances of the southern merchants, this is no reason to raise taxes. It is merely a ploy to raise the cost of Dornish goods so they may outcompete them with better prices."
"Very well," the king said. "Send out word, my Lord Hand. Speaking of coin, the debt to the Iron Bank?"
Garick smiled. "With the increased taxes Dorne pays to the Crown, we should be free of debt to the Iron Bank within a year. Even if some debt remains, the treasury holds sufficient funds."
Maekar smiled. It had been one of his father's great projects. Undoing the mismanagement of his grandfather. The cost of building the Sept of Baelor. Daenerys's dowry. The bride price paid to Tyrosh, a damned custom of theirs.
"Good," the king said. "Let us rejoice in that. These have been hard years, yet the Seven Kingdoms are rising once more out of the dark."
Maekar straightened in his seat, pride stirring in his chest.
This, he thought, is what a king should be.