Somewhere on the Seventh Cloud

Baelor

For someone as grim as him, Maekar could make amazing japes. Baelor had always wished that other people could see this about his brother. He had wished that Maekar himself could see it even more. Alas, he was completely oblivious and for the first time, Baelor could not blame him.

After all, the jape was on him. And Baelor as well.

Baelor had a hard time believing that he was dead. In fact, he did not believe it until he saw the body curling on the pyre to ashes that also curled and the wind carried some of it away before cooling it and making it possible for the others to gather it in a urn. Baelor wondered which part of him had just been blown away. The most… masculine one? He hoped it was the hand that had been unable to reflect Maekar's blow in time. Save both of them.

No. Too tiny for a hand. Perhaps a finger. Sighing, he turned and blinked when he found himself in a hall that greatly resembled the throne room, up to the dragon skulls adorning the walls. Baelor was somewhat disappointed. Could this be the Targaryen afterlife if the dragons stayed dead? "Why are you dead?" he asked them.

"Hush," a familiar voice said and he spun around. His mother stood there, her hair black and her face smooth. How was it possible? She was dead… and then he remembered that now, so was he. He looked at her again. She seemed… well, she seemed a few years younger than him. He glanced down at himself and realized that his hands looked… different. Younger.

"I think you're twenty five," his mother helped him.

"Twenty nine," he said immediately and wondered how he knew. She nodded.

"When you became your Father's Hand and everyone admitted your excellence," she said and smiled. "As a mother, I was very proud."

Hers was a sad smile, though, and he looked away. "We weren't very smart about it, were we?" he said. "He didn't do it on purpose, Mother," he was quick to add and for the first time realized, horrified, that his father might think that Maekar had.

She sighed. "Of course he didn't do it on purpose but the fact is, it was his hands dealing the blow. He won't forget it. And I wish we had gotten the two of you used to never coming close to each other with arms close."

"Too late for this," Baelor said because this conversation corresponded too well to the sadness now lodged within him. "Is Jena around?"

"She didn't want to watch," Mariah said. "I can't blame her. I didn't want to watch either. She'll come soon, I expect. Come on, let me show you around."

Baelor grinned. "This is the Red Keep, Mother," he said. "I know it as well as you."

"This is the Red Keep and it isn't," she corrected. "You'll see. Just don't mention anything about the dragons being dead because Baelor will start praying for their rebirth and I don't think I can live through this."

Ever the knight, Baelor decided not to remind her that well, she could not live through this anyway. His moved to the table and took the closest one of the three goblets at this end. "Don't!" his mother warned him immediately. "Smell it before you drink."

He did so and it was just as good because he barely managed to put it back in place instead of letting it crash on the floor. "What's this?" he spluttered. "Horse piss?"

"I won't be surprised."

Baelor stared and took a seat because his feet felt suddenly weak. "This is our heaven?" he managed. "The place where we must drink horse piss?"

"There are some great wines," Mariah soothed. "Just be careful what you let cross your lips, that's all."

Baelor would ask for further instructions tomorrow. Perhaps the foul taste would have left his nostrils by then. His mother smelled another goblet, nodded in a satisfied way and when he refused, took a long gulp herself. Baelor's eyes almost popped out but then he reminded himself that today was her son's funeral after the accidental murder committed by her other son. If there had ever been the time for a heavenly hangover, it was today.

"Girl, you only got sober about an hour ago or so," a voice came. An aging woman appeared out of nothing and although she did not look much like the portraits Baelor had seen, she matched the descriptions to the last letter, up to the straight back.

"You're Queen Alysanne, are you not?" he asked and she nodded curtly.

"I wonder why the best of us are always taken in their prime," she said. "I had such hopes for you… Wont you leave this goblet already?" she asked and reached for it but Mariah didn't let go. "Honestly!" Alysanne said, irrated. "I know it's sad and all this but if I got drunk for a week each time one of my children died, I would have spent three full months inebriated!"

"I will pray for her," Naerys said, appearing with her a book in her hands. A book on the Faith, Baelor was sure. Dressed like a septa. Looking as if she would starve herself to death – actually, it was a miracle that she had not! A miracle – or a hefty amount of hatred for her brother-husband. She looked about… thirteen and this thinness was the only thing that helped Baelor recognize her. "As I will for Maekar."

"Maekar doesn't need your prayers!" Mariah snapped. "It was a mishap!"

"The Seven see no difference," Naerys said sadly.

"They should," Baelor said firmly and took his mother's hand. "Are you going to show me around?" he asked and only took a breath when they were safely away – walking. This appearing out of nowhere made him uneasy.

"It's quite overwhelming when you first come here," Mariah said. "I swear I felt like shrieking for three days straight. But it gets easier with time… ah, well, there are some things that one can never get used to…"

Baelor drew her behind a statue in the gallery that they were crossing. "Who are these?" he whispered.

"The Young Dragon," she replied. "In full armour as he often does. I swear he thinks he can descend on a cloud or something and raze Dorne to the ground. He often vows he will. I don't think he has grasped that his being dead is permanent."

Baelor was not surprised. From what he had heard about the Young Dragon, the boy had had no idea of his own mortality. "So, do you usually hide from them?" he asked. "Who is the other one, by the way?"

"No," Mariah replied, looked at the goblet she was still holding and sadly realized it was empty. "Only when my son dies."

The two men passed so close to them that Baelor could have reached out and touched them – the boy and the older man.

"King Viserys," Mariah whispered needlessly because the man was already explaining with forced patience that whatever brilliant plans Daeron had for destroying Dorne, there was no chance for them to hand them to someone living.

"You sound like the Dornish witch," the boy complained and Baelor tensed and made a movement towards him but his mother stopped him.

"He doesn' t mean me," she whispered and sure enough, in just a few heartbeats the Dornish witch herself appeared from… somewhere. Dyanna Dayne. Dyanna Targaryen. With tears of grief and anger on her cheeks. Baelor, ever the gallant, inclined his head.

"Welcome, Brother," she said. "I can't say I'm pleased to see you but you're welcome."

He blinked. Such sincerity from her, of all people? "You mean I let myself be killed?" he guessed and by her expression he could see that he was right. "May I remind you that it was your husband who killed me on behalf of your son who was lying?"

Dyanna did not flinch. "May I remind you that my husband was your brother long before he became my husband and that if you were so keen on justice, you could have started with the lie concocted on behalf of your own son, the supposedly great warrior? I mean, who are you to talk about mine? Not that I don't hope Maekar will get some sense into him," she muttered to herself. "If he's sending him to Essos, he must do so while making sure that Aerion has no means, else it'll be of no use. Anyway, I am sorry you are dead," she added and her voice sounded sincere. "It was well before your time and the circumstances were terrible."

If I died well before my time, then what should we say about you? Baelor wondered. He had had thirty-nine years of good life lived to the full; Dyanna had died after months of agony in the day of her twenty-seventh nameday. Staring at her, he noticed something strange: unlike the rest of them who he suspected were at the best age they had ever been in their lives, Dyanna wore one of the gowns with a cut hiding her mutilated breast. She looked about twenty-three or four. After the Stranger had touched her. Why?

He nodded, accepting the truce offered. "I was sorry when you died as well," he said and Dyanna suddenly grinned.

"We sound a little mad, don't we? Isn't there some wine to be had? We'll drink a goblet each and by then, I reckon that Jena would have appeared. This is a reunion, after all, no matter the circumstances. This way," she added, indicating where Baelor should go. "No, I'll come with you. The Red Keep has this habit of… changing. It takes time to learn to navigate it. When I first came here, the moat appeared in the middle of the throne room and I fell straight on the rusty spears. I think my guide hoped that I'd die there again or if not, at least suffer as much as I did."

Baelor laughed, as always amused by her descriptions and imagination. "Who was your guide?" he asked.

"I didn't know it at the time," Dyanna said sullenly, ashamed. "Best looks and all. It was your grandfather."

Well, perhaps this was not her imagination. "You mentioned goblets?" he asked, feeling that he needed one. A goblet first and Jena next.

Perhaps this was heaven, after all.