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Blood of Dragons, Grass of Red

Baelor

Could it have been avoided?

This was the question that did not leave his mind while they marched through the slopes of the Red Mountains, through the treacherous Dornish Marshes, and all the way through the Reach. Could have they done something differently, made amends, prevented this from happening?

He really should stop asking himself that. There was no use of that now. Still, while he was riding ahead of his people, he had much time for thinking at it always came back to that.

Had they treated Daemon badly? Perhaps. He was a great warrior and a good man, there was no doubt about that. Still, it was not their fault that he was a bastard. It was just the way of things. They could not have changed the world for him and aside from some petty quarrels when they were children, Baelor really couldn't recount anything untowardly on their side against Daemon. They had not persecuted him. They had not deprived him of Blackfyre – which now Baelor considered a mistake. They should have taken the sword away by the reasoning that it was not King Aegon's personal property to bestow upon whomever he desired. But Daemon hadn't been their enemy then, so they had had no pressing reason to deprive him of anything. Ironically, when he gave them a reason, it was already too late. The King Who Bore the Sword! It would have made a fine jest if it hadn't turned into a tragedy. Daemon would have probably used said sword to cut off the heads of everyone he disagreed with and regret it later, for whatever his faults, cruelty was not one of them.

Except for things he didn't understand, like the fact that learning was as valid a way of advancing a kingdom as warfare and sometimes even better. Like his disdain for weakness – and just about anyone who was not an accomplished warrior was weak in his eyes. To him, strength was in martial prowess alone. He was infatuated with the stories of the Young Dragon, never wanting to hear about all those who died for the sole purpose of sating the ambition of a boy who still had much growing to do and simply didn't know better. But I am not being fair to him, Baelor reminded himself. After all, Daemon had been influenced by his mother, Princess Daena who worshipped her eldest brother while Baelor's own mother, Myriah Martell, spoke of the Young Dragon with disdain she rarely bothered to disguise, even in King Aegon's presence. She had lived through the Conquest of Dorne and growing up, Baelor had occasionally heard tales from both her and her attendants about the horrors they had experienced, half of Sunspear razed to the ground, the burned Tower of the Sun, all men who died and the women who drowned the babes fathered on them by the Seven Kingdom's soldiers by force. Even the Dragonknight had once made a slip of the tongue, saying that his best period in Dorne had been while he was captive, because he wasn't forced to watch the horrors going on and even take part. Daemon had been raised by a woman who held the man responsible for the carnage as a hero. Baelor still remembered her lectures on the subject of how the only thing that mattered was being strong enough to defeat your enemies on the battlefield. He supposed he didn't wonder why Daemon detested Baelor's father… He had simply never been taught that there were different kinds of strength.

And now even more people would die because of that.

"Your Grace!"

Baelor startled and Ser Carral glowered at him. "Has the sun gotten into you?" he snapped. "You were nodding off, it seemed. In your saddle."

Baelor looked aside. It would be better to be perceived as one who was submitting to the inconveniences everyone else in their army was experiencing than admitting that he was thinking of days long gone and wondering what might have turned out differently. It would be taken as a sign of weakness – the same weakness his father was accused of. And that would not be true. While he still believed in leniency, Baelor also believed that there was a line, a fine one but irreversible and beyond it, there was no going back. It had gone too far. No quarter given or taken, Maekar had told their father the morning they left. To everyone else, it had sounded like a declaration, yet Baelor had recognized it for what it was: his brother was asking for orders, a confirmation. The King had nodded silently.

Once, peace and leniency might have been possible. Now, it was no longer so. It was too late.

He raised his hand. "We'll make camp when we reach Long Valley tonight," he said, to the initial dismay of the men around him. Still, no one muttered for long. Whatever else could be said about stormlords and Dornishmen, they were not slow to learn – they were learning to take his word as a prediction of a maester. He heard it often when, unable to rest, he roamed around the campfires in simple brown cloak, unrecognizable from any other man-at-arms, to Ser Carral's dismay, and listened to the men's conversations. Of course they would win, they told each other. After all, the Prince had announced that they were to leave the very next day after he had arrived to take their lead and by the Seven, they had – he had somehow managed to organize their march and lines of supplies in the single night he had, although Blackfyre had changed the course of his march all of a sudden, ruining all of their preparations. He had said that they'd reach the Westerlands in ten days and everybody could show the blisters and saddlesores they had gotten and some of their tunics probably could never get scrubbed clean of all the mud they had had the misfortune of acquiring on their persons because of the torrential rains – but they had reached there on the tenth day. The Prince himself had been seen soaking his dried meat on the rain – for they could not carry much food, with the speed Baelor was enforcing – and cursing how stringy it was. But he had brought them here. So if he said they'd reach Long Valley before midnight, then they would – even if they ended up too weary to build a proper camp.

The day was rolling, long and hot. Each intake of breath was like inhaling fire, it was hard not to nod off and ever so often, Baelor startled and asked himself the same question.

Could it have been avoided?

Probably not, given Daemon's temper, his upbringing and the circumstances. Taught to disdain Dorne and everything Dornish, Daemon disliked having to bow to the Dornish Queen of Westeros, having to see so many Dornish customs make their way in Westeros. And while he and Baelor had been friends once, with age, the difference in their status became more obvious. While Daemon was never disrespected, Baelor received more honours, more responsibilities. At his sixteenth nameday, he was allowed to attend the Small Council and represent his father on different occasions, with the dragon banner carried before him and everyone paying respect. Baelor didn't think Daemon would have lasted more than two sessions of the Council – the Seven knew that sometimes he wanted to bolt out and leave them to their boring subjects and petty quarrels – but the thing was, the fact that he wasn't invited to attend ate at him. Worse yet was the fact that at court, Daemon was placed not only behind Baelor but behind Aerys and Rhaegel, both of whom he despised, and Maekar who was so much younger. For a few years before the rebellion, Baelor thought that the only one of the royals Daemon didn't hold in disdain was Aelinor. And while the ridge between Daemon, on one side, and Baelor and his brothers, on another was widening, Aegor had kept whispering his poison in Daemon's ear and with each day, Daemon had become more willing to listen.

Daenerys' betrothal had been the last drop. Even if she had been given to him, he would have risen in rebellion over another matter, just later.

When they reached Long Valley under the starlight, everyone was so weary that some murmured they lacked the energy to dismount. Baelor could hardly keep his eyes open but he summoned Ser Carral to a conversation.

"I want you to leave before sunrise," he said while they were building a fire. "I want you to find Maekar and inform him about our position and our plans."

Ser Carral nodded curtly. "Am I to leave now, Your Grace?" he asked.

"In the name of the Seven, no!" Baelor denied. "You'll only fall from your mount, most probably. Tomorrow before sunrise."

"Should I come back?" the man asked and sat in front of the fire.

"I think there will be no time," Baelor said and took his dried meat out. "You'll just have to fight in Maekar's ranks. If there is some change, send someone to me but don't come yourself. And… take care of him, will you? Don't let him do something reckless unless he must."

Ser Carral raised an eyebrow. "What, like perching atop an unbroken horse?"

Baelor grinned. His brother had a liking for untrained horses, had had it since before he could walk and their mother had made the mistake of letting him see the stable hands trying to steer one towards the stall. With the passing of time, the fascination had only grown, to the collective horror of everyone in the Red Keep - well, except for their grandfather who found it amusing, probably because their father was taking it too hard. The most serious accident Maekar had had with these wild animals had left him with a fractured skull at age nine. Not that he had thought better of it afterwards.

"Yes," Baelor said. "Something like this." Then, he became serious. "He's quite hotheaded, as you know. And he doesn't have much practical experience. None of us does. Just watch him, yes?"

The moment of levity was gone. Ser Carral looked resolved. "I'll try, Your Grace," he said. "Only… you're telling me to watch over Prince Maekar, he's telling me to watch over you… And you both know you never do what I say. You do just what you've set your minds on doing. You're both headstrong. I can advise and I can stay silent, and it'll make no difference at all. There is no stopping either of you."

Baelor had been hearing this reproach for years and never taken it too hard. Now, he snickered and feigned a look of concern, although in truth, he was a little repentant thinking of all they had subjected the old knight to. "It can't be easy with us. We always get you angry, don't we?"

"There's no denying that!" Ser Carral grinned back. "But as you know, I don't like meek ones all that much. I like wildlings, with the seven hells in their blood."

"It's the seven hells where I am sending you." Baelor was now grim again. "It's the seven hells we'll soon turn this land into."

No quarter given or taken. Daemon had had his chance. And no one could go back to the crossroad he once chose a road at and take a different one.