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Here is Baelor's (short) reign in this 'verse. Read, enjoy and review!
Chapter Fourteen
The Reign of Fanatical Dragon
The Red Keep: 15th January, 160 AC
Baelor "The Blessed" Targaryen:
"Baelor! Nephew!" the doors burst open and Baelor's uncle, Prince Viserys Targaryen, the Hand of the King, came flying in. His face was pale, his expression stricken in manner uncharacteristic of the prince.
Baelor rose from where he had been kneeling before the altar at the front of the royal family's private sept, turning to frown at the man. "Uncle, what is going on?" he inquired, keeping his voice soft. "We are in a sacred place. To come running into a sept yelling at the top of your lungs is practically heresy. The Seven-Who-Are-One-"
"Your Grace!" His uncle interrupted him, going down on one knee and bowing his head. Baelor fell quiet, dread welling within his breast. "The King is dead!" Viserys intoned solemnly, grief over the death of his elder brother's firstborn child leaking through to his otherwise steady voice.
Baelor let out a hiss, shaking his head in grief-stricken denial. He and Daeron were too different to have ever been close. Instead, Baelor and Rhaena had always been two peas in a pod, joined together by their love and devotion for the Seven, whilst Daena worshipped the ground that Daeron walked on, following him everywhere he went. But they were still brothers, and this shocking and unexpected announcement pained Baelor deeply.
"Long live King Baelor, First of His Name, Head of House Targaryen, King of the Rhoynar, the Andals and the First Men!" Viserys went on. "Defender of the Faith, Lord Protector of the Realm and Lord of the Seven Kingdoms! Hail Baelor, King of Westeros!"
Baelor exhaled heavily, lowering his head and turning back to the statues of the Seven to bow before them, specifically to the Stranger and the Warrior.
'Oh, Great Seven-Who-Are-One,' he prayed mentally. 'You, in the form of the Smith, hath crafted this path, and the Stranger has come to take the soul of my brave elder brother, who was so blessed by the favour of You in Your form of the Warrior. Let his soul rest in peace alongside our late parents and ancestors, serving out his justly-earned reward within the seven heavens. You have bestowed the fate of kingship on me, so that I might make peace with Dorne, and that I might bring the Light of the Seven to the heathens of the Winterlands. I shall not fail You, and if I do then may You strike me down and let the Stranger drag my soul to the seven hells. I will gladly accept the punishment, should I fail in carrying out Your will.'
He sighed and made the sign of the Seven-Pointed Star before rising from his kneeling position to turn back to his uncle, who was continuing to wait patiently for him to finish his prayers.
"Uncle Viserys," Baelor began. "You have been Hand of the King for my brother all throughout his short reign, and before that you loyally served my father as his own Hand for many years. I now ask that you agree to continue in that position serving myself, and aiding me in the task of carrying out the will of the Seven by advising me with all of the wisdom that you have accumulated over the decades."
"I will gladly serve you to the very best of my abilities, Your Grace," Viserys vowed solemnly.
"Then rise, Prince Viserys Targaryen, Hand of the King," Baelor instructed the older dragon. "Walk with me to the solar, and tell me what happened. How did my brother die?"
Viserys sighed heavily, shoulders slumping. "I loved your brother dearly, do not mistake me my young king," he sighed. "But he was too ambitious. He tried to take on too much too soon. We needed to secure Dorne. Then, once we had the Dornish properly subdued, we could attack the Winterlands. As it is, he went straight from Dorne to the North, but his plan failed. The Northrons must have been pre-warned that we were coming. I have set Lord Vaelaros to discovering how."
Lord Vaelaros was the current Master of Whispers. He was from Volantis with a Lysene mother, and Viserys had met the man whilst he was still a 'guest' of the Lysene. Vaelaros had been visiting his maternal kin around the time that the Rogares were preparing to wed the prince to Lady Larra Rogare. The pair had become friends and stayed in contact with each other through the years. After being appointed Hand of the King for the late King Aegon III, Viserys had convinced his brother to employ the Volantene as his spymaster, as Vaelaros had a large network of contacts throughout the Free Cities and the Kingdoms, due to his widespread merchant business.
"I see," Baelor murmured. "An ambush?"
"The Northron navy harried our ships from the moment they reached the Bite," Viserys explained. "By the time our navy reached the coast of the Winterlands, their numbers had been cut in half. The Dornish began deserting or turning on our men immediately, further increasing the problems. Not to mention the fact that we severely underestimated the gravity and difficulties of a Northron winter. The army's camp was ambushed just after a blizzard, in the middle of the night. They never stood a chance."
"I see," Baelor stated. He closed his eyes, saying another prayer for the souls of those brave soldiers who had been so brutally slaughtered by the honourless, tree worshipping heretics. "Do you know whom it was that killed my brother? And what of the Kingsguard?"
Viserys grimaced, running a hand through his silver hair, which was threaded with grey. "The Kingsguard who went with your brother are all dead also," he admitted. "Only Sers Godric, Lyonel and Raymont remain. My son is a prisoner in Dorne, who have killed Lord Tyrell and his men, and Prince Garin has reclaimed his title, foreswearing his previous oaths of allegiance to us. As for the person who killed King Daeron," he hesitated before confessing, voice barely loud enough to be a whisper. "King Cregan's daughter, Princess Sarra."
Baelor paused in shock. They were at the end of the hallway that led to the king's solar, but he still stopped and turned to stare at Viserys in disbelief. "A woman?" he demanded incredulously. "A woman killed my brother? The Young Dragon was killed by a weak-bodied lady? How is it that such a thing could possibly have occurred?"
Viserys looked around anxiously, nodding with clear reluctance. "'Tis true, Your Grace," he insisted. "These Winterlands, they are savages. They let their women fight alongside their men. The princess was aided by her direwolf companion. All of the witnesses corroborate the matter."
Baelor shook his head in disbelief, stunned speechless. They began to walk again, as Baelor struggled to wrap his head around what he had been told. The heretics' power was strong, that was obvious. What could he do, to defeat the Starks where his predecessors had failed, and bring the Light of the Seven to the poor smallfolk of the North? They were suffering in their ignorance, and Baelor was certain that the Seven had made him king so that they might ensure that he saved the souls of the Winterlanders, and condemned the heretical Starks to the seven hells where they rightfully belonged.
The question then, was clear. How was he to succeed where his ancestors, even Aegon the Conqueror who had subdued five of the Seven Kingdoms, and his own elder brother Daeron, who had managed to defeat Dorne, had all failed?
It would not be an easy task, but Baelor would do all he could to see it through.
The Red Keep: 1st February, 160 AC
Daena "The Defiant" Targaryen:
Baelor was preparing himself for his walk of penitence when Daena came storming into his rooms without permission.
She paused, staring in contemptuous disbelief at her elder brother. What in the Gods' names was he doing this time? He was dressed in a robe made of sackcloth, his silver-gold hair undone and hanging loosely around his shoulders. His feet were bare, and he was tracing a Seven-Pointed Star on his forehead using what seemed to be ashes of all things. She was embarrassed even to look at him.
Gods, to think that he of all people was the newest King of the Seven Kingdoms. Baelor was a failure and a stain on their house. He ought to have become a septon, as he clearly longed to be. It was physically painful for her to know that he was taking Daeron's place, when he had never been worthy to so much as lick the dirt off of their elder brother's boots, let alone sit on the Iron Throne. And worst of all, he was undoing everything the Young Dragon had made in his too-short reign. She would not stand for it.
"Baelor!" she barked at him, clenching her fists and glowering.
"Yes, Sister?" he asked with that infuriating serenity of his, turning to look at her. "Might I help you?"
"It is bad enough that you shame me by scorning our betrothal," she growled. "Bad enough that you desire Rhaena, Elaena and I to be confined to the keep, unwedded and never to become mothers, for the rest of our lives for Gods' knows what insane reason you have in your head-"
"I wish to protect your chastity and innocence," Baelor interrupted her. "And as for our betrothal, you know Sister, that wedding brother to sister is against the will of the Seven. We-"
"Are dragons!" she snapped back. "The Doctrine of Exception is written within the pages of the Seven-Pointed Star! But that is not why I am here, my king," she scoffed the title mockingly.
"And why are you here, Daena?" Baelor inquired, still calm. "I must be going soon."
"That!" She jabbed her finger at him. "That is why I am here! How can you spit on our brother's memory thus? How can you just throw away everything he did and sacrificed to bring Dorne beneath our family's rule? Surely, Baelor, they lied to me when they said that you are going to bring the Dornish hostages back to Sunspear and seek forgiveness of all things from them! You ought to be going at the head of an army, to crush those rebels. Send the heads of the hostages back in boxes, not the people themselves, without a scratch on them!"
Baelor shook his head, expression steady and calm. "They did not lie," he denied. "And I shall not go to war against the Dornish. No, I will walk to Dorne, to prove my contrition and regret over the war our brother raged. Then I will seek peace with the Prince. Finally, once that is done and I have returned, with our cousin Aemon in tow, I will turn my attention to dealing with the Winterlands."
She paused in her fury, looking at him through narrowed eyes. "What do you mean by that?" she pressed.
"The Starks must fall, Sister," Baelor informed her solemnly. "The Winterlands must be brought beneath the dragon banner, and shown the Light of the Seven, for the good of their souls. This is my task, given to me by the Gods themselves. When we have recovered our strength, we will strike at the Winterlands once again, but this time we shall win!"
Daena softened towards him a fraction. It angered her that he was doing this for the sake of the gods and not to avenge their dear brother's death, but either way the Starks would pay for killing Daeron. Granted, Baelor was nothing compared to Daeron, but there was hope. He had good advisors, at least.
She would speak with her uncle whilst Baelor was off on his ridiculous 'walk of repentance', her uncle who had never dismissed her on account of her sex. Perhaps because of his memories of his late mother Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen, the only woman to sit on the Iron Throne in her own right. Uncle Viserys was clever, shrewd, and knowledgeable about war. Daena was intelligent and had studied the previous wars with the North in depth alongside Daeron as they had grown up together and she had helped him to plot out their family's future conquests. By working with one another, she and the Lord Hand could come up with a strategy to defeat the Starks and gain vengeance for Daeron's shameful death.
She would see Sarra Stark and her pet wolf pay for killing her brother and further humiliating him by stealing his crown. Daena swore it. No matter what she had to do, she would see it happen.
"Then you ought to go now, my king," she replied sweetly. "The sooner you go, the sooner you return so that you might, complete your holy quest."
He smiled at her, evidently (and stupidly, but what else could she expect from Baelor) believing in her demeanour of fake sweetness, and agreed. They said goodbye, and as soon as he was gone Daena rushed to the library to search out any information she could find about their Northron enemies.
The Red Keep: 21st June, 160
Aemon "The Dragonknight" Targaryen:
Baelor was still weak and struggling to recover from the many snakebites he had received when Aemon brought him back to King's Landing from Dorne.
The young Dragonknight was solemn-faced as he carried his kingly cousin through the hallways and to the King's Bedchamber, where he lay the young ruler down and moved away, allowing GrandMaester Munkun and his assistants rush to attend to their monarch.
"What happened?" Viserys asked his son grimly.
Aemon felt his shoulders slump with shame and guilt, giving the Hand a pained look. "I begged him not to," he murmured. "I begged him to leave me and keep himself safe, but he refused." He explained what had happened, how he had been put in a cage, suspended above a nest filled with vipers by the Wyls. He told his father how Baelor had bravely, but foolishly, walked through the pit to get to him, receiving gods knew how many bites in the process.
"I got him to Blackhaven as quick as I could, and they treated him there," Aemon began to wrap up the story. "The maester saved his life, but he refused to remain and heal, insisting that he had to return, so I obeyed and organized a ship to carry us home. We then sailed back here, but the travel weakened him even further."
"The Seven-Who-Are-One protect His Grace," the High Septon declared solemnly. "They know of his devotion to the Faith, and they will protect him, so that he might use his position to further spread the Light of the Seven to all corners of the world."
It was obvious, at least to Aemon, what the subtext of the man's speech was. He sought to convince Baelor to relaunch the campaign against the Winterlands, to obliterate any traces of the Old Gods or the Drowned God worshipped by the Iron Islanders. Aemon had no doubt that the High Septon would succeed in convincing king to do so, in spite of the fact that they had barely managed to escape the Winterlanders' wrath with a third of Daeron's army still intact after the Young Dragon's death. They would not manage that feat a second time. Not when King Cregan had lost his heir to Daeron and news had recently come that another of his children, Princess Mariah, had died when the ship she was on had sunk off the coast of the Three Sisters, whilst she was sailing past edge of the Vale's waters. There was no proof that it had been the result of an attack by the Valemen, but it was a strong possibility. If they attacked, the Starks would take it for a certainty, and they would be determined to gain vengeance for their lost prince and princess.
Viserys was about to reply to the septon when the door to Baelor's chamber opened and Munkun stuck his head out, looking tired.
"My Lord Hand!" the GrandMaester called. "His Grace summons yourself and the High Septon to attend him immediately. He is weak, and requires rest, and so you must hasten to speak with him before he falls back asleep again."
Viserys gave a curt nod and they all hastened into the chamber. Aemon followed them.
Baelor looked better, he was relieved to see. Aemon and the maester at Blackhaven had done all that they could for him, but the Dragonknight had feared the worst when Baelor's fever had returned on their journey home. Thank the Gods for their mercy, the king's face was no longer flushed with sickness. Perhaps the Seven really were protecting him.
"Uncle," Baelor croaked, seeking out Viserys' eyes.
"Yes, Your Grace?" Aemon's father inquired gently, coming to his nephew's side.
Baelor cleared his throat. "I, King Baelor, First of My Name, Head of House Targaryen, King of the Rhoynar, the Andals and the First Men, Defender of the Faith, Lord Protector of the Realm and Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, do hereby grant leave to the Faith to revive the Faith Militant. Furthermore, I charge the Faith Militant with this most sacred of tasks." Now, he turned to look at the septon, who's eyes gleamed with satisfaction.
"Your Grace, whatever you desire, the Faith is at your service," the High Septon simpered in a sycophantic manner, bowing to the weak king.
"You are to bless the Stars and Swords with the favour of the Gods," Baelor charged him. "And then, you will send them forth to the Winterlands, to defeat the heretical Starks and bring the Light of the Seven to the poor smallfolk, who in their ignorance are made to worship the Starks' false tree gods."
"It shall be done, my king," the High Septon agreed, a fanatical smile spreading across his face.
Aemon cast a dismayed look at his father. Viserys' jaw was clenched, and he moved closer to the king's bedside.
"Your Grace-" he began, but it was too late. The king had fallen asleep again, and now they had no choice but to go through with his demands.
Winterfell: 1st July, 160 AC
Cregan XXXV "The Old Wolf" Stark:
"Father, allow me to deal with this," Alys pled, kneeling before her father and king. "Let me send the burners a message that they shall never forget, whilst my lady aunt and sister lead the defence of our kingdom."
Cregan studied Alys thoughtfully. News had just arrived that the Winterlands had failed to learn the lesson his people had sought to teach him. Not even a year after the death of the Young Dragon, the Fanatical Dragon was sending his armed priests forth to the border to try and invade, apparently on a holy quest to spread their burner filth. It had been decided by the Winter Council that they would teach another lesson to the southrons, warn them that there was nowhere on the continent that they would be safe, should they continue to test the wolves' patience. The only question was, who to send to be the teacher?
The king was reluctant to send his thirdborn into danger, yet all the same he had faith in her skills. He knew that coddling a child was foolishness incarnate, leaving them vulnerable to their enemies. Alys was long-past her first kill, a strong fighter. She was her mother's daughter, and Sara had chosen her as her apprentice and successor for a reason. At long last, the king nodded.
"So be it," he conceded. "Go forth, my daughter, to the capital of the Five Kingdoms. Show the Fanatic Dragon that the Wolves of Winterfell are not to be crossed lightly."
"I shall not fail, a Shoilse," Alys vowed, kissing his wolf's head torc-style ring before rising and rushing away to prepare after receiving his blessing.
"Aly, look after our girl," he prayed to his late second wife. "Great Gods of the Forest, River and Stone, protect her for me, please."
Later, he would go the godswood to preform another prayer. For now, that was all he could do, for he had things to do. Winter was coming, and the Swords and Stars were already marching for the Riverwall, the canal that Cregan had ordered be dug in order to mark the border between the two kingdoms. They would never be able to breech it, of course. It was heavily defended, as the most vulnerable point of the kingdom. But Cregan had lost two children in only a few moons. Raya, with Aly's eyes and fire, was never again to travel the world as she had dreamed of, as she was now heiress after being the only one of his current living children to pass all of the Weirwood Trials. Mariah, Aly's last child, was gone, as was Rickard. That they had reunited with their late mothers in Valhalla was no balm for his grief.
He wanted the dragons to pay for their deaths in blood, and he trusted Alys to see that action through for her siblings.
The Red Keep: 22nd October, 160 AC
Alys Stark:
It was absurdly easy to get into the Red Keep. Alys had sailed first to Braavos, where she had taken on the guise of a travelling noblewoman from Myr. From there, she and her entourage (made up of loyal Winterlanders who were apart of Magnara Greenwood's spy network and trained to be able to pose as being from a dozen different places) had managed to obtain invitations to the Fanatic's court.
The lack of women at the southron court was a bit of a surprise. She had known that the Fanatic showed his incest-induced lunacy through scorning women and locking his three sisters in what they were now calling "the Maidenvault", but she could not even spot a serving maid. Only men. But given the severe lack of ladies available, she was unsurprised that nearly all of the men looked at her with lust and longing, and practically fell over themselves trying to get a chance to speak with her. Gods knew how long it had been since any of them had been with a woman.
Almost every man that is. The king was an exception. Baelor flushed deeply and avoided looking at her. She suppressed the urge to snort when he continuously looked to his burner advisor, the 'Arch Septon' or whatever they called the leader of their intolerant band of hypocrites, for instructions on how to deal with her. Had he any knowledge of women at all? He had three sisters, and a lady cousin, yet seemed hopelessly lost on how to speak with her. Alys bidded her time, however, waiting patiently for her chance.
It came during a feast for the Maiden Goddess (or was it the Maiden part of the God? Alys could not quite understand it. Were there seven of them, or one split into seven aspects? She wasn't even sure if the burners themselves fully understood their own rhetoric.) on her third day at the Dragons' Court.
She smiled and leaned in towards the king. "Your Grace," she purred in her faked Myrish accent. "I have heard something that fascinates me. Is it true that you are spreading the True Faith to the Winterlands?" She felt ill referring to the burner faith as the 'True' one, but she knew that was how most followers of the Seven considered it so.
Baelor looked at her properly for once, his expression alight with passion. "Yes," he promised. "I am. I have revived the Faith Militant, and as we speak they battle with the heretics in the Riverlands to defeat the tree worshipping wolves. Then they will burn every last godswood to the ground, and raise septs in their places, and all traces of the false gods will be eradicated!"
Alys did not even realize she had decided to move until her dinner knife was already buried within the Fanatic's neck. His words had pierced her iron control and made her move without planning. He gripped at his throat, choking on his own blood, and the whitecloaks all surged towards her. She whipped out her daggers and her own men (who were seated close to her or else disguised as servants attending the high table) all leapt to their feet, engaging in a fierce battle. But though they were outnumbered by the southrons, none of them had been drinking and they had been expecting a fight, even if they hadn't known when it would happen, and as such they managed to hold their ground, battling towards their escape route.
The Great Hall's windows overlooked a cliff's edge, and a boat, already prepared to flee, was waiting below for them.
Alys fought her way to the windows, whistling sharply. Her direwolf, Alpen, came racing in from where she'd been hiding somewhere with a bloodstained snout. Men yelled in terror at the sight of the giant wolf and Alys laughed wildly at their fear, her wolf's blood flaring to heights unreachable by giants.
"A Bhanphrionsa (Princess)!" one of her men yelled to her. In the chaos of the fight, Alys could not identify the voice. "Caithfeamar imeacht! Anois! (We must leave! Now!)"
She gritted her teeth, but common sense overcame her bloodlust, and she darted the rest of the way to the window along with her men. She shattered it with her dagger, jumping up on the ledge. A whistle of air was her only forewarning, and she just barely managed to knock the sword that would have otherwise gone through her heart out of the way so it merely grazed her arm.
It was the Dragonknight. She grinned darkly at him as she prepared to jump out of the window, down onto the waiting boat, bobbing on the waves several thousand feet below.
"Greetings to the dragons from King Cregan!" she called to the southrons, letting out another wild laugh and jumping down, with Alpen and the remainders of her men swiftly diving after her.