Rogar Baratheon barely stifled a groan as he got out of the wheelhouse. His insides seemed to burn themselves out with pain: the long journey had inevitably made it worse.
I'm only four-and-forty, and yet I long to lie down and rest like some ancient graybeard, he thought in dejection. He had always dreaded becoming weak and helpless, but he never thought it would happen so soon.
Like Grandfather, I want to die of battle wounds, in Dorne. I won't demean myself by wasting away at Storm's End; besides, the sight won't do Boremund and Jocelyn any good.
He still remembered how confused and frightened he felt at the sight of his grandfather, with the latter's burning, vengeful eyes, the mouth clenched tight into a thin line, and the good hand nursing the stump. It went particularly bad after Grandmama's death – although she alternated between consoling Grandfather and yelling at him, at least he could be calm enough, sometimes even content-looking, in her presence. But without her... even back then, as a child, Lord Rogar swore to himself he'd rather die in battle than end up an invalid like this.
The one matter to be settled before that was the raising of his children. He had already talked things over with Garon, and the latter promised to care for Boremund and act as his regent. Jocelyn, though... It would be better for her, and for poor Ronnel's daughters, to remain in King's Landing as wards of the crown. At least, Rogar had been sure of that before Jaehaerys's death. Right now, he wanted to see the happenings at court by himself. The rumors coming from the capital varied (as rumors were always wont to do): some people praised Lord Stark and spoke of his dignified manner and his respect for the queen and the crownlands' traditions, but some grumbled about how niggardly and aloof he was and were afraid of what would become of King Aemon under such a regency.
Honestly, Rogar had never given much thought to the wolves and the North in general. It certainly came as a surprise when, of all people, Alysanne picked a Stark, but the days of Rogar's active participation in the court's affairs were long past.
He saw two dozen palace guards, headed by Ser Ryam Redwyne, lined up to meet him. As they saw him leave the wheelhouse, one of the guards blew the trumpet, and the palace gates opened to reveal the entire royal family.
Alysanne decided it would be fitting to greet Lord Rogar outdoors. Whatever the purpose of his visit, he was still a lord of the Great House, the former Hand, and, last but not least, her mother's husband. If she wanted her own children to respect Alaric, after all, she had to set an example for them in her treatment of Lord Baratheon.
When she saw Lord Rogar, for a split second she didn't even recognize him and thought it was some elderly cousin of the family. He had grown thin and gaunt, his formerly coal-black hair and beard had grayed more than halfway through, and his hands clutched at the railings of the wheelhouse in a clear attempt to keep his balance. He was a year younger than Alaric, she remembered in shock, but looked at least twice as old as him.
Alysanne's heart clenched at the sight. For all her mixed feelings towards the Lord of Storm's End, he had been a constant in her family's life since her early childhood. Seeing him as broken as he was now was an additional chilling reminder of how much had been lost for her in the past two years.
At least Boremund and Jocelyn, who followed their father of the wheelhouse, looked as hale and cheerful as ever.
"Your Grace," Lord Rogar knelt down in front of Aemon, and Boremund and Jocelyn followed suit. Aemon shuffled his feet awkwardly.
"Welcome to King's Landing, Lord Baratheon," he nevertheless replied, just like Alysanne had instructed him. A young squire hurried to assist Lord Rogar to stand up, and Alysanne tried to pretend she did not see that.
"My prince. My queen. Lord Stark. Lady Stark," Lord Rogar bowed to each of them in turn, breathing heavily. "I am honored to be received here."
"We're delighted to see you, as always, my lord," Alysanne said, forgetting her misgivings in the face of the overwhelming pity. "The Amber Room is prepared for you," the Amber Room was designed specifically by her mother before she married Lord Rogar, "and the refreshments are ready for you, Boremund and Jocelyn to replenish your strength after the journey."
"Thank you, Your Grace," Rogar smiled weakly, but she noted the bitterness in his eyes. Indeed, only a few years ago, she wouldn't have even thought of suggesting Rogar Baratheon could get exhausted after a ride in the wheelhouse.
"Lynnie, will you..." Aemon began excitedly, but Alarra caught his hand and whispered into his ear. Here, at the palace gate, they had to keep all the necessary ceremonies.
The familiar sight of the warm reddish-golden decor of the Amber Room usually served to calm Rogar down, but now even that made him all the more miserable. This was the room that he shared with Alyssa in the happy early years of their marriage, that he occupied when he was Hand of the King, powerful and beloved... and healthy. Now Aly was gone, and Jaehaerys was gone, and his own body was failing him.
"Her Grace will be happy to see you and your children and nieces join us at dinner tonight," said Alarra Stark after walking them to their quarters. Alarra had been an awestruck-looking round-faced little girl when he saw her last at the coronation anniversary tourney – now she was tall and somewhat gangly, as girls in their early teens are prone to be, but looked a lot more confident and at ease. As far as he understood, she was now Alysanne's chief lady-in-waiting, after Lucinda Tully's death and Alysanne's marriage to Alaric.
The court is changing, Rogar thought sadly. Soon, there would hardly be any recognizable faces around... but by that point, I won't be here anymore.
"Thank you, Lady Stark," he said.
"If Lord Boremund and Lady Jocelyn are not too fatigued from the travels, His Grace and Prince Baelon will be delighted to receive them now," Alarra said and chuckled as Jocelyn frowned to understand the elaborate courtesies. "Translation: Boremund, Lynnie, would you like to go and play with Aemon and Baelon?"
"Yes! Yes, of course!" Jocelyn squealed happily.
"I am sorry, but I have much to do to prepare for my lessons," Boremund said. "Grand Maester Elysar is a very demanding teacher."
"All right, I'm certain His Grace will understand," Alarra smiled. Rogar suspected that Aemon didn't really want to see Boremund at all: at nine years old, his son found the little king and prince's company rather boring. At their age, three years were an enormous gap.
As the Northern girl took Jocelyn's hand and they left the room, Rogar watched them thoughtfully. It looked like Alarra was at ease with children and conducted herself like a proper young lady – nothing like the wild women of the North he had heard about in tall tales. If that was how she always behaved, he could be sure Jocelyn, Heloise and Ermesande would receive a good upbringing under her care.
Of course, his own Grandmama had been quite the fighter, but first, it didn't do her any good, second, Rogar was inclined to believe she was an exception rather than the rule. Queen Visenya had been a fierce warrior – and she had given birth to an utter monster. The Dornish saw no difference between women and men – and there already had been so many bloody battles between them and the Westerosi; they crippled Grandfather and murdered Queen Rhaenys. No, women definitely weren't fit to do the work of men.
Rogar lay down on the bed and closed his eyes. Surprisingly, despite his anxieties, sleep came quickly, and the rays of the evening sun woke him up a couple of hours later; he immediately realized he felt considerably better and stronger. The pain had almost subsided, and he wished he could be in Dorne right now – he was in a great shape to smash Borys's army of rogues.
"Father?" Boremund knocked softly on the door. "The servants said the dinner is in half an hour."
"Lord Rogar Baratheon," said the page (a blond boy with the Hightower sigil on his doublet – yet another courtier whom Rogar had never met before). For a split second, the words brought back the memories of ten and more years ago, when he was Hand, when such an announcement would have been followed by cheers and applause from the court and the crowds.
This time, it was only followed by the small dining room's door opening with a quiet creaking sound.
To his dismay, Rogar saw that Boremund and the girls were already seated. Of course, this was no formal event, so he himself allowed them to get ready at their own leisure, but it still hurt to see that he – who used to be the first to arrive to any meeting and any feast – was now the last one to appear.
The small dining room, made precisely for family dinners like this one, was quiet and, in Rogar's opinion, somewhat stuffy. The only sources of light were two candelabras on the table, and for a few moments, his eyes could barely discern anything except the faces and a few lighter pieces of the tableware.
"Hi, Uncle Rogar!" Aemon said brightly. He was at the head of the table, as befit a king, with Baelon in the seat on his right; but to his left, instead of his mother, sat Jocelyn, and the two were talking animatedly when Rogar came into the room. "Welcome and be seated!"
"Thank you, Aemon," Rogar nodded. Here, one could dispense with many of the courtesies.
Heloise and Ermesande were chattering with Lady Alarra and a woman whom he figured out to be Princess Alyssa's nurse, and Alysanne was talking to Boremund about his lessons. Sitting next to his son, Rogar, once again, felt the incredible loneliness gnaw at him. Among these people, Alysanne was the only one he really knew, and after the turbulent history of legalizing her marriage to Jaehaerys and his schemes to crown Rhaena's daughter, she merely stayed friendly with him out of duty.
"How do you find King's Landing, Lord Stark?" he asked Alysanne's husband.
"Strange and foreign in many ways, but I'm getting used to it, Lord Baratheon," Alaric Stark replied. "However, I hope that once Aemon reaches majority, Alysanne and I will move to Winterfell."
He has been here for only a few months, and he's already longing to get home, Rogar thought in amazement. One of the most powerful men in the realm thanks to his marriage to Alysanne, and he doesn't seem to care that much. Or he is a brilliant liar, but I don't feel he is.
"You are more or less in the same position that I held a dozen years ago, you know," he said aloud.
"Not quite, Lord Baratheon. You married Queen Alyssa when Jaehaerys was in his fifteenth year. There's a bit of a difference with Aemon's age," Alaric nodded at the three children at the head of the table, who were now playing with a wooden dragon puppet.
Rogar swallowed his rising rage – he didn't arrive here to quarrel with the royals. That man was right, of course. Jaehaerys insisted from the start that he didn't need a second father and all but spelled out that he would have preferred Rogar stayed just his Hand. Aemon, meanwhile... well, whatever Aemon thought of Lord Stark, he was too young to rule on his own.
It wasn't really Alaric's cutting reply itself that made him so angry, Rogar mused. He was simply envious. Lord Stark was the same age as him, but looked healthy and full of life, not to mention that he was a regent at court like Rogar once was.
At the Golden Wedding, I was at the height of power and married to a woman I was fond of, and he was just the Lord of Winterfell's second son whom nobody took any notice of. Now our standings are entirely reversed.
As Alarra asked Boremund something about the customs of the stormlands, Alysanne finally turned to Rogar as well.
"I must say, it was a surprise to receive your raven, Uncle Rogar," she said. "What brings you to King's Landing, at this time? You missed my wedding and the Warrior's Day festivities. Oh, by the way – have you stopped at any large keeps after Warrior's Day?"
"No, I didn't," Rogar said. He didn't want too many people to see him in his half-crippled state, so on his way from Storm's End, he mostly stopped on the road, like one did at a campaign.
"Oh... then you don't know!" Alysanne's face lit up, and she looked like the same carefree young queen who was crowned so many years ago (or was it "so many"? To Rogar, it seemed like a whole era). "We have only recently sent the ravens... I am with child."
Rogar felt that bitter anger of his – or rather, irritation – all over again. There had been such an enormous family quarrel when she wed Jaehaerys, and now, little more than a year after the king's death, Alysanne was expecting another man's baby and obviously happy about it.
The match was necessary, and Alysanne obviously needed to secure it by having a child, he reprimanded himself. Why are you ready to burst with rage over some trifles that were never meant to offend you?
Lord Alaric smiled proudly, and it painfully reminded Rogar of his own current state once more. He had dallied with servant girls a few times after Aly was gone, but in the past three or four years, the pain had been so great that he couldn't even think of sharing a bed with a woman, let alone actually do it.
"Congratulations," he said, forcing a smile. "I am delighted for you both."
"We shall hold a grand feast to celebrate the birth, as we always do," Alysanne said excitedly. "I hope you'll be able to attend it, Uncle Rogar!"
"I'm afraid..." he sighed and paused for a while before mustering the willpower to continue, lowering his voice as not to alarm the children. "I'm afraid I won't. My sickness that prevented me from coming to your wedding... it hasn't gone away. My maester says that I am dying. I believe him. Even before the Shivers there was pain. It has gotten worse since. He gives me milk of the poppy, and that helps, but I use only a little. I would not sleep away what life remains to me."
Alysanne gasped, clutching her hand over her mouth.
"It's brave of you to think so and admit it, Lord Baratheon," Alaric said quietly, looking at him with newfound respect. "But what do you intend to do instead?"
"I mean to find my brother Borys and deal with him," Rogar said firmly, "and with this Vulture King as well. A fool's errand, Garon calls it. He is not wrong. But when I die, I want to die with my axe in my hand, screaming a curse."
Tears fell from Alysanne's eyes, and she delicately wiped them with a napkin, glancing both ways to ensure the rest of the family hadn't noticed.
"I came here to ask your leave for a Dornish campaign – and for my daughter and nieces to be raised here. Jocelyn has always wanted to join the court, and Heloise and Ermesande lost their parents and brothers to the Shivers, so it would be too painful for them to stay in the stormlands."
"Of course they can stay here," Alysanne whispered. "Uncle Rogar... are you sure there is no way to help you?"
"I doubt it," he shook his head. "Even if the maesters manage to keep me alive for five, ten more years... I told you – what kind of life would it be?"
The queen's lips trembled again, and she suddenly stood up:
"Alaric, Rogar... Alarra... there are some state matters we need to discuss," in private, were the unspoken words. "Forgive us, my lords and ladies. We will be back shortly," and she quickly went in the direction of the sitting room.
The moment the dining room's door shut behind them, Alysanne's lips and hands shook again, and Alaric gently took her by the arm – he didn't want to do anything more intimate in front of his daughter.
"I am sorry for dragging you away from our guests, Alarra, dear," Alysanne said. "The matter is... Lord Rogar has told us some dreadful news."
"I have a sickness that's slowly wearing me out, Lady Stark," Lord Rogar confessed after some hesitation (not that Alaric could blame him – he and Alarra had barely met before, and this wasn't the sort of news one was eager to share with everyone). "I want to go to fight Borys and the Vulture King in the Dornish Marches, to go out with my axe in my hand."
"Oh, Lord Baratheon, I'm... I'm so sorry!" Alarra exclaimed, clearly at a loss on how to react at all. "Can't we help you in any way at all?"
"You can help me by taking care of my daughter and my nieces. Jocelyn especially – she is only seven, and now she's going to lose her remaining parent."
"Uncle Rogar asked us to admit the girls to court, and I agreed, of course," Alysanne elaborated. "It's... it's the least we can..." her eyes welled with tears again, and she leaned for a few moments against Alaric's chest. "Forgive me. We haven't always seen eye to eye, Uncle Rogar, as you well know, but you have done a lot of good for our family, and I'll never forget it."
"Thank you, Alysanne," Rogar said quietly.
"If only we had any dragonriders that could go and help you! But so far, there's only me, and I can't risk flying into battle while I'm pregnant."
"You shouldn't risk flying into battle at all, at least while Aemon is a kid! You're the only grown Targaryen at court, don't you forget it!"
Alysanne smiled through tears:
"I won't. I see you remain your old self after all, Uncle Rogar."
"It's not an easy job," he admitted gravely. "I... I feel like such a failure. I could have served you and ruled my lands for many more years – I'm only four-and-forty, and look at me!"
"You haven't failed anyone, do you hear me?" Alysanne exclaimed and went on to remind Rogar of the service he did the crown in the fight against Maegor, and in establishing Jaehaerys's rule, and in this, and in that. She was wonderful at consoling others, Alaric thought with helpless admiration: with her gentle voice that alternated between soothing and firm and her lovely smile and the encouraging look in her eyes, she could have brightened the mood of a wight.
Four-and-forty, Alaric repeated in the meantime to himself, looking at Rogar. He is a year younger than I am, and that odd sickness is eating him away. His own heart felt heavy at such thoughts. How did such a sickness begin? Rogar Baratheon was well-known as a healthy, strong and active man. His present condition was a reminder that even such people were never safe.
I can get something like that, too, at any moment, and will have to waste away or rush into some war, Alaric thought bitterly.
He didn't fear death by itself – with the customary frequent visits to the godswood and the crypts, the Starks in general were rather calm about the whole idea – but he realized he very, very much feared how suddenly it could come.