BAELA
She enters the Hall unannounced. It had been the compromise between her demand to be announced as Princess in recognition of her marriage and Jace's new station, and the poor man's fear of being caught in a dragonfight. Luke appears to have just handed over the letter to Lord Baratheon. He nods to Baela as he watches Lord Borros receive the Maester's whispers, but has yet to notice the pretender lurking by the wall with two of Baratheon's daughters.
Until the pretender makes himself known. "Look at this sad little creature, My Ladies." Luke whips around, likely not suspecting he'd be present at such a late hour. "Little Luke Strong, the bastard. You are wet, bastard. It is raining, or did you piss yourself in fear?"
Luke is accustomed to far more clever jibes, so he ignores him in his well-practiced way. The pretender turns his eye to Baela. "My Lady, what a convenient encounter. I have a new proposal for your Grandsire; a generous one, considering your betrayal today."
"It is Princess," she corrects him in as prim a tone she can summon. "And I'm afraid I am spoken for, as is my sister." She takes her place next to Luke and turns her attention to Lord Borros.
"And where is your husband? Why has he not accompanied you? Were you afraid he would faint — again?"
Do not indulge those who make sport in provoking people, she remembers. She looks to Luke in hopes he remembers the same.
The Maester finishes reading. She knows he finishes reading when Lord Borros begins yelling. "Remind me of my father's oath?" he belts. "What did that oath entail, exactly? One Queen, two envoys. It seems the House of the Dragon does not know who rules it."
"That would be the Queen," Baela reminds him.
"And yet now I am beseeched by two Kings. Or rather, one King, and one pair of children. At least this one comes to me himself, with a marriage pact no less. You, boy, who represents a Prince who cannot be bothered to appear — which of my daughters will you marry, should I support your claim?" He nods to the two daughters standing beside him, Maris and Ellyn, she recalls. Floris and Cassandra stand to the side with Aemond.
Luke responds in as princely a voice he can manage. "My Lord, I am already wed, B—"
"I thought as much," Lord Borros scoffs. "So you come with empty hands."
Baela can no longer manage a cool tone, so she settles for an icy one. "I did not think one need offer a bribe to expect a leal lord to defend his Queen."
"And yet your Queen has just offered the hand of a Prince for one daughter, and a high station in the capital for another. You say you represent the Queen, yet I hear no offers of royal marriages or positions in the capital. Who's to say who represents her?"
The ice cracks. "You cannot be serious. She is his mother by blood, and my mother by law twice over."
"Yet according to the laws of the Seven, and the laws of the Realm, the official King-Consort stands before me. Where does your Rogue Prince stand in light of these accusations?" He actually pretends to look around. "Not in front of me. He sends children with empty hands. A girl, and a bast—"
She generously stops him from condemning himself. "His Grace might have appealed to you directly," in the seven hells, "but he is currently recovering from a suspiciously timed assassination attempt."
"Poison," Luke adds. "The Maester says he will live, rest assured. He is a hard man to kill."
Baela recalls Rhaena's words. "Interesting, is it not, that someone would seek to poison him despite such an unambiguous legal ruling. Almost as if they were afraid for that position to be interrogated."
"My Lady," Aemond says. "I have yet to meet a score of men with none among them to wish your father dead. Hurling accusations at the Royal Family should not be your natural conclusion."
Luke ignores him and tries another angle. "My Lord, you have four daughters. What kind of precedent would you be sett—"
"Luke," she cuts him off. Then she whispers in High Valyrian. "Remember which House this is." She wonders if Vhagar now looms where Meraxes once did. She wonders if this is the room where Argella's men betrayed her.
Nevertheless, Lord Borros has gauged his intent. "My daughters are my daughters, they will wed whom I tell them to wed. For their own good, and that of our family. They are proper ladies, and none object to this, do they?" He turns, conveniently, to the pair of daughters beside Aemond. Neither object, of course. One is to marry a Prince. "A father's most important job is to arrange a good match for his daughter. A Queen can hardly ascend without a King, and I am told the late King never wished for… whatever passed between the Queen and the Prince. And as I said — they have the papers."
The fucking papers. She wants terribly to repeat Father's paper tantrum from the Council, but not whilst Aemond and Vhagar lie in wait to undermine her point. Besides, they already know it's not about the papers. Papers are for justifying something you already wish to do, not guiding you to something you do not. Especially not when dragons are involved.
"My Lord," Luke appeals. "If these slanders were so believable, why would Lord Corlys pledge himself to our cause? Why would Princess Rhaenys agree to be the Hand?"
Apparently, Aemond did not know this. Probably because Aemond had not known that Wringys had been a mop.
At least I presume. I know not what else she would use. And for one brief moment, she allows the memory to come, of Rhaenyra puppeting a mop head that had happened to be available, reading aloud a particularly passive-aggressive raven from Grandmother. Until Father told them to clear the room right away.
Goals, Baela can admit. She wonders if Jace will ever outgrow his prudishness.
Thunder rattles the Hall, bringing her back to reality. Baela understands reality, is the problem. She understands what Lord Borros does, what Aemond does, and what Luke does not. That any alliance between them and the Velaryons can be attributed to the same motivation that drives the Bartheons to ally with the Hightowers: ambition. Truth matters little when a crown is at stake.
She knows it's over before he says it.
"Go home, pup. And tell your uncle that the Lord of Storm's End is not some dog he can whistle up at need to set against his foes."
Luke, as usual, is courteous to a fault. "I shall take your answer to the King, My Lord."
But Baela is not. She might have no ice left to veil her flames, but she does have some honey. "Let us not be hasty, My Lord," she says in a sickly sweet voice. "I am certain we can come to an arrangement. One that might befit the station of your House."
"You have nothing left to offer. You have not even threats to offer, My Lady. I am told you are without two of your three large dragons."
"It is true, the Hightowers hold our dragons, and our Queen, hostage. But that does not mean we have nothing to offer. I know that you have no sons. Should you perish before you do, that leaves Lady Cassandra your heir. A good match for her is quite essential then, wouldn't you say?"
"I would," Lord Borros agrees. "It will not come to that, rest assured. But should she not be the one to wed the Prince, I will arrange an appropriate match. I will. Inheritance does not free one to do as they please, My Lady."
The honey drips down her throat. "I understand that is your position. It is not mine, but I respect yours nonetheless. And to demonstrate my respect, I have another offer for you. One much more appropriate for your house."
"Oh?"
The fire melts the honey melts away. "Our Grandsire Corlys has a bastard we are all quite fond of. Considering how your line began… it would make a fitting end, would it not?"
Not even the thunder is brave enough to break the silence that follows.
She does not grant him the hours he'd likely need to devise a response. "Come, Luke. We're finished here." He makes no argument, and they make for the door whilst the Baratheons still stand stunned — as Baratheons do when they cannot think of something to yell.
But not everyone here is a Baratheon. "Wait... my Lord Strong."
Luke actually turns. Baela sighs.
"Did you really think that you could just fly about the realm trying to steal my throne at no cost?"
He gulps but remains as calm as he can. "I will not fight you. I came as a messenger, not a warrior."
"Mhmm, a fight would be little challenge." He smiles. "No. I want you to put out your eye. As payment for mine. One will serve. I would not blind you. You are my kin. And we've always been so close. I know you are my nephew, but I've always held you in close regard."
He speaks like he's rehearsed his lines, like he's been fed his lines. But who—
"Like a dear friend..."
Oh no.
"Or a brother…"
Please don't.
"Or a son."
"Luke," she cautions. She grabs his arm before he might do anything stupid and thanks the gods they did not send Jace after her.
Aemond throws a dagger at Luke's feet. But not the dagger, fortunately. Curiously he uses his left hand, even though he has to twist awkwardly for it. "Go on, be done with it. Plan to make a gift of it to my mother." His mother. His mother.
No one is allowed to stop her. Therefore, she is unstoppable.
Luke's attention is no longer on Aemond, or the son jape, or dagger, or his eye. "Baela."
Even now, no one has stopped her. No one will stop her. No one is allowed to stop her. Rhaenyra cannot…
Crazy Queen has Rhaenyra.
"Aemond," Luke warns. Firmer than he's been so far. "Stop."
Lightning floods the hall. Rhaenyra was the only one allowed to stop her.
"So, you are craven as well as a traitor."
"Not here!" Lord Borros commands.
"Mayhaps I'll take a gift of mine own," she hears Luke says from far away.
The thunder drops, the loudest so far — to her at least. She climbs in through the patio. She jumps into the bed without drying — everyone yells at her.
Baela wakes up.
"Oh?" the Pretender says.
"I'll make a gift of your stones to my mother," Luke says.
"Luke no!" she says too late. He realizes his mistake as she says it. They say nothing. They let it hang there, hoping he does not take it.
Father always insisted that oranges should not be a forbidden fruit — mayhaps sometimes to an inappropriate extent. As a result, Baela and Luke come from a proper family with high standards for japes and insults, where it is frowned upon to pluck the low-hanging fruit from the tree. It is enough to let them fall on their own accord.
But Aemond is a Hightower; he was not raised with standards regarding oranges or humour. He is emboldened by power and the newfound permission to pluck oranges, which he was likely not raised to discern from grapes. And so he is content, even eager, to pluck the fruit Luke dangles before him. And so he not only deigns to say, "Actually, I believe I will be the one making a gift of my stones to your mother," but he also believes that he is clever, and not gross, to do so.
Luke is no Jace. He is well-practiced at ignoring all manner of japes regarding his mother, especially regarding oranges. But those were Father's japes, and Father's oranges. Entirely different. Because Father is her father, Rhaenyra's husband, and Luke's stepfather — by choice. Father…
No man, let alone a dragon, who lets another man live after dishonouring his wife can call himself a man… And I expect any man married to any daughter of mine to understand that.
Father is an imbecile. And unfortunately, Luke does not always ignore him.
She turns to Luke, ready to hold him back. But he's smart enough not to charge at Aemond with that defeat so recent. He's lost his temper, that much is certain. But he has a different attack in mind. Poor pious Aemond, so excited to be given free rein for once, he knows not what to do with it. She and Luke exchange a glance, as if to say, this is what happens when you're raised by the Faith.
Baela and Luke were not raised by the Faith. They were raised by a woman so excited to finally be able to love openly, that she did so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so openly. And her father — who was her father. They were raised in a family where Baela and Father had set aside the last bottle of Laenor's special oil to gift to Luke on his wedding night, which they were supposed to present at a big ceremony, so all could point and laugh.
Aemond doesn't stand a chance.
Luke does not go for the low-hanging fruit. He does not even go for oranges. He goes for the heart. "Holding my mother hostage will not make you a king," Luke says. "I thought you would have learned that the first time. How long did it take?"
Aemond takes the bait. Because apparently, Aemond takes anything offered to him. "How long did what take?" he actually asks.
"To realize that mounting a dragon does not make one a dragon." Luke's mouth — Father's words.
"You dare claim I am not a dragon? I claimed the largest dragon, in accordance to the traditions of our house!"
Luke, you can antagonize the Lord who's confined to convention, but not the unstable child on the giant dragon! She thinks for a spare moment. But she's losing her patience as well, so those words fall away until all that is left is:
Fuck it.
"You mean you were so desperate as to claim my mother's grieving dragon at her funeral?" Baela demands.
Aemond straightens. "There is no rule against it. If your sister was worthy, she would have claimed her."
"There are no rules at the top, cousin," she says. "But there are understandings. Had you been patient, or your mother been more diplomatic, you would have had a dragon by adulthood. You did not need to claim one in such an insensitive, and desperate, manner."
Luke picks up. "But you were greedy, you were impatient, because you really thought the dragon makes the man. And you got lucky."
As soon as one finishes their point, the other starts theirs. They leave no space for argument, not that Aemond would have any. Baela's turn comes again. "In my mother, Vhagar sensed Visenya's strength. But in you, she sensed her cruelty, her bitterness, and the fact that she was unloved. You are Maegor come again; you've proven that, if anything else, with your black bride."
"We didn't tease you because you didn't have a dragon," Luke says. "We teased you because it bothered you. You were a child; Daemon, Laena, and Rhaenys were all adolescents when they claimed their dragons. That's why we don't make a habit of giving out second eggs, because we need people to claim the adults."
"When they're ready," Baela adds. "Only once they are… worthy."
Luke claims the finale to their song and dance. "But that's it, is it not?" he presses. "You were worried you would never be worthy. Because you know you're nothing without a dragon. And when someone who is nothing without a dragon claims a dragon, they simply become nothing — but on a dragon."
Vhagar's roar shakes the foundation.
What. Have. We. Done.
Aemond had simply stood there, letting them hurl their insults, absorbing every blow, not even trying to counter. He opens his mouth as if to say something, but nothing comes out. He closes it, takes a moment, and tries again. He returns to safe territory. He charges at them. "Give me your eye, or I will take it, bastard!"
He curiously does not draw his sword — which Baela can now see is Blackfyre.
Lord Borros finally breaks his own silence. "Not in my hall!" Aemond stops. "They came as envoys. I'll not have bloodshed beneath my roof. Take Prince Lucerys and Lady Baela back to their dragons. Now!"
Aemond turns from enraged to eager. Hungry.
She watches him as the men usher them out. She'd removed her gloves when they'd been escorted inside and had folded them into her belt. She takes them out and drops one. She then asks Luke one very important question and gets the answer she wants.
She'd connected the castle layout to what she saw outside. They had landed at the official entrance to the keep, and had been taken on a long walk to the hall. But Vhagar… Vhagar is at the side of the castle. Beside the hall. Right beside the hall. Aemond is hungry, which means Vhagar is hungry.
Aemond will reach his dragon first.
She stops as they turn a corner. "My glove, I dropped my glove. I need it to ride," she says for the benefit of the men. "Luke, bring the dragons around to the courtyard. I'll meet you there."
"What? No. Let's go Baela."
She switches to Valyrian. "Bring the dragons and stay between the structures. Now. If I'm not waiting for you, come and get me. With your sword drawn."
"Are you insane?"
"He's going to attack us, I think. I need to find out. I have a plan. Well, I have two plans, but we have to do this right now. Go!" She runs before the garrison can stop her, but she doesn't think they'll try. She slows as soon as she's in earshot.
No one closed the door as they left, so the voice of one of the Four Storms gusts down the corridor. "Was it one of your eyes he took, or one of your balls? If your brother is anything like you, I am so glad you chose my sister. I want a husband with all his parts."
Aemond's response drowns out the boom from the thunder. "Lord Borros, I ask for leave to pursue the usurpers!"
"It is not for me to tell you what to do when you are not beneath my roof," Lord Borros answers.
She hears someone running. Running toward the exit nearest Vhagar. She sprints back into the Hall just as he reaches the other exit. "Aemond!" she yells.
He whips around.
Lord Borros stands. "I said to leave!"
"We're not finished here!" she yells in High Valyrian. "Can you even understand?" she asks, trying to sound desperate rather than challenging.
"Of course," he answers. Intrigued rather than enraged. Despite her participation, she is clearly not the object of his ire. "But where is your guard pup?"
"I sent him away. We have unfinished business."
"Regarding?"
"I need know, I need know now. What are your plans for me? For my sister?"
He was not expecting that question. She did not even know what he would be expecting. He crosses his arms an appraises her. "Worry not, dear cousin. I saved you from the clutches of Tyland Lannister. Although… with this marriage, I no longer know how your future is to play out."
"What are they going on about?" Lord Borros demands. They ignore him, and the Maester is no longer there to help.
"Unconsummated. Both of them."
"You're a maiden?" he exclaims. He rises on his toes just the lightest amount.
"I did not say that."
She knew from that look in his eyes when he charged across the room — he will not go home without a prize. And Baela alive is far more valuable than Luke dead. Despite how hurt his ego is, Aemond clearly knows that as well.
The violent hunger turns to political hunger.
She asks again. "What is your plan, Aemond? I'm tired of no one telling me what my fate is! I have no idea whom I'm betrothed to from day to day."
He approaches her, curious. "You are the heir to Driftmark, by all rights. We will make you an appropriate match."
"My Grandsire will never allow it."
He's confused about her intentions, to be sure. But she can see him weighing his options. Appraising the men, and anticipating how they might react. He needs her.
She steps towards him as well, pressing further. "Tell me whom I'm betrothed to."
"You were to be wed to the heir to the Hightower, possibly…"
He needs a prize. His ego needs a prize, one his council will not curse him for.
Consideration shifts to resolution. He's made a decision. "Lord Borros. Would you please have someone see Lady Baela to her quarters? I'm certain she's exhausted from her journey."
Lord Borros had not a clue of what they were speaking of, and for all he knew they had reached an agreement. He sighs and nods to one of his men.
Baela balls her fists and projects her voice. "If you help him seize me, my father will burn this castle to the ground!"
Everyone believes her. Everyone freezes.
Except for Aemond, who's clearly confused and annoyed with her games. "I hope you know they will not touch me for the same reason. These men are irrelevant." He steps forward once more.
She steps back. "I would sooner feed myself to Caraxes than wed a Hightower," she says in Common. "My father would do it himself."
Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. Make him angry make him angry. How did I make him angry before? Mother? Eye? Dragon? Cock? It was much easier when the situation was not so urgent.
Aemond helps her out. "Have you ever met an obstacle you couldn't overcome by saying 'my father'?"
Fathers.
She shifts back to Valyian; she will gain nothing by the men overhearing her taunts. "At least I have a father who cares. What did yours do when you lost that eye? Scold you? You know what he said to Rhaenyra the night before the dinner? What he called her? He called her, "My only child." Is that why you so needed a dragon, to replace your father's love? Is that why you're so obsessed with trying to become my father? Because you know that the King had far more love for his brother than he ever spared for you?"
He is no longer confused or annoyed. He seethes, too angry to move.
She pushes on. "Do you want to know why? Why he loved Rhaenyra and my father whilst never sparing a thought for you? Because he didn't love your mother. He did not care about her. She was simply someone to warm his bed. Little better than a common whore. In his eyes, you were no more than a bastard."
Baela's never seen a dragon gutted before. And she still hasn't. Because Aemond is not a dragon, he's a fucking viper.
An angry viper.
He looks to the men, accepting that they'll never help him, but realizing that they won't stop him either. Not with Vhagar outside. There are but ten paces left between them. He starts to close the distance. Some men attempt to come between them, but Vhagar lets out a warning roar, and they step back.
Typical stormlanders.
Baela backs up. "Don't even think about it. My father—"
As she'd hoped, he neglects to shift back to Valyrian. "Your father isn't here. All of you, doing as you please, knowing no one would dare cross you with the King and the Rogue Prince in your corner. This ends now." He continues to back her around the room. Everyone else continues to be useless stormlanders.
Baela is no Alicent. Her father didn't just cut down her obstacles for her, he taught her how to cut them down. More importantly, when to cut them down.
I care not what nonsense the Greens pull. If they try to start something in the air, do not engage. Dragons are for killing from above, at a distance. You want an up close and personal fight? Run them through with a sword.
They cannot take him on dragonback. Regardless, no one should fight anyone on dragonback.
"Luke, what kind of sword does Aemond train with?" she had asked.
"Why?"
"Is it smaller than Blackfyre?"
"Definitely."
He didn't bring it for a fight; he brought it for ornamentation. He's not trained with the sword he wears. It's larger and heavier than what he is used to. He's not prepared for a swordfight.
But Baela is.
Dark Sister was made for a woman. When she wasn't training with Dark Sister she was training with similar swords. She knows how to use it. She has never beaten her father in full, that is true. And Aemond has beat Cole. But…
He trained under Cole. Cole beat Father. But Father got cocky. Father likely improved between then and instructing me. Cole played at fairytale knight in King's Landing, whilst Father fought in and commanded in a war. Cole was in some skirmishes, but only before the Kingsguard. Since then, who has he trained with, who has he learned from? Tourney knights? People in the capital? Father both trained and trained with thousands. War. He travelled the world. He does not waste hours a day pretending to stand guard, he is always active, always learning. Always teaching. Teaching me.
A protege of the Rogue Prince can take a protege of Cole, mayhaps. I can take him.
He makes his first lunge and tries to grab her arm. She barely dodges it.
Alright, probably not. He's pretty terrifying.
But it matters not, because Luke arrives on schedule. And no one will protest a two-on-one between a boy of four-and-ten, a young girl, and the grown man trying to abduct her. I'll have to do the killing blow though. Hopefully, cousin is distant enough to avoid the kinslaying moniker.
Luke takes in the men backed toward the walls, and Aemond making yet another attempt to grab her. He draws his blade. "Get away from her!"
No one stops him. No one wants any part in this. No one even yells, 'Not in my hall!'
Baela scurries back to hide behind Luke. Draw, you mother f— nope.
He draws Blackfyre, finally. "Mayhaps you are not a craven, Lord Strong," he taunts. "It appears to are simply a fool."
"Make him angry," she whispers in Luke's ear.
"Uh…" like Baela, he apparently run through his insults earlier, and he actually looks around the room for inspiration. "That sword belongs to Jace!"
Fine.
He postures some more but does not attack. "Come and get it," Aemond dares him.
Not good enough. Fuck it, this is Aemond. It doesn't have to actually be funny, or original. "Call him a bastard because his mother is a whore," she whispers. "In Valyrian."
Luke improves it a bit in translation. "Uh… Then again, isn't Blackfyre a bastard sword? Mayhaps it is better suited to you. Since your mother was little more than Viserys's..." She had doubted Luke would actually be able to finish the word, but it does not matter. Aemond catches the intention.
He lunges. Finally.
Which means she can finally draw the sword she'd hidden beneath her shawl.
He stops as soon as he recognizes Dark Sister. And she realizes her mistake: she wouldn't have it, wouldn't know how to use it, if the Rogue Prince had not trained her himself. He pulls back from his lunge and holds his sword in a defensive manner. Something is off with his sword hand, she can see. And he quickly switches to a two-hand grip. But not fast enough. None of them are fast enough to hide what they should.
Baela sees that he's injured. And Aemond sees he's in a trap.
Aemond backs away. "Such a pretty face. It would be a shame. And no man is as accursed as the kinslayer. I will spare your lives this once."
Their audience lets out a collective breath. Aemond turns to the most nervous among them. "Lord Borros. As your rightful King, I respectfully request you have these two removed."
That much, Lord Borros would do. And he does, promptly. But not before Luke also notices what Aemond was trying to hide. "Something wrong with your hand?" he probes as they're led away.
"Apparently, no one ever taught your mother not to bite the hand that feeds her," he snaps.
They exchange confused, uncomfortable looks, as they're escorted from the hall.
Luke shouts in Valyrian as he leads her out the door. "What the fuck was that, Baela?"
They start running when they see the dragons — the nervous dragons, and her voice comes out as a pant. "He was going to chase us, I heard him. I thought it best to settle it on the ground."
"He's never going to settle anything on the ground while he has that flying mountain." He switches to Common once the men leave them. He looks around, trying to spot Vhagar, but there's too much mist.
"Fuck," Baela says. "I know, I was desperate. You didn't hear him earlier." They reach the dragons. "Luke listen! Plan number two! There's a Sept inside the Keep. If we fly between the structures Vhagar will not reach us. We can ask for sanctuary."
Luke is already trying to calm Arrax for departure. "What! We were just excised, Baela!"
"From the keep, not from the sept. We're emissaries being targeted. If we beg sanctuary the septon will have to accept. Even if he doesn't… we know the dragons won't go hungry. Also, tiny dragons fit, big dragon doesn't. And Aemond is a pious twat." Moondancer nods; she thinks Arrax might too.
"And then what?" he demands. He's already mounting.
"We can wait out the storm, let the dragons rest, possibly snack on a Septon, and then outpace him. Or have the Septon summon Father to escort us. Aemond won't fuck with him without help."
"Your great plan was to beg for mercy, then have your father come pick us up?"
"Second plan!"
Luke finishes securing himself and finally looks back at her. "No. We cannot Baela. Absolutely not."
She mounts as well. "So what then?"
"He needs you, he won't risk killing you. We split up and get above the clouds."
"Luke, we cannot ride right now. You're shaking. Arax is shaking. We're all shaking! We need to ask for sanctuary! If you cannot control your fear, do not engage."
"More like control your fear, or we all die! We are already engaged! He decided to engage the moment he saw us. I'm in control. Don't worry, if he goes after anyone, it will be me."
"Not a good argument!" she calls.
But he's already launched. "No, no, no, no, no…. Fuck. Luke!"
Why is he so afraid to be afraid? It's worse than being afraid!
She thinks she hears Vhagar, but she cannot tell. Her voice is as strong as the storm. She takes off, and her hands soon go cold.
Fuck, I actually did forget my gloves.
She flies into the storm, or into Vhagar. She cannot tell one from the other.