BAELA

You sound like your father.

Baela does not stay in the castle; instead, she continues through to the Dragonmont. She does not seek out dragons. She seeks out her own kind.

"They will try, Baela! Why do you think Rhaenyra wanted you to have no part in this? Do you wish to join her in captivity?"

Mayhaps Father made a habit of eruptions similar to his one the other day. The one where, Baela now realizes, he was physically holding himself back because he was afraid of what he'd do. She wonders if she looked the way Father did when he ripped Rhaena from Sea Smoke. She dares not ask Rhaena, though. She wonders if she looked like Father when she had her hands around that stupid pretender boy's neck, choking the life from everything she touches like her kindred ember of the fourteen fucking fires.

Her body does not move the way it should, so it takes longer than it usually does to reach the hissing field. She knows she is in pain, she can almost feel it, but it brings her peace to focus on that pain rather than the one within. Still, she is not stupid enough to attempt any of the chasms in her state. She is not her father.

Not yet.

She should not be here in her state, but she could not stay in the castle. She could barely tolerate walking through the castle. Baela used to love walking behind her father. Especially in Westeros, but even to an extent in Essos, everyone would make way. Not in the customary manner one gives way to someone of high station, but the way a man steps aside for a dragon. He could clear a path through any crowd with only the power of fear and awe.

And now those same crowds part for Baela.

At first, she wondered if it was sympathy for her grief, concern for her obvious injuries she'd yet to address, or respect for her new station. But the more people she passed, the more clear it became that word had spread. People lower their eyes out of both respect and fear, but she knows enough from walking behind him all these years that those eyes would follow her once she passed them.

So do the whispers. And from those whispers, she picks out the same words again and again: Blackfyre, Dark Sister, Vhagar, and jumped.

The worst one by far, she hears in every possible tone. "Her father's daughter."

"She even used his sword," she hears multiple times.

Several people stop her to ask if she jumped with Dark Sister drawn and pointed at Aemond.

"Of course not! That is not a feasible strategy." To his ever-diminishing credit, Father did teach her not to jump with sharp objects. But for all she knew, he gave the boys secret night lessons where there all jumped around on their beds with knives pointed at each other.

No, not that far. He simply wouldn't correct them. He would tell me to hold back because he thought I was like him and wanted better for me. But the others… to be better, they first must be like him.

Daemon Targaryen does not want children. He wants walking reflections.

That's why I'm his favourite.

She already knows her actions will only further elevate her father. She wonders if Luke's will as well. She knows that Luke would care. Luke cared about what her father cared about.

Do you know how it makes me look, for my own stepsons to make such an embarrassment out of themselves in combat?

She wonders how her father now feels Luke's actions reflect him. Would he call him brave, or stupid? Already their visitors had an answer. "Brave little boy, trying to save his sister," she heard before turning a corner.

She wishes he were alive so she could be angry with him. Her life was forfeit; she had to be there. Luke had put himself back in danger for no reason. Put himself in danger for h—

She wonders if Father would have done so on such a tiny dragon.

No, she knows immediately. He would have done the same thing Rhaenyra would do, she was certain. They would fly by and tell them to land so they could make a deal on the ground. Rhaenyra would likely yell at her to first buckle herself in and put the sword away though. But he never told them that. He just did. He did crazy shit all the time. He never told Luke when and how to be like him, because Luke was not always like him. So he only said "be like me."

We should have landed, she realizes. But she did not trust Aemond in the moment. Neither did Luke. But the Pretender was so scared, he probably wouldn't have pushed it. She just didn't realize it then.

She reaches the rockface and takes the easy path that follows the veins of dragonglass.

Then again, she was pretty sure she took his manhood long before she took his sword. Mayhaps he would still insist on a trophy, but she and Rhaenyra would make great cellmates, she was certain. They could even synchronize dragon-week and send the Hightowers running from the city, mayhaps. Regardless, Luke would be alive.

So. Fucking. Stupid. It's hard to think rationally when you're jumping through dragonfire and fighting on dragonback, but still. Aside from her death, which she'd thought inevitable, being taken had been her worst possible fate. Her fate. Hers. She had not thought about how those flames could burn those around her.

Her father's daughter indeed.

Rhaenyra had been like Father once, people had told her. When Baela asked her what had happened she said, "I grew up."

"Why didn't Father?"

"He didn't have to."

"Why not?"

"Because it's different, Baela."

"How?"

"It just is."

Rhaenyra might have been like me, like him. Except her father always told her no, whilst mine told me yes. And eventually, she had to learn to tell herself no.

"Worry not," Father had assured her when she confronted him. "It will not be the same for you. You do whatever you like Baela. Should someone give you trouble, I'll just kill them. Until you grow up, that is." And then he'd raised that finger at her. "I expect you to start taking responsibility one day. Kill some of the people who annoy you, and probably Jace, that boy is soft, yourself," he'd said as they'd traipsed this very path.

She summits the steepest part of the path and listens for the cautionary rumble before continuing. She takes care to avoid the ponds of bubbling mud.

She had certainly grown up in a way to make him proud. That face he made in the Chamber, the one even he knew enough to hide. Of course he was proud. Nothing Baela did was simply her own. She was forever connected to him and his fire, so deep below mayhaps it could never be severed.

"Fuck!" She jumps. She'd lost attention to her surroundings and dodges a sizzling crack in the earth at the last moment.

Same fire, different vents. Except Father had no vent, unless Rhaenyra, or once, her mother, decided to channel his flames through themselves. Otherwise, if he wasn't smart enough to run away, he would stand there useless like a mountain, or burn. Burn everything he touches.

Just like Baela.

The sun falls to the horizon, and Baela turns back to head to the pyre.

Time to face what we've done.

She is not the last to arrive, of course. No, when she arrives they are still waiting for Father. The crowd parts for her even wider than before. Joffrey and Tyraxes stand ready to light the pyre, and both look away when she approaches.

She finds Rhaena, Ser Lorent, and Ser Steffon carefully arranging an effigy amongst the tinder. "Lykāpas perzot?"

Rhaena nods.

"A good idea. The execution could use work though."

"We're not exactly artists."

"We?"

"Father and I."

"Oh, that makes sense. Same fire, same burns." Or is it different?

It's different, Baela.

How?

It just is!

"Where is Father?"

"Baela…" Rhaena casts a concerned look to their grandparents who have joined the crowd. They are careful to keep Rhaena as a buffer.

The sun falls closer and closer to the horizon, and Baela wonders if mayhaps Father was wise enough to skip the ceremony. But before she can grant him too much credit, Caraxes emerges from the sky and lands just beyond the crowd. Her father dismounts and heads toward them. The crowd parts for him, but they do not make as much space as they did for Baela.

Interesting.

There's something off about the slow way he moves, the way he looks at what's in front of him, like he is not completely here. She would not put it past her father to arrive drunk, but her Grandsire has known her father for longer.

"For fucks sake," Grandsire moans. "Not again. Does that man never learn? And today of all days?"

"What do you mean?" Rhaena asks.

"A man with your father's disposition has no business playing with glass candles. I told both him and Laenor a thousand times after they found those stupid toys. I swear they kept at it out of spite."

Something in his words piques Rhaena's interest, or more likely, concern. She leaves Baela's side to intercept Father and lead him to the other side of the pyre. Baela eavesdrops on their Valyrian whispers out of habit but does not take much interest. She does not take much interest in anything. She wonders if she ever will again.

"You do not understand, Rhaena. Not even he knows."

The priest gives Joffrey the signal. He chokes on his words. They wait as he takes some deep breaths.

"Beyond… As in the shadowlands?"

"If only. As in someone fancies themselves the next Elissa Farmon. He did say he wanted to see the world, I suppose."

"Fuck," Rhaena breaks into Common.

"The moon could turn several times over. We need a different plan."

"Father, we need to start planning for a longer timeline than the one you've limited us to."

"No."

"Her life is safe for now. I think it's time to accept that certain adversities might be inevitable."

"I promised her, Rhaena. I pr—"

"D-Dracarys," Joffrey stutters.

As the sun falls lower, people start to move and whisper. But they do not move and whisper close to Baela. Some even opt to stand closer to her father to avoid being too close to her. Caraxes still sulks behind the crowd. People seem less afraid to catch even his eye than Baela's. She wonders how much her outbursts play into it versus last night's events.

She studies the flames until her eyes burn. She refuses to invite anyone with her body language.

Unfortunately, Father has never been the type to need an invitation. He makes his way over to stand by her side. Still, she does not turn away from the fire. She does not need to. She already knows that they are indeed standing where Jace and her father stood that night.

Every time she pictures it, and she cannot help but picture it, Jace moves closer and closer and closer, until he is barely in sight, and only Father's hand remains. Which then becomes her hand. And it is no longer Jace's neck she holds, it is Aemond's. That stupid little boy that she will kill one day — but that was not the right moment, and that was not the right way. The right way does not get Luke killed.

Father is absolutely oblivious. Or indifferent. Difficult to tell sometimes.

To be fair, she does warn him. "I do not feel like looking into a mirror right now, Father. I look terrible," she says. It does not matter which one of them is the mirror, she decides.

"Baela," he tries. "Later, when you're ready—"

"Take it up with Lord Beesbury. He has the notes."

"What?"

"I do not want to talk about it."

He nods. "Alright. But just know that—"

"Don't you dare say you are proud of me. Proud. Of course you are. I wonder what calamity your pride will lead us into next."

"We can do this later," he says, which in Father-speak means never. "Your sister needs you now more than ever, Tala. Pretend as she might, she grieves. She needs—"

"We needed you, Father. We needed you here. And you were here. But that was even worse than you not being here."

"Baela," he says in a gentle version of that tone which means he decides where the conversation goes. And then he says those generic words in that perfunctory way so he does not have to meaningfully engage with his emotional daughter. "There is nothing you could have done. It wasn't your fault."

She still does not turn from the flames. She grants him only her peripheral vision. "You may be right. We went to your empty room first, you know. The night of the funeral. Had you discovered him before anyone else knew… you actually would have been useful for a change. But you just couldn't wait. Then again, without Aegon's secret month for practice, we might not be the great liars that we are now."

Rather than engage with her insinuation, Father looks nervously around to ensure no one else heard her. "Baela," he warns in a whisper. "We need to be cautious."

"Cautious," she scoffs. "When have you ever cared about caution? Would you have gone in?"

"What?"

"Storm's End. Would you have gone into Storm's End with Vhagar outside and Aemond inside? I'm curious."

"Baela, do not torture yourself with questions…"

"No," she turns away from the flames to face him. "Would you have gone in?"

Likely relieved to have her full attention, he actually considers. "Probably. Although I think Lord Borros would object to the mess."

Of course. "Let me make this simpler. Would you have told Luke to go in?"

"No," he admits. "I would have told him to go home."

"So why did he go in?"

"Baela."

"Why."

It's his turn to look into the fire. "I suppose he thought… he was protected by a code."

"Do you know what he said, before we went in?"

He's still refusing to look her in the eye, and he shifts uncomfortably. Not because he realizes what's coming, no, that would require self-awareness, but because she's emotional. And that's enough. It's just enough to push her. It's fuels her just enough to ignite, to speak those words that she knows will bring the rest.

She turns her whole body to him. She twists into his vision so she comes between him and the fire, so she knows he will hear what she says. And then she repeats those words that have followed her from Storm's End. "He said, 'Imagine me going home to Daemon, the day I married his daughter, and telling him 'sorry, I got scared and ran away like a little girl.'"

As usual, Father turns to stone. But Father is a dragon with two heads, and both are present for this funeral.

Caraxes whines.

Now that she knows she has his attention, she continues. "And I said, no, that you would not judge him. That you would understand. But then your words came out of his mouth. So I thought, hmm… mayhaps not then."

"Baela," he says in a way that clearly means calm down.

"I'm fine. I'm fine." She takes a few deep breaths. No tears spill over at the least. She takes another breath, and projects her voice. "Would anyone like to know Luke's last words?"

People finally turn to look at her. Some even draw closer. She pays them little mind, and turns back to Father. "Oh, wait. I don't actually know. Because half the words he said last night were not his words — they were your words. His mouth, your words. My hands, your fire. Mayhaps I am connected to you. Your fire flows through me. And out, out to burn everything we touch. When you cannot reach something or someone, now you have me. But be careful about using the others. They are mere dragons, and even dragons perished in the Doom. Mayhaps they do carry your flames, but it burns them just as well. It certainly burned Luke. At least, I wish it literally burned. I wish he had burned. Then I need not wonder, need not hope, that he died instantly, rather than wait to die inside Vhagar. Which is what I told Joffrey. Where were you, by the way?"

"What?" The last bit of fog leaves his eyes and is replaced with genuine confusion.

"Did you hear, about Joffrey?" She looks over to Joffrey, who still refuses to look at her. "You do not even know what's happened? Joffrey, tell Father what happened! Tell him what you did! Tell him why!"

Joffrey starts crying again. Apparently, he too is a mere dragon.

She turns back to her father. "It matters not. What matters, is that he got on his stupid little dragon thinking something you told him. And when I got him down, because you disappeared, because that is what you always do in hard times, the first words out of his mouth were 'Father once said.' The worst part is, I did not even ask what he meant. I did not need to. You probably say at least one thing a day that Joffrey would be able to use."

Father looks like he's a second away from consoling a crying child to avoid this conversation. He even turns and leans toward Joffrey, but she prowls around him, blocking his every attempt to escape. "What would you even have done, had you been here? Screamed at him, like I did? Stand there, uselessly, like you do now? Or would you strangle him? Pull his arm from his socket? There's no Rhaenyra here to break your arm this time, after all."

"Baela," Grandmother of all people scolds her. "This is not the time or place. Have some respect for Luke's memory."

"He…" her Grandsire tries but then has to restart. "He died bravely."

She turns on Grandsire for just a moment. "He put himself in a situation he was not ready for, and he died for it!" She turns back to her father, who'd tried to slip away whilst thinking her distracted. "He was just a boy, Father. You tried to touch him with your fire, thinking it would spread to him, and he burned for it. Is that what you did with Jace? But he didn't take it, did he? No. It burned him. You burned him. You choked him with your cloud of ash and soot and bullshit. You choked him. I choked him, and it did nothing!"

"Baela," Rhaena tries, looking around nervously. "This is not the time, nor the place, nor the language."

She ignores the not-so-subtle hint to at least switch languages. "The difference is that I stopped. You kept going. You always keep going. You're always going unless you're standing there useless. You're either going away, to be useless, or going. Going, Going. Erupting. Destroying. Wondering why no one but me is like you. But you know why Rhaenyra is not like you. That's why you were always telling me to be smart and to watch my eruptions, whilst trying to set the boys aflame. Telling me not to be you all the time, which, I will credit you, is for the best. But telling the boys to be you. And Luke died for it!" It's only the pain in her throat that tells her she's screaming by the end. She does not know when she started.

Father had been watching her like she was speaking nonsense and was afraid for her sanity, which, fair. But she knows he gets the message because Caraxes whines again.

"Baela," says Grandsire. Grandsire. "That is enough. I know that it's tempting to place blame —"

She keeps screaming. "I do not need to place it! It has always been there! Luke wouldn't have died if he hadn't had Father's voice running through his head."

Everyone gapes. Some step back, and Father tries to be among them, but she blocks his way once more.

Her throat is raw from the smoke and screams, so she lowers her tone to give it a break. But she does not soften it. "You are the only grown, healthy Targaryen man; you have been for years. You set the example. You have always set the example. And gods be damned have you set an example. We wouldn't have to worry about Aemond trying be you if trying to be you wasn't so terrifying. So dangerous."

"Baela," Father grits, otherwise refusing to move his face. "I have spent so little time with Aemond throughout his life. You will not attribute his actions to me. Whatever poison t—"

Any attempt at a lower tone burn away. Burn away into screams. "You are the poison. How can you not see that? You destroy everything you touch, you hurt everyone close to you. Everything you do fires back at us. Not you, us. Having your love is far more dangerous than your hatred. The Greens are all alive are they not?"

"Not for long," he promises.

"Of course," she rolls her eyes. "You beheaded Vaemond in the throne room days ago. You decided you wanted a reputation that made everyone fear you would kill them, and congratulations, you got it. And the Hightowers are certainly using it!"

She has to admit, Father made an admirable attempt at his stone face. Had she not been cursed with the same fire as him, he might have been able to remain like that. Instead, Father decides on his other tried and true method: leaving. He takes a step back and pivots halfway around before she grabs his arm. Out of habit her grip moves down to his hand.

She digs in her talons and uses her scary voice. Or rather, Father's scary voice. "Do not turn away when I talk to you. We have enemies at all sides, there's nowhere left for you to turn; your mistakes lie everywhere! Your seeds, that you've sown, and now we all reap the rewards. What else does that note prove? You antagonized every Hightower to the point where they're probably enjoying whatever they're doing to Rhaenyra. Whatever happens to her, it is likely for your benefit."

Be it from words or talons, he actually flinches. Several people tell her to stop, she thinks. Someone possibly shouts.

She pays them no mind. "You know that already, though. But that's not the only reason you've been so insistent on freeing her as quickly and possibly as recklessly as possible. Rhaena is right, her life is safer than any of ours, this pyre proves that, at the very least!" She points to the flaming effigy with her free arm, which seems to have found a second life now that the silk wrap has burned through.

Father does not follow her gesture, he simply stands there. Like always.

She'd been screaming again, and she takes a breath to preserve her voice. She has more ground to cover, after all. "No… it's not just concern for her well-being. You acted rashly, and refused to consider long-term plans, because your pride cannot accept the idea of you not being able to stop someone from laying hands on your woman. You would rather die than admit that you cannot protect your wife. I bet you were planning on carrying her out in your own arms."

Barely, just barely, that face does move. She's right. Caraxes grows ever restless, but people do not move towards her to move away from him. Interesting.

She decides to be generous. She even removed her claws. "Or perhaps you did have good reasons. Maybe you did have good contingencies, and your pride simply prevented you from sitting down and explaining yourself. Because to win my grandparents over, you'd have to explain quite a lot, wouldn't you? And that is simply not something you're willing to do."

"Baela!" Rhaena insists. "Not. Here."

But she knows if not here then never. Father is trapped, and she does not know when he will be again. "What was it that Rhaenyra said? The reason you were disinherited in the first place. The reason she became heir, and is now both a queen and a prisoner. You refuse to explain yourself, because you're just too proud to admit other people's opinions of you matter. Well, congratulations. No one would ever look at the way you act and think you cared about how anyone thinks or feels."

He says nothing. He just stands there. He just stands there. But Caraxes is doing the dragon equivalent of pacing.

She realizes no response will come unless she demands it. "Are you going to say something? Do something? Which one of those times is it, I need to know. I'm sore already, is all. In fact, I think one of my shoulders might have already dislocated! So, no need for that move! So which one of those times is it going to be? Are you going to stand there? Or strangle me?"

Mayhaps both? But he still. Does. Not. Move. He does nothing. She'd have better luck yelling at a mountain.

But Father is a special kind of mountain, she knows that now. Does anyone else? "Do… do I need to step back? Give me a warning, and I'll step back. Excuse me everyone! Everyone step back! Do mind the volcano. He's either about to erupt or do nothing!"

They already were. They already had. There is a bubble of space around them. But the most space is not around Father, no, it is around her. People shift to stand behind her father, to put him between them and her. Him!

He still does nothing. Why does he do nothing?

"Either way, everyone stand back! He's either about to blow, or about to be useless! Either way, someone is about to die!"

Caraxes wails. Rhaena is crying. But he does nothing. He won't even look her in the eye. He never looks true emotion in the eye. No one is more useless when they feel useless than Father is.

She takes a break from rage in favour of scorn. "Useless. You couldn't even look at your dying brother. That was the last time you saw him, you could barely even look him in the eye."

He looks down. It's not much, but it's something.

"Mother warned me, she did. She was scared I would turn into you. But I suppose it was inevitable. Once a volcano, always a volcano. But you know what she said? She said that you can put everything away in the moment, you can burn hot and bright and glorious. But then you let it grow and grow and grow. No vents, no geysers, no hot springs. Nothing useful. You do nothing, and then you explode. You explode on us." The screams have returned to burn her throat.

She does start to wonder why no one else has stepped in after their family tried and failed. The Queensguard, at the very least? But then she does see Ser Lorent comforting an upset Ser Steffon, and remembers that he blames himself for encouraging Father to provoke Cole. Ooops. But it's for the best. They likely know Father would not want them to interfere, anyway.

He still does not look at her.

She sheds the screams before they burn away her throat. "You missed my wedding because Rhaena had to put you down. Do you know what I thought at my wedding? For just one moment I thought, 'I wish my father were here,' and then I thought better of it. Because how could I in good conscious wish for the presence of the man who strangled my husband of five-and-ten just the night before? You know, one of the reasons Rhaena had to put you down."

"Baela!" Rhaena cries. She ignores her. But she sees the looks some people exchange, the information came through. Although, no one seems surprised.

She needs a break. She takes a breath and takes in the scenery. Then she turns back to him. "When we first came to Dragonstone, I thought I saw you coming alive. Like… you were a dragon that had turned to stone, and the fires of the dragonmont revived you. If only they'd let things be."

Grandmother actually puts herself between them and starts to lead her away. But she is not her father anymore. She does not violently lash out. She simply slips out of her arms and walks to the other side of her father. He won't even look at her. He cannot leave. There are too many people, and he knows that she'll stop him if he tries again. And if he cannot run that leaves two options. Baela wonders which one he will take.

"You cannot run!" She looks around the crowd. "So what's it going to be? Stone, or fire? Are you going to stand there uselessly, like when Mother died?"

She has him. The stone actually moves. To step back.

"Or are you going to erupt on the nearest target, like with Jace? Should I guard my throat? My arm?"

Caraxes flaps and whines like a caged bird. But he does not take off.

Her throat burns again. "What is it, Father? Turn to stone, or explode? Pick one!"

He actually does take another step back. So does everyone else.

"Do you remember that morning, when we were summoned to Mother's smoking bones? Do you remember what you did? Do you? I am curious. Is it possible to remember doing nothing? Because that's what you did. You just stood there. And I thought, 'wow, that might be the worst fatherly reaction at a pyre I've ever seen.'"

He actually tries to turn away again. He actually tries to leave. But she grabs his hand and digs her claw in once more, daring him to push her off. She pulls him back to face her. "But it wasn't, was it? You just had to outdo yourself. You always have to outdo yourself!"

People are talking all around her now, asking each other if they should stop what's happening. But no one wants to intervene in a dragonfight. She learned that much last night.

He just stands there. Useless.

"I used to wish you were not the type to just stand there, useless. Had I known the alternative, I would have appreciated it more. Had I known what you trying was, I never would have wished for you to try. So just stand there, silent. We all are better off for it."

And he does. Which is the last thing she wants.

Screams are not adequate; she roars. "Say something! Do something! Do anything! Oh, oh way, let me stand back first!" She lets go of his hand and stands back.

Caraxes roars back, but her father does nothing.

He does nothing.

But he does not leave.

She cools her tone once more. Her words alone should burn, no need to burn herself with him. "Mother was wrong… Do you remember? When your spirit had withered away because you'd been away from the fight for too long? Mother said that you were more than this."

He narrows his eyes and actually opens his mouth. "H-how do you even.."

"I was eavesdropping! I eavesdrop. That's what I do. What you taught me to do!"

He knows what's coming. He knows it, and he cannot leave. But Caraxes does. Caraxes wants no part in this. Caraxes takes off.

She lets him hold that dread for a moment, just a moment. And then she goes in for the kill. "Mother was wrong; you are not more than this. This is all that you are. You do nothing, or your burn everyone you touch. Everyone you love, everyone who loves you. You are no more than that."

He recovers his mask exceptionally fast, she'll give him that. But not fast enough. Even mountains crumble eventually.

She turns around and walks through the crowd. Almost half the people within earshot have their hands over their open mouths like imbeciles. They part faster for her than they did for Caraxes. Without her own words roaring in her ears, she can make out voices again. "Which description takes precedence?" someone asks. "Was that first a King-slaying, or a kin-slaying?"

"I am never having children," one man declares.

Girl or no, you apparently cannot do a midair dragon jump and pummel a pretender king without earning a reputation and you definitely cannot destroy a second King in the same day without earning a reputation. That much becomes clear just from her return to the castle.

Baela had seen how people would give Father his space, especially when he was angry. Clear a path for the dragon, cower in the corner if you cannot. But she had just taken down, and taken apart, both dragon kings who claw for the realm. People do not step aside for Baela, they scurry like mice. She could see how years of this could embolden her father.

I will follow his path to the Doom no longer.

Before anyone can stop her, she makes for the kitchens, then Rhaenyra's room, and then her own. Fortunately, she's barely unpacked. Unfortunately, the only riding suit she'd brought with her was ruined, and she did not want to return to Driftmark, so she has to again settle for Rhaenyra's old suit that doesn't quite fit right. She first tries to put Blackfyre into her belt, but it is too long for her comfort, so she settles for bundling it and stealing one of the smaller swords from the armoury for herself.

Rhaena is waiting for her in Moondancer's lair. Because of course, she is. "What are you doing?" she demands, like it isn't clear.

She starts loading her supplies onto poor Moondancer. "I'm leaving."

"Where?"

"North. The Vale. Winterfell. Wherever Jace is, I suppose. He deserves to hear it from me."

"Baela, you should be with your family," Rhaena pleads. She's still crying.

"My husband is my family, is he not?" Shit. She turns to Rhaena, the widow of five-and-ten. "Sorry."

"Baela, you cannot leave after saying those things befor—"

"Before? Before what, Rhaena? What are you suggesting I do?"

She does not dare outright suggest an apology, at least. "Baela, we're at war. Anytime you leave someone could be the last time you see them."

"That's the idea." She double-checks that her bag is secured, then adds the Blackfyre bundle.

"You don't mean that."

"Yes, I do." She decides to unbundle Blackfyre, tie a rope around the hilt and attach it to the saddle, and rebundle it. Just to be safe. How embarrassing would it be to drop it off her dragon after just stealing it off a dragon?

"Baela, I don't mean to sound overly impersonal, but we do have a dragonrider shortage. You cannot go rogue right now."

"I'm not going rogue. I'm going… anti-rogue. Which is a little hard when going home means going home to the Rogue Prince, but I'll work something out, alright? I'm not leaving you. I'm leaving him."

I'm leaving me.

She sighs and looks up to her sister. "I'll send a raven when I find him. I'll… send him back in my stead. Mayhaps his presence will calm Father down, or at least diminish his influence."

"And you?"

"I can be diplomatic."

Rhaena does not even try to respond. She simply crosses her arms.

"Alright, well, I can try to be. I'm embracing new interests. Talking to people rationally…" Hmm… what else does Father hate? "Mayhaps herding some sheep?"

It is clear Rhaena sees right through her, but she offers no more objections. She can hardly point to Baela's safety. So she sighs. "Just… promise me that once you land, you'll have a Maester look at you? And give yourself and Moondancer some rest. And cut your hair, Baela."

"Yes to everything but the last part." She'd examined her hair long enough to determine that should she cut the scorched ends, it would be the same length as Father's. Not. Happening.

She leads Moondancer outside into the night. Rhaena sees her off. "I would try to hug you goodbye, but I'm a little afraid to touch you. You really should let a Maester look at you first. I think you're broken in a few places, Baela."

She mounts Moondancer and spares one reply before taking off into the stars. "Definitely."