Thanks to everyone who left a review. Special thanks to Oberon Sexton who left 11 of those.

Blood of Dragons, Grass of Red

Baelor

Despite his best efforts, he could no longer tell them apart – they merged into a single face with no definede features at all, a single defeated voice begging forgiveness and unsuccessfully trying to hide the fear that it might not get it, and then the primal relief at hearing that he would keep his head. A moment later, the horror and anger at learning that he'd have to give a hostage to the Crown. Again and again… Even at the battlefield Baelor had not grasped the real size of the damage so clearly. There were so many of those who had taken the path of separation and bloodshed – but they were the Iron Throne's subjects, as well. Baelor and the rest had to live with them.

"I wonder whether Daemon realized how easy it is to burn bridges and how hard – to build them once again," he murmured, so softly that only Maekar would hear him.

"Of course he didn't," his brother replied darkly. "Do you remember him ever thinking this far? He probably thought that once he won, he could buy those who stood against him with a smile. And now we're left to deal with the consequences."

Baelor suspected that Maekar had the right of it. For the last years, Daemon had become overweening enough to believe that he could charm those he had just impoverished… because his generosity to his own supporters relied on the spoils he imagined he would take when he won. Still, Maekar's voice was harsher than what was called for but Baelor couldn't blame him too much. They've been in the throne room for hours listening to one and the same plea with only slightly different wording.

"Just look at them," Maekar went on. "They can't believe they are left with something at all, their heads included. One comes to wonder what they would have done in our place."

"Well, it still would be no concern of ours," Baelor said reasonably.

"Shut up, you two," their father warned in low voice as the next supplicant stepped forward. Of course, Daeron had caught Baelor's meaning just as well as Maekar had: had Daemon won, spoils and pardons would have been decided over their entire family's graves. How could he be so calm and reasonable? Baelor would like to think he, too, would have been such a king under these circumstances but he wasn't the least bit sure.

Baelor sighed. Weariness washed over him like a huge crashing wave. He still hadn't had the time to rest for longer than the two days immediately after their arrival and it had started influencing his perceptions, including his judgment of proper behavior. Maekar was no better. And they were nowhere near done with the parade of contrite rebels.

He recognized the pasty face and that sour mouth under the now not so meticulously trimmed beard even before he heard the voice that had once ordered Aelinor to follow him out of her bedchamber, the huge hands that had bodily carried her out when she refused. To Baelor's ten-year-old mind, the thought of someone other than their parents or her septa laying hand on her had been something unfathomable. He remembered trying to pull her back and one of those same huge hands sending him flat against the railing.

Next to him, Maekar hissed his breath in but a moment later his face became impassive despite the short grinding of his teeth. In this short moment, Baelor realized that his brother had become five-year-old again, that was how much the lord had scared him. Of course, Maekar would never acknowledge this short moment of weakness.

"Well met, my lord," the King said evenly, as if Gormon Peake was a cherished guest instead of a defeated traitor. "It saddens me to see that despite my generosity regarding your previous… lapses you seem to have learned nothing."

Lord Peake's Adam's apple moved. "I was only following His Grace King Aegon's orders," he spat, then seemed to remember what position he was in and went on in a voice that betrayed both fear and helpless anger. "I didn't relish it in the least."

Daeron raised an eyebrow. "Yes, that's what you told me twelve years ago," he said. "I decided to believe you then. And then I found you in rebellion, my lord. What should I do with you now?"

All of a sudden, Baelor felt that little monster waking up to life, the monster that he had tried to lull to sleep all his life, since he had first realized just how many opportunities he had to satisfy its savage wishes. His father had forgiven Peake, forgiven all of those who had tried to thwart his accession – and they had been so quick to forget that Daeron had been in position to deprive them of anything had he so wished. Peake, specifically, seemed to have forgotten just how lucky he had been.

"Lord Peake's subsequent transgression erased any pardon you have given him, Your Grace," he said. "So we're back to where we started. King Aegon might have given you an order to assure that my sister was removed from her chamber but I doubt it included you actually laying hands upon her over her resistance," he added and paused. "Both hands. The same you used on me a little later, almost sending me over the railing to my death, I might add."

Now, he looked directly at the Master of Laws. "What was the punishment for raising one's hand against the royal blood, my lord?" he inquired, very careful not to look at Maekar. For some reason, his youngest brother quite liked it when Baelor displayed the family flair for vengeance. Probably because it doesn't happen all that often, he defended himself in his head. However, his defense didn't last too long – he could not deny that he felt a thrill of satisfaction as he saw the lord's expression when the Master of Laws confirmed that he should lose both hands that he had raised against Aelinor. For all Peake's bravery, there were some things that could not fail but instill a primary, wild fear. Later, the lord of Starpike might feel humiliated and shamed of his reaction but right now, even the fact that he had to surrender three of his four children as hostages compared to only one for most of the other rebels could only feel like mercy.

He was quite surprised to find out that Maekar seemed to share his thoughts.

"Now I know I prefer fighting them than looking at their disgusting crawling," his brother muttered as they were finally walking away from the throne room.

Baelor nodded in agreement and made another mark against war: it turned people into creatures that were mindless with fear. What had all those maesters who had praised victorious wars had been thinking? What had they know? The only people who should write about wars are those who lived them, he thought. But then, those who lived them would probably only want to forget them.

All he wanted was to return to the peace of Dragonstone. As much as he loved Summerhall, the home of his childhood, it was Dragonstone that he felt most happy – his own home, the place he had come into his own, become a man.

Well, right now I can do with some rest, he thought but the notion went out of his head as soon as they neared the wing he currently occupied and he heard Lyselle's screams all the way down.

"What happened?" he asked breathlessly as she shoved his way through the horror-stricken crowd filling the hallway in front of a closed door on the second floor.

"Open the door!" Lyselle screamed in the grasp of hysteria, her voice filled with panicky horror.

Baelor immediately realized what had happened. The damned bolt had stuck or had another malfunction and his wife had found herself in a locked room – something that in the best case scenario gave her nightmares for a few nights and in the worst case scenario freaked her out of her mind. As her so desired pregnancy neared the point she had lost all others but the first two at, her anxiety flared to no end. In this state, everything could get her nervous – and being in a locked chamber most of all. For a moment, he was petrified. Then, his mother's voice broke through his stupor.

"Break the bloody door down!" Myriah yelled at her sons. "Don't just stand there like this."

She's right. Lyselle's screams had faded into small whimpers, like a terrified animal. He leaned a shoulder against the door to find it too solid.

"Lyselle," Maekar yelled, standing directly in front of the door. "Step back. We're going to break the door down. Step back. Calm down. We will break the door down," he said again. "You know we can!"

Baelor had no idea whether the words had sunken it or whether his wife, in her panicked state, had even heard them, but her whimpers grew fainter which might mean that she had stepped back. He drew back, let Maekar steady him and kicked the door with all his might, so hard that he would have fallen on his back had it not been for Maekar's iron grip on his arms. A shower of wood rained over him when the door splintered and flew wide.

"Everyone go away," Myriah ordered from behind him. "Nothing happened. It's all fine now."

The crowd dispersed as he was entering the chamber. It was one of those they rarely used. The almost unfamiliar surroundings must have triggered her panic even more, he thought as he was approaching the place where she was leaning against the wall, her face white as sheet. Her fair hair had escaped the hair net, her lips were cracked and bitten. He held her tight and felt her clinging to him. "It's fine now, Lyselle," he said. "No one will lock you up ever again. It was just a stupid latch. Come here, now."

After a while, she calmed down enough to let him take her to her bedchamber where he stayed with her until her handmaidens brought her tea and water to wash her face. Soon, she fell asleep and woke up at dusk with her peace of mind restored, to give him a look of embarrassment. "I am sorry," she murmured.

"Don't be," he said. "It's nothing."

Lyselle looked down. "I don't want to lay you open to ridicule."

"You aren't," he assured her and took her hands in his own. Growing up with a brother like Rhaegel had grown him a thick skin when people gave him odd looks by association.

"I don't know what's wrong with me," she confided in a small, scared voice. "I couldn't open the door and I got out of my mind with fear…"

"I know," he sighed and drew her as close as her belly would allow. "It's all right. We got you out."

"Yes," she murmured. "Who was there?"

"My mother," he said. "Maekar. A few others."

"And they all saw?" she asked, her eyes brimming with humiliated tears.

"I'm afraid they did," he admitted, stroking her back. "It doesn't matter. I doubt any of them could survive being locked for twelve years in a single chamber, so their opinion really shouldn't bother you. Only mine matters – and I happen to think you're the strongest person I've known in my life."

It was already past midnight when he managed to soothe her back to sleep and went out in the courtyard. This was not Lyselle's first breakdown but such occurrences were always a hard trial for him. While not mad the way Rhaegel was, sometimes he feared that she'd go too far away, to a place where he couldn't take her back from.

At this hour, the Red Keep was usually quiet. Everyone had either asleep or conducting their business as noiselessly as possible. Baelor took the fresh night air in and sat down on a cool marble bench – only to be startled by a commotion. Running feet, hushed voices. Behind one of the windows, there was suddenly an explosion of light. Baelor shielded his eyes with his hand and brought it down as soon as he heard footsteps approaching him. To his surprise, he found himself face to face with one of his own household knights. "Ser Daryn," he said. "What are you doing here?"

The young knight looked aside, clearly trying to think of an explanation, and then suddenly dropped it all. "It's Aelinor," he said. "She's ill. They sent me to fetch a maester…"

Only now did Baelor realize that the window that had become bright all of a sudden was that of his sister's bedchamber. And in his hurry to get there it didn't occur to him to ask himself why one of his knights would refer to Aelinor by name, let alone be aware of how she was.

His skin crawled even before he entered the chamber. The smell of blood assaulted his nostrils right from the door. Aelinor lay curled on her bed, her nightgown gathered around her waist. Aerys was stuffing a roll of cloth between her legs. For the few moments it took Baelor to cross the chamber, the cloth turned scarlet before his eyes. "What happened?" he asked.

Aelinor's eyes closed. For a terrifying pause in his heartbeat, Baelor thought she had just left this world, so pale she was. Then, he took her hand and felt the slightest echo of a pulse.

His eyes went around the room and this time he saw the old woman cowering in a corner, the bloodied crotchet-hook on the floor next to her. His gorge rose.

"What have you done here?" he asked, unsure whom he was addressing. "Do something, you old witch," he added angrily to the woman. "Staunch the bleeding! Something!"

She was whimpering pitifully, almost paralyzed with fear. "I told her what could happen! I told her!"

A second look around the bedchamber revealed an additional confirmation as to what had transpired: lots of fresh sheets, washcloths, towels, various herbs and potions…

"When did she start bleeding?" he asked, praying for the maesters to come before she bled to death.

Aerys gave him a confused look. "Her handmaiden came to me immediately. It must have been… it must have been…"

"Leave it," Baelor interrupted. "It doesn't matter." He figured that it could not have been more than a few minutes. With a bleeding this heavy, she would have been dead now if it had been longer. "Send for the Grand Maester. And Maekar."

Aerys looked at him and raked a hand through his hair, then rubbed his forehead as if he was trying to collect his thoughts. "Are you sure? If he sees her like this, if he gets to know, he'll kill your man."

Baelor sighed and tried to suppress his anger. It was clear that Aerys had lost his head with fear and guilt – and he should feel guilty! If he lost his head to anger, that might end up deadly for Aelinor. And Maekar's jealous rage wouldn't matter then! "She'll want him near as soon as she wakes up. And if… if she doesn't, he'll never forgive us for not summoning him."

Aerys opened his mouth, closed it, and obediently went to give his orders. Baelor tried to staunch the bleeding with a new sheet and cold water but the blood kept gushing out. Aelinor lay unmoving, like a block of wood. Dark veins showed on her face; her pulse was probably growing fainter, too, but Baelor did not dare remove his hand from the cloth he was pressing against the flow of blood to check.

"I…" Aerys stammered. "I didn't want… I never meant… It never should have happened."

Right, Baelor thought. It never should have happened and it wouldn't have, have you made some effort. And now you're stuttering that you didn't want it. Of course you didn't! And what of it?

Two maesters rushed in; as he was making a step back, relieved, Baelor grimly added the last victim of that blasted rebellion to the list, for if the matter of bastards and trueborns had not wrought such destruction upon the kingdom and didn't have the potential to ruin all of them if they were not very careful in the next few years, Aelinor's babe might have been allowed to live.