Baelor II

The first day he spent in darkness. Quiet. Young attendants laid cold rags on his head and shoulder, feeding him broth from a turnip soup while he was instructed to remain still. The pounding in his head was such that each tap of their feet on the hard cold stone floor echoed loudly between his ears, and he was almost thankful for the near silence, when it wasn't interrupted by their gossip.

Within the chambers, they had hung cloth sheets over the drapes of the windows to prevent light from leaking through, as the blinding rays of the morning sun cut deep through his sight like daggers to his shaken mind. His attendants failed even to light candles, navigating their way around and to him in the relative dark, like wraiths in the forefront of his battered and bruised thoughts.

Daemon, he thought, his frustrating loss in the championship tilt all his mind could visualize. Without words from those around to hear or sights around to see, in the darkness and quiet, he couldn't shake the loss, reliving it over and over in his mind. Once, when two of the girls left him, he heard them giggling in the hall. They laughed at how the bastard had knocked the dragons from his helm, then knocked him off his horse. Baelor grimaced, clenching his teeth and fists, until the pain in his head fought back enough to make him stop.

He tried to sleep, but as he closed his eyes, he could still see it. The whipping strands of Blackfish's mane brushing against his visor as he ducked close, hoping he showed a smaller target as he approached his cousin down the rail. When his cousin's lance raised, aiming at his helm, Baelor nearly yelped in surprise. He hadn't figured his kin to be so reckless. When it struck him, shearing off the ornate symbols of his house, his head shook violently, and his ears nearly bled from the ringing.

He kept his seat, though, and rode back down to his end. He remembered hearing Crabb, but not really knowing what he said. The knight's old leathery face was shaken, like he'd seen a deity or demon, and his mouth could barely mumble loudly enough for Baelor to hear, even though he was in no right mind to discern his meaning. All he could do through the dizzying pain was extend his hand for another lance and ready Blackfish for another charge.

At that moment, he knew he'd lost. Through the already pulsing pain of his tilt against Dondarrion and the new ringing sting in his head from Daemon, there was little Baelor could do but kick his legs and brace for impact.

But Baelor would not be known as one to yield. If he'd fall, he'd fall, and better to charge screaming than to concede meekly.

When he kicked Blackfish into a charge, he said a prayer to the Father for strength, and another to the Mother for compassion.

When Daemon struck him, his breath escaped in a whisper, and he felt himself fall slowly from his saddle to the Dragon Pit's floor.

His head landed first, and as soon as it hit, he slipped into a deep muddled darkness and woke in the dark room.

Those moments repeated over and over, and Baelor could do naught but writhe in pain and shame.

The second day was not much better. Though his head had improved, his body seemed to wither further into decay, every last inch of his sore body pounding with the pain of a thousand drum beats, pulsing, throbbing, and aching in ways he never fathomed possible.

Even his arse, which had become accustomed to riding and shouldn't have burned, did with a relentless agony that made sleep near impossible, and rest a boon unthinkable.

Worse yet was the new gossip. From what little he could gather from the girls in the halls, Daemon had also won the melee, and something else. Something the girls kept talking about that didn't make any sense.

They said Daemon wasn't a bastard anymore, which didn't sound sensible at all to Baelor. With all his time, which seemed unending, Baelor tried to puzzle out the girls' meaning. He listened as sharply as he could for more clues, but all he had was the victory and the passing phrases. No more.

Just silence, echoes, and pain.

When night finally fell on the second day, his Lord Father crept in to see him. Baelor began to rise from his bed, until the pain nearly knocked him unconscious again. "Rest, son. All's well, or will be."

When his father leant over him to whisper to him before he retired, he spoke of very little. Most of what he said was nothing, and whenever Baelor asked about the melee, Daeron would only shush him, warning him not to move or speak, and promised him a conversation as soon as he was able. Baelor thought he should ask of his mother, or his health, or of almost anything other than what he wanted to. But the only thing his mind could think of was of his bastard cousin and what the girls meant when they spoke of the melee.

After a few moments of his father looking down on him in silence, Baelor forced words from his throat, each syllable another assault on his bruised torso and neck. "What happened today?"

"Nothing to speak of now, my son. Like I said. Rest. All's well, or will be."

Baelor studied his father's face. Through the milk of the poppy from the maesters and the haze of his injured mind, he thought he saw something on his features. His brow was a stroke of fear, his jowls drooped in despair, and his eyes seemed shaken, like the squires' defeats in the ring were somehow also his. What more could have happened in that ring to fear? If only I had beaten him. If only I had won. Then, maybe you'd be . . .

"I'm sorry, father."

"No. No. No, son. You need not be sorry at all. I am more than proud of your performance, as is the realm. Your mother, well, she's not doing well. If she could control her wailing, she'd have been allowed to see you by now. Her wroth, maybe you should fear, but mine. No, son. From me you'll have naught but praise and pride."

Baelor allowed himself to smile, though it hurt to stretch the tight skin of his face, swollen from the knot on his head where he'd landed.

"Sleep now, son. With rest, you'll be fine."

The third day felt as bad as the second, yet the maesters gave him more milk of the poppy, and he spent more of the time in a thick fog than not. He vaguely recalled his mother visiting him, reaching down to embrace him, only to balk, and relent, fearing she'd cause him more pain.

"I told them you shouldn't be down there doing this. Not yet. Not at twelve."

He was glad he was unable to respond. Still sour and near seething, he wished to snap back at her with the heat of a burning dragon. She was as weak willed as his father was weak of the body, and in that moment, he hated her doubt and cowardice.

But he could do nothing but vacantly stare back at her.

He was thankful of the fog for that.

On the fourth day, his mind felt mad, and as the maester greeted his morning with another dose of milk of the poppy, Baelor raised his lance arm to bat the poison away.

The sharp jolt of agony in his ribs made him regret it immediately, and after a bout of screaming, he allowed the medication to slide down his throat. Another thick fog settled about him, numbing him from the physical and emotional pain of defeat.

Days became a week, and after they had all mixed into one, he woke one morn without the throbbing reminder in his head of what had happened. One of the serving girls was attending him, sound asleep in a chair next to his bed, her mouth wide open like it meant to catch the rain if it fell.

His body felt none the better, but his mind seemed clear. The pounding ache between his ears had nearly subsided, and he found himself looking about the chambers for something to stimulate his mind. Something other than his failure and the maester's sleep inducing liquids.

Near the door, on what looked like a nightside table that had been dragged away, a lance handle with a shattered shaft was oddly out of place. He didn't remember it being there when he had looked around the first day or the second, and he couldn't remember anything from the days thereafter, so, he pondered what it meant and why it was there.

The muscles of his arms screamed in protest against it as he moved, lifting linens from his chest and legs, heavier than they should have been, weakened a weary. When he bent his one leg, he felt the bruise on his arse throb, and when he pushed down as if to sit up, the bones of his shoulder and ribs shook with a sharp agonizing answer to the question on his mind, How hurt am I?

He reached his feet to the floor. The cold hard ground was nearly inviting, as if he prostrated his whole body against it the cool could soothe his soreness, but the frigid feeling of the stone only sent a chill through his heels to his knees, which made the weakness in his legs even weaker, and as he fought to stand, he fell back down to his seat, sending a jolt of pain from the bruise on his ass.

The girl woke when he yelped in pain, and she gently reached for him as if to coax him back down into the bed. With as much strength as he had, he fought her hands away, and rose to his feet, but his head immediately rushed light and he had to grip onto the nursemaid to keep from falling to the floor.

She held him, gently, and the form of her female figure pressed up against him through her robe. Her full breasts stretched the wool of her chest and into him, healing him, and her warm touch eased the pain of his ego, tingling the back of his neck in the first pleasing feeling he could remember since falling.

She pulled back her cowl and released long flowing locks of golden blonde hair, and it shined in the light of the rising dawn like the flowing grain of the fields. Her eyes were soft and warm, and her lips were full and parted.

Baelor woke from his dream to a dull pain in his head, and beside him, no one was sitting or sleeping. He looked to the table. The lance was still resting there, and he wondered what had just happened.

"Hello!" Baelor sounded, calling to the darkness hoping for an answer. The dream had left him confused, among other things, and the lance was even more so.

Ser Caswell entered the chamber, tip toeing as quietly as he could in his white armor, his sword and dagger clanging softly against his faulds, but ringing loudly in Baelor's ears. The short knight hobbled to his bedside and waited until he was close enough to whisper, "What is it, your Grace?"

"Nothing, Ser Caswell," Baelor managed to reply, grunting as he finished with the rush of pain in his ribs from his breath. "I merely wanted to make sure I wasn't still dreaming."

"You've been dreaming a lot. Luckily your mother wasn't here. Seems a pretty little nursemaid has tickled your fancy, your Grace," Caswell whispered nearly chuckling.

"What is the lance? Why is it there?" Baelor responded, ignoring the Kingsguard.

"That's from Quentyn Ball. He brought it here three days ago. He said he'd come back to explain when you were feeling up to it. The maester says you should stay here until you can ride home in comfort. That could be a month or so, so there'll be time enough. Is there something I can get you? Should I call for the maester?"

"No," Baelor responded, trying to stand. It seemed harder in the dream, but he was still lightheaded. Ser Carron gripped him, allowing him to gather his balance, and Baelor stretched his body, fighting through the sore ache in his muscles just to feel alive again.

"I'll let you do what you're doing, but if your mother finds out I helped you to your feet, she'll have me flayed," Caswell remarked as he let go of Baelor's good shoulder. "Take it easy. You've already proved your toughness in the joust, nothing more to show in the darkness. Are you sure there's nothing I can get for you, you Grace?"

"Water, please," Baelor asked, feeling his dry throat with his hand as he asked.

"Very well. I'll have some brought, but sit back down before I leave. If you fall, you'll have to start the whole ordeal over from the start. Another hard hit to that head and you'll be as useful as that lance you seemed fixated on." Caswell helped Baelor back down, allowing him to remain sitting at the edge of the bed. Though he wanted to walk about, he feared what falling might mean, so he resisted, familiarizing himself with the pain again, which had become like an old acquaintance by now. Irksome, but steadfast in its company.

The lance seemed familiar, though he knew not why. Before the joust, he had never cracked one against anything other than dummies. They usually wouldn't, unless he accidentally crushed the rigging, which happened occasionally, but only when he missed.

There was a joy in the violence of it. The crash and burst of thunder as a lance shattered against another rider, the trembling shake that jolted up his arm to his shoulder, stinging sweetly, like the sounds of a soldier's song.

Splinters rained around and shouts from the crowd poured down. The lance reminded him of the joy he'd felt that day. The triumphs. The courage he mustered and the questions he answered of himself.

He felt proud. The lance reminded him of that.

When an attending girl returned to him with water, Ser Carron nodded at him from the door. He smiled and raised his dark brows before returning his attention to the hall, and Baelor blushed to imagine what he meant.

"Thank you," Baelor mumbled, unsure of what to say as he accepted the cup. He sipped the water slowly. When he finished, he felt his mind clear, and he requested upon returning the cup to the serving girl, "When you leave, please send the knight in. I wish to speak with him again."

The girl nodded, and left without even eye contact. It was their duty to be unseen, and Baelor felt too much embarrassment to deny her. Ser Carron entered with disappointment on his face. "These serving girls would love for the Prince to grace them with attention. Its not something I would prevent, if that's what you're worried about."

"I am but twelve, Ser Carron, and I'm not my grandfather."

"Aye," Ser Carron said, nodding with a smirk on his round face. "But don't turn into your father."

Baelor felt inherently defensive of his sire, asking the white knight, "What's wrong with my father, Ser?"

"Nothing, your Grace. Just that you should feel free to live more than he allows himself is all. Its nothing but duty and despair for him, I fear. Surely, he'd wish for a better existence for you than he's been allotted?"

Baelor allowed Ser Carron leeway in his playful criticism. He meant it in a friendly manner, and Baelor didn't want to abuse his loyalty. He let it go without further complaint. "Speaking of my father, I summoned you to inquire where he might be. I must speak with him urgently." Baelor couldn't keep his mind from the melee and its outcome. His father behaved as if there was something important to discuss. Though he couldn't imagine what that would be, something in his father's face seemed worried. Baelor was beyond curious and needed resolution.

"He's had meetings of late. This one and that one, keeping busy, though I'm not sure where he is at this hour. Would you like me to send one of the serving girls?"

"If they can be discreet, if not, I would send you in their stead."

"Impossible, your Grace. I cannot leave you unprotected. Ser Swann will not take over until midday at the earliest."

"What or who have we to fear in the Red Keep? Is that not where we are?" Baelor asked puzzled.

"Your Grace, your father fears mostly those in the Red Keep. Storms are brewing, and when lightning strikes, you must be safe."

"What do you mean, ser?"

"I merely serve your father, and as faithfully a servant can, so I only know of what he conveys to me. He thinks his and your life could be in danger, and whether he is being overly cautious or has good reason to think so, you are in the line of succession. There is always a motive for harm against those that stand to inherit the throne. So, without protest, I will keep you safe."

"Very well. Send a girl. I'd appreciate haste if that is possible."

"As you wish, your Grace."

Hours passed until his father came to his bedside. So long, in fact, Baelor had to climb back into the filthy thing. His muscles were too weak from his rest to stay sitting for as long as his father made him wait, so when Daeron entered the chambers, Baelor was once again on his back.

"What is it, son?" His father asked, his breath heavy and his posture rushed.

"What took you so long?" Baelor asked as a boy more than a prince.

"I had meetings of great import. I apologize for the delay. These matters were of a time sensitive nature."

Baelor could not understand what could be more important for Daeron than seeing his injured son. "Meetings about what? With who? Your son lies half-awake under the haze of milk of the poppy, and once I'm finally awake, you're busy?"

"I'm sorry, son, I truly am. Things are moving, and I need to stay in front of them. You'll learn when you're older. I'm just glad to see you so clear. How's the pain?"

Baelor wished to press his father further, but he had no business knowing his father's dealings. He'd likely be bored by them anyway, for his father was not one for exciting or dangerous affairs. So, he allowed his father to continue, lightly scathed, and hoped what he had to say was worth the wait. "It's lessened, it seems, but I was so numb for so long, who could tell?"

"The maester suggested milk of the poppy for the pain. You had a bump on your head, broken ribs, yellow bruising around your entire torso, a dislocated shoulder, and too many other cuts, scrapes, and abrasions to count. Your head was the worst of it, being out for so long, they feared you might be dead of mind."

"I'm not dead of mind, nor weak of body. I could have endured it."

"But why? There is no need to suffer when you are under the best care in the realm."

Baelor knew not why, but he almost wished to have suffered, as if the pain would pay for his defeat. "You said you would speak to me. What happened in the melee?"

"Daemon won it, and the King crowned him."

"So? Why would that matter."

"He crowned him. Claimed him. Legitimized him as his son. And gave him the name Blackfyre, bestowing the Sword of The Conqueror upon him as a show to the realm."

The Sword of Kings, Baelor thought.

"A show of what?"

"That he means to make him heir."

"Father, surely he cannot make him heir. Giving a great warrior the sword is not unprecedented." Was it?

"Dark Sister has been given to great warriors, but the only time the King didn't hold Blackfyre was when Aenys gave it to Maegor, and that tale is a cautionary one at best. Truly, I would not know what to do with it, but that doesn't make the show of it any less a declaration against me."

"Daemon is only twelve, father. And he is not like that. He would not try to usurp you or I. We are his kin."

His father's face flushed red with anger. "Did he not already try to kill you? That lance to your helm was as clear a message if ever a message was sent. If you perished that day, I would be all that stood in the way of his rule."

"He didn't mean to hurt me, father."

"How could you know?" Daeron began to yell, his neck trembling as he spoke. "Maybe he was part of this. Maybe they're all a part of it."

"You sound unwell, father. You are the next in line, and when our King has passed, you will take his place. There is nothing he can do to stop that." Is there?

Daeron took a deep breath and composed his face, showing the mask of strength he used to cover his frustrations. "The King has done worse for less. He loves me not, and may not love you either. I fear this tournament was a chance to plant the seeds of this succession, and what more could the crowd want than a boy like that as their King?"

A man like me.

"Your Grace," Ser Carron interrupted, bowing and approaching his father. "I apologize for the disturbance, but something happened. You must come with me, now."

"What is it, Ser Carron. You can say it in front of my son."

"I don't want to upset the boy. Not yet, anyway."

Baelor could not allow the news to be left unsaid. "Let us hear it, ser. That is an order."

"Very well, your Grace. It is your Mother," he said, addressing Baelor's father. "She's fallen ill, and this time, the maesters aren't confident she'll make it much longer."

Baelor saw his father's mask fall, and what seemed to be a man barely holding himself together fell apart. Baelor knew little of his grandmother, but what he did remember of her were the fond and welcome memories of her gentle and kind nature. Sickly as she had always been, whenever Baelor was with or near her, she was as pleasant a queen could be.

He feared for her, hoping the maesters wrong again, as this would not be her first time near death. But he feared for his father more, who seemed to be struggling already with the paranoia of Daemon and his legitimacy.

Now, with true grief and strife, Baelor wondered how strong his father really was and feared what his weakness could mean.

Without as much as bidding his son goodbye, Daeron left with the white knight, leaving Baelor once again alone with his thoughts. He wished he had happier ones, but he didn't.

So, he stared at the broken lance and imagined each moment of the tourney again, as if to improve his skill somehow from the bed he was prisoner to.

His imaginings helped, remembering Stokeworth and Fossoway. He smiled recalling their falls and the pride that filled him like a chalice. He thought of Dondarrion, and found he could easily place each sore part of him to the moment Erich had hit him, and he felt even prouder for withstanding the pain and defeating the marcher squire. Then, he remembered his tilt with Daemon, and though he rode valiantly, all he could imagine was how helpless he had felt riding against him.

He didn't want to reminisce after that. By then, it was midday, and he called out to make sure he was awake. "Is there someone here?"

Ser Caswell once again hobbled over to his bedside. "What is it your grace?"

"I thought you were to be relieved by Ser Adam?" Baelor asked, wondering what time it was and how long he'd been daydreaming.

"With all that's gone on, it will continue to be me that protects your door, your Grace."

"Is the Queen . .," Baelor murmured, not knowing how to ask if she still lived.

"The Queen is still with us, but from the last report from the servants, it does not look to be good. As I stay ready at your door, I pray to the crone and the mother for her health. But now, not only is the Queen's health failing, the Lady Serenei's child is on its way."

Baelor cared not for the King's newest mistress. He didn't wish her ill, but her name should not have been mentioned in the same breath as his grandmother. He tried not to think of either, focused on the empty pang in his gut.

"Ser Carron. Can you send for something to eat?"

"As you wish, your Grace. One of the girls will be up in a moment."

After eating his fill of the soup they continued to force upon him, Baelor tried to find comfort in his bed, shifting from all angles until he finally found a position that caused the least amount of irritation. He settled in and hoped for sleep.

As he started to drift off, Ser Carron called into the room. "Your Grace. You have a visitor. Should I send him in?"

"Who is it?" Baelor asked both curious and frustrated. He had almost fallen asleep, but wondered who wished to speak with him.

Ser Carron approached Baelor's bedside as not to shout. "It is Ser Quentyn Ball. I can send him away if you're not up to it."

"That is unnecessary, ser Carron. Send him in."

"As you wish, your Grace."

"Prince Baelor," Quentyn nearly shouted, lifting his arms as if to hail his victories, his gruff voice too loud for Baelor's still vulnerable head, and his unkempt red hair, redder eyes, and dirtied stubble evidence of recent drunkenness. "Glad to see you awake."

"I'm glad to be awake," Baelor thought sarcastically, thinking of how close to sleep he had just been. "What can I do for you, Ser Ball?"

"I just wanted to speak with you, for Daemon," the Knight replied, softer in volume, as if he were uncomfortable.

"And what is it you wish to say for him?" Baelor shot back, frustrated not to hear from Daemon directly.

"He didn't mean to hurt you none," Ball said defensively. "He wanted to offer his sincerest apologies that you ended up as injured as you are, or were, hopefully. You know when they're letting you out of here?"

"Wait," Baelor said, refusing to answer Quentyn's question until the Master at Arms answered some of his. "He didn't mean to hurt me? He struck my head with his lance. What did he think would happen?"

"It was a smart play you made, your Grace, ducking down like that on the first pass. It hurt Daemon, to be honest with you. He's so much taller, the angle was all wrong, so when you struck him, you lifted him and he only bashed you back down into your saddle." As Ball explained, Baelor could understand the tactics, but he was still upset at them. "To win," Ball continued, "he had to change your stance. He hit the dragons on purpose, meaning to get you back up in your saddle. Once you weren't slunk down, he could strike you cleanly. So, that's what he did. You forced his hand."

Baelor was incensed. "Forced his hand? I simply came up with a strategy."

"As did he, your Grace."

"Where's the honor in a blow to the head of one's kin in a squire's joust?" After Baelor heard the words leave his lips, his voice straining and his neck trembling, he cringed to think of how he must have sounded and looked as his father just had.

"Where's the honor in hiding from a lance just to win a squire's joust?" Quentyn asked, refusing to let Baelor have the right of it. "Don't get me wrong, your Grace, it's what I woulda done against that monster, but you can't fault him for adjusting his strategy when you made the first move against him. None of your injuries are from that pass. He broke your helm, is all. You were hurt on the honest passes against Dondarrion and the third pass from Daemon, which too was honest. The one that knocked you down."

"If he hadn't hit my head, I could have kept my seat."

"And maybe you would have won."

"Maybe."

Ball paused before he responded, studying Baelor as if he was reading a parchment. "If you could hit his head and have won without killing him, would you have done it?"

Baelor instinctively answered, "Yes." It rolled off his tongue with ease. To regain his lost honor, he continued, "But that's always the risk."

"Not for that boy. He could've hit a fly off your visor and left you on your horse."

Baelor was finding it harder to disagree with Ser Ball. "And what of the rest of it?" he asked, referring to what took place after the melee.

"What of it? The boy had nothing to do with it other than standing there. I think the King had it planned, but I swear by the Gods, Daemon didn't know it was coming."

The more Baelor spoke, the more he resented what his father had driven into him. Daemon was not someone to fear, and certainly not the center of some nefarious plot against his father and he.

"What is the lance?" Baelor asked, letting go of his anger.

"It's the one you broke on Daemon. He said it's the hardest he'd ever been hit, and that was after he hit you first. You're the best he ever faced, and he wanted to offer it as an apology. He is truly sorry for how it all happened. He only wanted a chance to prove himself."

So did I, Baelor thought. And we both proved something that day.

"So, why is it you here and not him?" Baelor asked.

"Because your father and mother forbid it."

A/N

Thanks for reading. What do you think so far? This is a story that I've been wanting to both read and discover more about since I first read about some of it in Dunk and Egg. The characters are so awesome in the brief depiction of each, mostly from a dry history, and I wanted to finally start as (to be blunt, there was very little engagement in the third book in my other series which I am only taking a hiatus from, not scrapping or giving up on) its been something on the forefront of my mind for as long as I can remember.

It is difficult though, as these characters are so beloved, I want to feel I'm doing them justice. It would be very much appreciated to hear from readers, as the one helping me The Silent Sister, and I are so close to it, its hard to maintain perspective.

I look forward to bringing more to you, as the conflicts are starting to heat up, and I hope you continue to enjoy the journey as well.

Thanks as always

Harwin Snow