Baelor III

"Again," Baelor commanded, his voice gruff and heated.

"It's been nearly ten times, your Grace."

"Don't call me, "Your Grace," down here, Torren. This has naught to do with my heritage or claim."

Since returning to Dragonstone, Baelor Targaryen found it hard to think of anything other than the tourney.

And how it ended.

As a boy, playing with Daemon, he never felt he had to compete with him. In all their games, lessons, and training, at least what Baelor could remember from then, it was Baelor who excelled.

Baelor learned his letters first. He bested Daemon with the wooden practice swords nearly every time. He even won when they'd wrestle, or race, or play seek and find.

Baelor had been raised to be better than his bastard kin.

He no longer was.

The stiff stinging whisps of brimstone-stained air rushed through the clearing off the base of the Dragonmount where Baelor and Torren Dayne had erected their own private training rail. Ser Crabb would never allow his squire to take part in the drill Baelor had set up to prepare himself for his next match against his father's half-brother.

"You mean to keep this up, but it's just not reasonable anymore, Baelor. I've a twelve-foot lance to your nine. Unless I ease up, how are you to ever hit me first?" Torren asked, brushing sandy blond strands from his face, his hair a jumbled mess from his helm.

"I'll never hit you first, Dayne. I mean to take the hit and deliver one even harder back."

"I'm no champion knight or anything, but that sounds like a foolish strategy to me."

"Daemon will likely always be bigger, with a longer reach. The next time I face him, I mean to unseat him, and to do so, I will have to withstand his lance first. He's not one to miss."

"He hit your head clean enough, I heard." Torren japed, putting his helm back on, leaving his visor open.

"I'll hit yours if you keep with your shit. Again, I said." Baelor's helm was already fastened and his right hand gripped the nine-foot lance tightly. Torren scoffed at his angst. The Prince had been different since returning from his defeat in the deciding tilt against Daemon Blackfyre, especially in training.

"As you wish, your Grace," Torren replied with a devilish grin, flipping down his visor and trotting his horse back to his side of the rail.

Once in place, they raised their lances and charged. As in every pass, Torren shattered his lance into Baelor, who returned with his own into Dayne a moment later.

Torren flew from his seat. The third time Baelor had sent him to the rocky sand and mud ground they had found to train on. Baelor kept his. As he had every time.

"Again," the Prince ordered.

"Fuckin' again, he says," the Dayne boy mumbled to himself, rolling from his ass to a crawl. Torren was tough, and Baelor knew it, but as gritty as he'd proven to be, likely none could keep up with the intensity expected from his training partner. "I fold. That's it, Baelor. I cannot withstand another pass."

Baelor failed to find pity in his friend's agony. His restless head raged, knowing the pain he and his friend felt from the splintered pine, a mere annoyance compared to the burning inside his own ego. His body had long recovered from his defeat, but still he suffered, though only in his thoughts and competitive heart. He spent every moment dwelling, and every bit of energy improving.

He would daydream during his lessons with Maester Mors and Septon Jarmin about coming down the rail against the knight in black that downed him. He would visualize the moment before Daemon's lance struck him while breaking his fast with his brothers, jumping out of his seat as he imagined the impact and the blinding fog of shards and dust. He relived the nightmare of his fall and recovery most evenings, waking in a sweat, reliving each moment he could remember, including the serving girl, waking up to a new day to improve even more.

His muscles ached from swinging swords. His ribs screamed from the lances they'd eaten. His legs were as sore as if he'd ridden in from the Riverlands. And his hands could barely bend without shooting intense pain through his tendons.

But he couldn't stop. Wouldn't.

Only when Torren quit would Baelor even think of returning to the castle. And every moment he spent while forced into participating in his princely routine was time wasted.

"I'm going to have to bring Maekar out here to spell you when you're too weak," Baelor grunted, still cross his partner refused to continue.

"Do it. Bet that little square fuck's tougher than me."

Baelor pulled off his helm and threw it at Dayne, who was still crawling, his gauntleted hands dug into the bleak coarse ground. A thick mist hovered over them, as if to shelter them from disapproving eyes. His mother, for one, would likely maim him for risking injury so. His father would counsel against the stupidity of training for war games.

Crabb would tell him his elbow was low, and he was learning shit habits without his constant correction and guidance.

Baelor only knew he needed to grow stronger.

The Prince climbed down from Blackfish, patting the horse on the neck in appreciation for his efforts. Baelor whispered, "Good boy," as always, and reached into his pocket for a few squares of sugar, rewarding him with his second favorite. Baelor saved apples for tournaments.

He pulled off some of his armor, still frustrated their session was ended, threw it to Dayne's feet and scolded, "Gather the armor and lances and store them. I'll see to the horses. Hurry. It was dawn already an hour ago. Soon they'll be wondering where we are."

"I can't keep doing this before the yard, Baelor. You're my brother in all but name, but I cannot keep up with you. I'll pepper you with a sword until nightfall, but the constant lances are causing me to shit weird." Dayne laughed, but Baelor could sense the urgency in his jestful plea. "I've done it for this long thinking you might slow down a bit. But this obsession with Daemon is too much. You're starting to act like your father."

As focused as Baelor was on improving his jousting to match and beat the newly legitimized Lord of House Blackfyre, The Prince of Dragonstone was equally, if not more focused on ensuring the former bastard did not supplant him as heir. Day and night, Baelor's father was in his solar, writing and reading parchments, discussing business, sending ravens, and brooding around the painted table murmuring to himself.

Baelor respected and loved his father, but his pride could not handle that comparison in that moment, flush and still burning from the intensity of their training. "I'm nothing like my weak-willed sire!"

"I only jest, Baelor. I only jest," Dayne laughed, climbing to his feet. "I'll see to your orders. Just heed my advice, not as your father's ward, but as your friend. This Daemon business clouds your mind and heart. Keep training, but train for yourself, not because of him."

Torren could never understand it. He was not even of the main line of the Daynes of Starfall. Though his name was prestigious in his homeland of Dorne, he was not expected of much else but to be noble. He would marry within his station, rise to mediocre heights, and only distinguish himself if there was a war in their future. He couldn't understand what it meant to be the dark and Dornish third in line, humiliated by a bastard of his house before the Lords and Ladies he would one day rule.

Baelor shrugged off his friend's words and stormed back to the stables with their horses, as salty as the Gullet itself.

No one knows.

But Daemon.

Aerys and Rhaegel barely lifted their swords during training. Each took more after their father than Baelor, choosing and excelling more with books and quills than swords and shields. It was their duty to train in their youth, as they were but ten and nine respectively, but no matter how Ser Crabb tried to teach them combat, they either had no wish or no ability to learn any more than the minimum, and attended training purely out of obligation.

Baelor found little time to help them in the yard.

But Maekar was different. A boy of only seven, he was nearly bigger than Aerys and Rhaegel combined, and strong enough already to easily dispatch them both at once. Baelor could sense his own competitive nature in the boy, and he took to testing him as oft he could.

While Crabb worried over Aerys' and Rhaegel's stances, still, years into their training, Baelor gave Maekar a mace, and began to spar with him. Baelor had always preferred the longsword, but imagined his stout and sturdy youngest brother would enjoy himself simply bashing away.

"Can I come for you true, brother?" the young boy asked, his voice still years from changing, and his face pudgy with youth. "Will Ser Crabb not be cross with me if I hit you?"

"Hit me?" Baelor replied, standing firm in an exaggerated stance. "You won't even graze my armor."

The young boy smiled back as big as his eldest brother, and swung the mace hard with both arms. Baelor was surprised to hear the clang from his blunted sword as it caught the forehand smash, and parried just in time to keep the blow from reaching him. If he were to have grazed me with his first swing, I'd never hear the end of it.

Maekar was wildly off balance, his attempt requiring every pound of his frame, and the parry knocking him out of his stance. Baelor stepped in and swatted the back of his brother's helm with the broad side of his blade. "Keep your feet, or you're dead."

The boy grunted under his armor. Good. Get angry. But control it.

Baelor's brother had yet to learn control. Planting his feet firmly, and gripping the mace tightly, Maekar stepped right into another full swing. Baelor leapt back and away, bending out of the path of the blow, and jumped right back in for another swat.

"Control your anger, and it's useful. Let it loose without form," Baelor instructed as Maekar returned with a backhand swing, missing again, "and you'll keep hitting nothing but air." Baelor tapped his sword on the top of his brother's helm.

Maekar growled, and roared. "Hit me on the head again and I'll-"

"You'll what?" Baelor interrupted.

"Make you regret it!"

Baelor feigned a stab, twirled his sword around his brother's parry attempt, and smacked him again.

His light eyes burning behind his visor, Maekar swung forehand, backhand, forehand, and over hand, as Baelor clanged back with parries and blocks to turn the force of each blow safely away. The boy didn't over extend himself, but each ferocious swing came with enough speed to sing through the air. Good.

"Now use everything. Not just your weapon. You are the weapon." Baelor avoided another swing and rushed next to Maekar, bumping his brother with his hip, then shuffling and crashing his shoulder into him, knocking the armored boy to the ground. "If someone becomes fixed on your weapon, they'll leave themselves open to your fist, your shield, a kick, or whatever. Take your opening. Win."

Maekar remained silent, his eyes and ears fixed on the brother he looked up to. Baelor reached out his arm, "Again." Maekar grabbed it and leapt to his feet, the mace firmly in his two handed grasp.

He came at Baelor, coordinated with a succession of combined attacks, so effectively Baelor began to lose ground. If it were a real fight, Baelor would win by pushing his brother back with his own barrage of offense, but he was excited to see his brother's improvement.

Maekar came with an overhand downward swing after Baelor parried a backhand. The blow crashed down with such force, Baelor had to catch it with a two-handed grip on his sword to keep the mace from slipping through.

As Baelor caught the mace, Maekar lunged his front foot out and down to smash Baleor's.

Maekar's boots were armored. Baelor's were not, and the steel stomp from his younger brother caused Baelor to yelp in as much surprise as pain. The moment gave Maekar and opening, and he swung the mace to Baelor's helm, knocking him to the floor.

All watching and practicing in the yard gasped and nearly shouted in fear, aware of the Prince's recent reason for recovery. Baelor heard ringing in his ears from the helm, and quickly climbed back to his feet to ease the tension of those looking on.

"I told you not to hit me in the head again," Maekar stated proudly.

"Well fought, brother," Baelor acknowledged, realizing his brother was too advanced for children's games. "Again."

Maekar grinned, beaming with confidence, and began another attack.

Baelor stepped aside from the first blow, spun behind Maekar, and kicked him to the ground. The boy fell hard on his face, and Baelor crept behind him to tap him gently on the helm again.

"Enjoy that hit from before. It will be the last you get on me for a while."

Maekar smiled so hard Baelor could nearly hear it through his helm. Well done, brother. At least one of you is as capable as me.

Crabb rushed to their match, screaming in his coarse raspy voice all manner of curses and swears.

"I told him to, Crabb. Leave him be. He's my brother, and he'd never hurt me true."

The rooms which Maester Mors chose to teach his lessons couldn't be harder to stay awake in. Dragonstone was near in heat to King's Landing, though the breezes were a welcome relief uncommon to the stuffy air of the capital, even in near winter, and as much as he demanded from his body during training, he had little left for his mind in the afternoons.

"Baelor!" Maester Mors scolded. "Get up! Nights are for sleep. Days are for learning."

The lesson had started with the port cities of Dorne, but Baelor couldn't know what the frumpy man was blabbering on about now. When his eyes opened in a start to the reprimand, his head jolted up from his drool wet arm and answered, "Planky town."

Dayne, his two middle brothers, and the few other children laughed.

"Prince Baelor, we have not been speaking of Dorne for near a half hour, thank you for joining us now that we are onto the Reach."

Baelor had no time for the Maester's self-importance. "Dorne, Reach, Iron Islands. I'm Targaryen, Maester. Not Velaryon. May I return to the desk, or do you have something more engaging and relevant to discuss?"

The children in his class laughed harder at that.

"Insolence of this degree, young Prince, will be reported directly to your Grace, Prince Daeron. He will not be pleased to hear this, mind you. Surely, he has instilled in you the importance of learning, as Aerys and Rheagel have always shown?"

My father and brothers show less in their love of knowledge and more in their fear of physicality.

Baelor fought to hold his tongue.

"Excuse me, Maester," his father's servant Offa interjected, sneaking from the hall through the open door of the stuffy room.

"Yes, Offa."

"The Prince requests his sons' presence to his solar, if you will."

"Seems you're rescued from this, young Prince. See to it you return to this lesson with the proper attitude towards learning," Maester Mors sermonized as Baelor rose to leave.

The Prince wanted to return with sharp words, but realized his tongue far too loose while filled with whatever Torren had warned him of that morning. That imbecile is right. Like Maekar in the yard, I'm off balance.

Baelor hated to admit when his friend was right, but he only had to admit it to himself. He walked through the halls thinking, for the first time since his mind had fully awakened after the tourney, of something other than jousting.

What in the hells could father want with all of us?

Aerys and Rhaegel walked meekly next to their eldest brother. At times, Baelor pitied them, their bodies nearly half of his. In other times, he'd look down on them with the disdain of a superior.

How could they allow themselves to be as they are?

And when they could, they didn't make themselves any more sympathetic, "Off with your boy-slave Dayne again?" Aerys asked in his snake-like tone of a voice.

"What do you and he do so early? What activities could two adolescent boys be doing beyond the watchful eyes of the castle?" Rhaegel asked, his long finger against his rounded chin as if he was sincerely wondering.

"Nothing the two of you would understand or are insinuating now," Baelor replied without even turning his eyes their direction. "Besides, if it's my tastes you question, I ask you this: what is more concerning in your eyes, brothers? The lack of female partners I've taken with the ample chances I have; or the disheartening fact that neither of you will likely ever attract a female partner, even if one is assigned to you?"

Aerys and Rhaegel were always easy to defeat in a battle of words. They tried to use their wit to tease Baelor one way or another, but neither held the conviction to withstand a counter offensive with intelligent language. When they tried the same with Maekar, they succeeded, for the seven-year-old boy would only reply with, "Shut up!" or, "You're stupid!" in which they would proceed to respond back with large words to confuse him.

They were too craven to respond back to Baelor, as they always were, and continued to their father's solar with only the claps of their steps on the hard stone of the tight halls breaking the silence.

His father was seated at his desk with their mother standing beside him. Maekar had joined the three brothers from his lessons with the younger children, and the four boys stood side by side, waiting for his father to officially begin.

Targaryen family talks rarely felt unofficial.

"News from Sunspear is that your grandsire's health is failing. None of you have met him, and your mother and I feel it is important for us all to visit your mother's home and meet your mother's family before it is too late to do so."

As Daeron spoke, Baelor's mother stood staunchly and listened, looking on to her boys as if the words were hers. "We will start a progress from Dragonstone, through the Stormlands, to finish the journey at Sea. It will be a long time we are away, so any business or dealings you must conclude, do so today. We leave at dawn tomorrow."

"Business? Dealings?" Myriah asked, breaking her silence. "They are boys. They have no business other than to pack their things so the servants can pack mine."

Baelor's father looked up at her with a hard and scornful stare. His deep set eyes squinted, and behind a close mouth, he gritted his teeth, as Baelor could see the hinge of his father's jaw clench.

Myriah never looked down at Daeron, but returned to her quiet, keeping her gaze to her sons.

"Regardless, we are leaving. Prepare. We are done. Go back to your studies," their father gruffly and curtly finished. The boys shuffled out, and as Baelor was through the doorway and a few steps into the hall, he could hear his parents begin to bark at each other.

A journey might help take my mind off training. Baelor began to ponder.

After a brief walk silently besides his frail brothers, with only the sounds of their steps echoing through his head, unable to summon even one thought that wasn't . . .

But how will I ever hope to beat him if I stop for even a moment?

His mind went right back to it.

A/N

Sorry for the brutal foreshadowing, but I felt the introduction of Maekar fit with what's here. I'd love to hear from my readers. Thanks as always and I'm back to work after my broken hand healed (enough) to type.

I cannot give enough appreciation for everyone that takes the time to read what I'm writing. I've come to terms along time ago with the fact that because I will refuse to write the "mainstream" type work in this fandom, I may (and may not have anyways) get thousands of faves and comments.

But that still doesn't mean every time someone even gives my work a chance it doesn't mean the world to me.

I'll be back soon.

Harwin