A/N: Hello all. Funnily enough, a guest just left a review wondering whether this story would be updated a couple of days ago, just as I was working on finishing up this chapter. Of course this story will be updated! We wouldn't leave you hanging like that! It just takes time to create chapters that we feel do justice to both our work and Martin's world (also there is the small element of being full time students as well). Thanks for the reviews left by Raimon, dire213, and HarwinSnow on the last chapter; your comments are always a joy to read (hint: continue to leave as many you like, they are a joy to read and we are both rather addicted to the support and inspiration you all provide). Alas, the time has come at last for an update. Without further ado: Baela!
Baela IV
She had first heard of her cousin's death when the gaoler delivered her cold porridge with a venomous grin. She had hoped against hope that the Queen would somehow be reconciled with her brother now that the war was lost. If not for her sake, then for the sake of her living sons. The days had drifted by in a haze, with little to suggest the passage of time other than the delivery of her meagre meals. At first, she had tried to communicate across the hall, but the gaoler had promised to cease feeding the lot of them if she continued. After that, she had sat in silence, sharing the moldiest or stalest parts of her bread with the rats that paid her visits.
When she had first woken, she had felt too numb to do anything. She had failed in all that she had striven to accomplish. Luke, Jace, and Joff were gone. With the deaths of the remaining loyal seeds, the Queen's cause was effectively over. No dragons could be marshalled for her cause. Baela doubted that any remained alive apart from Tyraxes, now riderless, and Moondancer, chained in the depths of the Dragonpit. Her mother's words haunted her from her dream. She did remain amongst the last of the Dragons. But what am I to do? I've done naught for the Queen's cause. At first, I was prevented from flying. But when given the chance, I hesitated. I should've gone with Joff. Had we reached the Dragonpit, we could've made a difference, or died trying. Such thoughts troubled her, and she had found it difficult to sleep much at all. She tossed and turned amidst the cold stone and the dirty rushes, troubled by the faces of ghosts.
They had come for the Queen on what must have been an early morn. The screech of her cousin's cell door woke her from her fitful slumber, and despite herself she sprang up, standing on the tips of her toes to try and see all that was transpiring. Hard men in cloaks of gold had led the Queen from her cell and past the cells where the remaining members of her family sat in confinement. Her cousin had been pale, her hair a mess, her formerly vibrant purple eyes having lost much of their luster. She still wore the simple accoutrements that she had worn the day they were taken. Baela watched silently as they led the Queen past her cell and up the worn stone steps towards the courtyard. She felt the urge to weep, but all her tears had been spent. Instead, she found herself hoping that Rhaenyra would do all she could to stand aside. Aegon and Viserys are blameless. Please, cos, do not let them suffer for the woes we have brought upon the Usurper and his family. She was most glad when the cells of her brothers remained undisturbed. She could barely make out the face of Aegon, tall for his age, watching his mother led away past his own cell. Tears ran silently down his face, leaving clear paths across his dirty skin.
And so it was that perhaps two hours later the gaoler arrived, possessed of a face that promised ill tidings and bearing unsweetened and icy porridge. As he slid her meal through the door, he pressed his fat face against the barred window, grinning sadistically.
"They took 'er 'ead only a few moments ago. King Eggon 'as returned, and word about the castle is that he ordered her to have a traitor's death on the block. Ever the honorable one, our King. No spectacle, just justice. If it'd been the doing of the Princess, she'd likely 'ave ordered some gruesome affair. Do you know, little girl, how many men lost their tongues by 'er orders? 'Ad 'em ripped out with 'ot pincers, that 'un." Spittle flew as he spoke. "Heh. Maegor with teats indeed." His face contorted into a frown. "Serves 'er right. After the 'Ightower army arrived, bearing the Prince Daeron's body, all scarred and burnt, the city was howling for 'er blood. Ser Roxton killed 'er with a single stroke, bearing 'is blade Orphan Maker. Heh. Guess it lived up to its name."
Pulling away from the door, he stalked away, whistling as he went. Baela, despite her shock, had recognized the tune. It was a popular ditty amongst the smallfolk, about 'the Good King Aegon'. Her father had sung it for her as a child. She had mourned the loss of her cousin, but a part of her accepted her death, taking solace in the knowledge that her trials and sufferings were finally at an end. So much death, and all for a circlet of gold or valyrian steel.
As she had spent the next few days in silence, she had turned the gaoler's words over and over in her mind. The Prince Daeron is dead? Despite herself, she mourned her cousin. Of all of her uncle's sons, he had been the warmest, the least likely to hide barbed words behind a smiling countenance. He had lived in the shadow of his oldest brothers, always seeking to prove himself worthy of their glory. But the few times she had spent near him had taught her that his true love was his dragon, Tessarion. They had loved to soar amidst the clouds, her blue and bronze scales flashing brilliantly in the sun. He died with only a few name days more than I, she thought to herself. It seemed a cruel fate to have died by the flames of the creatures he loved so well.
Daeron's death bothered her for more reasons than his youth and kindness, however. The letter we received from the Lords at Tumbleton made no mention of his death. A chill ran down her spine. The letter bore his seal, in fact. She remembered it now; it had arrived bearing the seals of several important lords. House Hightower, House Peake, House Roxton, and House Norcross had all affixed their seals, along with a seal that bore the image of corn that she hadn't recognised. Above them all had rested the three-headed dragon of her house, emblazoned proudly. If those lords could lie about Daeron's demise, what other falsehoods and half-truths might have been concealed within its contents? The more she fixated on it, the more she found herself questioning parts of it. While several great lords affixed their seals, several did not. Where were the ants of House Ambrose or the apple of the Fossoways or the lightning of the Leygoods? It was possible of course that they had perished in the initial attack, but if Daeron had been killed then that battle had certainly not gone as they had been told. She cursed herself for not picking up on such details sooner. How could we have missed such things? Her eyes narrowed. We were played for fools. She began to feel the smallest of sparks within her breast; something she'd not felt for weeks. Hope. She pounded her fist against the stones of the cell, impacting amidst the rushes and sending several inquisitive rats scurrying in terror. The smallest of smiles broke out across her lips. As she allowed herself to hope, she felt another familiar emotion begin to stir inside her. Her rage, for so long left to lie dormant, began to burn once more. Rhaenyra… Joff… dead because of lies. White-hot wrath engulfed her. You will both be avenged. I may be amongst the last of the dragons, but whilst I draw breath our enemies will feel my fury.
The next few days had been spent in relative silence. Baela had begun to eat more of what was delivered, spending her time pacing about her cell and attempting to reconstruct all she knew of the past few weeks. Mayhaps it is my feverish mind, but I truly believe things are not as they seem. She had attempted to subtly ply more information from the gaoler, in order to see whether he had seen or heard any news of the two traitorous seeds. He'd had nothing to say in response, his eyes narrowing at her question. She knew she ought to be more careful, but she had barely been able to contain her excitement at the lack of news. Is it possible that all we thought we knew was wrong? Ser Addam had flown to gather Ser Gaemon and Ser Maegor. It would have been three against three, certainly not impossible for there to have been a victory. The speculation, while energising, was also maddening. The dark cell, which until recently had been somewhat of a respite from the hopelessness of the world now felt excessively confining. She had entertained the thought of attempting to tell Aegon and Viserys of her thoughts, but had hesitated both for fear of getting them punished as well as a reluctance to share the truly wasteful nature of the Queen's demise. Oh cos, how could we have let our fears take such hold of us? She found herself missing her grandmother more than ever. Grandmother would never have remained paralysed within the confines of the Red Keep. She'd have taken Meleys to investigate immediately. All she had been told of her mother suggested that she'd have done the same.
As the days dragged on, she refrained from asking further questions of her captor, instead finding ways of spending her time that gave her some degree of purpose. She had taken to feeding two particularly large rats, and was pleased to see that they seemed to find the arrangement acceptable enough that they became her boon companions. Braver than most of their kind, they would stop only inches from her feet, their whiskers twitching expectantly while their black, beady eyes regarded with anticipation. The smaller of the two was missing one of its front paws, which inspired her to name it Aemond. The other larger and fatter one naturally became Aegon. She had smiled wickedly after deciding on their names, and had moved on to granting them titles befitting their stations. She had settled on Aegon's as Lord of the Shitty Rushes and Aemond's as Scourge of Moldy Crusts. They seemed to accept their titles with all of the grace they could muster. After a few days in their company she decided that she enjoyed their limited time together far more than the entirety of the time she had spent with her petulant and murderous cousins.
She was in the deliciously ironic process of trying to teach Aegon to bow for a crumb when she heard voices echoing about the prison walls outside her cell door. She recognised the voice of her gaoler, but could not place the voices that accompanied him. Dismissing her companions, she drew herself up as her cell door screeched as it was wrenched open. Outside stood the gaoler, along with several men in gold cloaks. Standing before them was the knight in black and white that had killed Joff struck her during that terrible night. A chill made its way down her spine, despite her attempts at ensuring an inner calm. Have they come to take my head? She refused to give them the satisfaction of observing her fear, so she forced herself to stand straight and return their gaze with a cold one of her own.
The knight of House Swann smirked. "So this little chit of a lass still has a spine after all? I would have thought I knocked it out of her the last time we crossed paths." His smile took a sharper edge. "You will observe that there are no more kitchen knives to menace me with, my lady."
Baela shrugged. "I'll find something else to make do with."
The knight nodded, feigning mirth. "Just like your father. The former King should have had his tongue ripped out of his head. If you don't learn to control yours, someone will order it taken." His dark smile continued to grow. "Then again, no word of your traitorous father has been heard of in quite some time. Perhaps someone finally put an end to his follies and pretensions."
At the news, Baela's defiance faltered. She had anticipated the worst, but had maintained hope he still lived. I should have known the moment I saw him with my mother. Fighting back tears, she regained her composure.
"If my father has fallen, I am certain that he did not fail to deal a grievous wound to whoever had the misfortune of facing him on the field of battle."
The Swann knight frowned, and Baela was pleased to see that her words had struck home. Perhaps my father did get a chance to strike his foes before he fell. Did he find Aemond before the end?
"Enough of this pathetic posturing. I have been sent to inform you that the King, in all his majesty and justice, has decided to offer you a chance at clemency. A great ceremony is to be held tomorrow to accept newfound allies, and he extends his hand to you in peace if you will renounce your formal allegiances and bend the knee."
Once more white-hot fury threatened to spill forth from her lips. But before she could deliver a scathing rebuke, she caught herself. Insulting him further will earn me a beating and accomplish little. Getting out of this cell, however, could be fortuitous. Perhaps I could discover what has truly been transpiring. Forcing herself to swallow her revulsion, Baela allowed her shoulders to slump. They think me weak because of my sex. Let them see what they wish, for now. Clutching her arms to her sides, she gave the slightest of nods. The knight smirked, believing himself to have scored a great victory. Turning, they exited her cell, leaving her to ponder what her next actions might be.
The scream of the iron hinge roused her from her fitful slumber. She couldn't recall when sleep had finally taken her, but assumed that it must have been very late in the night. Several men-at-arms entered, their tabards sporting the grey and white of House Hightower. Pulling her to her feet, they led her from her cell out of the cell block and into the castle yard. The predawn chill sank quickly though her sparse and tattered clothing. Her captors led her into one of the Red Keep's outbuildings, where a trio of stone-faced Septas awaited. Armed to the teeth with brushes, combs, and buckets of steaming water, they set about making her presentable the moment the guards departed. While their cleaning was by no means gentle, Baela welcomed the process, relishing the chance to be free of her filthy garments and the grime of the dungeon. Finding her silver-white hair to be too matted and resistant, they sheared it off without hesitation, leaving her head bare but for a few wisps of white. She resisted the urge to grin. I suspect they think this process to be a humiliation. Little do they know that I've lived with closely-cropped locks for most of my life. She found the water to be intensely hot, which helped to warm her frame and release it from the cold, icy clutches of winter.
Once the Faith's servants were satisfied with her condition, they presented her with a simple gown of black. She did not miss that it was adorned with a modicum of gold lace. Would that it were red instead. While she was uncertain of what fate awaited her, she had come to one conclusion. There would be no admission of guilt, no pleas for penance. I will face my cousin today, and find the truth of what truly has transpired. Perhaps the war is not over, despite their attempts to make it so. Emotions roiled within her. Fear, anticipation, anger, hope. Without a word, the Septas dismissed her from their clutches, allowing the men-at-arms to escort her back through the Keep's courtyards.
She was surprised when their path led them to the foot of the Red Keep's primary gatehouse. She had expected to be brought before the Iron Throne, but instead, saddled horses awaited. Atop a grey charger in the center of the group sat the knight of black and white, looking down at her darkly. Pulling her atop his horse, he wrapped his gauntleted hands tightly around her waist.
"I will give this warning but once, my lady. Attempt any sort of escape, and I will act upon the King's orders and cut you down. No friends of yours remain in the city. The King has given you but one opportunity to earn his clemency. Squander it, and you will join the Pretender in the Seven Hells."
Baela held her tongue. A retort would be satisfying, but useless. Learn all you can. All may not yet be lost.
Once the others had mounted, the gate was opened and their party exited the Red Keep. They rode slowly down Aegon's High Hill, following the main thoroughfare and into the city below. The sights that greeted them were sobering. Buildings of all kinds, from manses to pot shops had suffered considerable damage. Some had been gutted by fires whilst others bore the scars of unhindered looting. The city was grey and dark, and a pall of ash seemed to pervade the very air. One would have thought that the Usurper had brought Sunfyre's fiery wroth to bear upon the city. As she looked more closely however, she could see that the city had suffered from a more natural fire. Wide swathes had burnt down, but one could see where its denizens had pulled nearby buildings down to cut the flames off from further fuel. The neighborhoods that had burned were haphazard, not in wide stretches that would suggest a dragon's ire. Furthermore, the widespread looting suggested a more chaotic sack, as opposed to the unbridled terror of a sudden attack from the skies. Lastly, it appeared that fighting had been widespread. While bodies did not lay scattered about the streets, she could see the darkened earth and cobblestones where they once had, and many a wall bore the red-brown stains of dried blood. This city ate itself alive, she thought, suppressing a shudder. These must be the scars of the riots that engulfed the city after the 'news' of Tumbleton.
The streets were largely empty of people, and the few they passed did not raise their eyes. The denizens of the city carried themselves with a cold indifference, and clutched their threadbare clothing about themselves tightly in a futile attempt to ward off the cold. Could we have averted this disaster? Perhaps, she thought. But my cousin would have needed to be a different Queen… a different woman. Her people needed the Realm's Delight, not the woman I knew in her last few weeks of life, so twisted by fear, betrayal, and mistrust that she could not distinguish between friend and foe. Such thoughts were of no use now, however. The present was what mattered, and fighting for those who remained was what was most important. The last of the dragons. Many had been lost, but some remained. More, perhaps, than she even dared to believe.
Their slow ride through the city reached the apex of the Hill of Rhaenys, and the cavernous Dragonpit loomed before her, a great mountain of bronze and steel and stone. Its massive doors all remained closed, except for the central gates, which had been left open to allow for the entry of each procession. Standing resolutely at the entrance were the Dragonkeepers, clad in black plate. She had heard murmurs on the night of the riot that the Dragonpit had been accosted by a mob, but she saw little evidence of any damage. It appeared to have weathered the storm with few scars, and light still showed from within. The light of dragons. The Dragonkeepers' helms presented a uniform face to outsiders, so it was impossible to discern whether any of the men before her were those that had aided her in the past. They likely did. The Dragonkeepers swear oaths of obedience to the Royal Family and to protect their mounts. I doubt that those oaths specify what one must do when dragon turns upon dragon, however. It seemed likely that the knights before her felt obligated to serve whosoever sat the Iron Throne, regardless of their personal dispositions or beliefs. Regardless of their loyalties, they remained motionless to either side of her as the knight of House Swann dismounted his horse and handed it off to a retainer. Riding a horse into the Dragonpit was an excellent way to get oneself thrown from the saddle. The pit reeked of dragons, and the animals were wise enough to sense the danger of a predator.
While their horses were led away to an adjoining stable, Ser Byron was presented with a pair of golden shackles, which he affixed tightly around her wrists. Wrought of gold or iron, shackles they remain, she thought to herself. Standing straight, she accepted them without complaint. The cold metal left little doubt as to her status in Aegon's court. Whilst they may pledge to remove them in return for an oath of loyalty, I suspect a golden cage will quickly replace them. She had no intention of humiliating herself, however. Not now, not ever. Come what may, she would live or die supporting her friends and family. Whilst we may be bound by blood, the Usurper is no honored kin of mine. The slightest of wry grins flickered across her lips. I suspect he feels the same about me.
A cold gauntleted hand on her shoulder prompted her to begin her journey forward. As she was guided into the main chamber, she was once again taken aback by just how vast the Dragonpit was. The steps led into a massive subterranean hall, carved deeply into the Hill of Rhaenys itself. Benches lined the central chamber, and great bronze braziers had been placed evenly down the length of the hall, illuminating its entirety with dancing light and shadow. Maester Gerardys had once told her the Dragonpit's central hall could seat eighty thousand comfortably. Even if that was the case, today's audience was nowhere near that number. Many rows of benches were filled by the shadowy forms of knights, men-at-arms, and the few men and women of Aegon's court that had survived Rhaenyra's conquest via imprisonment.
Banners of the most powerful Green Houses hung from the pillars supporting the ceiling far above, and Baela surveyed each as she passed. The first she passed were banners she was less familiar with, banners she assumed belonged to knightly houses of the Reach. As she reached the point at which the pews were full of seated persons, she made a personal note of each banner hung in pride of place. Firstly, to her left hung three red chevronels on ermine. Rosby, the faithless friends. To her right, A white lamb bearing a golden chalice. Stokeworth. Nearby hung a banner bearing black diamonds on a yellow field. Darklyn, she thought with dismay. Next on the left, black cross on a white field. Norcross, she remembered. On the right, a series of interlocking golden chains on a sky blue field. Roxton. Passing by the red, blue and green stripes of House Strong, they drew nearer and nearer to the Usurper. As they approached the front of the hall, they passed the banners placed in the most prestigious positions. On her left hung a great orange banner, with three black castles affixed proudly upon it. Peake, self-proclaimed lords of the Dornish marches. Finally, on her right, the white tower crowned with roaring flames. Hightower. They might as well have hung that above the throne itself. Instead, in the center of the hall, displayed above the Usurper himself, hung a great black banner whose silk seemed to drink in the firelight. Upon it danced a gold three-headed dragon, roaring defiantly.
While she was aggrieved to see that the Stokeworths and Rosbys had returned to the Green fold, she was not surprised. Rhaenyra did have their lords executed. With their loyalty, and with that of the Darklyns, Aegon can command the obedience of the Crownlands as far north as Duskendale. Baela took some solace in the banners that she did not see. Where is the Mother's Face of the Gracefords? The ants of the Ambroses? The apple of the Fossoways? The lightning of the Leygoods? All are said to have marched with the Hightowers. As she turned her eyes to the Usurper, she studied the faces assembled before her. Sitting atop a litter that served as an impromptu throne was her cousin. Resting on his armored lap was Blackfyre itself, the sword of Kings. Its black Valyrian steel rippled darkly in the firelight. To his right sat an old man wearing a golden necklace of interlocked hands, whose face bore an exhausted visage. Whilst he appeared to have once carried a great weight, his skin hung thinly, either due to the rigors of campaign or some other affliction. A Hightower, she assumed by his colors. To the Hightower's right sat the Dowager Queen, wearing a beautiful gown of green silk, accentuated by golden highlights. Her hair had been braided and atop her head she wore a golden circlet. Her eyes regarded Baela with a fiery mixture of triumph and a clear desire for revenge. Seated to her right, with a cane resting across his twisted leg, was the unmistakable cool and calculating Lord Larys Strong, who studied her intently.
On the Usurper's left was an empty seat, upon which the dancing stag of House Baratheon had been affixed. How kind of them to save Lord Borros a seat, she thought mockingly. He couldn't be bothered to fight, but I'm sure he'd protest mightily if not offered an appropriately grandiose appointment. To Borros' prospective left was a Lord who sat as if his spine was wrought of iron. Grey hair and grey beard were affixed upon a hard visage, and he too regarded her with cold, unsympathetic eyes. Lord Peake, judging by his doublet. To Lord Peake's left stood a tall man, clothed in Roxton colors. His hands rested upon a hilt whose blade bore the unmistakable ripples of Valyrian steel. He too regarded her with dark eyes that unsettled her despite herself. She resisted the shiver that sought to force itself down her spine. He stands in the position of King's Justice. A title that rings all the more hollow in this court.
While the Dowager Queen, Lord Strong, Lord Peake, and the King's Justice regarded her, the Usurper appeared absorbed in the ceremony that had been ongoing as she entered. Two boys knelt at his feet, wearing the colors of Stokeworth and Rosby. The new lords of their houses. Their claims would have been passed over, had my father's will prevailed. The two boys, who likely did not possess twenty name days between them, were prostrated at the feet of the Usurper, swearing their vows of eternal obeisance. The Usurper, she thought as she regarded him. My cousin. Despite herself, she felt the barest twinge of regret that things had come to pass as they had. When she studied his face, it was impossible not to see her uncle. Despite his faults, and the fact he insisted that they were not Princesses, Baela had loved King Viserys in her own way. He was a man with a great love of his family, a love that could not, and would not, ever be completely set aside despite their quarrels all about him. Even to the end he turned his gaze aside from the rancor that infested his own House. He wanted to believe that his children, his grandchildren, and even his defiant brother could be made to act as he wished to see them. Instead, blood had begun to flow only a few moments after his passing. While his heart still beat, he could avert the slaughter. But the moment it stopped, years of plotting, hatred, and betrayal poured forth.
When she studied her cousin's face, she saw her uncle, but her uncle in a twisted form. The King's face was never so marred by hate and mistrust. It had grown red with wroth at times, but he'd have much preferred it to grow red with laughter. Looking at his son was akin to looking at another Viserys, a Viserys whose reign had brought no joy. The resemblance was also scarred by the kiss of flame. Grandmother left him something to remember her by, Baela observed sadly. The Usurper's visage was akin to a candle. Half his face was that of a handsome, if a bit overfed, Prince, whilst the other was akin to melted wax. Below a drooping and scarred eyebrow, a bloodshot violet eye gazed forth suspiciously.
The process of reaffirming feudal oaths did not take much longer. As the two young lords swore by the Seven to maintain their oaths unto death, Baela scanned those assembled for any other faces of note. Aemond's self-assured and cruel face, marred by Luke's knife so long ago, was notably absent. Mayhaps my father did find him, in the end. Daeron's guarded but sympathetic face was also absent, confirming the goaler's words. She quickly scanned the entrances of the dragons' enclosures, but saw no sign of Vhagar or Tessarion. Even if Aemond or Daeron had somehow been alive but in recovery, their dragons would still be roosting within the Dragonpit. It seems that both have fallen. Lastly, Helaena too was missing. Baela's stomach felt twisted into a knot. It seems the rumors are true. The loss of her sons was too much for her to bear. Guilt tugged at her heart. And how could she be blamed for retreating into madness? Those assassins may as well have killed her. T'would have been less cruel. At times, when Baela thought of Helaena's sons, guilt and revulsion clawed at her. Gone was the Princess who loved to dance and sing. Some of Baela's earliest and happiest memories were of the times Viserys and his children were feasted at Dragonstone. Helaena was shy, but loved to whisper secrets and laugh once she found those she could trust. When she had learned that Baela and Rhaena were ticklish, she had reduced them both to gasping, wheezing laughter before Aegon had ordered her to leave them be.
She quickly steeled herself against reminiscing. Such things are too painful now. She could not help but feel as though she was somehow implicit in Rhaenyra's crimes. We swore vengeance on the day we were told of Luke's death. But were Helaena and her sons truly the architects of our suffering? Baela knew the answer, and it brought her no solace. Forcing such thoughts from her head, she thought of her dream. For better or for worse, I am amongst the last of the dragons. I must keep the embers alight. If I look back, I am lost.
When a retainer brought his staff upon the cold stone floor, she snapped to the present. A retainer, dressed in the black and gold of the Usurper, rapped his staff upon the floor once more. The Rosby and Stokeworth girls had been led away quietly by men bearing their house colors.
"The Lady Baela Targaryen, who has come as a supplicant begging the mercy of the King Aegon Targaryen, the Second of his Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms."
For a moment, the two of them regarded one another silently. The hand of her escort tightened on her shoulder. To combat the emotions roiling within her, she went over what she had observed. It seems certain now. Our enemies lied. I know not what happened, but it seems that the Prince Daeron and the two traitors were slain over Tumbleton. My father and the Prince Aemond are also missing. Her eyes narrowed. They brought me here to beg forgiveness, to humble myself before them and hundreds of men and women. I will do no such thing. I will not allow the sacrifices of those who have gone before me to be for naught. She waited silently for her cousin to speak.
"Cousin, you come before me at last." He finally spoke, his voice dripping with venom. He paused, a smile as thin as a razor's edge affixed to his lips. "So enters the Lady Baela Targaryen, daughter to a traitor-Prince and cousin to a Pretender. For all of your supposed fire, you come before me now as a supplicant." He rose from his throne, raising his arms and his voice to speak to those assembled. "It is the sign of a great King to dispense justice throughout the realm. It was necessary to put the Pretender and her pretensions to death, but now I will hear the pleas of one who comes before me to beg forgiveness. Let us not forget that justice can be dispensed by royal pardon instead of the headsman's block. Let my undisputed reign begin with a gesture of clemency, as the great Jaehaerys' did." Returning to his seat, his eyes once more met her gaze.
Baela clenched her fists tightly. In her mind's eye, Joffrey passed her the King piece once more. I'm ready now, Joff.
She took a moment to look at those assembled around her, and those seated before her. She scanned each of the dragon pits lining the edge of the chamber. Shrykos and Morghul remained coiled, whether asleep or cowed in the presence of so many unknown faces she could not say. Dreamfyre too remained coiled and unmoving, her light blue scales glinting in the firelight. Tyraxes stirred against its chains when her eyes fell upon it, smoke rising from its nostrils. Finally, she found her Moondancer. Its pale green scales and pearl horns glinted, and she felt a stirring within her when she realised its eyes were upon her. Addam was right, she has grown so! She thought with a fierce sense of pride. Baela once more felt the fires of rage begin to dance within her. She took a breath, and began to speak.
"Can the reign of a coward ever truly begin in earnest?" She asked, her eyes on Aegon. She turned to face the knight of House Hightower, who had begun to visibly shrink back in his seat. "When your kin fought and died fighting his war, where was your King?" Turning to Lord Peake, she continued. "Lord Peake, while the dragons danced and your men burned at Tumbleton, where was your King?" Her voice had begun strong, but now began to rise in intensity and volume. "When his brothers fought beneath his banners, where was their King? When his wife and mother were taken prisoner, where was their King?" She drew in her breath, and turned to face those assembled, wrenching herself free momentarily from her captor's grasp. "My Lords, the man who sits that throne is no true Dragon; he hid whilst others killed, and continued to hide whilst they died! While he might carry the name of the Conqueror, I can think of no man less deserving of his crown!"
She stood, and scanned as many faces as she could that stood assembled before her. For a moment, the Dragonpit sat in stunned silence. None moved, and none spoke. She stood until the gauntleted hand of the Swann knight wrenched her around and forced her to her knees. The Usurper's face had swollen purple with rage, his violet eyes bloodshot and fiery with hatred.
"I was a fool for expecting anything but futile insolence and disrespect from the likes of you." He whispered.
The knight of House Roxton stepped forward, bringing his Valyrian sword to bear.
"My king, let me strike her head from her shoulders here and now, to make an example of her."
Alicent shot to her feet. "My King, take her head now! None may speak in such a manner and be allowed to live!"
Aegon's eyes darted between the two of them, and he opened his mouth to give the order. Baela closed her eyes. Let them say I died with honor. Let them say I died a dragon. Before the words could be spoken, however, a roar echoed around the Dragonpit. As she opened her eyes, Moondancer stood on her hind legs, struggling against her chains. Beating her wings, her mount thrashed about her chamber, before sending a blinding blast of white flame at the ceiling. A few cells over, Tyraxes rose, roaring his greetings, and shot red-hot flames in response. Soon, Morghul, Shrykos, and even Dreamfyre had risen, roaring their challenges, and flames shot through the bars of their enclosures and danced about the ceiling. Some in the audience screamed and began to flee, and Dragonkeepers rushed from their stations with whips in order to calm the beasts. Baela smiled. Thank you, Moondancer. As the dragons were forced back, their chains appearing to hold, Aegon turned once more to her, his face still darkened with rage. As the chaos died down, he opened his mouth as if to speak once more, but was narrowly preempted by Lord Peake.
"My King, whilst her words were those of an impudent child, and deserve a most harsh chastising, I feel I must advise taking her head. If we kill any more of our hostages, our enemies will have little reason to believe that we will allow any to live. They will have little reason to believe that their own lives will be safe if they bend the knee."
Aegon swallowed, his eyes narrowing. Lord Larys spoke next.
"My King, Lord Peake's words are well worth heeding. Our ability to negotiate with our enemies diminishes with every execution. There have been sightings of dragons at Harrenhal. We cannot grant the Pretender's thugs any more reasons to attack the capitol. Their low birth already disposes them towards violence, as any Maester could tell you."
Baela could not believe her ears. Dragons at Harrenhal? Low birth? Gaemon and the seeds live! She wanted to shout and laugh in the maddening excitement, but she knew she dare not make a sound.
The Usurper clutched the hilt of Blackfyre so tightly that his knuckles turned bone white.
"And what have you to say, my Hand? You too have proven a veritable font of mercy ever since your arrival. Do you agree with the sentiments of my advisors?"
Baela turned her eyes to the Hand, who had grown a pale and utterly disconcerting shade of grey.
"While the maid has indeed sullied your honorable name, my King, she remains a child. The Seven-Pointed Star always errs on the side of mercy, and the Mother above would surely look kindly upon you for finding a suitable, yet just punishment."
Upon the conclusion of his remarks, the ancient knight took a deep swig of a wineskin he had produced from behind his seat. He ran a hand through what remained of his hair shakily.
The Usurper's face had returned to a relatively calmer angry shade of red. He steepled his fingers as he weighed the advice of his councilors. Finally, he spoke.
"While a mere child does kneel before me, her words were both treasonous and insulted the Royal Person. Such acts cannot go without a suitable chastisement, to use the words of Lord Peake." Pausing, a cold and cruel smile began to take hold, made all the more ghoulish by his burn scars. "One of the Old King's greatest accomplishments was the consolidation of the Royal Laws throughout the Kingdom. If I remember my Maester's lessons correctly, I believe that King Jaehaerys ascribed a very specific punishment for the sort of seditious libel we have just heard uttered before us."
As realization dawned on the faces of those assembled, the Dowager Queen smiled wolfishly whilst a cruel smirk danced upon the face of Lord Peake. Lord Strong remained unreadable whilst Ser Roxton grinned savagely.
Aegon continued: "For her lamentable crime of seditious libel, I condemn the Lady Baela Targaryen to be branded with the letters SL upon the left side of her face. Let the branding, and the subsequent ruination of her womanly beauty, serve as punishment for her treason."
Gasps echoed about the hall. As the realisation that she was not to be killed dawned on her, Baela fought the urge to vomit as the anxiety within her dissipated partially. I'm sure the Usurper is confident that I will be appropriately chastised, but I'll trade my 'womanly beauty' for my head any day. Besides… a dragon has no fear of heat. Despite her attempts at reassurance, however, she did not feel the fear dissipate.
The knight of black and white had escorted her with the minimum of civility back to her cell, casting her inside with a harsh shove. As she awaited the arrival of her punishers, she tried all sorts of things to keep her mind off of her impending fate. Try as she might, she feared what was coming. Nonetheless, she steeled herself in the face of her fate. I am a dragon, and I stood tall where others failed. I did not let my friends and family down. If I must be made to suffer for my 'impudence' and 'treason' I will bear such marks with pride.
The scream of her cell door's metal hinge once more announced the arrival of guests. In the darkness of the cell, the light emanating from the pail where the hot coals were carried was unmistakable. A thin iron handle stuck up from where it was kept heated. The light of the coals illuminated the face of her gaoler, but he did not enter alone. Standing in the dim red light was the Usurper himself, his marred face grinning wickedly in the light. Behind the two men stood men-at-arms clad in the black and gold of the king, their faces immutable and cold. She stood, forcing herself to stand tall in the face of her captors.
"As I am certain you were once taught, Cousin, a wise and just King must be willing to carry out his own sentences." Aegon spoke, an odd light in his eyes.
Baela clenched her fists at her sides. "Do your duty, Usurper."
The men-at-arms rushed forward, shoving her against the cold and dank wall of her cell. In the corner, she spotted both Aegon and Aemond cowering, their whiskers twitching in fear. Everything will be alright, she thought, mentally attempting to calm them. The Usurper withdrew the brand slowly, the letters SL glowing white hot against the dark of the dungeon. She gritted her teeth, determined to bear whatever came. As it approached, she could feel its heat coming in waves off of the metal. She struggled against the vice of her captors, but to no avail. For a moment she felt it just before it made contact with her skin, and her eyes closed reflexively. When the metal connected, the pain was so overwhelming she began to scream despite herself. Her last conscious thought was the revulsion she felt at the smell of cooking meat, realising it was her.
She awoke some time later, sprawled amongst the rushes. Her entire body felt aflame, but she shivered nonetheless. In the silence, she curled into a ball, fighting the corrosive grip of her fever. Sweat beaded all over her, and when some droplets trailed towards the still burning wound upon her face, she bit back a scream. Fighting back tears, a voice spoke in her head, a voice she realized with some confusion was both her own, and not. You have survived your greatest trial yet. A Targaryen, truly. Hugging herself, she pulled her legs to her chest in a futile attempt to ward off another bout of shivering.
She flinched as the door of her cell once more screamed open. In the darkness, she struggled to make out who entered. One held the door as two others entered, closing it behind them. She cowered at their approach, her feverish mind frightened that the Usurper might've decided to return with some other form of punishment. Something within her told her that that didn't make sense. Besides, none of the visitors walked with a limp. In unison, they knelt beside her, pulling what seemed to be cloaks back from their faces. In the darkness, her eyes strained to make out who these strange men were, when all of the sudden, one lit a torch.
While she expected to be greeted with the cruel and twisted face of Aegon, or the mocking grin of the gaoler, something else entirely greeted her in the darkness. Three faces, bearing smiles, pug noses, and eyes and hair of brown. Gingerly, Jacaerys placed a comforting hand over her scar, and when he touched her, the pervasive burning subsided. Tears flowed unhindered down her cheeks. She wanted to beg their forgiveness, to apologize for failing them when they needed her most, but try as she might, she could not speak. Something about the way they looked at her told her that did not matter, however.
Jace spoke first. "I must beg your forgiveness, for we've not spoken in a while, Cos. But we all wished to speak with you once more before we departed." He paused, his face growing a bit more serious. "What you did took the strength of kings. Your bravery was an inspiration to us all."
Luke then spoke up. "Few get opportunities to show such resolve, and fewer have the strength to stay the course when given them."
Finally Joff spoke, after laying a hand on her shoulder. "We could not have asked for a greater champion, Baela. Burning within you is fire enough to keep the embers alight." He grinned, softly. "But I think you knew that already. When your time came, you were ready."
With that, they stood. Jace, giving her a kiss on the forehead, smiled sadly.
"We're all sorry to leave you Baela. Would that we could fight alongside you." He sighed. "Our war is over." His brown eyes gazed deeply into hers. "I fear, however, that yours has not yet ended."
Drawing their cloaks back over their heads, they turned, quietly extinguishing their torch and passing silently out into the hall. Baela strained with all her might to rise and follow them, but instead, she felt the inky tendrils of sleep begin to grab hold of her once more. Goodbye, Joff. Goodbye Luke. Goodbye Jace.