Baela V

Time seemed to move differently in the darkness below the Red Keep. For days after the Usurper had branded her, Baela had languished in and out of an intense fever, only surfacing from unconsciousness when a Septa had come to apply a cooling salve to her burn. Myranda was her name. One of the ones that had cut my hair and scrubbed me raw earlier that same day. The salve had undoubtedly helped, even if the sickly smell had turned her feverish stomach. Days had turned to what she expected were weeks, and while Septa Myranda's visits had become less frequent, she was Baela's only occasional visitor beyond the cold taunts of the gaoler. She had learned quickly that attempting to speak to any of the other prisoners in order to pass the time was folly, and was likely to earn them a beating; regardless of their Royal status.

When the fevers had broken and her wound began to scab over, Baela's great challenge had been to resist the nearly overpowering urge to pick at the scabs that adorned the left side of her face. Her rodent friends had helped, serving as a captive audience for whatever she wished to discuss to take her mind off of the maddening desire to itch away. Once, hidden in the darkness beyond the torchlight from outside her cell, she had given in, her nails clawing at the mass of dead tissue that clung to her wounds. The euphoria of it all had almost been worth it, if not for the fact that Aegon and Aemond had discovered her indiscretion, their deep brown eyes seemingly staring her down with equal measures of accusation and disappointment. Her shame had been intense, and she had quickly promised to resist the urge forevermore. The Lord of the Shitty Rushes and the Scourge of Moldy Crusts had begrudgingly accepted her apology, but she was under no illusions that she had broken some sort of fundamental trust between them. I must needs prove myself to them with actions, not words.

To her credit, Baela had spent the next few days resisting the temptation, and with time the need to attend to her frightful wound had diminished. As the sensation began to dull, she found herself thanking the Seven for the first time in her life, and had momentarily considered revising her skepticism regarding their existence. Time continued, and Baela had slept for longer periods than she ever had before, returning again and again to the state that lurks somewhere between deep sleep and consciousness. Jace, Luke, and Joff never returned to her dreams, and her mother and father were similarly silent. She drew strength from the memories of them and their final words to her, determined to never give in or allow the memory of their bravery to fade.

In her mind, she considered a plethora of scenarios and courses that the war might have taken, and entire battles were fought in the quiet of her imagination. Each time the surviving Seeds destroyed the Usurper in a conflagration in the skies, avenging the fallen and putting an end to his tyranny. In some, she escaped prior to the final battle, urging Moondancer into the sky and returning to burn the Red Keep with a fiery vengeance, luring the enraged King into the clouds where her dragon's nimble form could inflict wound after wound upon the older Sunfyre. She missed her Moondancer dearly, and hoped against hope that someday she would be able to mount it once more, free to soar through the moonlit heavens as she had in the past. Simple pleasures don't remain so simple when you are deprived of them.

After weeks had passed, Baela found herself awakened by a cacophony of voices echoing about the cell block. The metallic sound of bodies clad in plate filled the normally silent cell block, and she immediately detected the oozing and deferential tone of the gaoler as he guided the visitors through the labyrinthine levels of the Red Keep's dungeons. Cold tendrils of fear and uncertainty wound their way across her heart as she realised that the party had reached her very row, and she found herself considering whether the Usurper's views towards his captives had changed once more. Has the order finally come to put us to death? Baela found herself wondering if something had happened, something so devastating to the false King's cause that he had finally resolved to end his enemy's line out of spite and desperation. She pitied her brothers most of all. Their deaths will be a pointless folly, of no fault of their own. Neither Aegon nor Viserys had ever raised a hand to harm anyone, and their punishment would be to sate the insatiable need for revenge that had consumed their uncle.

She could feel the familiar fury growing within her; the same rage that had driven her to spite the false Aegon before all his court. I will not go quietly, nor will I beg for clemency. They will get no such satisfaction from me. Digging her nails into her palms, she stood, raising her jaw and standing unflinchingly to face her would-be executioners. Through the small barred opening in the cell door, she could see a small crowd had gathered outside her cell, and could hear the gaoler confirming that this was where she was kept. The door was wrenched open, and the sudden glare of the flames temporarily blinded her eyes. Blinking them to adjust, she saw that before her stood several knights, alongside Septa Myranda. Red Griffons, Suns and Moons, and Swans of Black and White. Her face contorted into an immediate frown. The cold and disdainful visage of Ser Byron Swann was unmistakable. The other two men, however, she did not recognize. Why send three knights and a Septa for an execution when a few Gold Cloaks would do? The man clad in the arms of the Tarths stepped forward, his face grave but not altogether cruel.

"Lady Baela, I have orders to retrieve you from these cells at once, and to move you to more suitable accommodations. Will you come peacefully?"

Baela unconsciously crossed her arms. What sort of ploy is this? When no further information was forthcoming, she considered her options. They will take me regardless of my willingness. But causing a ruckus would only earn me a clout on the ear. Perhaps the Usurper wishes to try a different tact. She had to resist the urge to grin. Tact or no tact, he'll find me no less troublesome. Why not entertain his delusions until the perfect, embarrassing moment?

Baela nodded, her face pointedly plaintive. "I will come without trouble, Ser."

Septa Myranda took her by the arm, leading her out of her cell for the first time in weeks. Even in the hall the air felt less cloying, less laden with filth. Even the slightest sensation of freedom caused her heart to soar within her breast. She steadied herself, unwilling to allow any feelings of unwarranted hope. Such thoughts will only hurt me when these false mercies are stripped away. As the procession led her further down the halls, she was even more surprised as the doors to Aegon and Viserys' cells were opened, with her brothers led outwards. Their young faces, gaunt with hunger and grief, were twisted in guarded expressions of deep distrust. Aegon's eyes widened when he saw her, his deep purple eyes seeming almost black in the firelight. Despite their poor accommodations, he had grown since she had last seen him. He was thin, but almost of a height with her. He looks like father, she thought with a mixture of surprise and sadness. Once the Princes had been secured, their party was joined by several more armored knights, bearing grim visages and shadows under their eyes.

Their journey led them ever upwards, and when they finally emerged from their confinement, the chill of winter sent a shudder through her emaciated form, causing her to shiver involuntarily. The courtyard of the Red Keep was uncharacteristically quiet, even for this early in the morning. Few servants bustled about, but the ones Baela saw were outfitted in all black. The colors of mourning. With a start, Baela began to question the very nature of their release. She dared not begin to hope, but she could think of few reasons why servants would wear such colors beyond the glaringly obvious. She and her brothers were led quickly across the inner yard of the Red Keep. As the muted winter sun began to show its first rays, Baela and her brothers were guided into the dark and twisting halls of Maegor's Holdfast. The knights in their company led them to a series of rooms normally reserved for only the most trusted of servants; servants who attended the Royal Family during its most intimate and secluded moments. The quarters had been emptied, and were sparse but for a few servants and Septas that awaited within with all-too-familiar scrubs. Once more, Baela was cleaned with the brutal efficiency that she had come to associate with her captivity, and once more her hair was shorn. Her brothers' long locks were shaven as well, and after several repeated scrubbings they were left clean but pink with the harsh treatment. Clothes of simple but exquisite materials were presented. For Baela, a simple, unadorned dress of black velvet. For Aegon and Viserys, black doublets stitched with the red three-headed dragons of their House.

After being dressed, they were led through the halls to a chamber adorned with lacquered double doors. Inside, they found quarters that had seemingly once hosted a member of the Royal family, its tapestries depicted the great events of the past. Harrenhal and the Field of Fire burned silently, forever immortalized by Myrish craft and skill. On the opposite wall, Jonquil and Florian kissed beneath the stars. Baela frowned. Undoubtedly the quarters of a Royal Princess, then. Three small beds had been arranged, and a veritable feast had been placed atop a table at the center of the chamber. Candles burned atop it, casting light all about. On the walls, the flickering light gave an almost lifelike appearance to the flames of Vhagar, Balerion, and Meraxes.

One by one, their knightly escort filed out of the chamber, leaving only Septa Myranda and the Tarth knight in the chamber with them. Their captors considered them a moment before speaking.

The knight of Tarth spoke first. "Eat well, my Princes. Your treatment has been unworthy of your status, as of yet. I pray you will find your new accommodations much more to your liking." He paused, clearly debating on what more he wished to say. "Each of you are undoubtedly most perplexed at this sudden reversal of fortune. I am not at liberty to share why your circumstances have changed, but I can say with some confidence that they are unlikely to worsen at any point in the future. Know that this is no trick; no ploy." Opening his mouth as if to speak further, he seemingly decided against it, and turned abruptly and left the chamber.

Standing mostly uncomfortably, Septa Myranda's eyes darted back and forth between Baela and her brothers. Withdrawing a small glass container from the folds of her robe, she offered it to Baela.

"For your scars, my Lady."

Without another word, she withdrew from the chamber. The doors slammed shut, and the unmistakable sound of a lock latching could be heard.

Aegon scanned the room, his dark eyes still distrustful. After a few moments, he spoke.

"That was… most odd."

Viserys grinned, a mixture of cautious hope and playful jest. "I suppose they won't be killing us then?"

Baela looked between the both of them for a moment, and without saying a word, gathered them into a crushing embrace. She had never considered herself partial to great displays of emotion, but tears ran freely down her cheeks. The salt stung her wound, but she didn't care. Aegon's shoulders stiffened at first, but after a moment slumped. He quietly returned her embrace cautiously at first, but quickly held her close. Viserys, on the other hand, squirmed under the pressure.

"Baela, you're crushing me." He attempted to wriggle away, but she only clasped him closer, beginning to laugh.

"Gods. Baela!"

Eventually, she let him go. Collapsing into a seat at the table, she smiled at the both of them. Viserys made an effort to pout, but she found it entirely unconvincing. A slight smile still tugged at the corners of his mouth.

Aegon took a seat at the head of the table, and broke a piece of bread in his hands, nibbling halfheartedly at it. As she studied him, she could not help but notice just how exhausted he appeared. He is eleven, but he may as well have lived several lifetimes.

Baela's smile faded. "Aegon… Viserys… I am sorry about your mother…and Joff."

She realized with a pang of sadness that she had not been able to speak with them, let alone comfort them, in the time that had passed since Rhaenyra's capture and Joff's death.

Aegon turned to regard her. "I miss her." His tone was so matter-of-fact, yet in his eyes was a barely concealed agony. "Joff was…" He choked, and let his head drop, crying softly.

Viserys looked at his brother, angrily blinking back tears. "Joff was brave." He stuck his chin out, adamantly resisting the urge to cry. Baela stood, placing her arms around both of them. This time, neither resisted.

"Joff was brave." She agreed.

The next morning found them less despondent. The opportunity to truly rest for the first time in weeks had been wonderful. Baela's brothers had barely protested her encouragements to rest, and surprisingly they had agreed to push their beds together to create one large platform atop which to sleep. Baela had fallen asleep with her arms still around them, feeling safe and at peace for the first time in ages. She woke, surprised to see that the winter sun was still shining through the lancets. She was surprised, before realising that they had likely slept the entirety of the day and through the night afterwards. A servant, clad all in black was clearing the cold meals from the previous day's dishes, whilst another held bowls of steaming porridge. Untangling herself from the still slumbering forms of her brothers, Baela stood, straightened her dress, and approached the two with as much authority as she could muster.

"Will the King be demanding our presence today?" She asked.

The servants curtseyed, both noticeably paling. Sharing a quick glance, they both departed without a word. Baela was left even more certain that something momentous had happened. Could the Usurper truly be dead? How could such a thing have happened? If it was an assassin, or even a Faceless Man, why have we not been punished? She noticed that new clothing had been laid out across an ornate bench next to the doorway. Once more, a black gown awaited her, but this time, adorned with dancing dragons. Shockingly, they were not woven in gold. They wound their way up its sleeves, roaring at its high collar. The dress itself was heavily insulated, suggesting that it was meant for the outdoors. Similarly designed doublets awaited her brothers. She seated herself, digging into a bowl of honeyed porridge. She hadn't realized how famished she was until she began eating, and she finished the entire bowl without much trouble. As she was peeling Dornish blood orange, Aegon woke, sitting across from her and eating quietly. As she finished chewing a slice of orange, she decided to speak her thoughts.

"The Usurper may be dead, Aegon."

Aegon stopped chewing, placing his spoon back in his bowl. He stared at her for a long time.

"The servants have been wearing mourning colors, haven't they?" He paused, considering the implications. "Could it be that someone else has died? The Princess Helaena?"

Baela shrugged. "It is possible, but why would he have freed us? Doesn't this feel strange to you?"

Aegon nodded slowly. "It does, Baela, but I cannot give myself false hopes. The enemy has taken too much from me already. I won't let them knock me off my feet again."

Baela nodded. "I understand. But if he is dead, things are liable to change drastically. I can't imagine them crowning Helaena or Jaehaera, after all they did to stop the true Queen."

Aegon pondered her words. "They would never."

If what I have heard is true, Helaena and Jaehaera may be in no state to wear the crown, either. She was stopped from any further ruminations by the entrance of the Connington knight who had helped retrieve them from the dungeons.

"My Prince, my Lady, I have come to retrieve you for the funeral. Please dress and prepare yourselves. I will return in a few moments."

Baela heard Viserys sit up. Her heart threatened to leap out out of her chest.

"Ser, whose funeral must we attend? I fear we have been told nothing."

The knight of Griffin's Roost pursed his lips. "The one and true King of Westeros and his wife have passed, my Lady. We burn them so they might join the ranks of their hallowed ancestors today."

For a moment, the world seemed to spin. She clasped her hands together to steady herself. And like that, it ends?

The next moments she would only remember as a blur. Dressing, being guided out of Maegor's Holdfast, the winter wind whipping at her dress and the shawl she had chosen to wear atop it. Several hundred knights, lords and ladies had assembled in the courtyard. As she and her brothers were led to the center, a cordon of knights kept them separate from those gathered, the steel on their hips and threats in their eyes guard enough against the many faces of contempt. At the center of the assembly a bier had been set, draped in gold and black. Two shrouds lay atop forms that rested atop it, black silk and golden dragons roaring silently. While she knew what was concealed beneath the obfuscations, Baela could still hardly believe that the Usurper was dead. She had wished for it for so long, and yet a true end to the rancor and torment had always seemed elusive. She had certainly never expected this. Especially as I am not even certain of what this is. How did the Usurper die? And how was it that Helaena died with him? The simplest answer was by a catspaw's knife, but she had already ruled such crude means out as such a death would have mandated retaliation. She was utterly lost, and none so far had proven forthcoming with any new information. With their sudden change in treatment, Baela had begun to wonder if the Usurper's lords had proven less loyal than they had seemed. Perhaps they tired of the constant threat of annihilation, and decided to flavor their doomed King's wine with something less than agreeable. While such things would explain the lack of immediate retaliation, Baela was still unsatisfied with it as an explanation.

Two knights in white cloaks stood vigil over the King and Queen's bodies. Ser Willis Fell served on my uncle's Kingsguard, but the other knight I do not recognize. She recognized the faces of the old Hightower Hand, and that of Lord Borros Baratheon as well. While books of lineage might name him her distant kin, Baela could think of him as naught but a traitor. And a common murderer. Luke's blood remains on his hands, for bending the rules of guest right. Her eyes narrowed as she examined the faces of the Four Storms behind him. Only the youngest appears to mourn the Usurper's death.

What puzzled Baela the most was the absence of the Dowager Queen. While she was not surprised at Princess Jaehaera's absence, she found it troubling that Alicent was nowhere to be seen. If the Hightower Hand hadn't been present, she would've counted it as further evidence of a coup. Now, she knew not what to make of it.

She flinched as the roar of a dragon shook the courtyard. At first, she thought that Sunfyre might have somehow arrived, mourning the death of his rider. Instead, she was shocked to see the unmistakable glinting form of Silverwing circle the keep before landing in a rapidly prepared space before the funeral bier. A silver-haired rider dismounted, looking severe and grim whilst dressed in Velaryon colors. Ser Malentine. Unbelievable. Speaking treason and calumny was not enough for him, it seems. Her Grandfather and Grandmother had oft spoken of the junior branches of House Velaryon with a barely concealed disdain. After her uncle Laenor's death, their demands to be recognised as her Grandfather's heirs had been as numerous as they had been insistent. Mayhaps the Usurper promised him Driftmark. It matters not. Words are wind, and the words of a dead man are worth nothing. Malentine cracked a dragon whip in the air above Silverwing's head, and the dragon bent low, unnatural light gathering within her maw. Baela could not help but glimpse long, jagged scars along the dragon's back as it did so. With Ulf the Seed dead, it seems certain that I was correct about the loyal seeds. They were victorious. Silverwing still bears the marks of her defeat.

White hot flame spilled forth from the dragon's jaws, engulfing the bodies of Baela's enemies. One was an enemy by act, another by unfortunate circumstance. She pitied Helaena, a woman bound by bonds of kinship to monsters, but not a monster herself. As the bodies burned, incense carefully distributed atop the pyre masked the subtle smell of burning flesh, a smell that Baela found acrid and disturbing. Silverwing finished what Meleys began over Rook's Rest. Somehow she still felt a bit hollow inside. It was hard to feel triumphant standing before the burning corpses of one's kin, traitorous or otherwise. She snuck a glance at Aegon and Viserys, both of whom watched the display with little emotion upon their faces. It occurred to Baela with some shock that she was looking upon the last male heirs of House Targaryen. This war has reduced us to five in number. Three of them children. We have never been weaker.

As she watched the flames consume the dead, then begin to gutter and fail, Baela found herself wondering what would come of this. Mother knew this would happen. She warned me of such, in my dreams. There was no longer anyone left to lead. She was the eldest Targaryen alive, and she had never felt so unprepared, so unready to lead. She could only imagine the burden that Aegon was feeling at that moment. Will he be King? It seemed such a ridiculous concept, and yet he remained the best hope of their House. The Lords of the realm must accept him. Peace would otherwise be impossible. It was beginning to look more and more likely that the Greens intended to use them to bargain. It is the only reason we still draw breath.

An armored fist tapped her shoulder. The Connington knight beckoned for her brothers and her to follow, and they were led out into the outer yard to the chambers of the Small Council. After a few moments, several of the Usurper's most powerful lords had gathered in the chamber with them. Lord Borros was present, as was the elderly Hightower. Standing to the Hand's right was Lord Peake, eyeing them with eyes as hard as flint. After a while longer, Ser Malentine entered the chamber, and she immediately felt his gaze upon her. She instinctively stepped forward, placing herself between her brothers and the assembled Greens. A knight with gold rings interlinked upon his breast smiled slightly at her protective gesture, but the expression did not reach his eyes. The same knight that offered to strike my head from my shoulders. His eyes unsettled her. They seem to be open a ways wider than any others. She shivered as his gaze seemed to both threaten and undress her all at once. She tore her gaze away from him, turning to face the old Hand.

"From what my brothers and I have gathered, it appears you have no plans to execute us."

The old man sighed, his jowls shuddering slightly. Running a hand through the few hairs that remained atop his head, he seemed to unconsciously reach for a goblet before realizing none were before him.

"Dear child, we are all anointed knights. The thought of harming children is as foreign to us as… as…" He looked about the room, clearly looking for some assistance with his analogy.

"Harming a child is as a foreign to us as Qohor's Black Goat." Spoke Lord Peake. The Lord of Starpike, Dunstonbury, and Whitegrove eyed the men around him. "We are godly men, and we served the Father above by honoring his will and serving the lawful King. But that King has been taken from us by a madwoman. Our sole desire now is to bring an end to the suffering that has torn the realm asunder."

The Hightower Hand nodded, his expression grateful for the assistance. "Quite right, Lord Unwin. For too long the realm has bled, and it is now our firmest hope that a peaceful and merciful conclusion to this madness can be found."

Baela eyed each of them in turn. While she would have loved to scream and rage at the ridiculous words of the men before her, she realized that her next words would be of great import. We are closer to peace than we have been since this all began. I must needs do whatever I must to ensure the safety of my brothers.

"I applaud your noble sentiments, my Lords, but how are we to assist in this great matter? We are but prisoners."

Lord Baratheon cleared his throat. "Prisoners you might have been, but prisoners no longer. We have already agreed to your release, my Lady, alongside any other … former enemies we have been holding in our custody."

The elderly Hand nodded. "My dear child, you are to be a symbol of our goodwill and fidelity. Initial negotiations have already taken place. This very evening we will escort you and all other former prisoners to the Pretender's men, and from thenceforth you shall be free."

Lord Peake spoke next. "We shall, of course, keep your brothers in our care until a final peace has been negotiated and oaths made to maintain it before Gods and men. Only then shall we be convinced of the trustworthiness of our former enemies."

Baela blinked. "The Queen's armies are outside the walls?"

Lord Peake ignored her slight. "The remaining forces loyal to the Princess of Dragonstone are indeed outside the walls. They marched directly from Duskendale when we made it clear that we were willing to offer them peace terms."

Baela's heart raced. "Who commands them?"

Lord Borros snorted. "Eager to see them, lass? Lord Cregan Stark and his northern savages are the largest portion amongst them, but the remnants of the Riverlords ride with them under Lord Tully. The rest, we are told, are 'volunteers' of the Vale. Only a week ago we received yet another letter from the Lady of the Vale bemoaning the impetuousness of her knights."

Lord Peake scoffed. "The host is also attended by the last of the dragonriding bastards the Princess of Dragonstone recruited. Even now they fly low over the city, reminding us of their vigilance."

It had been one thing to suspect Tumbleton had gone differently than the Greens had claimed, but it was another entirely to hear it from the Lord of Starpike himself.

"The Queen received a letter claiming that those bastards had been slain at Tumbleton, my Lord?" Baela asked, her expression the very image of innocence.

Lord Peake's eyes narrowed. "The Princess of Dragonstone was mistaken, my Lady. The three bastards slew two of their ilk and a Royal Prince that dreadful night, and burned thousands of men alive."

The Hightower knight visibly paled, and uttered a quiet prayer before speaking. "My Lady, we really must be turning you over to them. They were most insistent that we do so before evenfall."

Baela shook her head. "I am sorry, but I cannot abandon my brothers. I will only go free when they are allowed to go as well."

Lord Peake shook his head, a vein running jagged across his temple. "Impossible, my Lady. Willingly or otherwise, you are to be exchanged this evening."

Willingly or otherwise. Turning to her brothers, she embraced them. Pursing her lips, she spoke, determined to not put on a show. "It appears I must leave you now. I will see you again soon, however, that I promise." Pulling away, Aegon met her gaze before turning to the Hightower Hand and the Lord of Starpike.

"It is no matter, sister. I trust that my brother and I will be in the safest of care. We would see you off, if possible."

Before Lord Peake could deny him, the Hand spoke. "That will be no trouble, my Prince. We would be delighted to honor your request." Lord Peake stared daggers at the Hightower knight, but he did not seem to notice.

With that, Baela and her brothers were led outside the Council chambers and back into the inner yard. A mounted troop of knights had gathered about several ornate carriages. Baela was led to the one in the lead, and she stiffly took the hand of Lord Baratheon when he offered to help her climb inside. As the door closed, her eyes were on her brothers, who stood tall, acting as though they hadn't a care or fear in the world. A King indeed. She offered them both a smile and the door closed.

Baela was still attempting to watch her brothers through the opaque glass when an old but familiar voice greeted her. "I fear, my Lady, that you may have to ride in another carriage. Your beauty is liable to make an old man's heart stop."

A smile crept across her features. "A shame that would be indeed, Grandfather. You were such a valuable prisoner." Turning, she buried herself in an embrace with the Seasnake. "I was so worried for you! I feared the dungeons would treat you most ill!"

Corlys Velaryon scoffed. "I had it much worse in Leng. Those bastards really know how to make a man uncomfortable. The Red Keep's dungeons are downright welcoming by comparison." he chuckled. "Besides, this salty old sailor is not nearly through. I have far too many ambitions afoot to die of a cold. It would be most inconvenient."

"Of your ambitions, I am certain." She smiled. It was good to have him back. She had not lied when she spoke of her worries. Her grandfather was decades older than any other man she knew; decades older than the Old King himself had been. She had feared the conditions of his confinement would prove too much for him.

Lord Corlys Velaryon looked almost exactly how she had remembered him, but was lacking his long silver hair that he had always kept tied in a long braid down his back. When he noticed her staring, he sighed.

"They shaved it. Supposedly lice found it very accommodating. They were damnably itchy. Good riddance I say."

Baela smiled at his antics. It was only as she began to settle into the cushioning of the coach that she realized how many young ladies sat all about them. A few she recognised from the Queen's court at Dragonstone, but others were new. They bore shy smiles at her Grandfather's remarks. Wise as always, Grandfather. They were likely terrified before your performance.

Her Grandfather leaned back, and in a few moments pretended to snore. Soft giggles echoed around the coach cabin in response. Baela grinned, deciding to let him have his fun. The coach trundled along, down cobbled streets that had once bustled with people. Only occasionally did she spot passerby, and most wore cloaks of gold or lordly sigils upon their breast. This city has become an armed camp. It seemed like hours dragged by as the coach picked its way across the city, bumping at every minor pothole. Baela still could not quite believe that she was out of her cell. She pinched herself several times, just to make certain that she was not in some sort of tortuous nightmare. Eventually, the great walls of the city could be seen, and her excitement was nearly intolerable as they passed beneath them, the frozen ground of the fields beyond locked in the icy clutches of hoarfrost. Her stomach churned as the carriage finally groaned to a stop, and through the Myrish glass she saw a sea of light. Torches. After a few moments, the knight of house Connington wrenched the door open. Her Grandfather 'woke' with a start, grumbling about the winter cold. He led the many young ladies out into the winter night, some still giggling at his antics.

Baela drew in a sharp breath, steeling herself, before stepping out into the frigid winter air. Her eyes widened in surprise when she saw the scale of the reception. A neat path had been cleared, stretching hundreds of feet into the night towards a vast sea of tents. Hundreds of men shouted, with Lords on horseback signaling them to greet the newly freed prisoners. Banners snapped in the frigid air, and Baela saw Direwolves, Trout, Falcons, Bleeding Hearts, Dancing Maidens, and many more illuminated in the torchlight. Not hundreds, but thousands. A young man with a shock of red hair and a wispy attempt at a mustache stepped forward, a Dancing Maiden upon his chest.

"Hail to the unbroken, HAIL TO THE FAITHFUL." His shout was taken up by a thousand cries.

Baela was stunned. Around her stood a few other prisoners, all equal measures bewildered and overwhelmed. She recognized Lord Bonnifer Bar Emmon, and Lord Dallen Brune, thought lost in the riot. A Knight of the Vale waved at those before them, a wide grin overtaking his features. Ser Gilbar survived the riots as well, though it appears they claimed three fingers on his sword hand. Lastly a dour Northman stood, bearing a heavy box. The firelight was reflected in the tears that streamed down his cheeks as he saw so many of his countrymen. Ser Eyron Locke, former squire to Ser Medrick Manderly. Baela remembered him from the last days of the Queen's court. She had thought him lost in the riots as well. As their small procession walked along the ranks of cheering soldiers and lords, a roar of a dragon sounded overhead. A massive beast soared only a few feet above, its midnight black scales drinking in the torchlight. Beating its wings in the air, it slowed its flight, lowered itself to the ground at the end of their trail and joined the two other dragons that were already perched proudly to greet them. The Cannibal angled its head into the air, unleashing a torrent of green flame into the sky, joined by the misty and white flames of its brethren. Illuminated by the light of dragonflame stood the last of Rhaenyra's lords and champions.

Before them awaited a young woman dressed in striking red and black, dressed for battle in midnight mail that seemed set with rubies in the firelight. Her long silver hair pulled into a warrior's braid, akin to Visenya of old. To her side stood a tall broad-shouldered man with shoulder length brown hair. Dressed in Corbray raiment, Baela suspected he was the knight that Rhaena had grown 'most-fond' of. But knights and lords paled in comparison to her sister, who Baela could scarcely believe stood before her. Laughing madly she rushed forward, embracing Rhaena with the ferocity of a hungry shadowcat.

"You're wearing mail, Rhae!"

She felt her sister shake her head in mock-shame. "It had to be done. I had an army to lead, after all!" Pulling back, her eyes donned a mischievous glint that Baela remembered all too well. "And you, in a dress? What has happened to you, sweet sister?" Rhaena had begun to laugh, but it caught in her throat as she caught sight of the branding on Baela's face, now fully visible in the torchlight. All of the sudden, the mirth drained from her tone. "What did they do to you, Baela?"

Baela shook her head, signaling for her to drop the matter for the time being. Forcing a small grin, she added: "Twas a gift to remember the Usurper by. I pay it no heed any longer."

While Rhaena offered a small smile as a response, there was no doubt that her violet eyes demanded answers, and vengeance. As the two sisters stood, studying one another and contemplating silently, their grandfather ceased his observations of them and moved forwards, turning to face the commanders that still stood at attention behind them. The Seasnake offered a proud smile, his age seemingly fading away as he drew himself up to his full height. "My lords, I am most pleased at this display of fidelity and commitment. The Queen's cause will be forever in your debt for your service."

Lord Tully stepped forwards, his bright red beard glinting. "Our support was our honor to provide, Lord Velaryon. If you would follow us, we have prepared a feast of sorts to welcome you back amongst our numbers."

Baela followed along, hoping she might soon have an opportunity to speak more at length with her sister. She had hoped to speak with Gaemon as well, but decided she ought to pick her opportunity carefully. She noticed that the other prisoners were dispersing, looking for friends amongst the vast crowds of knights and soldiers. Ser Eyron Locke remained grim, and sought out the Manderly Banner, carrying his chest with the care one might hold a child with. She could not hear the words he spoke to Ser Torrhen, but the Manderly knight's face told her that Locke brought no good tidings. So the other Manderly survived the riots after all. I wonder how such a thing came to pass?

Her grandfather had placed his arms around her legitimized cousins, and Ser Addam and Ser Alyn were clearly basking in his praise. He holds them as though they were sons of his own. Baela smirked. Mayhaps they are. Uncle Laenor's preferences had never extended to the charms of women, if her memory served. Whatever the case, Baela watched their interactions with a mixture of amusement and happiness, happiness for an old hero who'd long outlived his wife and children. She studied Ser Addam in particular. A kind and honorable knight, to be sure. He had aged considerably since she saw him last. Silver stubble had begun to cling to his once boyish cheeks, and he had grown more gaunt with the rigors of campaign. Ser Alyn, on the other hand, had filled out, becoming more visibly muscled with his excursions at sea. His skin was tanned, though faded in winter, and she could immediately trace the resemblance between him and her grandfather. He wore his hair in the long and traditional war braids that had been all the rage in the ancient Freehold, whilst Ser Addam kept his shorn close, clearly to ease the wearing of a plate helm. Studying the Velaryon seed, she noticed her grandfather had whispered something to him, and watched as he turned his gaze to greet her. Untangling himself from Corlys' embrace, he approached and offered a small smile.

Offering him a smile in return, Baela dipped her head in acknowledgement. "It seems the boy from Hull has gone to war and made himself a hero."

Without speaking, Addam brushed a cold gauntleted hand against her wounded cheek. His touch was most delicate, but the steel was still cold to the touch. A dark look overtook his features.

"War hero or not, I was unable to prevent their ill-intent. Baela, if I had only known what the Usurper was capable of… you must forgive me, my Lady."

Baela shook her head. "There is nothing to forgive, Ser. Your restraint is likely the only reason my brothers still draw breath. I am most grateful to you and the other seeds." She drew herself upwards and placed a kiss upon his cheek. As she did so, she saw that the other two seeds waited behind Ser Addam. Ser Maegor was maintaining a polite expression of neutrality, but she had spent enough time in court to know when a man was wrestling with anger on the inside. Ser Gaemon, on the other hand, offered a wry grin. He too had forgone a razor, and red stubble had run wild across his jaw. His hair had grown long, and while he had not the skill to style it in the fashion of Valyria, the image was still there. Upon his chest was emblazoned a great black dragon which curled upon a field of blood red. Even less subtle than the 'Waters' sobriquet. He really never will learn. She realized as she studied him further that he reminded her for the first time of her father. His father, too. Her breath caught as she saw the unmistakable hilt of Dark Sister resting on his hip. Father is dead, then. Her heart sank, but she realized she had already known it for some time. Why else would he have been keeping mother company?

She withdrew from Ser Addam, who unconsciously raised his hand to his cheek where she had kissed him with a grin. He took a step backwards, allowing for Ser Maegor to approach. Like Ser Addam, he wore his hair cropped close, but had not neglected the razor. A hard jawline gave him a more severe expression, but when he took her hands in his, a smile crossed his face.

"My Lady. It is good to see you again, even if those scum could not restrain their cruelty."

He had begun to frown as he spoke, but she placed a kiss upon his cheek to prevent him from descending back into brooding. Bitterness does not suit him. If he does possess the blood of the Cruel, then he ought to be doubly careful of such sentiments. The giant knight bowed in thanks towards her gesture, before allowing his compatriot to take his place.

Ser Gaemon took her hands, bowing in a fashion that suggested a carefully practiced novice, which she found altogether charming.

"Your return has been long anticipated, my Lady. Now we must needs see to the release of Moondancer. Rhaenys should not be without her Meraxes."

Baela placed a kiss upon his cheek. While his expression was relatively neutral, something about his slight grin seemed to state: you missed. She smiled despite herself, turning from the three Seeds and allowing her sister to guide her to the feasting pavilion. Her sister gave her arm a firm squeeze, as if to ward off mischief. Baela smiled wickedly in the darkness. Sweet sister, you ought to know better. I AM mischief.

The feast was surprisingly held in a relatively intimate setting. While Baela had expected a much grander reception, it seemed this was to be a small affair between the high command and her grandfather. A wide circular table had been set, and Stark, Tully, and Arryn stood as they entered, only seating themselves after Baela had claimed a seat. Her grandfather chose a place to her right, whilst Rhaena sat to her left. Her sister's guardian also seated himself. Rhaena always was able to get what she wanted. The Seeds also took their places, alongside Ser Alyn. All in all, we are the beating heart of Rhaenyra's army.

Ser Gaemon was in fine spirits, and he spoke after taking a sip of wine.

"My Lady, your return has been most fortuitous for several reasons. You should have seen the fare we have been served in previous nights. I am quite shocked that Ser Isembard was capable of keeping such morsels hidden away from a ravenous host."

Baela nodded. "It is only fitting that he do so. We cannot allow the likes of you to pilfer from the pantries of Lords."

Some of the others assembled raised eyebrows at her jab, but their fears were dispelled upon seeing the good natured grin of the Dragonseed. Baela found herself marveling at the ease with which the once tongue-tied Seed spoke in front of the powerful. Twas not so long ago that he was cowed by their very presence. Her Grandfather studied Gaemon carefully, before offering a congenial grin.

"I see that our faithful Seed has developed quite an appetite for the finer things in life. I am most pleased that service to our fallen Queen has proven beneficial."

Gaemon nodded, pondering his words. "The Seven Above themselves have ordained that a vassal is to expect such benevolence in return for faithful service."

At that, Ser Maegor suppressed a laugh in his cup.

Ser Isembard Arryn had been watching the proceedings with bemusement, but chose then to speak up: "Lord Corlys, we are most pleased to see you returned and in good health. It was no small feat to negotiate your release, alongside that of the Lady Baela and the other captives."

At his words, the Lord of Winterfell's grey eyes darkened with rage.

The Seasnake nodded. "What sort of concessions have our enemies demanded?"

The Lord of Riverrun eyed Lord Cregan cautiously before answering. "Their demands were simple, yet vast. They asked that any peace be without recrimination or punishment. In return, they offered to hand over all prisoners and accept Rhaenyra's eldest living son as King without dispute."

Baela was suddenly furious. Dropping her spoon back into the bowl of soup she had been nursing, she looked at her grandfather and then spoke, careful to keep herself from shouting: "They are asking to go unpunished? They ought to be losing their heads! At the very least they should be stripped of the majority of their holdings and any significant vassals!"

For the first time that evening, Lord Cregan spoke. "My Lady, I said the same. The punishment for treason has always been death. I myself advocated against any acceptance of such terms." He spoke with a rage as cold as Northern Winds. "Our enemy's position, however, is quite clear. Under no circumstances will the Princes Aegon and Viserys be allowed to live if we do not swear off all punishment, all vengeance. We can win this war and see the traitors punished, but only if we accept the deaths of Rhaenyra's last heirs."

Ser Isembard watched her, eyes suddenly devoid of all playfulness. "We all swore to fight for Rhaenyra's claim to the throne. We can fulfill our oaths, but to do so requires odious compromise. None of us are willing to see your brothers dead. We honor our Queen by protecting the last of her children."

Corlys sighed. "There was no way to split their interests? Lord Baratheon seems the type to defect with sufficient incentive. Could we not find a means to have him secure the Princes in return for immunity?"

Lord Stark's eyes flashed. "I mislike compromising with traitors. There is no variation to treason. A man is either loyal, or he is not."

Tully looked at Stark with a thinly veiled exasperation. "We did consider reaching out to Lord Baratheon. But our forays were rebuffed… enthusiastically. I do not believe our enemies to be fool enough to trust our assurances in the event they turn on one another. They know their best chance at a favorable peace is to leverage their hostages to the hilt. Those that they've handed over so far are a calculated move. So far they haven't lost anything decisive."

Her grandfather nodded, clearly in agreement with the Tully knight's logic. Baela was torn. She found herself facing a choice between her desire for vengeance and her family. In the end, Aegon and Viserys won, without a doubt. She now knew why Ser Maegor had been furious earlier. He was as enraged as I was. They've got us in an unbreakable vice.

Ser Addam cleared his throat. "We, the Queen's dragonriders, have agreed to accept the Greens' proposal. While it pains us, we will not sacrifice a King for vengeance."

Baela watched the faces of the other Seeds as he spoke. Even Maegor seemed to have resolved himself to that solution, even though his anger had not entirely dissipated. They have not forgotten the oaths they made to their Queen. They will crown her blood, if it is in their power.

Corlys considered Addam's words, and nodded. "It seems there is nothing for it, then. The war will not end with Fire and Blood, but with quills, ink, and seals."

Ser Isembard nodded. "The Usurper's Lords informed us that they will meet us at the Old Gate to commit ourselves to peace. Let us do so in good faith, in the name of the King."

With that, Lord Cregan rose and departed without a word. One by one, the leadership of the army departed, and she and her sister embraced their grandfather as he departed with Sers Addam and Alyn. With a bow, Sers Gaemon and Maegor departed, leaving Baela and Rhaena alone as the evening's fare was cleared away and the embers of the brazier faded.

Baela smiled tiredly. "It truly is good to be with you once again, sister."

Rhaena nodded. "Truly. Even if you are a walking political disaster."

The elder twin shrugged. "I see no reason why pursuing one anointed knight is altogether different than another."
Rhaena sighed dramatically. "One of those knights is a legitimate scion of an ancient and respected house. The other is a potential threat to the throne, riding one of the largest living dragons."

Baela nodded. "You've listed the exact reasons why it will be so important to keep him loyal. We, as humble daughters of the dragon, were always told that our duty was to marry so as to strengthen our house." She winked.

Her sister shook her head. "I am certain grandfather will be ecstatic to watch as you try and wriggle your way out of his intended marriage." Rhaena took her hands. "Is Addam really so bad? He is handsome, loyal, and honorable. You could do far worse."

Baela frowned slightly. "Nothing is for certain. Mayhaps I must marry him. Such a match would ensure House Velaryon's close ties to the throne, and would very likely guarantee another generation of dragonriding Seahorses. But if you were ordered to marry the likes of Cregan Stark, would you not try and negotiate a preferred alternative?"

Rhaena smiled. "You already know my answer. I simply wished to hear your thoughts on the matter in person."

Leaving the tent, they strolled through the camp, flanked on all sides by raucous celebrations that had broken out at the rumor of peace. Rhaena guided her to a great pitched tent, its red and black coloration visible in the firelight. The carpeted interior was well furnished, but what immediately drew Baela's eye was the pink scaled form that had curled beneath the black iron brazier that glowed in the center of the enclosure. Approaching the small dragon quietly, she knelt before it, admiring the beauty and majesty of her sister's hatchling. Rhaena stood proudly next to her, before kneeling and offering it a sliver of bacon. The hatchling raised its head, black horns glinting in the firelight, and snatched the meat from her sister's fingers. Baela chuckled.

She gazed at her sister, who was contentedly watching her dragon devour her offering. "I'm glad you were able to hatch one, Rhaena. I had grown most tired of pitying you."

Her sister rolled her eyes. "One day, Morning will humble your Moondancer. I swear it."

Baela shrugged. "I suppose it is just as well that you still entertain delusional hopes."

She shrieked as she was tackled from behind. Freedom is wonderful.

The next morning found her sitting atop a white palfrey next to her sister. They had insisted that they attend the meeting between the factions that would settle the terms for the peace. Sers Addam and Gaemon had joined them, whilst Ser Maegor circled above, his Grey Ghost darting this way and that above the city, watching for any sign of treachery. Her grandfather had donned his most ornate Velaryon finery, and looked every inch the noble lord. Lord Cregan Stark had ridden alongside him, looking as though he were carved of ice. Behind them rode Sers Tully and Arryn, along with an escort of one hundred mounted knights representing all of the regions that still served the Queen's memory. Several other notables rode with the column, including Lord Alan Tarly, Lord Stanton Piper, Ser Corwyn Corbray, and Ser Torrhen Manderly. Even Lord Bonnifer Bar Emmon had washed and changed, insisting he be present at the surrender of his captors. As they approached the Old Gate, they stopped, out of range of most projectiles. Gold Cloaks upon the walls blew horns to announce their coming, and the gates opened, revealing nearly fifty armored knights and lords that came to surrender the city. At their head blew the banners of House Baratheon, House Lannister, House Hightower, and House Peake. The Green knights stopped about fifty feet from their party, their horses shifting and whickering nervously. The tension in the air could have been cut with a knife. After a few moments of silence, the Hightower Hand cantered forwards, flanked by the Lords Baratheon and Peake. Ser Willis Fell followed, guiding a veiled Ser Tyland Lannister, who rode his horse blinded but unflinchingly.

The two groups met, eyeing each other with thinly veiled disgust and distrust. Eventually, the Hightower knight broke the silence.

"We have come, we servants of King Aegon, the Second of His Name, to bring an end to the rancor and bloodshed that has divided the Seven Kingdoms. We are prepared to crown Prince Aegon the Younger as King of these Seven Kingdoms. In return, we ask that all men who have served honorably, regardless of their claimant, be allowed to return to their lands and families unharmed, without fear of reprisal. Lastly, we ask that our new King be married without delay to the Princess Jaehaera, daughter of Aegon II, to bind their claims into one. Let their marriage be a symbol of peace and healing for the realm. " The old man sighed, looking far older than his years.

Lord Borros Baratheon spoke. "We ourselves renounce all accusations of treason, and we ask that you do the same. We ask you now to swear to a peace with honor, without further bloodshed."

Lord Cregan Stark exhaled, softly, but with cold hate in his eyes. Before he could speak, her grandfather nodded. "We, as lords and anointed knights, swear to those terms. Let there be an end to this war."

Ser Tyland Lannister spoke, little more than a whisper. "We too, so swear." In unison, all present uttered the oath. The Lannister knight raised a fist, and the Golden Dragon banners of Aegon II that hung along the walls of the city and the Red Keep were raised, quickly replaced with the traditional banner of House Targaryen. So it ends, Baela thought to herself.

Ser Elmo Tully nodded. "We propose that the coronation of King Aegon III be postponed until the first of the next year. Let the year one hundred and thirty-two after the conquest be known as a year of peace. Let us also send ravens to the whole realm, inviting all of its lords to come and pay homage to their new liege."

Lord Unwin Peake nodded, eyes as hard as flint. "Let us see to our maesters and ravens, then. Let the realm rejoice at its fortune."

Baela let a sigh escape her lips that she hadn't realised she had been holding. Above, dragon banners stirred weakly in the wind.