Chapter 19: Empty Words Baelor Celtigar

The capital, the gigantic, odorous, and overpopulated capital. Baelor could see how King's Landing was perched on the three hills: at the top of Visenya's Hill stood the Great Sept of Baelor with its seven crystal towers; on the other side of the city, on Rhaenys's Hill, the blackened walls of the Dragonpit were visible, its enormous dome collapsed and now nothing more than a ruin, behind the bronze doors that had been closed for over a century; and finally, on Aegon's Hill, towering above everything, rose the imposing Red Keep, made up of seven towers that shone with their red stone. It was majestic; however, part of its charm had been lost when the banners that adorned it turned from black to gold.

The emblem of House Celtigar flew embroidered on the sails of the ship drawing ever closer to the city's docks. It had been decades since the red crab had been seen in Blackwater Bay, let alone since Robert Baratheon's ascent to the throne. It was said in the taverns that, at the Lannisport tournament before the war, a young Baelor Celtigar had been considering asking Lady Lyanna Stark for her favor, but suddenly, the lord withdrew from the tournament after Robert Baratheon's visit to his tent.

"Raise the white flag," he ordered the captain, while he gazed forlornly at the waters through which his ship passed. There was all manner of debris, broken ships, corpses that had not been removed, traces of Valyrian fire, and burned banners. Baelor had no choice but to close his eyes tightly to avoid imagining that one of those dead might be his father. "Let's finish this."

As he approached the harbor, he could see that several ships from other houses that had supported Stannis had already docked in the capital. Apparently, he was the last to arrive. And when he was brought to the Red Keep in a carriage, he was ordered to leave his weapons under the custody of the Kingsguard, which he had no place to object to. He was then quickly taken before the Iron Throne. It was as imposing as he remembered, though the dragon skulls had been removed from the columns and the predominant color was neither red nor black, but gold.

"The king will see you immediately," the guard told him, leaving him in front of the throne while he returned to his post at the door.

The hall was empty, not filled with courtiers as it usually was. They had probably been denied access due to all the lords who had to pledge loyalty after the Battle of Blackwater. Unconsciously, Baelor began to scrutinize every detail of the place, analyzing its present and remembering how it had been in the past, until he heard strong, assured footsteps approaching the throne.

"Lord Baelor," said a voice, surprising him and making him turn quickly. "The last remaining lord."

"Lord Tywin," he managed to say, though it had been several years since he last saw him. He saw the tall man with little hair, as imposing as the first day he had seen him as a child, now wearing the Hand of the King brooch. "Congratulations on your new position, my lord."

"My condolences for your loss," he added, walking slowly to stand before the throne. He seemed not to have heard the congratulations he had received, but every intelligent man knew that there were few things Tywin Lannister did not hear. "I assume it was your father's funeral that delayed you. I know the Celtigars still observe those costly Valyrian traditions."

"I'm afraid so, my lord," he clasped his hands behind his back. "One would think that over time some customs would be forgotten, but the Valyrian affinity for fire is something that cannot be bargained with."

"I am well aware," the old man nodded, with a posture as strict as a rock. "Fortunately, it is not the same affinity as the Targaryens."

"You said it well, 'fortunately.'"

Tywin looked at him with intrigue, quite certain that there was more the Celtigar could say, but it was the king's footsteps that ended their conversation. The two present bowed their heads as the young man with golden hair settled into his throne.

"My king," Baelor made a forced bow, without even looking at him too much.

"Lord Celtigar," Joffrey said his name with indifference as he casually placed his crown on his head. "Curious that you could arrive so easily. After all, I suppose you've seen the remains of your ships in the bay. I've been told it's difficult to navigate among so many corpses."

"A good ship knows how to find its way through anything, Your Majesty," he said seriously, though showing a faint smile. "In any case, seamanship is not why I am here," he said with difficulty, more out of pride, kneeling before the king and lowering his gaze. "I, Baelor Celtigar, have come here seeking royal pardon and to swear perpetual loyalty to Your Majesty and to your house."

"Many said my uncle Stannis clouded your judgment so that you decided to support him," Joffrey began, waving one of his hands over one of the swords on the throne with excitement. "Why do you think your father supported him?"

"For the same oath I am making now, my king," he replied without hesitation. "Only he made it to the wrong Baratheon." This comment made the king laugh until he suddenly felt a cut on one of his fingers. The throne had done it.

In silence, Baelor was able to understand what that situation meant. The throne was rejecting the monarch, just as the legends told among the common people. Maegor slain by the throne, Aerys II receiving constant cuts, and now Joffrey. There were legends that might be true.

"Anyway," the blonde man licked the tip of his finger with disgust and continued speaking. "Your apologies are accepted, my lord, but with the warning that if you show signs of disloyalty or treason, your head will decorate the walls."

"Your mercy will be vehemently remembered, Your Majesty," Baelor nodded, standing up under the attentive and calculating gaze of Tywin Lannister, while Joffrey was more concerned about his cut than the presence of the other two men. "If it is appropriate, I request permission to withdraw."

"Yes, yes, go," Baelor turned toward the exit, almost laughing when he heard Joffrey's shout. "Someone get the edge off this stupid throne or its heads will do it!"

He quickly left through the corridors of the fortress. Gradually, he encountered more courtiers, some being friendly and others less so. After all, his hair was still unusual and reminded them of unpleasant times. However, he didn't pay them much attention; he just wanted to reach the royal gardens, where he spent most of his time when his family visited the capital.

In a misstep, whether from turning too quickly or not seeing one of the last corners leading to the garden, Baelor bumped into a woman with chestnut hair, youthful and lively in appearance.

"My lord, excuse me," the young woman said quickly, placing her hands on her chest to move away from him. "How distracted of me."

"There is no need to apologize," he assured her, appreciating her beauty once she moved away. He could swear he had never seen a more beautiful woman in all his years. "Lady…"

"Margaery," she responded with a smile. "Margaery Tyrell."

"Baelor Celtigar," he introduced himself, bowing slightly. "So, you are our future queen. I should apologize for bumping into you."

"Don't worry, Lord Baelor, I won't send you to the guillotine for a simple mistake, but let's not make it a habit," she joked with a threatening look, which she softened with a laugh.

"I'll keep that in mind," he nodded with a smile.

"How curious, my grandmother and I were discussing the arrival of your ships," Margaery changed the subject, beginning to walk toward the garden, expecting him to follow. "I didn't know there were still houses with white hair besides the Targaryens."

"There are, though I've been told many times that over time, Celtigar hair has darkened," he explained as they continued walking, not quite sure where Lady Margaery was leading him. "I understand that the Targaryens even have golden streaks, while the Velaryons are pale platinum."

"For you, it must be as common to see someone with white hair as it is for me to see someone with brown hair."

"I doubt your beauty can be matched, Lady Margaery."

"You are very kind, my lord," she said, flattered, stopping her pace in front of one of the corridors. "I'm afraid I must attend a meeting with my future husband, Lord Baelor, but I hope to see you again in the capital."

"The same to you," he placed himself in front of her and gave a gentle and slow bow before watching her leave.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" an arrogant voice pulled him from his thoughts. Turning around, Baelor found himself face-to-face with the most well-known dwarf in all the Seven Kingdoms, though he was not as he remembered. He no longer seemed to be the mocking and lecherous half-man he had known in his youth but rather a war hero, or so they said, as evidenced by the crimson scar that stretched across his face, taking part of his nose.

"My lord?" he asked, not knowing what to say, until he finally regained his composure upon seeing him like this. "Lord Tyrion?"

"And you are Baelor Celtigar," Tyrion said confidently, approaching him with a serious look, though he seemed amused. "My condolences for your father's death, my lord."

"Thank you," it was amusing that the only person who paid their respects honestly was Tyrion Lannister, but he wasn't going to be swayed by his kindness; he wasn't stupid and needed to play along. "How can I assist you?"

"In nothing more than unnecessary company, I doubt you have anything else to do in the capital, let me say," Tyrion said boldly, approaching the white-haired man cautiously.

"Who am I to dictate what comes out of a Lannister's mouth?"

"The richest man in the Seven Kingdoms, perhaps," Tyrion whispered once he was close enough for only the Celtigar to hear, leaving him astonished. "I know, hard to believe, even more so for a Lannister. But, as the new Master of Coin, I've learned of several transactions recently made between the Crown and its various investors," he began walking, followed by Baelor. "My family, of course, the Iron Bank, and, curiously, a secret investor outside Blackwater."

"What do you mean?" Baelor asked, confused. Was his father sending money to the enemy when he could give it to Aemond? Did he betray Stannis? Did he hide it in the same way he had hidden his nephew's affairs?

"In recent years, my lord," Tyrion began, "the account books have recorded various dealings with this… investor, whose meeting place has been the northern Blackwater Bay. Of course, I considered most of the houses that reside there, but none of them would have that amount of money even in a decade, so I came to the Celtigars." He cleared his throat in front of the gardens. "It has always been said that your cellars conceal great fortunes. It's intriguing."

"In the cellars I know of, Lord Tyrion, the only things there are dust and the skull of an old dragon," he confessed, though he kept thinking about what the lion could be referring to. "I couldn't tell you which of those that perished in the Dance."

"Well…" the dwarf scoffed, "I don't think a dragon's skull is worth that much," he said, pretending to be as foolish as they both knew he was not. "It seems I'm not the only one whose family conspires in the shadows."

"That's a vile accusation against your family, my lord."

"Baelor, we've known each other for a long time," he looked at him seriously, making sure there was no one around. "And although we haven't seen each other since before the Mountain took your brother Maegor's head by my father's order, I know that right now you are the person I can trust most in all of King's Landing, just as I am the only person you can trust."

"I won't stay long enough to prove it, let that be clear, Lannister," he spat with fury. It had been years since anyone mentioned his elder brother's death; no one dared to do so. The young Celtigar heir, decapitated before his family by Gregor Clegane, who used nothing but his own hands. His fingers tearing Maegor's neck, his deafening screams, his mother's desperation, his father's pleas. They had been humiliated for wanting to protect the Targaryens. Days later, his mother had thrown herself from the highest tower of Claw Isle.

"I know it's hard, but it's the truth," Tyrion stood in front of him, hoping his small body could stop him. "I've been waiting all this time to speak with you."

"What do you want?"

"I want you to stay in the capital," Baelor scoffed and began walking in the opposite direction. "I know it sounds crazy and stupid, but I can get you a position on the council," Tyrion stopped. "You could be a counselor, or even a naval counselor if I manage to convince my father."

"What makes you think I want to serve the Lannisters?" Baelor asked, now with a much less cordial tone. "They've brought me nothing but misfortune all my life. I won't curse my family further by staying near you."

"Maybe you say that now, but the day will come when your family will be the one to force you to be close to a Lannister."

And with that, the dwarf left without saying another word.