Baela VIII
Baela misliked the smell of roasted flesh, for it smelled uncomfortably like that of spitted pork. When she had burned men, the sea winds had oft spared her the intensities of the smell, but in the cramped quarters beneath the maester's tower in Dragonstone, there was no such relief.
Maester Podrick had done all he could to relieve the patient's suffering, mixing potions and poultices with the fervor of a man possessed. The bitter mixtures were forced down the groaning man's throat, and the queer-smelling pastes slathered upon his arms. Despite the worst fears of the residents of the ancient fortress, the man in the cot resolutely refused to die, despite his wounds appearing quite grevious initially.
When Baela had arrived at Driftmark, she had searched for her kin amongst her grandfather's war galleys, requesting that she be granted an audience with him as the wounded and burned were guided off their decks. Eventually boarding the Queen Rhaenys, she demanded that the captain tell her of his whereabouts, that they might discuss his brother's loss and break the news together to his brother's widow. Instead, the captain informed her that the man she sought was not aboard his ship, and for that matter was not even ashore at Driftmark. A few hours before he had ordered the men to release him off of the coast of Dragonstone aboard a small rowing boat, small enough to be dismissed as a fisherman's vessel as he approached the island. Baela had never run to Moondancer faster, knowing in that moment that her cousin meant to master Sunfyre. Baela was not one for prayer, but she had prayed to the Gods that they grant her the speed she knew was of the essence. She had arrived only moments too late, watching with horror as the last of Laenor's sons was blasted with golden flames that resembled a hellish sunrise.
It had been Alyn's speed, and Moondancer's wrath, that had saved him in the end. The last of Corlys' grandsons had thrown himself to the side, avoiding immediate death to the Usurper's former mount, whilst Moondancer roared and blasted flames of jade to force the grumbling Sunfyre to forsake his meal. Baela had dismounted to find her cousin writhing in pain, his left arm and leg already boiling under the agony of the flames. Helping him to stagger to her dragon, she had thrown him across the saddle, flying him straight to Dragonstone's citadel. Holding him to steady him, she had felt the sobs that wracked his normally stalwart form, and knew that whilst the flames had burned, the agony came from within.
'Neath the bandages, Alyn Velaryon was very much still alive, and after a few days of recovery, far more lucid. The milk of the poppy had carried him away to a quiet and cool world of dreamless slumber, and whilst he rested Baela kept a stoic watch over her kin. After several days of fitful and sporadic rest, Baela awoke to Alyn violently refusing another cup of substance, assuring Maester Podrick that the sleep it promised was no longer needed. She watched with consternation as he knocked the cup from his caretaker's hands, watching the viscous liquid pool upon the warm stones of the floor. Podrick had looked to her for support, but she had shaken her head firmly. If Alyn Velaryon did not wish to slumber, it was a pointless endeavor to attempt to force him.
Once he regained enough of his strength to break his fast, Baela retreated to her chambers, only leaving occasionally to retrieve the occasional manuscript from the library in order to continue her studies. To her chagrin, there was little to be found regarding the hunting and corralling of a riderless and escaped dragon. Her ancestors had rarely been troubled with the loss of their own mounts, as to approach them without the consent of the family's patriarch was punishable by death. In Old Valyria, there had been no eggs placed in cradles, no hatchlings for children. Men were expected to prove themselves virtuous and accomplished scions of their houses prior to being deemed worthy of a mount. Often these accomplishments were manifold, including a mastery of the histories, talents proven with blade and lyre, a son sired. It was only after the patriarch granted his approval that the younger men of the house could depart their great manses and approach the traditional familial dragon roosts that smoldered in the shadows of the Fourteen Flames.
Rarer still, of course, were the maidens that mastered the beasts of their own. With familial incest highly valued and prioritized, only the daughters of the Great Houses promised to their brothers, cousins, or uncles were traditionally granted the right to take a mount of their own, for great was the fear that a family's prized mount might be bound with a maiden destined for a less prestigious but politically necessary marriage outside the bounds of the family. Baela had found several passages in the histories that spoke of the scandal involving Rhaella Vekerys, daughter of the mighty Thirteenth House, who was promised to Chai Duq, Fourth of the Yellow Emperors of Yi Ti. Rhaella had been promised to her elder brother, Rhaegon, who had died suddenly in his nineteenth year of life, either by poison or by a weak heart. Rhaella had already been granted a dragon by her sire, Maegon Vekerys, who doted upon her. When her sire arranged her marriage to the YiTish Emperor to ensure his family trading rights in YiTish ports, Valyria had fallen into uproar at the prospect of Rhaella's dragon Gargalon accompanying her to that Far Eastern realm. Only Maegon's supreme wealth and prestige saved the Vekerys dynasty, though it took them over a century to regain their coveted thirteenth rank (largely due to their longstanding silk trade monopolies).
Jaenara Belaerys and her famed mount Terrax were another famed example. Her journey to Sothoryos had been an extended protest against her marriage to her uncle, Jaehaerys, and only after her return (scarred, some say, by the horrors she encountered in the Green Hell) did she agree to marry him. Baela had found it most amusing that the vast majority of the Valyrian knowledge of the great southern continent could trace its origins to what amounted to a lover's quarrel.
In both instances, however, the Great Families had not needed to retrieve their dragons by force. Draconic combat was forbidden in almost all circumstances, as it had driven the early Freehold to the brink of destruction. It was highly ritualized, only permissible in the gravest of circumstances, such as a means of settling a dispute arising over an assassination, or a transgression against a member of one House by another. Dragons were worth far more than their weight in gold, and throwing them away over anything but the most cataclysmic conflicts was considered unacceptable.
It was only after the destruction of the Freehold that combat between dragons was seen, if only briefly. Gaemon Targaryen (the Glorious) had ventured afar from Dragonstone upon his mount Omessys (the Moondrinker) to slay a minor member of House Tymalos who had ambitions of rulership over Tyrosh, chasing him across the breadth of the Stepstones before finally cornering and killing him in a fearsome duel above Torturer's Deep. Whilst the official histories said that Tyrosh awarded their Targaryen savior handsomely, his sister-wife's own writings revealed a deep and abiding animosity that lingered within her husband's heart after being denied the only prize he truly desired: the office of Archon. Had he been granted the title, he would have finally obtained the foothold he long desired in Essos. It was not long after the death of the Tymalos line and the spurning of the Targaryens that Lys was conquered by the Volantenes, allegedly due to the Targaryen refusal to aid the 'treacherous Essosi'.
Even those writings did not grant Baela what she sought, however. For the Tymalos' mount was slain with its rider, never to be claimed by her ancestors as a prize of war. It was only after consulting another manuscript that she found something of interest: in the days of Aerys Targaryen and his sons, the four men had sought to wrest control of Pentos in order to establish a true stranglehold across the Narrow Sea. Opposed by the Pentoshi and their unexpected ally Braavos, the Targaryens had fought a series of naval actions against the overwhelming naval might of their foes, only narrowly defeating an attempt to land on Dragonstone itself in an effort that caused the death of Aerys and the mount of his son, Aelyx. Aerys' mount, a great female beast named Namarion, was wounded and enraged in the battle, and fled North to lick her wounds in the wooded forests of the Crackclaw Point. Aelyx and his brothers, including Daemion, (the Conqueror's own grandsire, and rider of a young Balerion), had been forced to retrieve her. Aelyx's futile attempts to bond with the beast in its last years had featured in another one of Baela's readings.
It was in the retrieval of Namarion that Baela had finally found some answers. The three brothers possessed two bonded dragons between them, they altered between guarding Namarion's lair against any potential foolhardy tamers, and hunting for game along Crackclaw's coasts. Over time, even though the dragon remained unbonded, they were able to essentially bribe it with enough food that it could be coaxed forth and guided back to the Dragonmont, finally responding to the Valyrian commands of its masters.
In Baela's mind, this process could theoretically be replicated with Silverwing. The trouble, however, is that Silverwing does not shelter in Crackclaw Point, or even somewhere on Estermont. Alysanne's Pride is much further afield, and is menaced by the ambitions of men far more dangerous than some rowdy Clawmen. If the Essosi of the former Triarchy and the noble lineages of Volantis had not already ascertained the status of Silverwing and its whereabouts, they were undoubtedly in the process of doing so. Retrieving the dragon would be a far more difficult task than any previous Targaryen had attempted, at least according to the records available to her. And to make matters worse, we will be flying straight into an active war zone to accomplish our task. There will be few safe sites for landing, for resting whilst the dragons find their meals. The Essosi hinterlands may as well have been Yi Ti for all Baela was concerned. She was about as familiar with both equally, despite her Pentoshi birth.
Closing the book with a dusty thud, she placed it gingerly on the table before her, rising and making her way out from her chambers, following the weathered stone corridors of the Stone Drum until they emerged into the courtyard, following her daily path to the Maester's recovery ward. Inside she found her cousin, who was determined to burn with a different kind of flame whilst he recovered from the first.
In his fist he clutched a missive Baela had read only a few hours previously. She had granted Maester Podrick to share the grim news with Alyn, partially because she earnestly believed it was not right for him to be denied the news and partially because she wished for someone to share her loss with.
As a man whose features had been weathered and hardened prematurely by the sea, Alyn Velaryon was typically quite difficult to read, beyond his playful and sometimes mocking smiles. But no such mirth danced upon his features before Baela now. His hands, normally muscled and calloused from the ropes he had handled since he was barely able to walk, shook with fury, and shook further still with sorrow.
Baela felt the same, and despite her best efforts, tears ran down her cheeks unabated. They traced the 'SL' the Usurper had left her as a parting gift, before falling slowly to her garments below. She resisted the desire to embrace him, knowing that the agony of his burns was still everpresent.
After some silence, the new Lord of the Tides turned to face her. "It seems our Grandfather is dead. The burdens of rulership finally laid him low."
Baela exhaled in a hiss, in an only partially successful attempt to stifle a sob. "His burdens were numerous, too many for a man his age."
Alyn grimaced. "Be that as it may, we are alone. Truly alone." His youth showed through for a moment, in an expression of utmost heartbreak. "My brother is dead."
Baela closed her eyes, letting her tears fall freely, and heavily. When they opened however, the flames of fury she normally guarded so carefully began to lick at her heart and mind. "Addam fell, but not out of any fault of his own. It remains to us to avenge him."
Alyn's gaze grew distant for a moment. "They will not allow me to avenge him. Not as Lord of the Tides. House Velaryon is but two heartbeats from extinction."
Baela frowned. "Be that as it may, some debts must be repaid. And our vengeance for Addam cannot, and will not, be forbidden."
From her sleeve, she withdrew another letter. Passing it to her cousin, she watched him closely as he read it. His eyes widened, then narrowed.
"Is this legitimate? The King's own Seal adorns it, not that of the Regency."
Baela nodded. "As does Gaemon Waters', as Constable. The King has given his direct assent to the retrieval of Silverwing, and the pacification of the Narrow Sea. The kinslayer may have eluded proper punishment for his unforgivable crime, but that does not mean that the Three Daughters can go unpunished, for their myriad crimes against the Crown and its people. Even more importantly, Silverwing must be reclaimed. Each day that she spends unattended in Essos is an unbearable risk."
Alyn closed his eyes. "I failed my brother, Baela. Twice. I could not save his life, as he died before my eyes. I could not even master a dragon to claim vengeance for his death. What use will I be to your mission? I am but one man, and not even a Seed at that."
Baela leaned forward, gripping his unbandaged arm. "The same blood flows within our veins, 'cos. But your blood carries a different sort of authority. All the might of Driftmark now answers your command. Take up Grandfather's fleet, in its entirety. Lord Maegor has returned to King's Landing, and has sworn that he will guard Blackwater Bay. We can afford to strike at the Daughters with a freedom unmatched since the war Prince Daemon and Lord Corlys waged upon the Stepstones. Let us renew those bonds, and break the remnants of the Triarchy for good and all."
Alyn drew a shaky breath. He looked to Baela, his eyes unsure. Then the chamber door opened, carrying with it the smell of thunderstorm and draconic sulfur. Her cousin's expression grew surprised, then hardened with resolve. Baela's heart skipped a beat. Another seated himself next to her, clad in Targaryen black and red. Gaemon Waters had returned to Dragonstone.
—
After the conversation with Alyn had concluded, Baela had invited Gaemon to supp with her, and while the kitchens had not been prepared to offer anything particularly impressive for their fare, the cooks had still managed to prepare several filets of turbot for the main course, along with spiced dried apples drizzled with honey and meat pie featuring diced lamb, carrots, and celery. Baela speared a bit of fish, chewing it thoughtfully, watching as Gaemon opted for a slice of the meat pie.
A wry grin spread across her features. "Turbot is considered a minor luxury in the cuisine of the Narrow Sea, my Lord. I am surprised to see you deny yourself the pleasure."
Gaemon raised an eyebrow, before begrudgingly forking a portion of the fish. "On Dragonstone itself, I find it difficult to resist resorting to the simpler fare of my childhood. Pies like this were served at an inn that retained me on staff."
Baela nodded, contemplatively. "A man of your talents, employed at an inn. What a thought. Though I suppose I have not partaken in enough of your cooking to know whether your employment there was due to skill or generosity on the behalf of the owners."
Gaemon reddened slightly. "I… cooked on occasion for the owners, and am moderately skilled in the preparation of foodstuffs. Though in truth my main occupation was that of a pot boy."
Baela could not help but laugh at the image. "Would that I had known! What a humble origin for a Seed! Now a Constable no less!"
Her guest frowned, though not excessively. A war played across his features as he clearly debated sharing more. With a final shrug, he spoke up once more. "Due to my claims of paternity, I was awarded with the less-than-illustrious title of 'Pisspot Prince' by the other denizens of the establishment."
Baela pursed her lips, deciding against finding further humor in the memory. "I can imagine that does not rank amongst the titles you treasure most dearly."
Gaemon looked off into the fire for a moment, before finally responding. "It does not. Though at the time any true recognition of what I believed most fervently seemed a distant prospect. I simply tried to let the words wash over me, like the waves and the shore."
Baela struggled to imagine what that must have been like. She supposed that it must have been humiliating. She recalled her father's ire early in her childhood, when he shared his displeasure at King Viserys' denial of the royal style of 'Princess' for Baela and Rhaena. A similar humiliation, though many times worse.
Gaemon drained his goblet of wine, pouring himself another. He suddenly reached across the table, taking her hand. "There was another matter that I spoke with the King about in King's Landing, Baela. One that I feel we should seriously discuss."
Her stomach lurched. "Do tell."
Gaemon cocked his head to the side. "I spoke to your brother -the King- regarding whether he would approve my offer for your hand in marriage."
Baela felt her cheeks flush, and she opened her mouth to speak, stopping only when Gaemon raised his hand.
"My Lady, I promise to keep this brief. I believe that my affections are known to you, and I hope that it does not come across as conceited to say that I believe them to at least be partially returned." The Seed across from her sighed. "But I also know that the war has stripped you of much of your family and caused you great suffering. I asked the King whether he would be opposed to an official courtship when this business with Silverwing is concluded, to allow us the chance to truly grow to know one another and to determine whether marriage would be an amenable prospect. Your brother stated that he would leave such matters to you entirely, and will grant his consent to whatever you decide."
With that, he leaned back in his chair, looking decidedly exhausted. Baela resisted the urge to jest, fearing that she would come across as overly caustic.
"Gaemon, I am certain that you are aware that prior to his marriage to the Lady Cassandra, I rejected an offer from Ser Addam for my hand in marriage." Gathering her thoughts, she ran a hand through her hair. "You are bold to assume my affections, though not incorrect. But much has transpired since we shared a kiss beneath the Old King. I am not certain that I am ready for marriage. I must mourn my Grandfather, my cousins, my family. I must also attend to Silverwing, first and foremost." Gaemon nodded gravely. "But, I also am most agreeable to being courted at the conclusion of these matters." Pulling his hand to her lips, Baela planted a slight kiss upon it. Smiling softly, she added: "I have been called Daemon's daughter as a slight all of my life. I appreciate your attempt to act on these feelings with propriety. I tire of the whispers assuming that I have eyes for every squire, that my maidenhead is perpetually at risk. A proper courtship would be most welcome."
Gaemon smiled warmly. "Then it shall be done. Silverwing, followed by a proper wooing for a proper Princess."
"Lady." Baela corrected with a wink.
"I did not misspeak." He winked in return.
—
The Painted Table sat before her in all of its glory, depicting Westeros from the Wall to Dorne. Baela climbed atop the chair that allowed her to survey it in its entirety, with a carven Dragonstone at her feet. Across from her, Gaemon stood, his hands on either side of a much diminished Fair Isle. Seated further south in a litter was Lord Alyn, who was clearly trying desperately not to pick at the scabs that lay beneath his bandages. He picked at a bowl of stew to distract himself, shifting ever so often and casting his eyes between those present.
Gaemon rapped his knuckles on the varnished surface of the table. "While the Conqueror's Table does not allow us any views of Essos, I daresay that we are all familiar enough with its Western Coasts to begin." Eyeing Estermont across the table, he frowned. "Silverwing's flight would have taken it straight across the Narrow Sea at its narrowest point had it flown straight, as the crow flies. Based upon our collective knowledge of dragons, it is very unlikely that it would have found a hiding place near Tyrosh, and with the wars raging within the Stepstones, I would wager that it flew further inland; perhaps finding refuge in the central disputed lands, away from major settlements."
Baela concurred. "My readings would suggest the same, though it is possible that Silverwing might have fled even further into the interior of the continent. If one travels north along the Rhoyne, lands become nearly entirely wild and unoccupied, save the ruins of the Rhoynar cities. Should Silverwing have ranged further north, it would have access to larger prey and less chance of human interaction."
Alyn pursed his lips. "There is little that the Velaryon fleet can do to assist if the beast is so far inland. If the evidence suggests it, it may be wiser for me to weigh anchor here, and await your word before sailing. I am loathe to expose my grandfather's fleet and legacy to exposure beyond the protection of your dragons."
The chamber doors groaned as they were pushed open. Maester Podrick burst through, carrying a raven-missive gripped tightly in his fingers. "My Lords, my Lady, a message has arrived for Lord Gaemon by way of King's Landing. My colleague Grand Maester Orwyle has sent it along, after having first received it in the Royal Rookery."
Handing the letter to Gaemon, the Seed stuck a thumb under the lip to crack the wax seal, smiling as he spotted the hastily added second seal that sat atop the original that had been broken. "It appears Orwyle mistook my mail for his own."
Maester Podrick laughed. "He was always a bit nosy, even within the Citadel."
Gaemon scanned the words upon the letter, his eyes narrowing, expression growing darker. "It seems our search for Silverwing will no longer be one characterized by guesswork."
Walking around the length of the table, he handed Baela the letter. Written in the tongue of Westeros, Baela was surprised at the penmanship displayed before her:
Well met, Gaemon Waters.
While I have not had the pleasure of your official acquaintance, you can certainly consider me an admirer from afar. Tales of your exploits have crossed the Narrow Sea, and those of Westerosi birth marvel at the accomplishments of the Rogue Prince's natural son. Slaying Vermithor was no mean feat, as Morion Martell learned to his shame many years ago. I am called Johanna Swann, and I write you on behalf of two dear friends of mine, who I understand you met in the past. The brothers Moredo and Drako Rogare send their regards, and those of their father, the great Lysandro. My dear friends ask if you recall the words exchanged in Duskendale several moons previously, and have stated that they still have every desire to recruit your services, and would be especially grateful for them now.
Lys the Lovely has become paralyzed in recent weeks, as news has reached our ears that Tyrosh has successfully recruited a dragonrider of their own. It seems Malentine Velaryon has accepted the honeyed words and bloody gold of the hated Tyroshi, and in exchange has embarked upon a campaign of terror in the Stepstones, subjugating them for his masters alongside the dreaded Racallio Ryndoon. Without admirals or dragons of our own equal to the challenge, we of Lys, and House Rogare, beg your aid.
Should you question our intentions or our sentiment, know that Lys always pays its debts fully, and with utmost gratefulness.
Signed, Johanna Swann, on behalf of House Rogare and its Foremost Representatives
Baela looked upwards at Gaemon, stunned. "How could this be?"
Alyn looked between them, his features wary. "Might I be granted the boon of being made privy to this information? Or must I stew in my own fears?"
Gaemon turned, a frown on his features. "Malentine Velaryon lives. We know not how. Lys and the Rogares have written, begging my aid to defeat him, and have offered to reward me handsomely for my trouble."
Alyn paled. "How could that be? I watched with my own eyes as the arrow struck him 'neath his helm, as his red lifesblood poured forth. No man could have survived such a grievous wound, certainly not for as long as it would have taken to fly to the Free Cities."
Gaemon shook his head. "I cannot begin to guess as to how Malentine still lives, though that does not make him any less alive. If he did not, and someone else had mastered Silverwing, Tyrosh would have little reason to lie about their identity. I am certain they would have preferred one of their own sons to master the beast."
Baela stood. "The fact remains that we now know exactly where our foe resides. The Kinslayer has evaded just punishment for long enough, and I will certainly not stand aside as he misuses my great-grandmother's own mount for grim and bloody mercenary work on the behalf of slavers. He must be laid low, no matter the cost."
Gaemon raised an eyebrow. "I most certainly agree, Baela. But whether we act as agents of Lys in doing so is another matter entirely."
Baela's mind was racing, but her thoughts went to her sister, and how she might act. A small smile danced on her lips as she came to a conclusion. "We have already been granted leave by the Crown to act on these matters as we see fit. If we plunge ourselves into the maelstrom that is the War Between the Daughters, we may sow the seeds for their renewal, just as my father and Lord Corlys did years before. But if we leverage their own animosities for ourselves, we can prevent the renewal of their old alliances. Fighting with Lys against Tyrosh will reinforce the death of the Triarchy, instead of granting it any reprieve and opportunity to unite against us."
Alyn nodded grimly. "While mighty, I am uncertain of our odds of success against a united Triarchy, even one with weakened fleets. But against Tyrosh? I would wager strongly on our odds against Tyrosh alone."
Baela nodded eagerly. "Maester Podrick and I were also made aware of the results of the recent Volantene elections. Two Tigers were elected. The calls for war will have been heard in the streets of Volantis already, and with the Old Blood rallying behind the ancient party of conquest, the Tiger Cloak legions may cross the Rhoyne once more. Myr will be forced to abandon its disputes with its former allies and fight for its life if they do."
Gaemon eyed them both before nodding in assent. "There is little time to waste, then. I will return with Maester Podrick to draft my response to the Lady Johanna and the Rogares." Looking to Alyn he added: "Can I rely on you to rally Driftmark's fleet and swords once more?"
Alyn nodded without hesitation. "For my brother's memory, I would sail to Asshai and back. I will order that the gathering of provisions and the necessary repairs be made immediately. My convalescence has taken long enough already."
Baela knew there was little use in pleading with him to spare himself the effort. Two servants who had been waiting near the door scrambled to lift her cousin's litter aloft and carry him out of the chamber.
"I will see to the dragons and our own provisions Gaemon."
Gaemon nodded, grateful. Assisting her down from the Conqueror's Seat, he held her hands in her own. "I have long dreamt of the moment that we might fly together. Our paths remained separate for far too long in the war. At every step of the way, you have proven yourself formidable. I consider myself fortunate to finally be able to fight at your side."
Baela pulled him close, pressing her lips to his. There was a heat to the both of them, akin to the heat that one could feel within the very stones of Dragonstone's citadel.
Finally pulling away, she grinned. "Then let us go then, and make war, as our father once did before us."
—
The gray volcanic stone that formed the majority of Dragonstone's beaches met the dull roar of the waves with the resoluteness of a shield wall. A mile out into Blackwater Bay, the assembled fleet of House Velaryon could be seen, following the dancing winds into the Narrow Sea. Baela smiled as she spotted the Queen Rhaenys, its additional deck of oars and its bow-mounted scorpions unmistakeable. The sea was gray, and the waves strong. She let her dragon whip begin to uncoil, and in response Moondancer stirred behind her, letting out a long hiss. Climbing into the dragon saddle, Baela ran a hand over the hot scales of her dragon's neck, checking the fastenings of her seat and ensuring that all was properly packed. As she did so, the sun was momentarily blocked, and shadows consumed the beach. The Cannibal sailed above, its scales midnight-black, seemingly drinking in the light.
Cracking her own dragon whip in the air, Moondancer sprang forth, taking a few quick strides and pumping her wings to propel herself aloft. As they soared above the sea, they gained on the vast beast before them, passing above and with Baela grinning wildly. The eyes of the other dragon remained fixed upon her Moondancer, bright green and unnervingly predatory. The great beast made no move to pursue, however, its maw remaining closed, features almost calm as it rode the winds. As Moondancer pulled ahead, Baela turned, waving at the rider falling behind. He returned her gesture, a smile upon his face. Adjusting in the saddle, she leaned forwards, lessening her body's resistance to the wind. Catch me if you can.