#bscs2

[thetormentita]

broken spear, crowned storm - chapter 1

with the blackfyres looming over the seven kingdoms, sacrifices must be made.

Pairing: Original female! Baratheon x Baelor 'Breakspear' Targaryen

A/n: just changing the timeline a bit. A very special cameo in this chapter!

Rating: Teen (+13)

red keep, king's landing. 205ac

“Turn your hip. Like this.” He places his right foot back, automatically changing his position “The worst you can do in a face-to-face combat is to let the enemy see you as a whole. With less to see, less to aim for.” The kid frowns and tries to imitate his posture. “That’s a start.”

Of course he should be tending other duties, but from time to time he likes to slip away and approach the training courtyard.

He will always be a man stick to a sword.

“Uncle,” the little voice catches his attention “why does Aelor not train with us?”

He tilts his head to a side, realizing how much the boy looks like his father. While Maekar’s older boys had been difficult during their childhood, that kid reminds him of the days they used to spend in that same courtyard when they were his age, when they would pretend to be the Conqueror and his Hand, fighting side by side to unite Westeros into a big and prosperous kingdom.

How much things can change.

“Because your uncle isn’t precisely fond of this kind of things, my boy.”

The boy frowns and the hand with the wooden sword falls to his side. If he had learnt something from his own two sons was to know when a kid was troubled by something. Leaving his own wooden sword on the floor, he approaches the child, just enough to sit on the floor to be at his height, always wanting him to be able to look at him in the eye.

“Mother said I could be a knight like father or you… But I think I wanna help people.”

The kid’s last words are a mere whisper.

“Hey,” he puts a hand on his shoulder, softly but reassuring “it’s okay if you’re not into swordplay. A man can be anything he wants, but you can do even more. If you don’t want to fight with swords, I will not complain. You can always focus on laws, or history, or even become a maester.”

“Like Maester Melaquin?”

“Sure, why not?” he shrugs his shoulders, wondering how would Maekar assume that his son prefers to leave any weapon aside “There are sons from most of the Great Houses that are or have been maesters.”

The child seems to fight to look at him instead of the floor.

“Are you not mad?”

That simple question makes him sigh, realizing how far Maekar and he have gone with the passing of time. They are not mere lads anymore.

“Of course I’m not mad. Your uncles don’t like swordplay, and it does not matter, I still love them and care for them.” Not too far from where they are, the sight of a white cloak calls his attention “Any news, ser Willem?”

“Aye, m’lord.” The youngest of all the Kingsguards, a lad of no more than two-and-twenty, approaches them and stands to attention “A meeting of the Small Council. The King wishes you to attend, m’lord.”

Uncle and nephew exchange looks, and Baelor puts a funny face to the kid, making him smile.

“That’s better” he stands up and shakes the dust from his clothes, specially his pants; it would be a shame to stain with dirt the fancy chairs of the chamber of the Small Council “Go and play with your brother. When the session has finished we’ll get to talk to your grandsire and tell him about your idea.” He can’t help but mess little Aemon’s hair like he likes to do with his own children “Let’s go, ser Willem.” He starts walking and the knight rushes to catch him “Let’s not make His Grace wait.”

They make their way towards the Council Chamber, and the castle seems to be unconnected to reality, far from the thought of a possible oncoming war. Echoes of the last conversation with Daemon Blackfyre come to his head as he climbs the steps towards their destination.

‘I will take what it’s mine, nephew. I will be greater than the Conqueror ever was.’

He frowns as they both stop by the entrance of the council chamber. Taking a deep breath to clear his mind and keep himself as much sober and positive as he can, he opens the doors, leaving the young Kingsguard behind. The lords and advisors inside look up as Baelor enters, their discussions halting abruptly.

“My lords.” he greets as he takes a seat by the King’s left side “Father.” Father and son exchange quick looks, and his intuition tells him the meeting does not bring a menace to the Seven Kingdoms “Well, what is all the fuss about?”

Silence.

As he gets comfortable, his gaze crosses ser Roland Crakehall, Commander of the Kingsguard and close ally. Baelor keeps him in high esteem since his childhood, when he was the first to train him in the courtyard, disobeying Quentyn Ball’s opinion. Who could blame him? The master-at-arms brought by his lord father years ago was prone to give advantage to the then king’s natural sons instead of his own grandson. Ser Roland shrugs his shoulders, and the clanking of his armor threatens to echo in the room. None of them have no clue about the reason of them all gathered there.

The King clears his throat, breaking the tension that has suddenly filled the space.

"Thank you all for coming," his voice is firm but tinged with weariness “there are news about the ‘Blackfyre Rebellion’, as it has reached my ears.” Daeron glances at his half-brother, who is sitting almost in front of him, with a straight back and both hands on his lap, patient. The image of a predator comes to Baelor’s mind as he puts his eyes upon Brynden Rivers.

“The late king Aegon promised his son Daemon Waters the chance to take a second wife, following the Valyrian tradition.” his voice is modulated and for a moment Baelor doubts if he ever blinks “Your Grace king Daeron, here present, denied him that chance as soon as he got crowned, and the matter had fallen into oblivion, but we have news that there are eyes observing the maids or widows of the Great Houses in search for a potential second wife.”

“So what?” he finds himself saying “He aims to be as good as Aegon the Conqueror, and taking another wife will get the opposition of everybody in the Realm. The last king who dared to do such thing was Maegor the Cruel, and we all know how it ended.” as he speaks, he reaffirms himself with the movements of his hands, unconsciously using them to give the rest the image of decision he always wanted to give as heir to his father “There are no dragons to destroy the lands, and a good army can be formed in any time.”

A subtle nod from ser Roland is enough for him to have a tiny warm feeling inside his chest. He can always count with his appreciated white cloaks.

“My prince,” Mace Redwyne’s double chin trembles as he speaks “I am afraid things are not that easy…”

Baelor Targaryen raises an eyebrow, slightly tilting his head.

“I don’t follow you, lord Redwyne.”

The Master of Ships could be quite annoying some times.

“Son,” his father’s voice catches him unarmed “we must discuss matters of succession.”

A cackle echoes on the room. Out of all the Small Council, only ser Roland seems to match Baelor’s mood, even if it is fighting back a smile.

“Nonsense.” Father and son exchange looks “There’s me, and then Valarr and Matarys. I am not even counting the possible heirs they can have. After me goes Aerys, and then Rhaegel and Aelor. And are you even forgetting Maekar and his boys?” as he talks, Baelor can see in his father’s eyes the incertitude he and his siblings had been raised by that man. With a small tilt of his head being answered by the king’s clenched jaw he gets all confirmation. “You can’t be serious…”

“We have a war at our gates, nephew,” he doesn’t turn to face Bloodraven, choosing instead to hold his father’s gaze as a sort of defiance or reprimand “and let’s be honest, out of all that list, the only fit to sit on the throne are you and your eldest boy. Even Maekar if he manages to handle his temper. Matarys is too malleable, and so is Rhaegel. Do you even want to have a bunch of regents feasting over Aelor, Aemon or Aegon?”

Nobody dares to speak.

Baelor hates to agree with any of them in that specific matter, but he would not like to face a rule by Aerys, who does not want to bed poor Aelinor Penrose nor to get an annulment, or Aerion setting everything on flames. Truth be told, he has no escape.

“Tell me you don’t want me to sentence any lady to give birth heir after heir only for the chance of Daemon and his crew slaying us all.”

He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t need to do it.

Out of all the men present at the meeting, the only one who could try and convince him is his father, and only because Baelor knows well the torture he lived under his own father Aegon the Unworthy.

“I would not dare to make you dishonor the memory of Jena.”

“Duty made me marry her, father, do not forget it. I liked her, I cherished her, but I did not love her.” something inside him twists at the memory of the redheaded Marcher “Not as she should have been loved.”

Ambrose Butterwell, his father’s Hand, starts talking about different houses that would have women who could possibly be a suitable wife for him, and all Baelor can do in that moment is to picture the daughter of the lord of Storm’s End. He even allows himself to close his eyes for a moment, recreating in his mind the bright of the Stormlander sun in her hair, showing different shades of black. The memory of her laughter brings a rare warmth to his heart, one he has grown used to and even finds certain pleasure in.

Baelor snaps out of his reverie just as Butterwell’s voice cuts through his thoughts sharply, suggesting a marriage with Otho Bracken’s sister, widow of ser Elmer Frey with six children, that can almost get interpreted as an offense.

For the first time in ages, Baelor can hear Brynden Rivers’ fight back a guffaw.

“With all due respect, Butterwell, you are a pathetic little man and you should not be sitting here with us.”

Despite his respect for his uncle, he has always been quite distant with him, but in that moment he can’t be any closer.

“Enough you two.” he takes a deep breath before turning to face his father again, observing ser Roland fighting back a chuckle. “If I must remarry again, I shall choose the lady and be the one to talk to her.” King Daeron’s face shows a mix between amusement and irritation “I choose lady Alysanne Baratheon.” A tense silence fills the room following Baelor's declaration.

“House Baratheon has no suitable maid to be a queen consort.”

“Says who?” a raised eyebrow in Baelor’s face challenges the rest of the men in the chamber.

“The actions of lady Alysanne’s great aunts, my prince.”

A snort of amusement.

“And my own father was a disgrace and a cunt, Butterwell, and it does not mean that our king or his heir, presents here both of them, are to be as disastrous as he was.” Brynden Rivers, the last people Baelor expected to have as a defender of his will, modulates his voice to almost echo in the place “With his choice, prince Baelor keeps the Stormlands close, and the strength of one of the most effective armies in the whole Seven Kingdoms.”

...

By the time he realizes where he is, his steps have already driven him towards his destination. As he opens the door after a soft knocking, a pair of big indigo eyes look at him, accompanied of a soft smile in a clean shaven face.

“Do you like storms, brother?”

He should he used to Rhaegel’s dragon dreams, but this time the question catches him with his guard lowered. He hesitates for a moment, looking at his brother with a mixture of curiosity and concern, even tempted to ask if he knew something about the council meeting. A hint of a crooked smile decides to answer him.

“What did you dream?”

After closing the door behind him, he approaches the table where his brother, the third son of Daeron the Good and Myriah Martell, the only other child apart from himself to share any trait of Dornish blood and the one whom he feels most comfortable with, takes a look at a book with clear interest. Taking a chair, he sits in front of him, observing each and every movement and quirk.

“A red dragon flying towards the greatest storm ever.” his voice just a mumble, his eyes scanning quickly each and every letter on the volume.

“I do like storms,” he finds himself saying as he tries his best to read any piece of that text able to attract Rhaegel’s interest “but what about the dragon?” the youngest of the siblings shrugs his shoulders “Red as our arms?”

“Possibly. I do not know.”

He was just a boy when he knew about those kind of dreams, when little Rhaegel used to wake up from time to time scared, with a myriad of questions fighting to get out of him and find any answer. Each time, he felt a mix of helplessness and determination, wanting to protect his younger brother from the ominous fates those dreams foretold, learning how to deal with his restlessness and spending as much time with him as he could trying to help him give any kind of meaning to the visions.

“What are you reading about?" he huffs, knowing well the reason he has gone there in the first place "I just got out of a council meeting. They want me to marry again. It seems there are not enough valid candidates in case something happens to me or Valarr.”

“I don’t want the throne. Nor the council. I don’t know those people.” he blinks twice before raising his gaze to meet his “Marry again? With who?”

“They kept suggesting different ladies. I told them I want to propose to lady Alysanne Baratheon.”

“Storm’s End.” Rhaegel mutters, distracted for a second, slightly frowning.

“That’s right."

“Do you think the storm of the dream has to do anything with her?”

“It can be.”

His brother’s brow furrows, thoughtful, and Baelor knows he has to give him time. Silence fills the room as Rhaegel searches for the right words, inches away from an epiphany or dismissing the connection entirely.

“Do you know her?” Baelor shrugs his shoulders, and Rhaegel puts a face, not fully understanding.

“I met her in a tourney some time ago,” his mind drives him to that sunny day “Rickard Baratheon’s eldest grandchild was born and he held a hastilude. She was there, with those bright eyes of hers and a very sad smile. I asked her for her favour, and— I swear I would have killed a giant to be able to caress that hair, Rhaegel. I mean it. She is so—”

“You are smiling.” it takes Baelor a moment to realize his younger brother’s observation “Is it a happy smile?”

“Aye” he bites his lower lip, feeling again that warmth inside his chest.

“Then I think you should do what makes you happy.”

[baekdanworld-blog]

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