Chapter Text
Vaemond grimaced as he settled a hand on Baelon’s shoulder, the lad had the grit of a born sailor but was as restless as the tides. His brother pulled back little Lucerys who was scowling, the boy did not do as well, prone to seasickness and as flighty as the winds his dragon soared through. He was more Targaryen than Velaryon (if he was even Laenor’s boy) that much was clear whilst Laena’s children were more of salt and silt than brimstone and ash.
“Boys,” his brother's voice cut in as loud as thunder. His expression was hard, like sharpened stones, as both boys squirmed beneath his gaze. Little Rhaena clung to his good sister, too preoccupied with watching the sea; she was more so drawn to sea even more than Baelon had been. Favoring it over the supposed “stolen” dragon now lost to her. “That is enough.”
The Greyjoy boy snorted from his place at Rhaena’s side, it was odd how the pair took a shine to each other. The lad was a wild, willful thing and Rhaena was so sweet and gentle, they made for an odd pair of friends. Then again, the Queen and Princess Rhaenyra had been so in their youth. He remembered how shy the Queen had been in her youth and how the Princess brought out her more social nature.
“Dalton!” Rhaena hissed as the boy held his hand up. His face the fixture of mock innocence. Baelon threw his sword to the ground.
“Who knows if you are truly my cousin anyway?” Laena’s son snarled, as ill tempered as his father. There was disgust there, as he looked upon his “cousin” and Lucerys looked ready to lunge at him. Perhaps he wished to make another Brokenbones of his kin (as his own son done to the Princess’ lover before he was cast back to Harrenhal.)
Corlys was quicker and glared at him instead, “Take the boy back to his chambers, he is to remain there for the rest of the day.”
Vaemond bit his tongue, though he desperately wanted to speak on the boy’s behalf. Now was neither the time nor the place. Laena’s boy flushed red as Vaemond scoffed but did as his brother bid.
“Of course, brother.”
Baelon paced the length of his chambers, frustration bubbling under his skin like puffs of flame. The boy grabbed a goblet of cider and threw it against the wall in frustration, it wasn’t fair. Why was he punished for speaking the truth? Everyone among Driftmark knew that Lucerys and Jocelyn were no true children of the seas.
Not like he or Rhaena were.
He pushed the sleeve of his tunic down, eyeing the seafoam scales so different than Rhaena's pale pink, his sister and he were alike in the same regard. Both carrying the weight of divinity in their veins. Just as the Princess did. He cursed himself for being so stupid, they’d likely punish him by preventing him from writing to her. Keep all his letters to the wayside till he learned his “lesson”.
The hearth crackled as the door was pushed open, instinctively stopped and turned, his grandsire stood in the doorway. His expression dark as he eyed the mess of his chambers. Grandmother tried to make him see sense, had tried to vouch for him—he’d heard it. Yet the man was not easily swayed, stubborn as the restless tide—like his Muña always claimed he was.
Perhaps they’re more alike than the young Targaryen would like to admit.
“Baelon,” The man’s voice is gruff, as the boy shifted nervously. His grandsire looked tired, in such a way he’d never seen. Baelon swallowed hard. “Who spoke such lies to you?”
Baelon refused to speak. He couldn’t tarnish his Muña’s name like that, she was amongst empyrean, it wouldn’t do well to upset her spirit. To disturb her rest by tarnishing her legacy, his kepa said it was important to keep the gilded halls of empyrean clean. His grandsire frowned at his silence and sighed settling on his bed as Baelon awkwardly sat next to him.
“Lucerys is your cousin,” He said bluntly as Baelon stared at the dying embers. Corlys chuckled and eyed him with amusement. “The son of your uncle, Laenor, that is all there is to it.”
“Then why doesn’t Jace look like us?”
His voice came out harsh as Corlys blinked. He seemed tense at the mention of his elder cousin, almost as if speaking his name threw him into a rage. All his mother’s blood seemed to be when they spoke of uncle Laenor’s eldest son.
“Does Princess Helaena not resemble her mother? So too does Jacaerys resemble his grandmother, Aemma Arryn.”
The words come out as if practiced a dozen times before, as Baelon frowned at the explanation. He’d never seen paintings of the first Queen, how apparently his eldest and youngest cousin and the Queen’s namesake resemble her.
“Helaena’s different,” He began flustering as Corlys raised a brow at the boy in turn. He wasn’t blind to the clear adoration his grandson held for the girl. How both Lucerys and Baelon seemed utterly enraptured by the princess indeed. The girl was as cold as winter’s winds, as formal as a Septa, yet charmingly so.
“I suppose she is,” Corlys conceded. “Perhaps it’s fitting that the ones so different from our blood are to be the ones joined in the end.”
He doesn’t want to be reminded of Helaena’s betrothal; Jacaerys was okay, but Helaena was too special to be bound to his dark-haired cousin. He is not wrong in his wish for her to be Queen, she’d excel at that. Of which there was no doubt.
But for her to be Jacaerys’ wife and consort?
Baelon couldn’t see it. He wondered if she’d even be happy dutybound as she was, she perhaps grew up with the expectation of marrying her brother Aegon. So to wed her nephew had to be a surprise in itself. And if she wasn’t going to wed her brother then why couldn’t she wed him?
He’d be fine as nothing more than her consort as the lady of Oldstones, much less pressure than if she were to be Queen.
“Baelon, I want for you all to get along.”
His grandsire’s voice is earnest, almost pleading as Baelon found himself nodding along. Lucerys was his brother now, with the marriage of his father to Princess Rhaenyra. They were kin besides, but he couldn't help that nagging thing as his grandsire shifted uncomfortably.
“There is another matter, about your betrothal-”
“Am I not to wed Rhaena?” He said cutting him off confusion laced in his voice as his grandsire sighed.
“Nay. T’was why I've delayed this conversation so long. You are to wed Princess Jocelyn, your uncle Laenor’s daughter.”
He thinks of Jocelyn. She’s silver-haired, with wine dark eyes, his great grandmother’s eyes apparently. He thought… Had this been why his father demanded he and Rhaena be fostered alongside Lucerys? So the… whelp could know his sister and his future bride?
“Rhaena is to wed Lucerys is she not?”
“Indeed, she is.”
Baelon grimaced at the notion. Lucerys wasn’t worthy of Rhaena, or of the Princess either. He was a rot, something he’d endure and suffer through if to please his father but nothing more. He refused to call Rhaenyra “mother”, refused to accept any child borne as a true sibling of his.
All he had were sisters’ Rhaena and Alyssa.
The daughters of Laena Velaryon.
Still, he’d smile, be courteous then when they least expected it he’d rip the rug under them. He thinks of the Princess again, the King was right in that Helaena was born to be a Queen. But would she be happy, the crown had done much and more to the woman of his blood. Baelon would much prefer her comfort over suffocating under the weight of their kins expectations. And if she was to truly be a Queen, then who said she had to be Aegon or Jacaerys’ wife and consort?
He and Rhaena were older than Lucerys. Jacaerys was a bastard so excluded from the succession, and Helaena’s brothers? They were far too Andal to hold the crown.
Thus, leaving him, of the purest Valyrian stock as the most obvious heir to the throne.
Helaena if she truly desired to be a Queen then Baelon would make her so. A Queen as fair as the sun and the seas, one that even outshone Queen Alysanne. But Baelon would be sure it was him who she stood beside at the end of it all.