Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The night before they were due to leave Dragonstone, Baelor was summoned to Mother and Father's chambers. It had been a week of frenetic preparation that had left Baelor more or less in charge of the household, while their parents held meetings with the crownland lords who had heard the news. King Aegon was dead, and King Daeron was the new Lord of the Seven Kingdoms; but the crownlands had been his only true domain since before Baelor was born, and he would need their support.

So Baelor was given the task of readying the family, vassals, attendants and servants who would come with them to the Red Keep, and of ensuring the castellan and steward of Dragonstone were ready to take on the responsibility of the keep and island both. Baelor was now Prince of Dragonstone, and as such its care was up to him. Should he fail them, they would fail in turn.

He had emptied the packs and saddlebags he had frantically collected a few nights prior, the panic winning him over for a brief moment and spinning out a mad plan to escape into the wilds of the mainland with Shiera. It shamed him to think of now. Shiera, child though she was, had been right: it was stupid. "You're not even a knight," she'd concluded, still clutching her braid protectively as though afraid he might take the shears and cut it off by force.

"I'd pretend," Baelor had argued. "Just like you'd pretend to be a boy."

"You can't pretend to be somebody your whole life," she'd yelled back, scowling, and the strange profundity of it had echoed in his mind ever since.

Now he knocked upon his parents' solar and entered upon their word. He found them, as ever, seated by the fire in their mismatched chairs: Father's was an understated piece that had been carved and upholstered by the finest craftsmen in King's Landing, while Mother's was an oversized, overstuffed Dornish monstrosity that could hold her as well as at least three of her sons at any given moment. She was curled up upon it it now like a great cat, staring into the fire as Father read over a parchment. They both looked up at his entrance and smiled, though the lines of care did not leave their faces.

"Is everything ready for tomorrow?" Mother asked, holding her hand out to him as he approached. He took it gratefully and sat beside her, basking in the warmth of the roaring fire — it was still winter, and had been for nearly three years now. He could hardly recall a time when he had not been obliged to go about in fleece-lined boots and three layers of woolens and silks to keep himself from freezing.

"Yes, Mother. Captain Jesson says the stables for the horses on deck will be finished, but he is not optimistic about the crossing."

"He's never optimistic about the crossing," Mother said, flapping her hand. "I've yet to step foot on his ship without some dire warning of a hurricane that's like to sweep us all overboard, but the worst thing to happen is usually your father being sick over the side."

"Thank you, my dearest," Father said absently, still reading over the parchment in his hand. He sighed and set it upon the table, rubbing his face as he leaned back. "And thank you, my boy. You have had a heavy load placed upon your shoulders these past days. I wish I could tell you it will get easier, but," and he made a flicking gesture with his hands, his way of signaling agreement — or defeat. "Lord Butterwell arrived this afternoon. Do you remember him?"

"Lord Ambrose Butterwell," Baelor replied promptly, for he had made it his business to remember the names of anyone they were likely to encounter upon their return to the Red Keep. His love of jousting had served him peculiarly well there; just as he could summon up the names and devices of each challenger and champion, he could now recite the names and devices of every lord and high-born knight in King's Landing's ever-shifting landscape. One day he would be able to recognize any lord or knight in the realm by sight, along with their strength at arms and connection to the Iron Throne. Such was the King's duty: to know more about his realm than any man living. "He's Hand of the king. Or was, I suppose."

"Still is," Father replied, his mouth quirking in faint amusement. "I have decided to keep him on. As greasy as his name implies, yet useful for now."

It seemed a good choice, of the limited ones they had. "Wasn't he one of the lords who opposed Grandfather's schemes for deposing you?"

"'Depose' might be a bit harsh," said Mother.

Father snorted. "If anything it was not harsh enough." He flicked his hand at the parchment. "He has brought us information regarding the king's final hours, which until now we have lacked. The king recorded and signed an edict that would legitimize his bastards."

"Those that he acknowledged, my dearest," Mother corrected him. "He was never such a fool as to recognize those he got off whores or the unfortunate baseborn lasses he forced himself upon. It's only—"

"The Great Bastards," Father said with a curl of his lip. "That's what he called them. He meant to have seven, but the gods stopped him at six."

"So...is Shiera now a trueborn Targaryen?" Baelor asked. She would like being called a princess, though he would have a difficult time of it making sure such things did not go to her head. "And Mya and Gwenys and Brynden?" Their mother Lady Missy would likewise be gratified, though she would take care to keep her children from taking liberties as a result. At any rate, perhaps this was a peace offering, a last attempt at amends between King Aegon and the son he had despised so much. Baelor could hardly hope for better— 

"And Daemon," Father confirmed. "Aegor, too. With this edict, they both stand in the line of succession."

"Behind our sons," Mother reminded him, a chiding note to her voice that spoke of an argument they had already had, though Baelor could not yet determine who had won. "Really, Daeron."

"No," Father said sharply. "I will not have it. This edict must be rescinded."

Mother straightened in her chair, jostling Baelor enough that he went to stand at the mantel. "You cannot have your first act as king be rescinding the one good thing your father did for his children."

"The one good— Myriah, this will sow poison seeds that will reach out across the realm over years. Decades, perhaps. Father knighted Daemon a bare two years ago, and gave him Blackfyre besides. Perhaps if we'd been in King's Landing all that time, things would have been different and he would have granted it to Baelor instead—"

"Things are not different," Mother said firmly. "And I do not say 'good' to imply that King Aegon meant well by it. This was meant to thwart you, obviously. But Daemon will not be the only one harmed if you do this. Shiera, Missy's children — they will suffer greatly if this edict is revoked mere days after it was proclaimed."

"Yes, and I intend to discover who it was proclaimed it," Father muttered. "Lord Ambrose was caught unaware, he says, and I am inclined to believe him. It must have been Grand Maester Harren—"

"Regardless who did it, it is done," said Mother firmly. "If you wish to heal the wounds your father inflicted, you cannot inflict new ones. Besides, Daemon is a bit young for such ambitions as rebellion or overthrow. He's barely fourteen."

"The same age as my namesake, when first he made war on your people," Father reminded her. "And nearly the same age as Baelor here, who I have no doubt has ambitions of his own."

Baelor thought on his mad plan of escape, throttled to death before it could be called even an attempt. Had that been ambition? "Yes, Father," he replied instead.

"Then let Baelor decide," said Mother, rearranging herself upon her chair. "If these poison seeds will bloom, they will as like do so during his reign as during yours—"

"Ours," Father corrected with a frown.

Mother smiled. "As you say. It will make trouble for decades, decades that we may not have." Father narrowed his eyes at her and she laughed. "You must admit it, my dearest! Those who sit on that great metal chair of yours are far more likely to die young than old. We may only have a few years before Baelor takes our place. And so it will be he who must be the gardener to these flowers we plant today." She looked up at her son, and offered him her winecup. "What say you, Prince Baelor?"

Baelor took the cup carefully, staring into it for a long moment as he tried to think. The wine was dark and thick — Dornish wine from Starfall, most likely, for it was Mother's favorite.

He had not set eyes on either Daemon nor Aegon since they had left King's Landing five years ago, but Daemon — friendly, excitable, fierce and brave — had made him promise to write. Baelor had done so, and received great long letters in reply, full of the comings and goings of court and of the family. To him, King Aegon was a kind and generous father: given over to his pleasures, perhaps, but loved by Daemon as perhaps he was loved by no one else in the whole of the Seven Kingdoms. He had wept upon the paper as he'd written to Baelor of the king's death, the tears blurring some of his words. But perhaps this will mean my mother might return, he had written. She will regret her petty quarrel with Father when she learns he is dead, I am sure of it.

His letters had been full of Aegor too, and little Daenerys. The four of them had once been fast friends, and so Daemon would fill pages and pages with their adventures, telling Baelor how much he would have enjoyed them. Yet as they grew older Baelor grew uneasier with each missive, with Daemon's long paeans of praise to Dany's beauty or affectionate recounting of some cruel "joke" of Aegor's. For all that Daemon was the eldest of the three, he seemed more and more easily led by his half-brother, who clearly had plans of his own.

"If Daemon and the others are trueborn by law," he said slowly, his mind racing ahead to put the thoughts together before he gave voice to them, "then they are Targaryens by law. You are the head of House Targaryen, Father, and needs must make arrangements for their marriages as well as ours." His parents said nothing, merely nodded, and Baelor took a breath. "Daemon was betrothed to the eldest daughter of the Archon of Tyrosh a few months ago, to take place once Lady Rohanne comes of age, but I think Daemon would prefer to wed Dany."

Father looked appalled. "She's a child."

"She's blood of the dragon," Baelor said, remembering the phrase Daemon liked to use. "He thinks of them as the last two..." He bit his lip, willing himself to say it.

"The last two pureblooded Valyrians," Mother finished for him, her lip curled slightly. "I knew all that nonsense about the Line of Conquerers would come back for us eventually. Your father never forgave you for marrying a Rhoynar."

"My father never forgave me for anything," Father said, getting up to refill his winecup. He poured another for his wife and brought it to her, along with a kiss upon her cheek. "And marrying you turned out to be a remarkably good idea."

"Pity it wasn't yours," she said, smiling up at him for a moment before turning back to Baelor. "I trust you don't propose that we break Daemon's engagement in favor of giving him poor little Dany."

"No," Baelor said, holding his cup tightly as the idea formed. "No, Tyrosh is too powerful, and they would take the breaking off of the engagement as a grave insult. Besides, I do not think Dany shares Daemon's interest in keeping our bloodline pure. But if we found a match for her that would take her away from King's Landing, away from Daemon's regard, he might forget her in time."

"I should hate to lose her just after we came back," Daeron said as he resumed his seat. "Child or not, she's my sister and the only other child Mother had. To have her sent away to some distant lord we hardly know, just to keep her safe..."

"We could always marry her to Maron," Mother suggested. "A two week journey is not so very distant, and I know my brother very well indeed."

Baelor could not help the face he made. "He's so old," he protested.

Father laughed, a full-belly roar that made him spill his wine, and Mother leaned out over her chair to swat at Baelor with the back of her hand. "He's a full twelve years younger than me, so you watch your civil tongue!"

Baelor grinned as he shielded himself from her ineffectual blows. "I just meant—"

"Yes, I'm well aware of what you just meant," Mother sniffed, only the smile at the corner of her lips betraying her amusement. "So old, indeed. He's twenty-six, not a doddering elder. And he would be good to Dany. And it would further our own aims — Maron is as tired of these skirmishes as we are."

Father shook his head. "If we marry Dany off to Dorne, the Stormland and the Reach will take great offense. They may have despised my father, but they hate the Rhoynar far more."

"The Tyrells and Baratheons take offense when the winds ruffle their hair," Mother huffed. "You would think those two would remember that it was the Targaryens who raised them up to their lofty places in the Seven Kingdoms, but still they fret and fuss like neglected mistresses."

"Be as it may, and this will sound a monstrous thing, but Dany is the only girl we have to marry off," Father said. "Unless you, my dearest, bless me one day with a daughter."

"No, I fear my days of blessing you in that particular way are well and truly done," Mother said firmly. "You shall have to content yourself with four of the most spoiled boys the world has ever known."

"And she's not the only girl," Baelor added. "Not if you let the edict stand, and use all our marriages to ensure support here at home. Daemon will have his pureblood Valyrian wife in Lady Rohanne, but the people of Westeros mislike when we marry nobles outside the realm. If he really does have ambitions to the Iron Throne, a Tyroshi bride will harm them greatly."

Even as he said it, he marveled at himself. Just a day or so before he had thought to escape this, a childish fantasy of open roads and clear decisions. And now he was considering the futures of his family and himself as though they were pieces on a board, to be moved at will to win some nebulous game. And he feared he might be well-suited to it.

"And who at home should we use your marriages to secure?" Mother asked, her head tilted to one side. "You mentioned House Baratheon and Tyrell; if we do manage an alliance with Dorne at last, we needs must appease them."

Baelor thought about it, his mind racing along the strange web of family and fealty that made up the whole of the Seven Kingdoms. "Lord Baratheon's eldest is already married, but his second son is only ten or so."

"Perhaps for Gwenys," Mother said, nodding. "Lyonel's said to be as fond of fighting and climbing trees and running wild as she is. The Tyrells might be a challenge, however — the Longthorn truly is too old for any of the girls, and he's married besides, with his eldest being hardly out of swaddling-cloths."

"Starfall is pledged to House Martell, but they've forged close alliances with the Reach ever since the Dance," Baelor offered. "Lord Tyrell's wife is the sister to Lord Dayne, who's got a daughter Aerys's age. Lady Dyanna, I think. She's said to be a great reader."

"In which case Aerys might actually take an interest in her," Father said thoughtfully. "A fine choice, my boy."

"The Riverlands and Westerlands will want alliances of trade, and the North prefers to have as little to do with any of us southrons as possible," Mother said. "And the Ironborn will make mischief no matter what we do."

"Plus, none save Casterly Rock is powerful enough to strike out at us," said Baelor with ruthless practicality. "If Daemon — or whatever rebels want to lift him up above you — seek alliances with them, it will only be because every other kingdom has refused them."

"I am glad Lord Lannister is not here to hear you say that," Father laughed. "Nor Lord Greyjoy or Tully, for all that you're right. Very well, then, we shall not trouble ourselves with marriages to wolves or krakens. Or lions or fish, for that matter."

"A wolf might do for Aegor, mind," said Mother. "Somewhere well away from Daemon."

Baelor shook his head. "The Brackens will want their say in who Aegor marries," he said, "which means he will have a riverland wife, more likely than not. And unless she is altogether unsuitable, it would be best to let them have their way in this. House Bracken is still wroth with the Iron Throne, all the more so since they never dared to take it out on Grandfather. If they think they have the upper hand, they will be smug rather than vindictive."

"True enough," said Father.

"I am still uneasy about the stormlands," Mother said. "And the Vale — Lord Arryn has been queerly quiet this past week. No word from him, either of consolation or congratulation."

"His son Donnel is set to inherit, and he's a good enough lad," Father said. "Squired for Ser Olson Waynwood a few years back. I think he has a sister — Alanna or Alayne."

"Alys," Baelor supplied. "Perhaps for Rhaegel?" But he said this uncertainly, for Rhaegel did not seem interested in marriage. He was interested in little save dancing and singing to himself, or spinning in circles with his eyes shut and hands outstretched. Mother and Father loved him just the same as their other children, as Shiera, but even so it seemed clear that the gods' coin had landed ill when it had spun in the air during Rhaegel's birth. "She is said to be a gentle girl."

"Either of them would suit, when the time comes," Mother agreed, "provided their father comes round. Mya would make a terrifying Lady of the Eyrie. Or Shiera, perhaps."

Baelor felt a pang at the idea of little Shiera so far away. He had been in earnest, when he'd asked her to squire for him; he could think of no better life than to have her by his side. But if she truly was a Targaryen now, by law as well as by blood, then her life would be as dictated as his was.

"Which leaves the Stormlands," said Father, interrupting Baelor's thoughts.

"Which leaves the Marches," Mother corrected. "House Baratheon may take offense if Dany weds a Dornishman, but the Marchers may well stage an outright rebellion, under Daemon's banner or no."

"House Dondarrion has a daughter about our age," said Baelor. "And House Tarly has three."

"We have thought of having Maekar squire for Lord Tarly's son," said Father. "He might make an impression on one of them." 

It did not seem likely, but perhaps one of them would find it charming how he put his boots up on the table all the time and chewed with his mouth open.

"Very well, you've married your brothers off," Father said briskly. "And your aunts and uncles besides. What about for yourself? It would serve us well if you, the Heir to the Iron Throne, were to marry a Marcher lady. One of Lord Peake's seventeen daughters, perhaps? Or old Penrose's daughter Aelinor, she's about your age."

Baelor had met Aelinor only once, but she had seemed amiable enough. And House Penrose was friendly to Mother and Father despite their Marcher temperament. It would be a good match. No doubt they would grow accustomed to each other, even if it would never be the marriage that Mother and Father had. He could bear it quite well, probably, if it kept the realm from descending into another civil war. All those foolish notions about true love like Jonquil and Florian were for children, anyhow.

"I think Lady Jena Dondarrion would suit you better," Mother pronounced, startling Baelor from his thoughts.

"What? No," he disagreed. "She hates me."

"Does she now?" said Father with interest.

"She doesn't," said Mother.

"Yes, she does." Lady Jena had been at Lord Baratheon's hastilude a few months past, celebrating the birth of yet another grandson. She had ridden into Storm's End on a high-spirited ginger charger and leapt unassisted from the saddle, glaring at every man and boy who had gallantly offered to help her down. Baelor had been seated next to her at the feast and she had argued with him on every subject he'd broached, and several he'd never recalled raising. But she had been clever and surprising and pretty, and the next day he had ridden to the stands and asked for her favor.

She'd glared at him as though he'd hurled a dead frog into her lap, and dropped her favor into the mud at his feet. "I would sooner ride in the lists myself than have some spotted boy defend my honor," she'd declared. When he'd told her that ladies' saddles meant they were more likely to fall off and hurt themselves, she'd threatened to knock him off his stupid horse there and then. She'd gone on to cheer lustily for Baelor's opponent in the first tilt, some stubborn old hedge knight who'd broken four lances before Baelor could finally unhorse him.

"Just...consider it," Mother said peaceably.

They spoke further, the night beginning to gather, until Shiera came stomping in demanding to know what they were doing and why no one had come to tell her a bedtime story. Baelor sat on the floor and pulled her into his lap, as Father recounted a tale from the Age of Heroes about Galladon of Morne and his fierce battle against the dragon Veyaron.

"I don't like this story," Shiera said at the end of it, yawning, nearly asleep already. "The dragon shouldn't lose, it doesn't make sense. They were the size of mountains."

"Not quite as big as that," said Mother. "No matter what they tell you."

"I should not have liked to have tried my strength against Balerion or Vhagar, that's certain," said Father. He yawned as well, and stood up from his chair. "I'll see to the boys, my dearest. No doubt Aerys has snuck at least three books out of their crates and is trying to read all of them before dawn." He pressed a kiss upon Mother's cheek, then leaned down to place one on the top of Baelor's head before flinching back. "My two dragons," he chuckled, gazing down at them. "You realize you're half-in the hearth, don't you? Alys is going to be furious when she sees the state of your tunic."

It was Baelor's turn to flinch. "I do not suppose Alys could stay here on Dragonstone?" he asked hopefully. Father merely laughed again and bid them all good night.

Mother liked to sit up and have some time to herself before bed, so Baelor made to gather Shiera up as quietly as he could to take her back to her own rooms — for all the good it would do — when Mother lifted her hand, bidding him stay.

"My father was Prince of Dorne before I ever came into the world," she said. "His mother, too, had already been crowned before he was born. I knew from infancy that when my father died, the Spear and Sun would come to me. But when I was twelve, I ran away."

Baelor, who had been settling back onto the floor, froze. Shiera stirred in her sleep but soon resumed her whistling snore; it was the loudest thing in the room.

"I took my riverboat west and made it all the way to Godsgrace before my father's men found me. Guard Meria herself swam out to the boat and climbed aboard, gave me a great cuff on the ear, and told me not to be such a damned fool."

Meria was now Mother's sworn sword and easily the most terrifying person Baelor had ever met, for all that she was nearing seventy. "So you went back?" 

"I went back," she agreed. "In a way, we're lucky, the two of us. Your father never expected to become King until he was a man grown and married. He had no chance to run away from his duty, though I won't deny there have been times I think he's wanted to. Perhaps he would sleep more easily if he had that chance when he was a child, as we did."

"I didn't run away," Baelor said, hating the crack in his voice, how the shame bled through.

"No, you didn't. I almost wish you had, but you were able to stop yourself before you ever left your rooms. I admire you for that. It didn't take eight men-at-arms to remind you of your duty. And I do not think you will do it again."

She said it gently, at least. Baelor swallowed and shook his head. "No, Mother, I won't."

"Good." She smiled sadly, leaning forward to brush his curls away from his face. "Good."

...delegation to Tyrosh ultimately bore fruit, though whether it was due to the efforts of Princes Daeron and Aerion, or due to the disappearance of Bittersteel from the mercenary group he had so painstakingly built, is a matter debated by scholars across the known world these past decades. There are those who claim that it was the Lady Rohanne herself who commanded the Golden Company, and who decided to send her daughter Calla to Westeros on the family's behalf. Others say Lady Calla sent herself, taking advantage of her husband's absence to seize control of his men and ships.

Whatever the case, it was on the first day of spring when she sailed into King's Landing, accompanied by only a few of her father's bannermen upon the Maiden's Kiss. Those who saw her spoke warmly of her beauty and regal bearing. Indeed, it seems clear that the king found her entrancing from the start, for he granted her a private audience immediately upon her arrival at the Red Keep.

It was only a few days later that...

—Excerpt from Chapter 32 of
The Targaryens, the Blackfyres,
and the Wars Between Them
by Maester Baela, 334 AL

Baelor regarded the young woman who sat opposite him, and was regarded in his turn. Her dress was of Essosi make but undeniably Westerosi in style, with its wide neckline and corseted waist that showed her figure to advantage. Her silver-gold hair fell in small, intricate locs down her back; despite her years in Tyrosh, she had eschewed the dyes that her aunt Kiera so delighted in. Her eyes were a rich purple, though he fancied one of them was a touch lighter in shade. She wore no weapons, no armor, but there was the air of a fighter about her despite that. A woman who had known battle, and had fought in no few of her own. She was composed and calm, a commendable feat; were he in her position, he could not imagine himself so sanguine.

At last he spoke. "We are well-met, cousin."

"Are we?" asked Lady Calla. "Your nephew said you would welcome me, but I confess I thought he was lying."

"Which nephew was that?"

"Oh, Daeron. I never listened to anything Aerion said. And I only listened to perhaps half of Daeron's drivel, and then only when he was sober, which was seldom enough. They were altogether terrible diplomats to send."

Despite everything, Baelor found he needed to bite back a smile. She and Maekar would hate each other on sight, in much the way a cat will always hate its own reflection. "And yet here you are."

They had quit the Throne Room for the Small Hall, where Calla's host of bannermen were granted leave to stand guard alongside the goldcloaks and Kingsguard. She had requested this private audience, and he found himself curious to find what she would say.

"Here I am," she agreed. "Along with sixty ships from the Golden Company, and an army of—"

"Fifty-seven," Baelor corrected her. "You have fifty-seven ships, holding about eight thousand men altogether — the bulk of the Golden Company's force, to be sure, but not its entirety. No cavalry or siege engines, either, much less the vaunted elephants that make them so very famous. A strange force to bring, if your aim was war. Even stranger if your aim is peace."

"I was not afforded a wide range of options," she replied testily. "I could either bring those that wished to come with me, or leave them in Essos without a leader or direction. I am sure you are aware that mercenaries do not fare well under such circumstances."

"Without a leader," Baelor repeated, his mind racing. "Then Aegor Rivers is dead."

"I neither know nor care," she said in a flat, unflinching tone. "He is no longer with the Golden Company. He disappeared last month alongside my brother Haegon, according to the commanders. Their charter is owned by my family — by my mother, to be exact. She made sure of that when she provided Bittersteel the funds to start it in the first place."

Bittersteel, she called him. Not husband or uncle or Aegor, the names she might have had for him in private, but the warlike moniker he had chosen for himself. It was part of the Golden Company's motto: Beneath the gold, the bitter steel. But even a personality as overwhelming as Aegor's could not rule from the grave, and it seemed Calla had seized her moment admirably. "Your mother was wise to do so," he replied. "I hope she is well?"

"She is not," Calla sighed irritably, "and I did not journey across the Narrow Sea to discuss my mother's many ailments and sorrows. I am here to sue for peace. That was, I flatter myself, your intention in sending your ridiculous nephews to our doorstep."

"It was," Baelor agreed blandly, "but I would know your terms before agreeing to them. Especially when they come with fifty-seven ships."

She placed her hands upon the table. On her left pointer finger sat Daena's signet ring, winking in the sunlight. "The first term is for my men," she said, "and their families. Most of the Golden Company is still composed of the lords and soldiers who fought under the banner of the Black Dragon twenty years ago. They grow old, and long to return to their homes here in Westeros. Some of them — fewer than half — brought their wives and children with them, or found wives and sired children when they came to Essos. They too would have a place in the realm."

"You wish me to grant amnesty to eight thousand rebels and traitors?" Baelor asked, impressed with her audacity despite himself. "Bearing in mind that my father pardoned the vast majority of those who stood beneath Daemon's banner at my urging. Exile was reserved only for the truly unrepentant. Not to mention that many of them chose exile, rather than living underneath my father's rule."

"They have had twenty years to reconsider," said Calla without a blush, "and I did not ask for amnesty. By all means, judge each of them in turn. They have all agreed to submit themselves: imprisonment, execution, or the Wall as you see fit. They would still rather live — and die — in their homeland."

Not one man in a hundred would expect real consequences; had they been the sort who did, they would not have chosen Daemon's side in the first place. "Those terms are for your men. What of for you? No doubt you have terms for yourself and your family."

"I do." She lifted her chin. "A place in the line of succession to the Iron Throne. For all surviving Blackfyres and their children, alongside the Targaryen line."

"You wish for me to set aside my father's edict?" He was not quite offended — it felt both more and less than that. Once again he found himself distantly impressed. "I confess I find that an odd demand, considering that your father could not content himself with his place in the line of succession, and so sought to usurp mine."

"He did no such thing," Calla protested. "Daeron False— King Daeron," she amended, with the air of one giving a great concession, "made his edict barring my father from the Iron Throne long before there was ever a movement among the people to replace him. That was the whole reason my father called for an uprising."

Again, it seemed both outrageous and absurd at the same time, such that he could hardly find it in himself to be angry just yet. First he had to understand what she was talking about. During the height of the First Rebellion, all manner of rumors had flitted about the realm regarding Father's supposed parentage and corruption; but Baelor had never heard this particular conspiracy. "I know not what Aegor Rivers has told you, or your mother," he said slowly, "but the edict barring your father and his children from the line of succession was in response to your father's rebellion, not the cause of it. He proclaimed the day after the first battle. I remember; I was there." He could still recall the tremble in Father's voice as he had read it out in the Throne Room, before sending word to the maesters to have the edict sent out to every house and sept in the realm.

"That was when it was proclaimed, but not when it was written," Calla countered. "Daeron wrote it just after Queen Daena died, and told Father of his intention to proclaim it. No doubt that was when he had that ridiculous will forged, claiming my grandmother never acknowledged her own son's true parentage." She narrowed her eyes at him. "If that was the best Bloodraven could do to convince you of your father's lies, he is hardly the fearsome enemy that Aegor has called him all these years."

Baelor lifted a hand. "So I understand this — you believe that my father intended to rescind Daemon's legitimacy a full year before the Rebellion took place?"

Even as he said it, he found his memory drawn back to that terrible day at Summerhall, the twin funerals for Daena the Daring and Queen Myriah Martell. Their two urns placed carefully within the newly-carved alcoves, while the family huddled in the crypt and spoke the traditional Valyrian and Rhoynar words of blessing, of love, of grief. Baelor had stayed close to Daenerys at his father's command, for even all these years later Daemon still made her uneasy. Yet when Baelor had looked to his uncle, he had seen Daemon's face blank and grey, as though in shock. He could not now recall if Daemon had spoken to Father at the ceremony; of a certainty he had not spoken to him after, for he and his family had left Summerhall that very night, Aegor along with them. At the time, Baelor had thought it merely a product of his grief. Had there been something more?

His father would have read Daena's will. Of course he had, for he had been the one to press Daena's signet ring into Jena's hand that same day. Had he understood the significance of Daena calling her son Daemon Waters? He had never spoken to Baelor of it. But Father had kept his own counsel after Mother died; had withdrawn further and further into himself until he had been more shell than man. Perhaps he had spoken to Daemon that day, told him that King Aegon's edict did not apply to him. Baelor could not know; would never know.

Calla, it seemed, was burdened with no such sense of uncertainty. "Of course he did," she said impatiently. "Why else would my father have taken up arms against him? He loved his brother well, though gods know why. He even denied the truth that Daeron was bastard-born from Queen Nerys and her brother Aemon, instead of her rightful husband."

"Your indignation at such a possibility rings a touch false, cousin," Baelor said, aroused from his introspection by irritation, "considering your father's very existence relies upon that same 'rightful husband' violating his own oaths of fidelity to his rightful wife."

She glared back at him, which was heartening at least.

"As for when the edict barring your father from the Iron Throne was written, the fact remains that it was proclaimed only after your father took the name Blackfyre and declared himself in rebellion. That he had legal reason to do so before then is beside the matter, for it was set down in no part of the edict."

"Legal reasons that he made up. Prince Daeron told me that this maester of Stonehelm who supposedly wrote the will for Queen Daena is dead these past twenty years. Perhaps your father had him killed, and Daena herself as well, when—"

Baelor put his hand down on the table — not loudly, but loudly enough. She shut her mouth with a snap. "You have taken bread and salt and wine from this Keep," he said, keeping a tight rein on his temper, "and are safe from any and all harm within its walls. But do not presume upon my patience. Rightful or not, bastard-born or not, I am King. And I will not tolerate the spewing of treasonous talk such as this."

For a moment he thought she might argue, but something very like respect flashed in her eyes. "I did begin to wonder when your goodwill would falter."

Baelor frowned. "I admit to some confusion, my lady. Did you seek to provoke me just now to any particular purpose? Or do you truly believe that my father was bastard-born?"

"Truly?" she asked, and shrugged. "I do not know that it matters. Those who could tell us are dead, and we must remain among the living as long as we can. But," she added with a slight smile, "I did wish to discover the limits of your temper. I have come here to ask not just for peace but an alliance, and I would know more about the manner of man who would agree to that. Reports of you are hard to come by. Reliable ones, at least — your nephews can hardly count."

He leaned back in his chair. "If you are trying to convince me that there are no Tyroshi spies within my court, you will have a difficult time of it."

"Spies never concern themselves with people," she said dismissively. "Only secrets. But I did get some idea of you, when Daemon returned to us at last a few years ago."

"I doubt he gave me a good report," he said, and stood up to pour himself some wine. He looked to her with the ewer raised, and at her nod poured her a measure as well. "We spoke only the once."

"I did not mean from Daemon," she said as she took the cup. "Daemon was the very best of all of us, but in truth he had no judge of character. He thought Lord Butterwell was the most gracious of lords, if that gives you any idea. No, it was Ser Duncan, his guard."

Baelor took his seat and placed his cup of wine carefully before him. "Was it?"

"Yes, he was quite tiresome about it at times," she said, taking a sip of the wine and humming in absentminded appreciation. "Told us all about how you had rescued him from a false accusation at some tourney years ago, and got a great wallop on your head for your trouble. Then you not only allowed him his freedom, but gave him one of your nephews to squire." She made a face to show what she thought of such a thing. "He told us you were the best man he had ever known, and that under your rule the realm has enjoyed peace and prosperity. It was Ser Duncan, more than your nephews, that convinced me to take this chance."

Baelor took a drink and thought of Duncan, far from anything or anyone he had ever known and reliant on the goodwill of his sworn enemies. Even then, he had told them that Baelor was a good man, a worthy king. "Then I am glad for it. Ser Duncan is a true knight; more than his service, his good opinion is worth having."

"I am pleased to hear he is yet living," Calla said. "I did not know what became of him after he fled Braavos, though Daemon told me some of what transpired there." She looked sorrowful at that, and Baelor recalled her own reference to her brother.

"You said Daemon was the very best of you," he ventured. "I take it he has died. I am sorry for it. He too was an honorable man."

She bowed her head in acknowledgement. "He came home after Braavos," she said, flicking her fingers as though to encompass all that had transpired there, "for a few weeks, and he seemed greatly troubled. He said that Bittersteel had dishonored himself and his company, had killed a blacksmith up in Braavos who had done him some service. He said that he feared Bittersteel would do the same to him someday. When they left, they took Haegon with them, and I knew..." 

She bit her lip and looked out the window, where King's Landing spread out below and the crownlands beyond. Long moments passed.

"I knew he would not stop," she said at last. "Aegor, you call him. Bittersteel, he likes to call himself, and a more bitter man I've yet to meet. He is fueled by something more than hate or rage or even righteousness, though twenty years as his wife has given me no clue as to what that might be. But a few months after they left, he wrote to Mother. 'King Daemon is dead, long may be the reign of King Haegon.' That was all he gave us in exchange for Daemon's life. No word of how he was killed, no words of comfort for his mother or siblings. I knew then that when next he came to Tyrosh he would take my brother Aenys with him, or perhaps Haegon's son — little Daemon's eleven years of age now, only year younger than his uncles were when they fought and died upon the Redgrass Field. Bittersteel would use them all up in his unending gristmill of war until nothing was left but ashes. So when the Golden Company returned to Tyrosh without him, I saw a chance. Perhaps my only chance in this lifetime, to make something more of it than war and death and dishonor."

"And you came here," said Baelor. "To your enemy's home."

"Well, I was never much for friends," she said, with a slight smile, "and I appear to be fast running out of family. And I already knew that you did not want war, else you would never have sent your nephews, useless though they are, to negotiate on your behalf. Not to mention returning Daemon to us, and allowing Ser Duncan to remain in Essos for years on end. No doubt you thought indulging Bittersteel's petty desire for revenge would make him more inclined to peace."

"No," said Baelor truthfully, "I did not. But as you said, I saw a chance."

"Then we have that in common, at least. And perhaps one or two other things."

"What might those be?"

She took a breath, as though preparing to duck her head underwater. "There is another term I would lay out, for peace between your family and mine," she said. "I know not if you will consider it a concession or an advantage." She stood from her chair and went to the fireplace. Baelor rose to stand beside her, and she regarded him thoughtfully before she crouched down and—

And reached into the fire, pulling out one of the burning logs. With her other hand she held her flowing sleeve clear of the flames, and held the log aloft for a moment or two before offering it to him. Carefully, he took it, the ash crumbling slightly in his grip.

"Bittersteel hoped that one of my father's sons would have the blood of the dragon, as he called it," she said. "He would test them, holding a coal or a candle against their skin until it burned. He never bothered to try my sister Prazia or me. The one pain he did not inflict," she added blandly, not looking at him.

Baelor tossed the log back into the hearth, his hands black and faintly smoking. He was glad of it, for it curbed his impulse to offer her — what? Comfort seemed an absurdity.

"My sister and I once tried it," she said. "Prazia burned herself as well, but..." She lifted her hand in illustration, covered with ash but unharmed.

All at once, Baelor knew exactly where this conversation was leading, and cursed himself for not seeing its path before. "My lady—"

"Please, let me finish," she said, her hand still outstretched as though to stop some great and implacable force. "My mother's father died not long ago, and in his will he left my mother three dragon eggs. A formidable dowry, I think you'd agree." When Baelor said nothing, she continued on. "No doubt you loved the Lady Jena well. The fact that you never remarried, despite the needs of the realm, speaks to the depths of your feelings. I do not seek to supplant her. But we both know that an alliance between us would be most readily sealed with a marriage. And our children could at last reclaim the power within our blood."

"What the fuck does she mean by that?" Maekar demanded, an hour or so later. "'The power within our blood'? Our blood's powerful enough already, no thanks to her fucking family."

He had arrived at the Red Keep during Baelor's conference with Calla, and had expressed his opinions on the privacy of that conference loudly and at great length to the Kingsguard outside the doors. The noise had eventually drawn Calla's notice, and she'd frowned at Baelor. "Who the fuck is that?" she'd demanded, and Baelor had braced himself for their introduction. It had gone about as well as could be expected, and Baelor had been obliged to drag Maekar out of the Small Hall with a promise to Calla that he would take her offer under serious consideration.

Now he sat in Father's chair in his solar, surrounded by Maekar and Shiera and Aerion, with Egg as their cupbearer. "You're a bit old for it," Baelor observed as he took his cup from him.

"And Vaella's a bit young," he replied tartly as he gave out cups to the others — even Aerion, who took it with a wary eye.

"No doubt she means that an alliance will strengthen our family's position," said Baelor, in answer to Maekar's question.

Shiera shifted slightly in Mother's chair, worrying at the ends of her braid. "It's possible that," she began, then made a face. "Well. She may mean something else. You said she mentioned the blood of the dragon?"

"She did," Baelor confirmed.

"And she has offered you three dragon eggs as a dowry. And she was able to reach into the fire unscathed."

Baelor frowned. "Yes. Why?"

Shiera grimaced. "She may be talking about a power more...tangible. The blood of the dragon, they used to call it. I know we use it now to mean anyone in the royal line, but among Valyrians it meant something altogether different."

She fell silent a moment, brooding, before Maekar prompted her with an irritable, "Well? What did it mean?"

"Imperviousness to fire, I'd imagine," Baelor guessed, and Shiera nodded.

"Anyone with sufficient Valyrian blood was able to ride a dragon, though there doesn't seem any consensus as to how much that might have been. Some riders had no more than a great-great-grandmother from Old Valyria, while several pure-blooded Targaryens were refused by every dragon in turn. But hatching a dragon requires something more."

"The blood of the dragon," Aerion said, his eyes glittering in the firelight.

"Precisely. Most dragons born in Westeros were hatched in the Dragonmont, but the only eggs that hatched outside of the volcano were placed in the cradles of those who were themselves immune to fire. Lady Calla may believe that the children you have together would hatch her dragon eggs. Provided they're still viable," she added thoughtfully, spinning her braid in absent circles. "I would like to see these eggs she claims to have. All of ours have long since fossilized."

"They're on the ship," Aerion offered. "Warm to the touch."

"Really?" said Shiera, sharply interested.

"How the fuck do you know that?" Maekar demanded.

Aerion screwed up his face in indignation. "She showed them—"

"Not you, idiot," Maekar snapped, glowering at Shiera. "When the fuck did you learn about hatching dragon eggs?"

"When she read the only extant copy of Dragons, Wyrms, and Wyverns, by Septon Barth," said Baelor. 

Shiera smiled, distracted from her narrow-eyed gaze into the fire. "Well-remembered, nephew. I'd be curious to know how Calla knows of it. Perhaps that copy was not the only one after all."

Maekar was still irritable. "Why the fuck haven't you told us this before?"

"Because it didn't matter before," Shiera said. "The only two Targaryens with that power are Baelor and me — or so I thought until tonight. And dearly as I love him, I have no intention of bearing Baelor's children. Or anyone else's."

"That is not your decision to make," Maekar snarled.

"Maekar," Baelor said sharply.

"Of course it is," Shiera snarled right back. "Or do you think Baelor would force himself on me, as Aegor forced himself on that poor girl?" She glared up at Maekar. "Do you really think he could?"

"Enough, both of you," Baelor said. "Shiera is right; I would not countenance such a thing, even if it brought us Balerion himself. She is my sister, in heart if not blood, and we were both raised to heed the warnings of such unions. By our grandparents' example most of all."

Maekar sighed and lifted his hand in surrender. "Fine. But your only other option is a traitor, regardless of her justifications."

"Marrying Lady Calla is hardly my only other option, brother," Baelor said. "For one thing, she is still married to Aegor."

Maekar waved his hand at that. "They were wed in Essos. The High Septon is hardly going to refuse your request for an annulment."

"And for another, I've little interest in turning anyone into a brood mare, on the off chance it will provide us with a weapon so terrible even our ancestors feared them."

"But you just said—" Egg swallowed back his next words, when all eyes turned toward him. "That is, my lords, my lady...if we really could bring the dragons back—"

"Even if it is possible," Baelor told him, "or wise, it will hardly help with our present circumstances. How large is a newborn dragon?" he asked Shiera.

She shrugged. "No bigger than the egg that housed it, certainly. They grow quickly in their first years, but even by their third year they're little larger than ponies. Small ponies."

"Which means it would be of limited use, if Bittersteel is still alive."

"He is," said Shiera. "The lure is still there — if he were dead, the spell would collapse."

"So Calla was lying about him being dead," said Aerion, his expression stony. He had given his account of their stay in Tyrosh before Baelor had recounted his own conversation with Calla, and his admiration for her had been clear. The revelation that she'd proposed marriage to Baelor had made him go still, and he had spent most of the rest of their conference staring gloomily into the fire. Baelor could almost sympathize, though the notion of a union between the two of them seemed about as stable as wildfire.

"She said she did not care one way or another," said Baelor, correcting him, "and whatever the case may be, the Golden Company has followed her this far. Have we word on where her fifty-seven ships have anchored?"

"Just off Claw Isle," said Maekar, "with white flags hoisted. The Celtigars aren't happy about it, but they say there's been no trouble thus far. Some of the village fisherfolk have gone out to trade and they've all been civil enough. More to the point, they report the ships have no scorpions or war machines, and those that are on deck wear no armor."

"Still, they're closer to the Redgrass than I'd like," Shiera said. "Perhaps as a sign of good faith, we can ask Lady Calla to send them down to Tarth. Lady Brienna would be able to provide them food as needed, and no doubt Lyonel would love to escort them."

"Perhaps," said Baelor. The storm fleet was currently anchored just north of Rook's Rest, poised to ambush any armada that might venture into the Gullet. But Lyonel had grown restless of late, sending raven after raven to inquire when this bloody war was supposed to bloody start. He would not take kindly to a truce, never mind a peace, without the opportunity to show off his prowess.

He might still have such an opportunity. At last reckoning, the Golden Company was nearly eleven thousand strong; yet Calla had brought with her only eight thousand. The others may have simply wished to remain in Essos, as she had implied; but perhaps Aegor's disappearance had been merely a feint, and even now he was sailing toward Westeros with the rest of his mercenaries, siege weapons, and elephants besides. Not for the first time, he cursed Brynden's long absence.

"So, we we can end this third rebellion before it starts," said Maekar, rubbing his hands together, "but we'll have to allow the rebels who stood against us to return home. We can bring back the dragons—"

"We may be able to bring back the dragons," Shiera amended.

He waved her off. "But you'll have to marry again," he said, pointing at Baelor. "And we can resolve the succession issue once and for all, but the two of you," here he pointed at his sons, "not to mention Daeron and Vaella, shuffle back in the line once more. Not to mention that there's no telling what kind of child you'll sire with a Blackfyre bastard—"

"If we are to consider this proposal at all," Baelor said firmly, "it would be as well if we taught ourselves not to indulge in that particular epithet. They are unlikely to take kindly to it."

"I don't mind," Egg piped up. "About the line of succession, I mean. I want to join the Kingsguard anyway, like Ser Aemon Dragonknight."

Aerion, when the room turned to him, gave an expansive shrug. "My uncle once told me that my ambitions do not lie in acquiring power," he said, smiling with only a little malice. "I never expected to be King."

"There!" Shiera said brightly. "Aerion and Egg are amenable. We'll see how Daeron feels about losing his place as Prince of Dragonstone, so soon after he acquired it."

"I don't mind, either," said Daeron. "Or did you think I was joking when I said I'd rather sit on the Bolton Chair than the Iron Throne?"

Baelor had heard gruesome tales of the so-called Bolton Chair from every northern lord he'd met during his royal progress. "I thought perhaps you had not thought it through," he told his nephew.

They were seated in his solar the following morning; Daeron had adamantly refused to leave Kiera's side once he'd arrived, and even now his gaze strayed back toward where she paced slowly back and forth before the window, Vaella burbling happily in her arms.

"I've thought of little else these past months," said Daeron, his expression soft as he watched his wife and daughter. "I know you and Father believe I have a duty to the realm or the family or honor, but I confess I don't really care for any of that anymore." He tore his eyes away at last and smiled at Baelor. "As far as I'm concerned, Uncle, you can melt the Iron Throne and dump it into Blackwater Bay."

That evening, there was a great feast to formally celebrate the arrival of the Blackfyre delegation, with all manner of speeches and toasts to the promise of peace. The speakers had been vetted beforehand; Baelor was not so removed from his own time as Hand of the King as to neglect such details. Several of Calla's more passionate bannermen waxed poetic about the glory days of King Aegon's reign, to the muted disapproval of the court, but otherwise it could be construed a triumph of public opinion. He had even been persuaded to join in several of the dances, which he had hardly done since taking the Iron Throne: one with Calla, one with Kiera, and all three of the Dornish reels with Rhae, who spun about the floor so fast she was more whirlwind than girl.

He went to bed exhausted and still uneasy, but for the first time in years with a sort of hope in his chest for the future of his realm. 

He did not know what time it was when he heard a scrabbling sound from the secret passage; before Baelor could call the guards he heard Shiera's voice approaching across his solar and into his bedroom. "Baelor, where are you? Are you asleep? I know you're old, Baelor, but honestly—"

"What is it?" he said, reaching for the candle.

As ever, she beat him to it, snapping her fingers to the wick and setting it alight. She was likewise dressed for bed, her hair unbound and falling nearly to her feet, but it was her face that made him stand up and don his robe.

"What's happened?" he repeated.

"It's the spell," she said, helping him with the sleeves. "The lure."

"Has it collapsed?" he asked. If Bittersteel were dead, that would solve any number of problems at once.

But she shook her head. "No, it's...the spellbooks call it a resolution. When the spell has achieved its purpose, it resolves."

He waited for her to continue. "And?"

"And the resolution for this spell is Blackfyre. The sword itself." She swallowed, her face pale. "Bittersteel's found it."

Just then, there was a firm rap upon the door. "Your Grace?"

"It's Ser Arthim," said Baelor, though with the thudding of his heartbeat in his ears not even he could be sure. Bittersteel's found it. Which could only mean one thing: Bittersteel alive, and in Westeros. And once more in possession of the thing he loved the most.

"Is it?" she asked in a hoarse whisper. "Or is it a trap?"

"You sound like Maekar," he said as he went to the door.

Outraged, Shiera took the candle and followed him. "You take that back this instant." 

It was indeed Ser Arthim, with a raven's scroll in his hand. If he had any reaction to the sight of King Baelor and Shiera Seastar stood together in their shifts, he was wise enough to keep it to himself. Instead he handed the scroll to him. "This arrived a few moments ago," he said, "from one of Lord Rivers's ravens."

Baelor broke open the seal, and Shiera lifted the candle so he could better read Brynden's cramped hand. It was uneven and spotted, as though he had scribbled the note using his knee as a table. It was, blessedly, not in code, for he had chosen obscurity over encryption this once.

Nephew — 

I have him.

— Uncle

The most secure of the Red Keep's cells lay nearly as deep beneath the earth as the tallest spike of the Tower of the Hand reached into the sky. They were seldom used, the air dank and fetid and the very walls slick with moss and mold. But they served well enough, at times, when necessary.

Within the cell were three men, two of whom sat chained upon the stone bench on the far side of the cell. The youngest was instantly familiar, though Baelor had not seen him since he was five years of age. He had the same eyes as his father, and along with his sister had his mother's tightly coiled hair.

Beside him sat an older man, broad-shouldered and black-haired, with a beard that had no doubt once been short and neat but now grew wild about his face. He wore a padded jerkin and stout leather trousers, the sort one wears beneath plate and mail, now much soiled. His face was red with sunburn and his hands were black with dirt and blood. His eyes had been closed, but at their approach they opened to reveal eyes of dark purple.

The third man wore no chains, and had settled himself in a near corner to watch the other two, but when he caught sight of Baelor he scrambled to kneel. "Your Grace," he said, his elbow resting heavily on his knee.

"Rise, Ser Duncan," Baelor replied, with what he flattered himself was admirable calm. "Might I ask what you're doing here?"

"It's a long story, Your Grace," he answered as he climbed back to his feet with a wince.

"He punched me in the stomach," said Brynden.

"All right," Duncan allowed, "perhaps not long."

Baelor left Duncan's proclivity for assaulting members of the royal house for the moment and regarded the youngest of the three prisoners. "Ser Haegon," he said. "I would that I could say we are well-met, but I fear I cannot."

Haegon huddled further into himself on the stone seat and made no reply. He had no sunburn as his uncle did, but still bore signs of a sea voyage in the stiffness of his hair, the dried salt upon his clothes. Whatever story lay behind Aegor's capture, it was clearly one Baelor would need to hear before rendering further judgement.

Yet even as he stood there and watched Aegor watching him, he longed to simply draw Blackfyre — the true Blackfyre, returned to him once more — and take that final step through the door to run it through his enemy's heart. For months, years, over half his life he had made plans to destroy this man who now sat filthy and defeated not ten feet from where he stood. Now, without any of the bloodshed he had braced himself to endure, he might end it all. His hand fairly shook as he rested it upon the hilt.

He turned to Brynden. "Release Ser Duncan at once, and put Ser Haegon in another cell." He did not glance back into the cell, though he could feel Aegor's eyes still on him, unblinking. "We shall leave Lord Rivers as he is, until he wishes to speak with us."

"I would be content to leave him here for the rest of his days," said Brynden, "but as you say. Although there there may be a slight—"

"I will not leave my uncle," said Haegon said hotly, springing his feet with a jingle of chains, as though to defend Aegor with his very life upon that moment. His voice was higher than Daemon's, but still deeply resonant. A regal voice, one that men might follow into war. It seemed that Aegor had been fortunate in his supply of Blackfyre sons to hurl upon the shores of Westeros. "If you dare to strike at him, you must needs to through me."

"All the better," Brynden muttered.

"And I'll not leave Ser Haegon," said Duncan, though he looked to the lad with an expression of some weariness. "I gave him my word I would see that no harm came to either him or his uncle while in your custody."

"Did you indeed? You may find that oath inconvenient, Ser Duncan, for they are sworn enemies to the Iron Throne. I would be within my right to have them both beheaded here and now. What then?"

Duncan opened his mouth, then closed it. "Well," he said uncomfortably, "I suppose I would ask you...not to."

"Now you see why I locked them all up," Brynden said cheerfully.

In the end, Haegon and Duncan were persuaded to be moved to the next cell over, though Haegon made much of the possibility that Baelor had employed a shadowbinder to kill Aegor while he was left undefended.

"We are several hundred feet beneath the earth, Ser Haegon," Baelor pointed out impatiently. "My earth, in mine own realm. I need no magics here to cut your uncle down."

"You needed it to get him here," Haegon shot back. "Or do you claim that my uncle was brought to Westeros of his own free will?"

"I told you, ser," Brynden sighed, "that it was I who cast the spell that lured Bittersteel to these shores. I'm sure he's informed you that such things are well within my power."

Duncan glanced at Baelor, but said nothing. Of course it made sense to put it out that the great Bloodraven, whose eyes were a thousand and one, had been the one behind the lure. No doubt Shiera would have a good deal to say about it when she found out, but better that Haegon, at least, did not think to blame the very king whose throne he sought to take.

"However he came to be here," he said, "he is here, Ser Haegon. As are you. I would hear how this came about."

Haegon looked to Duncan, who nodded encouragingly. Ser Duncan told us you were the best man he had ever known, Calla had said, and no doubt Haegon had been present for those stories Duncan had told the Blackfyres. Aegor had poured his poison into their ears all their lives, but it had taken Duncan only a few months to give Calla, at least, some reason for hope that Baelor was not the monster she had been raised to hate. Perhaps Haegon was not so far under his uncle's thumb as he had seemed, standing beside him and snarling defiance.

The trouble had begun on the long road from Braavos to Tyrosh; Bittersteel had indeed planned to sail the Golden Company from there, but the winter storms made a sea voyage between Braavos and Tyrosh impossible. So the whole company had marched their way down the coastline, but just past the Andalos Hills, Aegor had begun to behave strangely.

"He kept asking where his sword was," Haegon said, "even when it was strapped to his hip. And every night when we made camp he would wander westward, such that I began sleeping in his tent to make sure he remained within."

Still, Aegor seemed fine in the light of day, and they had passed Pentos and entered the Flatlands when Haegon awoke one night to find no trace of his uncle.

"I found him waist-deep in the ocean," he said, "and walking steadily west as though in the open air. I went after him and managed to drag him back ashore, but he kept trying to go back, muttering about his sword. That fucking sword," he muttered under his breath, his hands clenched into fists. "So I— I booked passage on a longship bound for Westeros. I told no one in the Company; better that their captain-general go missing than mad, I thought. We arrived at the coastline two days ago."

"Which is where we come in," Brynden said.

"Yes, and I'm curious to hear how that came about," said Baelor. "I was under the impression, Ser Duncan, that you had taken to the road once more."

"I did," he said, looking guilty. "For about...three hours."

"Which is when I came across him," Brynden said. "Purely by coincidence, of course."

"Of course," Baelor echoed.

"I had been keeping a close eye upon the Redgrass Field," Brynden said, "but I was also needed elsewhere, so I prevailed upon Ser Duncan to stand watch for any sign of Bittersteel's arrival. I showed Duncan the spot where my spell would draw him and even provided him with one of my ravens, in the event that Bittersteel should arrive before I had returned." He looked at Duncan narrowly, clearly annoyed by something. "Yet by the time I did return, Ser Duncan had appointed himself Bittersteel's guard as well as his gaoler."

"That's because I wasn't about to let you be his murderer, Maynard," Duncan snapped. "You took one look at that poor wretch digging in the dirt, ranting and sobbing, and took out your sword to run him through then and there!"

"And the gods themselves would have called that a fitting end to him," Brynden said, no longer flippant and careless but with real anger in his voice. Baelor glanced at Haegon, who was looking back at him with a grimace so familiar that it stole his breath.

"I don't know from gods or heavens or hells," Duncan said. "Never was much for septs and prayers. But here in Westeros, the King's laws decide what's justice. And killing a man out of his wits doesn't fit with any law I've ever heard of."

"That's when he punched him," Haegon said quietly, and despite everything Baelor nearly smiled.

"Aye, and I'll do it again," said Duncan. "I've as much cause to want to see Bittersteel dead as you, but if the Iron Throne means to execute—"

"No," said Brynden, "you don't."

Duncan blinked. "What?"

"You don't have as much cause to want to see Bittersteel dead as I have," Brynden said. "Or His Grace, for that matter. What piddling offenses he's committed against you, I am of course deeply sorry for, Ser Duncan, but to presume that your wounds compare to ours is—"

"Enough, both of you," said Baelor, and was rewarded by blessed silence. "Ser Haegon, I would ask a question, but before I do I would have you know that your sister Calla is here in King's Landing. She is here not as a hostage or prisoner but an honored guest, for she has come to sue for peace."

Haegon's face flickered through a half-dozen emotions: determination and grief, anger and joy, sorrow and guilt and hope. But not disbelief or doubt. Whatever else Haegon might think of him, he did not think him a liar. "May I see her?"

"That depends entirely on the answer to my question."

"Then ask it," he said, adding reluctantly, "Your Grace."

A promising enough start. "I do not ask it of you," he said, and turned to Duncan. "Ser Haegon has declared himself the true and rightful Lord of the Seven Kingdoms. In Essos, that is not a crime for which I can punish him. If he has done so upon Westerosi soil, however, that alone will doom him to the block. Have you witnessed him saying this, Ser Duncan?"

"No, Your Grace," said Duncan promptly. Haegon, whose eyes had grown wider and wider, now shut them in relief.

Baelor went to the cell door and summoned the guard. "Bring bread and salt," he ordered.

"Nephew," said Brynden, several decades' worth of warning in his voice.

"I will not punish children for the sins of their fathers," Baelor answered him. "Or their uncles," he added meaningfully, as the guard hurried back from the station with a pitiful half-eaten crust of bread and a salt dish that had seen a thousand grubby fingers and no trace of clean water in all its time of service. He sighed, but there was nothing to be done. He tore the bread in two and took a small pinch of salt, sprinkling it upon both pieces. "For as long as you are guest in my realm, Ser Haegon, and for as long as you do no harm to my people, you are safe from all harm that it is within my power to prevent."

Haegon reached for the offered piece, but at that last hesitated and glanced to Brynden.

"All harm," Baelor repeated. Brynden sighed, but nodded in agreement. "And I give you my word, as a king but also as a knight of the Seven Kingdoms and as your cousin, that no harm will come to Aegon Rivers until such time as his fate is decided by the laws of our realm. You may not agree with our justice, but I swear to you that justice, not vengeance, will be what determines his future."

This time Haegon looked to Duncan, who nodded minutely. Carefully, he raised the bread to his lips as Baelor did the same. The bread was dry and moldy at the same time, the salt doing little to make it palatable. But still Haegon looked the better for having taken it. "And I swear to abide by your laws and customs so long as I am under guest right, and under your protection," he said in turn.

Baelor nodded in acknowledgement and handed the salt bowl back to the waiting guard. "Have someone take Ser Haegon to see the Lady Calla," he instructed. "I am sure they have much to discuss." He saw Brynden grit his teeth out of the corner of his eye, but he did not care overmuch. Once Haegon had gone, he led them from the cell back into the corridor. "I take it Bittersteel is no longer under the influence of the spell." Shiera had said as much, but it was well to be certain.

"Yes," Brynden said. "After I secured both prisoners, I retrieved Blackfyre from where I'd concealed it."

Duncan glowered right back at him. "Oh, you did, did you—"

"I said enough," Baelor snapped. "If the spell has been lifted, then Bittersteel is once more himself. Correct?" This he directed at Duncan.

"Yes, Your Grace."

"Then he can stand for judgement. As king, I am within my rights to have him executed without trial, for his crimes against the Iron Throne are well-known and well-documented. That is the King's laws, Ser Duncan," he said, as Duncan opened his mouth to protest. "The laws you defended just now, with nearly as much zeal as you defended a traitor and kinslayer."

"And in the meanwhile?" Duncan asked, chastised not in the least by Baelor's words or tone. "You can swear all you like to keep him safe, but Bittersteel's got more enemies than just House Targaryen. More allies, too, and you'll not be able to keep his presence here a secret for long. Or do you mean to drag him out to the Red Keep's courtyard at this very moment and chop off his head?"

"The Dragonpit would be more appropriate," Brynden said, some of his levity returning. Baelor had not missed it.

"If you are so concerned, Ser Duncan, you are welcome to remain here as his personal guard," he replied. "I have told you before that your life is your own, but if you wish to waste it in service to a man such as that, that is your own decision. I have others, more pressing, to make." And he took his leave, striding down the corridor and back toward the surface, emerging breathless into the dreary grey of morning mist.

Brynden was close behind him, curling up his collar against the damp. "Ser Duncan has elected to remain," he said. "Given that speech you just gave him, I'm not sure he'll agree to leave Bittersteel's protection in anyone else's hands."

"As I said, that is his own affair."

"No doubt, nephew. But the man's got to sleep sometime." Brynden clapped Baelor on the back. "I suggest you make your decision regarding Bittersteel's fate sooner than late, is all I mean to say."

"I have already made my decision," Baelor replied. "About Bittersteel, and a great many other things."

Be it known that Baelor, the Second of His Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, has been approached by Lady Calla Blackfyre, daughter of the late pretender Daemon Blackfyre and granddaughter to King Aegon IV, and been offered terms of peace between House Targaryen and House Blackfyre. The terms offered are as follows: 

• A union of marriage between King Baelor and the Lady Calla, with the children of said union eligible to stand as Heirs to the Iron Throne by right of blood of both mother and father
• Therefore, a revocation of the edict proclaimed by the late King Daeron, the Second of His Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, that declared Daemon Blackfyre to be an illegitimate descendant of King Aegon, the Fourth of His Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm. These descendants and all progeny thereof would resume their place within the line of succession to the Iron Throne.
• The return of those lords, knights and smallfolk who, upon the defeat and death of Daemon Blackfyre in the year 196, were exiled for their part in the Blackfyre Rebellion. These rebels would submit themselves to judgement and punishment, upon the mercy of King Baelor. This constitutes the bulk of the mercenary group known as the Golden Company.
• In exchange, Lady Calla has pledged a dowry that includes among its artifacts three dragon eggs. It remains a possibility that a union between King Baelor and Lady Calla may result in the return of the great dragons of Old Valyria.

Be it known that Baelor, the Second of His Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, has captured his kinsman and sworn enemy, Lord Aegor Rivers of the Golden Company and Stone Hedge, whose part in the fomenting of the Blackfyre Rebellions is known to all within our realm. 

Be it known that Baelor, the Second of His Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, has likewise captured Ser Haegon Blackfyre, son of the late pretender Daemon Blackfyre and grandson to King Aegon IV, but that Ser Haegon has made no claim upon the Iron Throne within the bounds of Westeros.

Be it known that Baelor, the Second of His Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, knows these matters to concern not only House Targaryen and House Blackfyre, but the whole of Westeros and every soul therein. Such matters cannot be resolved by one man; they must be debated and decided amongst the lords and ladies throughout the realm.

Be it known that Baelor, the Second of His Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, therefore summons a Great Council to be held in one month's time at Harrenhal. The head of each house within the realm is called upon to attend, unless they appoint another to represent their interests. At such time these matters will be determined by vote, to be undertaken by such maesters and septons as are in attendance.

Be it known that Baelor, the Second of His Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, shall abide by all edicts thus decided by the Great Council, in the hope that we shall at last know peace.

There was a tapping noise on the window. Baelor looked up from the fireplace, half-expecting to see Shiera perched on the sill, or possibly Aerion; the only two living family members mad enough to risk the climb. But it was only a raven, one of Brynden's oversized piebald creatures that were altogether too clever. Sure enough, Baelor saw it regard the windowpane critically, as though looking for a weak point in the glass to break through.

He dragged himself out of his chair and went to the window, opening it a scant inch. "No," he said firmly. "Tell your master to leave me be."

As ridiculous as he felt, the raven regarded him soberly, as though listening to what he said. Upon its foot was tied a thick and awkward scroll. Out of mercy he untied it, and the raven shook its leg with something like relief. "King, king, king," it croaked.

"I am throwing this into the fire," he warned, and the raven gave him another look before it spread its wings and took to the sky once more. Baelor shut the window and suited word to deed, not bothering to unroll the parchment before letting it burn.

He had summoned Alys earlier in the day to block up the secret entrance once more. "Perhaps put stones in the bureau this time," he'd suggested, and she'd given him a knowing smile. 

"I'll put in a good meal too," she'd said, patting him absently on the arm. "You're skin and bones these days, Your Grace." Baelor had bowed to her wisdom and agreed.

He'd returned to his rooms after ducking through the uproar of the Throne Room to find the table fair groaning under the weight of the "good meal" Alys had brought up: dried grapes and figs, roasted citrus and smoked snake meat, bowls of nuts and hard cheeses, even a loaf of barley bread. Foods that would last a few days; Alys, at least, seemed to understand his wish to be left alone.

If anyone in his family shared her understanding, they had ignored it in favor of pestering him. For a good three hours after reading out his edict he'd listened to the thumps and cursing coming from the passageway. Undaunted, they had shouted at him through the door; failing that, they had pushed messages underneath it. Brynden's tactic was a new one, and admittedly clever.

Baelor closed his eyes and stretched out his legs, his bare feet upon the hearthstones yet still cold. It was the chill of exhaustion, he knew; he had not slept since Shiera had burst into his rooms. His thoughts were sluggish and addled, and he wondered distantly if his edict had made any sense at all. He did not care overmuch.

There was a knock on the door, the rhythm of the Kingsguard. Baelor did not answer, but he could not help but hear Ser Jon's voice. "Your Grace," he said, sounding equal parts annoyed and amused, "Ser Duncan humbly requests an audience."

"I didn't request any such thing," Duncan's voice could be heard clear enough. "Humbly or otherwise."

Baelor thought fondly on his youth, when he had escaped tutors and septas by hiding in the roaring hearth fires of Dragonstone. No doubt Duncan would simply drag him out again, and burn himself for his troubles. "Very well."

The door opened and a heavy pair of boots stomped through. "Lady Shiera summoned me, so you're told," Duncan announced. "She thinks I can talk sense into you. Don't know why, I've never managed it before."

"The triumph of hope over experience, no doubt," Baelor replied, distracted. In the dull torchlight of the dungeons he had seen Duncan only in shifting shadows; now with the light of the fire, he could see the deep lines of exhaustion around his mouth and eyes, the grey tinge to his skin. He had washed and changed recently, his hair still damp, but— "You look dreadful."

Duncan smiled at that, briefly beautiful, and shook his head. "I suppose you'd know, judging by your own looks at present," he said. He sniffed the air and turned toward the laden table. "Alys mentioned she'd laid in supplies for a siege."

Even Alys had betrayed him. Baelor shut his eyes and waved at the food. "Take what you will."

"I'm not here to eat," said Duncan, "and I can't stay long."

"Still worried for your friend's safety?"

"Aye," said Duncan, his boots drawing nearer and then further away. When Baelor pried his eyes open again, Duncan was leaning against the mantle, his arms crossed and brow furrowed. "You've not given me much reason to stop."

"No, it appears my word is no longer good enough."

"Lord Brynden was set to murder Bittersteel in the middle of that field," Duncan snapped. "I was there, Baelor. I saw him unsheathe his sword and make ready for it. And Bittersteel just sat there, pawing at the ground like an animal. If I hadn't stepped between them—"

"Then the realm would be a good deal safer," Baelor shot back. "Do you really think a king can live by a knight's code? I never took you for a fool."

"You'd be the only man alive who hasn't, then. And if a king can't live by a knight's code, then what's the use of being a knight at all? You didn't rescind those oaths when you took the Iron Throne."

Baelor rose from his chair, suddenly unable to bear such proximity to him any longer. "I applaud your moral clarity, Ser Duncan the Tall, with your view from the hedges—"

"Don't you go throwing that in my face, Your Grace. The hedges offer a clearer view than the one you've been seeing from high up here." Duncan was angry now, as Baelor had not seen in — had he ever seen it? But that could not matter now, for Baelor found himself equally furious.

"And what do you so clearly see? A man who has plotted the destruction of my entire family, for decades. Who has made the annihilation of House Targaryen his life's work. And you defended him. Defend him still, in my solar and in my holdfast and in my city and in my kingdom. You would see him walk free under the sky, and to the Seven Hells with what he's done to deserve death and worse."

"I'd do no such thing, and you know it. Any more than I'd invite every lordling with a grudge against the Iron Throne to come and sit in judgement against him. I'm all for fairness, but what on earth were you thinking, calling a Great Council?"

Baelor gritted his teeth. "A bare moment ago you all but called me a kinslayer. Now you take me to task for giving Bittersteel a trial before the Great Council. It would appear that I am not the only one to pull in all directions, Duncan."

"I'm trying to pull your head out of your arse, though it seems fairly well lodged," Duncan growled, then blew out a breath. When he spoke next, it was quieter. More tired, and honest. "I don't think you're a murderer, Baelor. Or a fool."

"Merely a craven, then," Baelor said, turning to lean against the windowsill. No raven awaited him on the other side; only the endless darkness overhead, the sullen lights of the city beneath.

Duncan scoffed. "Perhaps you are a fool, if you think that," he said. There was a long silence, and Baelor heard the heavy tread of Duncan's boots approach. Gently, so gently it caught like glass in his throat, Duncan slid his arms around Baelor's waist, pulling him back against his chest. "War makes fools of everyone, and monsters besides. I'm not so daft as to not know that much. This Great Council — mayhap it's the best chance we've got at peace without a war." He rested his chin on Baelor's shoulder, the weight of it unexpected. It occurred to Baelor that he was holding Duncan up as much as Duncan held him. The thought was a strange one, and made him strangely glad.

"But you still think it a mistake." He laced their fingers together and drew them up upon his chest, as though Duncan were a great blanket to be drawn close around him.

"Yes," said Duncan, his breath ticklish and warm against his ear. "No. I don't know. I'm not clever like you and Egg and...well, about half your family, tell the truth, some of them have more wool than brains in their heads. I just think — it's still a risk, and a dreadful one. You're well-loved by the people, Baelor, you know that. But the lords and ladies of the Seven Kingdoms — or nine, whatever the number — there's some of them that put their winecups down at feasts, when the toast to the king is made. Enough to make me wary of bringing them all together."

"It's a risk," Baelor agreed.

"Then why do it at all? You've got Bittersteel, you have..." He hesitated. "You've got Lady Calla's offer. Offers, I suppose. You could decide all this yourself."

"In truth? Because I am tired of these decisions. For years I have sat upon the Iron Throne in judgement, with the power of life or death over millions — not just the guilty, either. I decide who receives food in a famine, who is denied relief in a drought or given help after a flood. You say there are some lords who do not toast to me, but I find myself astonished every day that they have not torn me to pieces."

"Baelor," Duncan sighed, drawing him in more tightly into his embrace. In the wavering reflection of the glass he could see Duncan's face: exasperated, fond. Worried.

"When I spoke to Lady Calla, she told me something about Bittersteel. Something I had known already, but still it has stayed with me. She said that he would never stop — he would keep feeding Daemon's sons into the gristmill of war and destruction until he had ground them all into ashes. And I find myself thinking, we are not so very different, Bittersteel and I." Duncan made a disagreeable noise at that, but Baelor shook his head. "For as long as I've sat upon the Iron Throne, I've sought someone to take my place after I die. Aerys and Rhaegel, Aelora and Aelor, Maekar and Daeron and Vaella and down and down the line. Even before my father died, I sought to ensure Valarr had done his duty— provided me with a grandchild, to take his place as he would take mine, as I would take Father's. An endless caravan of sacrifices into the maw of that great metal monster."

"And you think the Great Council might sacrifice someone else, is that it?"

Baelor huffed, an awful amusement rising in his chest. "Perhaps a craven after all," he admitted. "But I suppose I could not stay your compass point forever."

"I don't suppose you could," Duncan said, the last word turning into a great cracking yawn right in his ear.

Baelor turned to look at him; he was fair swaying with exhaustion, he realized. "When is the last time you slept?" he asked, exasperated and fond and worried.

Duncan laughed at that. "A fair while."

"Go sit," Baelor instructed, gesturing at the chairs before the fireplace. Duncan stared at them for a moment, clearly not comprehending, and Baelor gave him a gentle push that sent him stumbling toward the hearth.

He went to the door and opened it to find Ser Jon on duty. "Who is guarding Lord Rivers in Ser Duncan's absence?" he asked.

"Ser Donnel and Ser Kilden, Your Grace," Ser Jon replied promptly. "Ser Roland thought it prudent to ensure his safety for tonight." His voice was carefully neutral, but Baelor had known Jon Tollet since he'd been a stripling boy of twelve, sent to squire for Ser Arthal and knock-kneed with terror for the first few months in the Red Keep. He never smiled but with his eyes, and they smiled at him now. "We shall keep him alive and in one piece, Your Grace, never fear."

Not trusting his voice, he merely nodded his thanks and shut the door once more.

Spring had only just arrived, the white raven from Oldtown still recovering in the Grand Maester's rookery, so there were no flies or wasps circling round the food upon the table. Baelor put some things he thought Duncan would like upon a plate and filled a winecup near to the brim, while behind him he heard the sound of a few more logs being placed upon the fire.

He turned back to see Duncan sitting not on the couch but on the floor, hunched over as though he were outside in a rainstorm instead of before a roaring fire. "I would advise against crawling directly into the hearth, ser."

"Mm," Duncan agreed absently, his eyes — when they were open — focused hazily on the flames. "I remember once, me and the old man went to work for a lordling in the Westerlands who was having trouble with pirates. End of autumn, it was. Fearful cold. We had to stand watch and signal if any of their ships were sighted along the coast. Three weeks we stood watch, but they never came. Well, tell a lie, they did, but well north of us. Missed the whole battle, but we were still paid a fair share, credit to Lord...Kenning, that was it. Mind, it didn't keep us any warmer up on that peninsula. No fire, dead of winter. Thought I'd freeze to death."

"But you didn't," he said, placing the food upon the small table between the chairs.

"No, but we both got frostbite on our toes. That was the last time the old man traveled through the Westerlands. After that, he stuck to the warmer climes, especially in winter and spring. Hard to believe this is warmer climes," he added with a grumble.

Baelor simply stood and watched him a moment. To see Duncan like this felt a peculiar sort of power, one he could never recall having over him. He had seen the hedge knight wounded and half-starved, addled with drink and desire, but never before quite so vulnerable, so weak. He wanted to curl himself around it, guard it and keep it for himself.

We can't feed this, Duncan had once said. But it seemed plain that whatever this was needed little sustenance to grow thick and twining around them both. Even as he stood there, Duncan looked up at him, and it was the easiest thing in the world to sit on the chair behind him and let him lean back between his knees.

"Here," he said softly, offering him the winecup. "'Get that down you,' I believe is the favored phrase."

Duncan chuckled, and when he took the cup his other hand reached up to clasp Baelor's in a loose grip. "It'll serve." He took a long drink, his moue of distaste clearly more for the form of the thing than any real objection. "You and your fancy wines," he murmured, taking another drink before leaning back on Baelor's thigh, his eyes drifting closed. "I should go back."

"Ser Donnell and Ser Kilden are guarding your prisoner tonight," Baelor said. With his free hand he carded his fingers through Duncan's hair: still slightly damp, but growing drier by the moment, soft to the touch.

"I'd say that's not their duty, but I suppose their duty is what you bid them do," Duncan said sleepily, turning into his hand. "Have you sworn in Ser Petyr yet?"

"No — though I plan to do so during the knighting ceremony for Egg, upon his nameday."

This led to a long if incoherent diatribe, punctuated by yawns, of why Duncan wasn't attending and it was just sentimental hogwash. "Just because the knighting of a Targaryen merits a fireworks display doesn't mean I need have anything to do with it," he sniffed.

"I take it your dubbing was a more modest affair," Baelor said. He still had his fingers buried in Duncan's hair, scratching idly against his scalp and taking note of each shiver and twitch, an absentminded catalogue. 

Elsewise he might have missed the way Duncan froze, for just a half-second, taking a drink the next to cover it. "Something like that," Duncan said, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. "What was yours like? Bunting and trumpets and all the rest of it?"

"Something like that," he agreed. "You should eat something, and then go to bed."

Duncan shook his head, careful not to dislodge Baelor's hand. "Too tired for food," he said, and huffed. "Might be the first time I've ever said that." He looked up at Baelor, his blue eyes half-lidded. "Too tired to say 'no' to you, either."

Perhaps he meant it to sound warning, or even seductive, but instead it seemed half-wistful. "Setting aside the fact that you just did say no to me," he said, drawing his thumb along Duncan's hairline, "if you are too tired for food, I've no doubt you're too tired for anything else." A silver hair caught the firelight, proud amongst the red and gold. Baelor stroked softly along its length.

Duncan shut his eyes. "No doubt," he murmured, turning his face into Baelor's thigh. "Will you marry her?"

Baelor sighed. "Perhaps."

"Do you want to?" he asked, his eyes still closed.

Baelor opened his mouth to say no, but something within him bid him pause, for it was not a whole answer. "I married Jena out of duty," he said. "The love came later, but it did come, eventually. With Lady Calla, it never will."

"Why not?"

"Duncan," Baelor sighed, tugging his hair so his head lifted to meet his gaze. "Why do you think?"

He watched his face as the meaning hit him; the flush on his cheeks spreading down to his neck, the purse of his lips as he smiled. "Gods," Duncan groaned, half-laughing, "of all the times to be too tired."

Baelor pushed him gently forward. "Come," he said, standing up and offering his hand. "To bed. To sleep," he added.

"Sleep," Duncan said ruefully, but heaved himself to his feet with only moderate spilling of wine. Baelor led him into his bedroom by the hand and let him lean upon the footboard, kneeling before him to unlace his boots and slip them off. "Can't lie, I've had a fair few dreams that started like this," Duncan commented, yawning once again.

"Have you," Baelor said, and went to put the boots by the bedroom hearth.

Duncan caught him by the wrist and dragged him close, catching him easily as he nearly overbalanced. "Mmhmm," he said, "and then they went on like this."

He tasted of Dornish wine this time, rich on the tongue. Baelor allowed himself a moment of it before gently pulling back. "You should sleep. We both should."

"I know," he said, "but can't I please—" He drew Baelor in between his thighs. "Just a bit."

"I don't think this is something you do just a bit," he warned, as he felt Duncan's hand slide downward. "No," he said firmly.

Duncan grumbled, his expression was more amused than chagrined. "You're worse than a septa, you are."

"Have you much experience with septas?"

"Never you mind what experience I've got," he said, trying to pull Baelor back into his arms.

Baelor kept himself upright. "I thought you were too tired to say 'no' to me tonight."

"Aye, well, I was hoping you'd be to tired to say 'no' to me, either," Duncan said, a rumbling confession as he rested his forehead upon Baelor's shoulder. His hands, which had been pulling at him just a moment before, now felt more akin to claws, desperation rather than desire bunching his fists in Baelor's shirt.

Baelor wrapped his arms around him. He was unsure of what had shifted in Duncan's mood, but it hardly mattered; not when he could offer comfort. 

"I truly did intend to stay away, you know," Duncan said after a moment, muffled against his neck. "I thought I'd go to the Neck or the North, somewhere with enough distance between us. Made it as far as the Blueburn before Lord Brynden found me."

"No doubt he was lying in wait."

"No doubt," Duncan said, still with his head tucked into Baelor's neck, nine-tenths asleep already. "But I didn't refuse him, when he bid me go to the Redgrass. I could have, but I knew if I helped to capture Bittersteel, I'd have to take him back to King's Landing. I'd only just left you, and all I wanted was to come back." He breathed in deep, his nose brushing against Baelor's collarbone. "Don't know what that makes me — a fool, or a craven, or what."

"Whatever we are, I fear we're much the same," Baelor murmured. He nudged him up and over to the side of the bed, and he collapsed into it with a muffled crash, pulling Baelor down to sprawl on top of him. 

"Had a dream like this, too," he said, smiling softly up at him.

"Perhaps you should shut your eyes and have another one," Baelor advised, running the back of his fingers gently across Duncan's cheek as he watched his eyes flutter closed.

"Mm. You'll stay?"

"It's my bedroom," Baelor pointed out, but Duncan's breath was already growing slow and even, and so Baelor shut his eyes and joined him in sleep.