Baelor and Rhaenyra short story - Chapter 4:
Aelora hurried back toward the royal apartments, the rustle of her silk skirts sounding like a frantic heartbeat against the stone.
Ser Harwin remained a silent, towering shadow at her back, his hand never straying far from the hilt of his blade.
She found Valarr and Aerion in the solar, hunched over a map of the Blackwater. They looked up as she burst in, their faces tight with a gravity that didn't belong to children.
"Aemond was in the Godswood," Aelora said, her breath hitching as she dropped her book onto the table.
"He's... he's worse than before. He spoke of debts, Valarr. He spoke as if the sun were already setting on our family."
Valarr's mismatched eyes darkened, and he exchanged a sharp look with Aerion. "He's bold for a boy who hasn't seen a real battlefield," Aerion spat, his hand tightening on the back of a chair.
"He thinks Vhagar makes him a king, but a dragon is only as strong as the mind that commands it."
Valarr stepped toward his sister, resting a hand on her shoulder. "Did he touch you, Aelora?"
"No. Ser Harwin saw to that," she whispered. "But it wasn't just the threats. It's the way they're moving, Valarr. The Hightower guards have doubled their patrols in the lower bailey. They aren't just guarding the King anymore, they're marking their territory."
"Then we stop playing at being guests," Valarr said, his voice dropping into that low, princely coldness.
"Aerion, find Matarys. Tell him to stay with the girls. We need to show a united front. If they want to loom in the shadows, let them see us standing in the light."
Aerion nodded, his silver hair catching the morning light. "I'll see it done. And Valarr? If Aemond comes looking for a debt... I'll be the one to remind him who truly holds the ledger."
A floor above, a heavy silence hung over the King's chambers.
The smell of milk of the poppy was thick, but Viserys was conscious, his eyes flickering with a weary spark as he watched Rhaenyra and Baelor approach his bedside.
He was a man held together by sheer will and the skill of his Maesters, yet he was still the King.
"Rhaenyra... Baelor..." he wheezed, his one eye lid fluttering open as they reached his side.
"We are here, Father," Rhaenyra whispered, taking his hand. It felt like dry parchment, but his grip was surprisingly steady.
Viserys looked at Baelor, his gaze drifting down to the Valyrian steel dagger tucked into the Prince's belt.
A ghostly smile touched his lips beneath the gold mask. "You wear it well, Baelor. It looks... right... on a man of your stature."
"It is a heavy honor, Your Grace," Baelor replied, bowing his head slightly.
"It is a burden," Viserys corrected, his voice a dry rattle. "But it is one you must carry. The court is a nest of vipers, and they have grown bold in my long illness. They whisper of 'right' and 'tradition' when they truly mean power."
He squeezed Rhaenyra's hand, looking deep into her eyes. "You are my Heir. Never forget that. And Baelor... you are the shield that ensures that truth remains. There is a storm brewing outside these doors. I can feel it in the air. You must be the anchor that holds the Realm together when the winds finally pick up."
"I will put her on that chair, Viserys. I swear it on my life and the lives of our children," Baelor promised, his voice sounding like iron hitting stone.
Viserys let out a long, shuddering sigh, his head sinking back into the pillows. "Then I can rest easy for a while longer.
Go now... show the court that the Dragon has more than one head. Let them see that the heart of the House is still beating."
Rhaenyra stood slowly, her face pale but her eyes filled with a terrifying resolve. She looked at Baelor, the weight of the King's words settling between them.
The war hadn't started there were no dragons in the sky or blood on the floor but the battle lines had been drawn in the silence of the King's room.
"Gather the children," Rhaenyra commanded, her voice sounding every bit the Queen she was born to be. "We go to the gardens. If the Hightowers wish to stare, let us give them something to look at."
The gardens of the Red Keep had become a battlefield of aesthetics and whispered threats.
The morning sun hung high, glinting off the polished breastplates of the Hightower guards who stood like green-and-grey statues along the perimeter.
But as the heavy oak doors to the royal wing opened, the garden's atmosphere shifted. It wasn't just a family walking into the light, it was a phalanx.
Rhaenyra and Baelor led the procession, walking with a measured, regal pace.
Flanking them, however, was a figure that made the Hightower guards visibly stiffen. Daemon Targaryen walked with a loose, predatory grace, his hand resting on the pommel of Dark Sister.
He didn't look like a prince out for a stroll, he looked like a wolf surveying a pen of sheep. He leaned in toward Rhaenyra, whispering something that made her offer a sharp, knowing smile.
Behind the three elders came the next generation the "Six Heads of the Dragon."
Valarr walked at the center, his expression one of detached, princely ice. To his right was Aerion, whose hand stayed near his sword hilt, his eyes scanning the balconies for his uncle Aemond.
Matarys walked with a restless, coiled energy, while Aelora walked between them, her head held high, clutching her book as if it were a shield.
Baela and Rhaena followed, their presence completing the circuit. Baela wore riding leathers, her dragon-whip coiled at her hip, looking like she was ready to leap onto Moondancer at a moment's notice.
"They're staring," Aelora whispered, her voice barely audible.
"Let them," Daemon's voice cut in from the front, loud enough for the guards to hear. "If they stare long enough, they might actually remember what a real dragon looks like before they go back to worshiping stone stars."
They reached the center of the gardens, near the great stone fountain. Standing on the opposite side, beneath the shade of a sprawling weirwood, were the Greens.
Aegon was slumped against a bench, already nursing a cup of wine. Helaena was distracted, tracing the veins of a fallen leaf.
But Aemond stood at the front, his sapphire eye fixed solely on the approaching group. Otto and Alicent stood behind them, their faces masks of strained diplomatic courtesy.
"A lovely morning for a stroll, Princess," Otto called out, his voice smooth as oil. "It is rare to see the entire... extended family... gathered in such a fashion."
"The King wished for us to be seen together, Lord Hand," Rhaenyra replied, her voice carrying across the garden. "He felt the court needed a reminder of the strength of his house."
Baelor stepped forward, He didn't say a word, but the way he adjusted the belt, making his weapon more prominent, it was a louder declaration than any speech.
Daemon stepped up beside Baelor, his eyes landing on Otto with a look of pure, unadulterated loathing. "He also mentioned how quiet the halls have become," Daemon added, his hand tapping Dark Sister. "Too much whispering, not enough fire. We thought we'd bring some of the latter back to the city."
Aerion stepped up beside Valarr, crossing his arms. "We were just discussing the dragonpit, Uncle," Aerion said, looking directly at Aemond. "Valarr and I thought we might take the younger ones down. It's been so long since the keepers have seen a full flight of Targaryen riders."
Aemond's jaw tightened. "The pit is crowded, nephew. Perhaps you should stick to the beach. The sand is softer for those who... struggle to stay on their feet."
Matarys took a half-step forward, his eyes blazing, but Valarr placed a steadying hand on his brother's shoulder.
"The sand is where we learned to fight, Aemond," Valarr said, his voice a low, terrifyingly calm rumble. "And we learned our lessons well. Don't you agree?"
For a moment, the air grew still. The guards tensed, and even Aegon looked up from his wine. Daemon's hand went still on his sword, his eyes darting toward Aemond's throat.
Alicent broke the silence, her voice tight. "The children should play. There is no need for such... intensity... on a feast day."
"We aren't playing, Alicent," Rhaenyra said softly, her eyes locking onto the Queen's. "We are simply existing. If our existence feels like a threat to you, perhaps you should ask yourself why."
As Rhaenyra turned to lead her family back toward the keep, Baelor lingered for a second, his mismatched eyes meeting Otto's.
He didn't speak, he simply tapped the pommel of the King's dagger once a rhythmic, metallic clink that sounded remarkably like a heartbeat.
Daemon walked at the rear, pausing to give Aemond a wink that was more a threat than a greeting. The war hadn't started yet. No blood had been spilled.
But as the "Black" faction walked away, leaving the Greens in the shadow of the weirwood, everyone in the garden knew the peace was nothing more than a thin veil waiting to be torn.
The air above the King's Landing tourney grounds was thick with the scent of crushed grass, hot horseflesh, and the metallic tang of sharpened steel.
High in the royal box, King Viserys sat ensconced in furs despite the heat, his golden mask catching the midday sun. To his right, Rhaenyra sat with a regal, stony calm, flanked by Baela, Rhaena, and Aelora.
Matarys sat at his mother's feet, his eyes darting between the knights on the field.
Across the floral divide, Alicent and Otto sat with Helaena, who was busily braiding a piece of blue silk, her eyes never once lifting to the tilting strip.
Baelor stood just behind Rhaenyra's chair.
The trumpets had only just ceased their blaring when the tension on the field shifted from martial display to a calculated, cruel theatre.
Before the jousting could begin in earnest, the Green princes Aegon and Aemond wheeled their horses toward the royal box. It was not a gesture of chivalry, it was a declaration of mockery.
Aegon, swaying slightly in his saddle with a lazy, lopsided grin, leveled his lance toward Baela. "Cousin," he called out, his voice loud enough to carry to the commons. "Since my own wife is busy with her insects, perhaps you would grant me a favor? A bit of red to brighten up this dull green armor?"
Beside him, Aemond moved with the cold precision of a stalking cat, his destrier stopping directly beneath Aelora and Rhaena.
His sapphire eye glinted like a shard of ice. "And for me," Aemond drawled. "A token from the daughter of Driftmark and the daughter of Dragonstone. So I might carry a piece of the 'True Heir' into the dirt with me."
The insult hung in the air, thick and foul. Rhaenyra's hand tightened on the arm of her chair. Suddenly, a voice cut through the arena like a whip-crack.
"I'm afraid that is not permitted!"
Aerion spurred his horse forward, breaking the formation of the Black knights.
He rode between the Green princes and the royal box, his silver hair streaming like a banner of defiance. "My sisters do not grant favors to those who cannot even sit a horse straight," he snapped, his jaw set in iron.
From the sidelines, Daemon didn't move. He leaned against a wooden pillar, his arms crossed over his chest.
A smug, dark smirk pulled at his lips as he watched his son take the field. He looked at Baelor and gave a slow, satisfied nod the wolf was teaching the pup how to hunt.
With a flourish of his reins, Aerion turned his horse toward the center of the royal box, stopping directly in front of a startled Helaena.
"Princess Helaena," Aerion said with mocking gallantry. "Since your husband is so eager to seek charms elsewhere, perhaps you would grant your favor to a knight who actually intends to stay in the saddle?"
Helaena blinked, her unearthly gaze drifting. Slowly, she untied the blue silk from her hair and let it flutter down. Aerion caught it on the tip of his lance, his eyes locking onto a fuming Aegon.
But the air was truly sucked from the lungs of the nobility a moment later. Valarr moved swiftly.
He didn't ride, he walked. With the grace of his father and the coldness of his mother, he ascended the steps of the royal dais, walking straight to the center of the box.
He stopped before Queen Alicent.
The Queen Mother recoiled, her breath hitching.
Valarr bowed, low and perfect. "Your Grace," Valarr said, his voice a cool, low melody. "In the spirit of this... unified house, surely the Queen would not deny a favor to the son of the Heir? It would be a tragedy for the court to think there was any ill will."
Under the watchful, dying eye of King Viserys and the predatory stares of Daemon and Baelor, Alicent had no choice.
With trembling fingers, she unfastened a small green ribbon from her sleeve and dropped it into Valarr's hand as if it were a burning coal.
Valarr tucked the green silk into his belt directly next to where the King's dagger would one day hang and turned back to the field.
"The games have truly begun now," Matarys whispered, grinning widely.
The herald's trumpet blasted, and the first pair took their marks Aegon against Ser Harwin Strong.
The sound of the impact was like a crack of thunder. Harwin's lance exploded against Aegon's shield, nearly unseating the Prince. Aegon wobbled, his own lance dipping uselessly into the dirt.
Next came the grudge match. Valarr, wearing the Queen's green ribbon, rode against Ser Criston Cole.
The horses bolted. They met in the center with a deafening crack. Valarr's lance caught Cole squarely in the throat-piece.
The Lord Commander swayed, his horse rearing, but he stayed seated. Valarr, however, lost his stirrup and had to snap his reins to stay upright.
"He held his own," Rhaenyra whispered, her hand clenching Baelor's.
The final tilt brought the most bloodlust. Daemon rode out on a lean, grey mare, his movements fluid and mocking. At the other end stood Aemond, looking like a specter in his dark green armor.
"Be careful, Uncle," Aemond called out. "The ground is hard for old men."
"Then try not to hit it too fast, boy," Daemon shouted back.
They charged. It wasn't a joust, it was an execution of intent. Daemon aimed his lance high, seeking the head.
Aemond aimed low, seeking the horse's chest a dishonorable move. At the last second, Daemon swerved his mare, his lance glancing off Aemond's shoulder with enough force to spin the Prince around.
Aemond's lance missed entirely, buried deep in the turf.
Aemond snarled, throwing his broken lance aside and reaching for his sword. "Yield!" he screamed.
Daemon simply laughed, signaling for a cup of wine. "In a tourney, Aemond? You have much to learn about patience."
Viserys raised a trembling hand, signaling the end. "A fine display!" he wheezed. "One house! One family!"
Below, the competitors gathered. Daemon, Valarr, and Aerion stood in a cluster of black and red, while Aemond, Aegon, and Cole formed a wall of green.
Baelor stepped to the edge of the royal box.
"The sun is setting," Baelor announced, his voice booming with the authority of the King's shield. "The games are over. We feast tonight as one house."
As the families dispersed, the peace felt like a thin veil waiting to be torn.
The Great Hall of the Red Keep was a cavern of flickering torchlight and deceptive warmth.
The air smelled of roasted boar, spiced wine, and the underlying scent of old grudges.
Long tables groaned under the weight of the feast, but the real centerpiece was the tension radiating from the high table.
Aerion sat with a predatory grace, the blue silk of Helaena's favor tied conspicuously around his upper arm.
Beside him, Valarr looked every bit the future king, his expression cool and untouchable, the green ribbon of Queen Alicent pinned to his black doublet right above his heart, a mocking placement that made the Queen's eye twitch every time she looked his way.
Daemon leaned back in his chair, swirling a cup of wine, his eyes dancing with a chaotic delight.
Beside him, Baelor sat like a mountain, the Catspaw dagger gleaming at his waist, a constant golden reminder of the King's favor.
The meal passed in a series of forced pleasantries. King Viserys, buoyed by the "success" of the tourney, was in high spirits, oblivious to the way Aegon was glaring at Aerion for wearing his wife's silk, or the way Aemond sat as still as a statue, his sapphire eye fixed on Matarys.
"A fine day," Viserys wheezed, splashing wine into his cup. "To see my grandsons and nephew competing with such... vigor. It warms the blood."
"It certainly spills it well enough," Otto Hightower remarked dryly, his gaze lingering on the green ribbon on Valarr's chest.
As the servants cleared the platters to bring out the heavy cakes, Aemond stood up. The scraping of his chair against the stone floor sounded like a blade being drawn. The hall fell into a sudden, expectant silence.
Aemond raised his silver chalice, his face a mask of pale marble. "A final tribute," he began, his voice smooth and carrying to every corner of the room. "To the health of my nephews."
He turned his gaze toward Valarr, Matarys, and Aerion. "To Valarr, Matarys, and... young Aerion. Each of them a credit to their house."
He paused, a cruel, thin smile playing on his lips. "I have never seen such... boldness. Such tenacity. It is a rare thing to see such qualities in boys so... young. It makes one wonder where such strength comes from."
Rhaenyra's posture went rigid. Baelor's hand dropped to the hilt of his dagger.
Aemond stepped forward, his eye glinting. "Let us toast these three... Strong... boys. They are the Strongest nephews a man could hope for. Truly, their Strength is beyond compare. May they always be as Strong as they are today."
The word hit the hall like a physical blow. The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the crackle of the hearth.
Matarys was the first to move, his chair flying backward as he surged to his feet, but Aerion was faster. Aerion slammed his goblet onto the table, the blue silk of Helaena's favor fluttering.
"And a toast to you, Uncle!" Aerion shouted, his voice ringing with a sharp, dangerous edge. "To the man who lost an eye to a child and a favor to a cousin! A man so lacking in his own strength that he has to borrow it from a dead knight's name!"
Aemond's face contorted with fury. He moved to vault over the table, but Valarr stood up, placing a calm, heavy hand on Matarys's shoulder while stepping into Aemond's path.
Valarr adjusted the green ribbon on his chest, his mismatched eyes boring into Aemond's. "Careful, Uncle," Valarr whispered, his voice a lethal chill.
"You're wearing green, but you're starting to look a bit yellow. If you have something to say about our father's blood, say it to the man wearing the King's steel."
Baelor stood then, his massive frame dwarfing the table. He didn't speak.
He simply rested his hand on the dragonbone hilt of the dagger and let the golden light of the torches reflect off the Valyrian steel.
"What is this?" Viserys asked, looking around in confusion, his mind clouded by the wine and the poppy. "A toast? Yes! To the Strong boys! They are indeed strong!"
Alicent grabbed the King's arm, her face pale. "Viserys, please... they are tired. The tourney has overtaxed them."
"I am not tired," Aemond hissed, his hand on his sword.
"Sit. Down." Daemon's voice was a low growl from the end of the table.
He hadn't stood, but his hand was on Dark Sister, and the look in his eyes promised a massacre if Aemond took one more step.
The tension was a cord pulled to the snapping point.
Finally, Aemond sat, his jaw working in silence. Aerion remained standing for a moment longer, a triumphant smirk on his face, before Valarr pulled him back down.
"The feast is over," Rhaenyra announced, her voice trembling with suppressed rage. She stood, signaling to her children. "We shall seek our rest."
As the Blacks filed out of the hall, Valarr stopped beside Aemond.
He leaned down, the green ribbon brushing Aemond's shoulder. "Keep the name, Uncle," Valarr whispered. "We'll keep the throne."
The heavy oak doors of the royal guest wing slammed shut with a finality that echoed through the stone corridors.
Inside the solar, the air was thick with the adrenaline of the feast and the sharp, metallic tang of the Strong insult still hanging in the air.
Daemon didn't sit. He paced the length of the room like a caged dragon, his hand resting habitually on the pommel of Dark Sister.
He finally stopped, turning to look at his three children Baela, Rhaena, and Aerion.
A slow, wolfish grin spread across his face.
"That," Daemon rasped, his eyes gleaming with a chaotic pride, "was a masterpiece of provocation."
Aerion was still vibrating with energy, his chest heaving as he began to unbuckle his sword belt.
The blue silk favor of Helaena was still tied firmly to his arm, a trophy of the day's psychological warfare.
"Did you see Aegon's face, Father?" Aerion asked, a sharp laugh breaking from his throat.
"He looked like he wanted to vomit his wine back into the decanter. To have his wife's favor on the arm of a 'Black' prince while he sat there clutching a cup... it was worth every glare from the Kingsguard."
"It was reckless," Rhaena murmured, though she was smiling as she unpinned her cloak. "But necessary. They have spent years treating this keep as if the dragons had already died out. Seeing you take Helaena's silk... it reminded them that they own nothing, not even the loyalty of their own."
Baela, who had been leaning against the window ledge staring out at the dark silhouette of the Dragonpit, turned around.
Her eyes were hard, reflecting the torchlight. "Aemond won't let the 'Strong' comment go, Aerion. He's been nursing that grudge since the day he lost his eye. You didn't just poke the beast tonight, you drew blood."
"Let him bleed," Aerion snapped, his jaw tightening. "He hides behind Vhagar and a sapphire stone. If he wants to talk about 'strength,' let him find it in a blade, not in a whispered insult at a dinner table."
Daemon stepped forward, placing a heavy, approving hand on Aerion's shoulder. The pride in his gaze was unmistakable he saw himself mirrored in his son's defiance.
"You did well, boy," Daemon said, his voice dropping to a low, serious register. "And Valarr... the boy has a colder heart than I gave him credit for. Taking Alicent's ribbon was a stroke of genius. It was a public shaming she couldn't refuse."
He looked at his daughters, his expression softening only slightly. "We leave soon. This city is a tomb, and the air is poisoned with Hightower ambition. But tonight... tonight we reminded them why they fear the name Targaryen."
Baela stepped away from the window, her hand resting on her whip. "Next time we face them, it won't be with favors and toasts. Aemond's eye wasn't the end of the debt. It was the down payment."
"Exactly," Daemon whispered, pouring a final cup of wine and raising it toward his children. "Sleep with your boots on, and your dragons close. The 'Last Supper' is over. Now, we wait for the dawn."