Story Summary: During the Trial of Seven, a sudden premonition allows Baelor to dodge the killing blow meant for his head. His survival set things in motion that would change the course of history. What was meant for the distant future is unfolding in the present, and Baelor finds himself face to face with a creature from the past.
or
The one where Baelor survives Ashford but ends up claiming the Cannibal. Chaos ensues.
Chapter Summary: The dreaded small council
Papa Daeron talk ❤️
More magic returning?!?!?! 👀
The council chamber had never felt smaller to Daeron than it did that morning, though nothing about its dimensions had changed in the whole of his reign. He took his seat at the head of the long table and looked around at the faces staring back at him.
Grand Maester Malleon arrived first, as he always did, his satchel already bulging with correspondence he had no doubt already attempted to sort into some semblance of order. Lord Donnel Arryn came next, composed and precise, though Daeron did not miss the way his eyes lingered a moment too long on Baelor's still-empty seat before taking his own. Lord Robert Redwyne arrived complaining, as was his custom, muttering something about half his fleet still refusing to leave harbor. Lord Ronnel Penrose followed with his ledgers already open, though Daeron suspected, as did most, that the sums within them owed rather more to his wife's hand than his own.
Maekar had walked with him from the gallery but had opted to remain by the door where Ser Gwayne Corbray took his customary post, exchanging low words with the Kingsguard while the council settled. And as it had for nearly three weeks now, the seat belonging to the Master of Whisperers remained empty, though Daeron knew better than to think his brother was ever truly absent.
Baelor came last, and the chamber went deathly still as he entered.
He walked with his usual measured grace, his boots making barely a sound against the polished stone, yet the weight of his presence seemed to fill every corner of the room. Only those who knew him well or looked closely enough could see the subtle stiffness in his stride. Maekar fell into step beside him without a word, moving like a storm cloud at his brother's shoulder, his gaze sweeping over the council with a harsh stare that promised violence to anyone foolish enough to speak out of turn.
"Your Grace," Baelor greeted, inclining his head before taking his usual seat at the King's right hand.
Maekar settled into the chair beside his brother, a silent, brooding presence that Daeron found himself grateful for, more than he would readily admit.
A heavy silence settled over the table, every eye fixed on the Hand of the King, an occurrence that was not entirely unfamiliar in this room, though the silence today carried a weight that made even the air feel thick and difficult to draw into one's lungs.
"My lords," Daeron began, voice calm, cutting through the tension. "I trust you have all had time enough to compose your thoughts since the Hand's return. I would hear them now, plainly, while we are among ourselves."
"Your Grace." Lord Arryn was the first to answer, his tone carefully measured. "Prince Baelor. Prince Maekar. On behalf of the council, we are glad to see you returned to us in good health."
"I am glad to be returned, my lord," Baelor replied, and something in the dry understatement of it eased a fraction of the tension in the room, though far from all of it.
Maekar merely grunted his reply, crossing his arms and leaning back into his seat.
Grand Maester Malleon cleared his throat, his chain of office clinking softly as he shifted in his chair. "My Lord Hand," he began, his voice faltering slightly before finding its footing. "While we give thanks to the Seven for your safe return, and of course Prince Maekar's, we would be failing in our duty to the realm if we did not address the—uh—the extraordinary matter currently residing in the middle bailey."
"The Cannibal," Maekar supplied, his voice dropping into that dangerous, low gravel that cut through the chamber like drawn steel. "You may speak his name, Grand Maester. He will not burst through the floorboards simply because you uttered it."
Story Summary: During the Trial of Seven, a sudden premonition allows Baelor to dodge the killing blow meant for his head. His survival set things in motion that would change the course of history. What was meant for the distant future is unfolding in the present, and Baelor finds himself face to face with a creature from the past.
or
The one where Baelor survives Ashford but ends up claiming the Cannibal. Chaos ensues.
Chapter Summary: Some family time. Kind of. I do not know why but I just love this Targaryen family, guys. ❤️
Baelor held out longer than Myriah expected, though not nearly so long as he clearly wished to have everyone believe.
He endured Yormwell's fussing first. The careful unwinding of travel-worn bandages, the muttered commentary on healing that was proceeding extremely well, all things considered, though 'all things considered' was doing a great deal of work in that particular sentence. Yormwell had given him a look that only a maester who had treated stubborn princes since they were boys could pull off. She would go so far to say that the old man had looked entirely flummoxed at the sight of the 'wound', which Myriah dared say looked almost completely absent, save for a faint yellowish hue if one looked closely enough. There was some story in that look, one she was determined to uncover later.
He endured her next. Her insistence on a proper bath, on food he barely touched before pushing it aside, and on the particular mother's privilege of running a hand through his hair as though he were still young enough for it to be an ordinary thing rather than an indulgence he was too tired to protest. He endured it all with the quiet, practiced stoicism that had carried him through the years of royal duty and with the fond exasperation of a son who knew better than to pick a fight he had no hope of winning.
But he endured, longest of all and with the most visible patience, his youngest: Matarys. The young boy had perched beside him on the bed, chattering through an account of the last two months at King's Landing without the discretion his elder brother Valarr had already mastered. Baelor had listened to every word, his eyes heavy, his responses growing shorter and softer until they were little more than hums of agreement. Yet he had not once asked the boy to leave. He simply lay there, one hand playing absentminded in the boy's auburn curls, letting the steady stream of his son’s voice lull him toward a sleep he had been fighting off since he had first crossed the threshold of his own chambers.
When Matarys finally ran out of breath, or perhaps simply noticed that his father had gone quiet, he trailed off into a low yawn, rubbing his eyes with the back of his sleeve.
"He's asleep, isn't he, Grandmother?" the boy whispered, peering down at Baelor's face.
"He was asleep three stories ago, my sweet," Myriah said softly, stepping closer to the bed. She placed a gentle hand on Matarys's head. "Come now. Let your father rest. You can tell him the rest of your tales tomorrow."
Matarys hesitated, looking up at Myriah with an expression that was surprisingly serious for a boy who had been bouncing off the walls an hour prior. "He's going to be alright, isn't he?" Matarys asked in a voice barely more than a breath. "He looked...so tired when he rode in, Grandmother."
Myriah felt a gentle tug at her heart. She reached down and smoothed a stray lock from her grandson's forehead, giving his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "He is home, Matarys," she whispered. "And he is safe. Your father is the strongest man in the Seven Kingdoms. He only needs a few days of rest, and your endless talking, to put him right again."
Matarys offered a small, sleepy nod, the tension leaving his young shoulders. He leaned over, planting a quick, careful kiss on Baelor's temple, taking care not to jostle his father’s side. "Can I stay with him tonight? Please? I promise I won't make a sound. I'll just sleep at the foot of the bed."
News of the dragon crossed the Narrow Sea through the lips of a merchant captain far more devoted to the coin his tale commanded than the truth behind it.
And so naturally, with every tavern retelling, the beast only grew larger and the story more fantastical than the last.
By the time it reached the taverns of the harbor district in Tyrosh, the dragon was said to be the size of a war galley, breathing green wildfire that could melt iron plate, and Baelor Targaryen had supposedly ridden it to the top of the Great Sept of his namesake, declaring himself a god in the flesh.
Ser Aegor Rivers had heard stranger things in his years of exile, and believed almost none of them. Yet, as he sat in the dimly lit corner of the seaside tavern, nursing a cup of sour Tyroshi wine, he knew there was always a kernel of truth buried deep beneath the embellishments of loud-mouthed sailors.
And so he listened to the whole of it in silence, his knuckles slowly whitening around the stem of his cup as the sailor spoke. By the time the man reached the part where the dragon had wept—wept, the fool had actually claimed as though it were a sworn account—Bittersteel had gone entirely, dangerously still.
When the man finally stumbled out into the night, richer by three silver coin and smelling heavily of salt and cheap rum, Aegor remained motionless. Around him, the tavern buzzed with the usual scum of the Free Cities oblivious to the brewing storm underneath his stony gaze.
To these men, a dragon in Westeros was merely a grand story to trade over dice and women, a legend returned from the dead to give them something to marvel at before they passed out in their own vomit.
To Aegor Rivers, however, it was a threat that made his blood run colder than any winter in the North.
Summary: During the Trial of Seven, a sudden premonition allows Baelor to dodge the killing blow meant for his head. His survival set things in motion that would change the course of history. What was meant for the distant future is unfolding in the present, and Baelor finds himself face to face with a creature from the past.
or
The one where Baelor survives Ashford but ends up claiming the Cannibal. Chaos ensues.
AN: A little late posting it here but anyway...had a stupid thought that took up a lot of brain space soooo...this. lol. 8 chapters are already out in Ao3. Will post again on next update unless you guys want me to post it full in here separately.
If there was one thing Baelor thought at the moment, it was that the gods must have a twisted sense of humor. Or perhaps they were just bored and had all decided he was to be their personal source of entertainment.
Because, truly...truly, how else could one explain the presence of the monstrous beast standing in front of him?
Baelor stared at the creature, his mind momentarily refusing to process the sheer absurdity and impossibility of what he was seeing.
He must be dreaming—yes, that must be it.
Wait, no. Not a dream, but a nightmare.
Yes, that's right. He must be having a nightmare, and at any moment now, he would wake up in his chambers at Dragonstone, or perhaps in the Red Keep, with the familiar, comforting scent of old parchment and the steady warmth of a hearth. He would breathe a sigh of relief, rub the sleep from his eyes, and chuckle at how vividly his mind could conjure such impossible madness.
But the sharp, stinging smell of smoke and sulfur filling his nostrils felt entirely too real.
And that blistering heat radiating from the beast's scales was real, too.
It wafted over him in suffocating waves, drying his soaked riding leathers and forcing him to face an agonizing truth.
He was wide awake.
He had stared down rebellious lords. He had won a war started by said rebellious lords. He had navigated the treacherous, viper-filled pits of King's Landing without losing his head. Yet, at this very moment, the heavens had decided that surviving a war and managing a realm as demanding as the Seven Kingdoms wasn't quite enough of a challenge.
No. They needed to drag a different kind of hell into his life.
Except…it was the literal embodiment of hell itself, capable of spewing flames hot enough to turn him to ash before he could even utter a single bloody word.
Seven hells, Baelor swore in his mind, nearly laughing at the bitter irony of the words. Because Seven fucking hells, indeed.
The beast shifted, its massive talons scraping against stone and the ground beneath his boots groaned in protest.
His breath hitched, and every instinct, honed by years of training and experience, of war and survival, screamed at him to run. To turn on his heel, abandon whatever shred of pride and dignity he possessed, and bolt to gods know where. But his boots felt as though they had been nailed to the ground. His legs, it seemed, had entirely forgotten how to work.
Baelor released a slow, shuddering breath, trying and failing to stop the trembling in his hands.
