The Portents Had It Wrong | Part 11
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Baelor Targaryen x f!reader fix it fic
Masterlist
Summary: You were tasked with looking after four members of the King's Guard who stumbled into your Lord's keep in the middle of a stormy night. One of them was the Crown Prince in disguise and badly injured. You helped him escape without being seen, and now he searches for you...
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Baelor shuts the door on the good Captain and turns to look at the Crown's Master of Whispers who is currently knocking back half a cup of wine in one furious gulp.
"Lord Bloodraven," Baelor starts to say but the man holds a stalling hand up and Baelor obligingly stops. It has never worked, trying to rush him. Lord Bloodraven slams the cup down, and then stalks angrily over to the secret spy hole on the wall by the fireplace and yanks it open in one fast, easy motion.
The slim pocket of space is empty and full of reassuring cobwebs. But the other man ducks inside of it checking the shadowy corners above the cramped space for who exactly, Baelor has no idea. Even a child would have a hard time hiding up there.
"That gets checked every day. You ordered it checked every day," Baelor says mildly.
"And I'm right to do so but I'm being extra careful tonight."
"Why?"
"That's an excellent question. Mostly because I was surprised tonight by something and I hate being surprised. Makes me even more paranoid." His voice is slightly muffled as he checks the space thoroughly, even going so far as to hoist himself up on the narrow lip above the secret doorway to better check the slim uppermost section of the space which Baelor knows tilts at an odd slant to hide in the shadow the chimney.
He finally comes down from the cramped space landing lightly on his feet with a grace that Baelor wishes he still had. He then slams the hidden passageway door shut and turns to face Baelor again. He's got cobwebs in his hair. Despite that, with his red eye appearing to almost glow in the low light from the fire and the candles, he has a somewhat otherworldly look to him.
Brynden was always a person very set in his ways, even as a child. There's only five years difference between the two of them, Baelor being older despite being Brynden's nephew technically. During training as young men, Brynden always favored his bow, even when pushed and punished by their trainers for how much time he spent honing his skill with it, and not practicing with other weapons. Despite his fixation on it, he was still quite gifted with a sword, and spear too.
However, Brynden's true skill was in his ability to adapt, to bend a fight to his favor, by organizing in advance a battleground that suited his best talents and strongest weapons. It was something that made him a dangerous and incredibly cunning tactician and a terrifying Master of Whispers.
Baelor wonders sometimes, one of the what-ifs on his wheel: what if Brynden hadn't hated Bittersteel so fiercely. He wonders what the present would look like if Brynden had decided Daemon was the right son of Aegon's to support.
The Bloodraven stares at Baelor like he can hear Baelor's thoughts. It doesn't unsettle him like it used to when they were young. Time has demonstrated that for all of Brynden's rumored abilities with dark magic, he can't actually read minds.
"Well?" Baelor asks, breaking the silent staring match. He's not sure why The Bloodraven is looking at him like that, like…Baelor can't even name it really. The closest he can think is it's like Brynden is seeing him for the first time in years rather than just a couple of months. He looks almost…nostalgic, as if he didn't expect to see Baelor again at all.
"I'm trying to decide." The Bloodraven says. He still has that restless energy about him that he had when he barged in, and recklessly tore open the spy hole to check it, but it's now the poised energy of a bowman, lining up a shot.
Baelor sighs and moves across the room to drop wearily into one of the chairs by the crackling fire. He checks the tea pot on the low table and finds that there's still some tea in it. The maesters have him still on several different tisanes everyday and he faithfully drinks them all. He won't waste their hard work, or yours. No one has asked about his insistence on using a slightly shabby looking Dornish tea pot yet, however. Maekar could probably guess, but wouldn't say anything. The Captain knows and would never breathe a word of its origins. The maesters don't care so long as he drinks the terrible brews they give him.
The tea pot is for him alone. An indulgence that he allows himself as a reminder. What that reminder is, seems to shift with the hour – his failures to help you, your care of him, his promises that he could not keep, the taste of you when he kissed you – always, ever you.
"Let me know once you have decided." Baelor says exhausted, stretching his legs out in front of him. He aches all over from the long journey to Kings Landing. But that has nothing on the wicked headache that has settled in sometime around midday. Nothing he's done can shift it, though he's hoping maybe the darkness will help. The light from the fire certainly is making it worse.
The Master of Whispers must reach some kind of conclusion because he more or less throws himself into the chair next to Baelor with his wine cup in hand. There is an empty pause for a moment, while he stares balefully into the fire. Finally, something in the other man uncoils, goes loose, and Baelor finds himself looking at someone who looks more like Brynden the man he grew up with, and less like the Bloodraven, the man he argues with a great deal at the King's small council.
"I'm trying to decide if you are the unluckiest or the luckiest bastard in the seven kingdoms," Brynden says in a slightly aggrieved tone, "With you it's genuinely like flipping a coin and watching the damn thing land on its edge. Repeatedly. With different coins."
"I apologize for being so vexing," Baelor says, letting some of his own guard down. He pours himself the last of the cold tea and gently sets the tea pot down. He makes sure it is far from the edge, and not resting on anything that could pull it off the table.
"Oh shut up," Brynden says in what could be called a grump. "I read your report. Next time do me the kindness of making sure it ends up in my "Read Right Now, Master of Whispers" pile."
Baelor pauses a moment with his tea cup. "I gave it to one of your people. You weren't in your office this morning, but I made sure I left it with one of your Ravens."
"I wasn't in my office at four bells, your Grace. Because, contrary to whatever rumors there are about me, I do need sleep like the rest of society. Sleep like you should be getting."
"The pain had me up, I figured I might as well get some work done. And I thought that report was the kind that shouldn't wait." Baelor replies mildly, somewhat amused that he's getting this minor lecture from The Bloodraven of all people. Maekar? To be expected. Valarr and Matarys? Also anticipated. The Captain, too. But Brynden? That's a surprise.
"Yes, you were right about me needing that one, and I understand why you didn't send it to me by raven earlier, but by the gods, Baelor. Of all the houses in Westeros, that one? That one, really?" Brynden is borderline animated, the Prince doesn't know whether to be amused or deeply concerned.
"Well, I certainly didn't pick it." Baelor points out, dryly, going for amused, despite the seriousness of the situation. It really is something to see the Lord Bloodraven so riled.
"No you didn't, and we all know the gods don't play games of chance," the Bloodraven spits.
Baelor freezes, his cup half way to his mouth. But before he can formulate a thought to follow that memory, Brynden is pressing on.
"Still, it actually beggars belief that of all the houses and of all the nights you managed to stumble into that one on that night."
"Wait," Baelor says, sitting up, and putting his cup down on the table so he can turn more fully to face the Bloodraven. "Are you saying you knew about the -"
"That there was likely a meeting of Blackfyre supporters taking place at that keep two moons past, yes, your Grace, I was aware. What has caused my incredible surprise was having my report of that meeting confirmed and verified by you of all people. That I was not expecting."
Baelor stares for a moment, then scoffs, slumping back in his chair again, aggravated to no end. The information you had risked so much to give him and the Captain wasn't even new intelligence to the Bloodraven. He'd already bloody well known.
"Verified? Gods, I guess I shouldn't be surprised at this point. They say you have spies everywhere, the Bloodraven with a thousand eyes. So of course you have eyes in the houses of the Marcher lords. Even tiny ones like House Havarn."
The Bloodraven just stares at Baelor, the look on his face makes him appear annoyed. But there's something to his eye, something incredlous and a little despairing in that familial way. Like how Baelor used to watch Maekar try to eat a dozen cakes at once as a child. It's honestly a little insulting coming from Brynden.
"Of course I do," the Bloodraven echoes, again there's something to his tone that Baelor can't quite place. "Even in House Havarn."
When Baelor thinks back on this moment in the future, it will be like someone flipped a coin off their thumb. That sound, that ting of the metal on someone's nail that launches it into the air, and the flash of it as it catches the light. This moment of realization will have that sound, that sight, that texture in his memory.
The coin spins in the air.
Eyes…even in House Havarn. A small out of the way keep, that most would never visit since its placement is so awkward in the marshes. A place so insignificant, people could gather there with nary a stray word out of place.
A place it would be hard to get an informant into. Unless they had a legitimate reason for being there. Something that no one would suspect. Because it was their idea that this person would be there in the first place.
Baelor's head is spinning in a way it hasn't in weeks. The conversations with you that night flicker by in his memory.
Of course, gods. Of course.
In his mind, Baelor sees the coin come down out of its arc in the air, and your hand, your quick, gentle hand that shielded him, healed him, touched him…it reaches out of his memory and snatches the coin before it can land.
Your careful answering of questions. Your initial hesitancy to speak on the past. Your unwavering loyalty. Your determination to stay in that house full of enemies. The way you apologized before letting him go. Your heartbreaking surety that he wouldn't come back for you. That look on your face, when he rode away. Scared, despairing…and determined. Like you had a job to do.
Baelor pictures you taking the coin, and placing it down on the table so it balances on its edge with a firm, and final click. You smile at him, sad, but with your chin held high.
Eyes, even in a house like Havarn.
"How long?" Baelor asks faintly, statue still.
The Bloodraven also doesn't move from his seat, he stays still, like he's suddenly afraid of who he's sharing a room with.
"About eleven years or so."
"Is any of her story true?"
"I don't know what she told you about herself," the Master of Whispers feints.
Baelor feels every muscle in his arms and shoulders tighten.
"Bloodraven," he says quietly his voice dangerous, and the Bloodraven stays tense in his seat as well. But his face remains impassive and stubborn.
"I'm not dodging the question, you Grace. But I'm not about to break the confidences of one of my best informants without a direct command from you as the Crown Prince. So, instead, let's try this: what did she tell you about herself?"
"That she came from a dead house, one that was killed in the rebellion. That she was held as a hostage and then forgotten about."
The Bloodraven nods and slowly relaxes just a little.
"I'm surprised she told you that much. But yes, that is all true."
"How did you find her then?"
"Through another informant. You think we let the Yronwoods return to their keep without at least half a dozen of their people on our payroll?" Brynden asks without actually asking. "Don't insult me. They took a painfully long time dithering about what to do with her. So we had plenty of time to…correspond."
"And she, what, asked to be a spy?"
The Bloodraven pauses, and goes tense again, like an animal hearing a branch snapping the woods.
"She did not ask, no. It was…brought up as an option."
Baelor takes in a deep and calming breath. His anger snapping at the heart of him. He never feels quite like a dragon except in moments like this.
"An option." He states, staring at the Bloodraven who is looking more and more like a bird perched uncertainly in that chair.
"Baelor," he says in what he probably imagines is a soothing tone but honestly just adds to the Prince's ire.
"Did you even offer her a way out?" Baelor demands before Brynden can finish. "Did you tell her that the crown would treat with the Yronwoods to free her?"
"I told her if she wanted out we'd do our best. But that there were some things that the crown couldn't agree to. Like the release of the Yronwoods' heir."
Baelor shoves himself out of his chair and storms over to the windows, placing both shaking hands on one of the sills and looking out at the courtyard below the Tower of the Hand. He breathes, trying to calm his racing pulse because it's making his head pound. It is something of a bizarre horror to hear your words parroted by the man who must have given them to you in the first place.
He thinks of you, standing in the early morning mists, framed by that gate. You'd looked so determined yes, but also so desperately, despairingly sad. It wasn't enough that it was his family that caused the rebellion that killed your family. No, his house has also purposefully abandoned you for years, using you to help them clean up Targaryen mistakes.
Eleven years. Gods.
"She deserves more than this Brynden. You must release her. Find a way to release her. I don't care. I'll lead our bannermen down to the Marshes and burn the traitors' houses to ground myself. But no more. We're not laying the burden of our family's sins on other innocent people anymore." Baelor rages, unable to keep it in check.
Brynden has gotten up from his chair and comes over closer to the windows.
"You know they've been planning for another rebellion since the first one failed." The Bloodraven points out tonelessly.
"I have realized this, yes." Baelor snaps.
"A man may put down a sword if the promise of clemency exists, but it doesn't mean he will leave the sword behind entirely. Men always want what they don't have, your Grace."
Baelor swallows against the rise of a lump in his throat, what the emotion is behind that, rage, grief, pain, sorrow, fury he can't say, all of it together, likely.
"I still believe in mercy. I can't…I can't give that up. I won't be what our ancestors were, Brynden. I can't."
"I know," the other man mutters, and when he crosses his arms over his chest, he looks more like the Brynden Baelor remembers. "You and I have our differences. But I need you to hear me when I say this, Baelor, I think you will make a good king. And a large part of why I think that, is because of how different you are from our ancestors. But being a good king, and being the king the realm needs is sometimes two different things."
"And what do you think the realm will need?" Baelor presses, because this is the most honesty he thinks he's seen from the Master of Whispers in years.
"I don't know anymore. I thought…I don't know. I pushed back against you so hard after the rebellion because I could see, so clearly, how the second one could happen. I've been chasing these whispers in these houses ever since then, trying to stay one step ahead."
"You've clearly had some success," Baelor says bitterly, unable to keep it from his voice. His head pounds, and he knows he needs to sleep. He's not sure he's going to be able to tonight, not with these thoughts keeping him up for the foreseeable future.
"I'm not going to apologize for doing my job," Brynden says stiffly.
"I have not asked you for an apology," Baelor points out. That has the Bloodraven's arms uncrossing, and he relaxes a little.
"I know this isn't what you want to hear, but she was brilliant. I don't know how exactly, but she was able to be in the actual room where the meeting took place. I didn't get just whispers and bits and pieces, your Grace, she sent me a gods damned transcript."
"When?"
"What?"
"When did she send her report? When?"
"It's dated from about a month ago, Oldtown."
Baelor lets out a sigh of relief. He puts a hand on the sill again, this time to lean against it and hold himself up, rather than hold himself back.
"She sent it from Oldtown?" he asks, just to be sure.
"Yes. It came through trusted channels, Baelor. What are you worried about?"
"That she never left House Havarn. That they'd…done something to her."
"Ah, no. Well, other than apparently slandering her so badly to the other conspirators that she wasn't able to go through with her original plans, which is honestly extremely irritating. I was sure we'd have a line into House Hightower after this. But, well. Men plan, and the gods laugh apparently." Brynden says sounding deeply aggrieved again.
"Hightower? Really, gods Valarr tilted against a Hightower at the tourney, Brynden!"
"Calm down, it's not that branch of the family. Abelar Hightower isn't someone who thinks about more than the next fight he can pick on the tourney field."
Baelor waits a couple of extra moments for his heart to calm.
"Clearly, I should be asking you for more detailed reports during the King's small council."
"I don't hand this kind of information out at even the small council, Baelor. This is for your ears alone right now. And only because you were already made aware something was going on."
"What are you planning then? To deal with this?"
"I have many plans in place, going over all of them would take too long. You can trust that I'm working on it. We have time, a couple years at least if my calculations are right. They're not where they want to be just yet, and the Blackfyre they aim to pin their hopes on isn't even on the continent at present."
Baelor thinks of cousins he had never met, only ever heard of. He thinks of the ones that died at Redgrass Field – shot down by the very man in front of him. Targaryen against Targaryen, Baelor thinks to himself bitterly. What must it look like to you, he wonders sadly, seeing the rebellious sentiments around you constantly for years? Knowing that the fight that had cost your family their lives was still being stoked, encouraged, planned for by the people you had to rely on for food and shelter. Maekar was more right than he realized perhaps: the war hasn't ended for anyone.
"When the time comes, I will help you, I hope you know that." Baelor says quietly.
Brynden looks at him again with that strange look.
"I do know that," he says, like he's surprised to find he believes it. "I also know that you'll still argue for mercy where it's not warranted and we'll probably have to have a fight about it."
Baelor feels his mouth tilt into a fond smile. "Looking forward to it, then."
A silence falls over the two of them. Brynden leans against the sill of the window next to his and joins him in looking out over the Red Keep, the lamp lights burning in some windows, the Great Yard lit up with torches below as people still go to and fro with their evening tasks and chores.
Baelor can take it no longer, "Where is she?"
The Bloodraven's face twitches into something that could almost be called a smile, or maybe even a huff of laughter.
"Dorne."
Something in Baelor's heart finally, truly eases. Some corner that he was afraid would never be satisfied, never be content again, always wondering, worrying, frantic with the need to know, what happened to you – finally quiets. It sits still at last, and he can truly, breathe again.
"Where in Dorne," he presses.
"That I don't know."
Baelor gives the Master of Whispers a look. But Brynden raises his hands in surrender.
"Truly, just Dorne, that's all she said in her report."
"Did you send her on a new assignment?" Baelor demands tightly.
"No, I've no way to send her anything at present. She told me that all opportunities to move on to another Blackfyre house were destroyed by Lady Rae Havarn. So for now, she's going back to Dorne."
"And you've no idea where?"
"I don't."
Baelor hangs his head. Maybe this is for the best, he thinks, despairingly. Maybe, you didn't want to be found by him. After all, your life had been dictated to you by the forces of the crown since the day you lost your family. Perhaps suffering this final indignity was a bridge too far. Perhaps whatever feelings you had for him, whatever…fondness you had, whatever care, did not survive the dawn.
He wouldn't blame you. What choice did you really have? He kissed you first. He crowded you up against that wall. You gave and gave and gave…not just of your body, but years of your life, your safety, your chances of happiness, your freedom. How can Baelor even hope for more than that? How could he hope for your heart?
"I don't have any idea where. But you might," Brynden says simply.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean she left you a message. I didn't realize it was for you until just now."
Baelor glares at Brynden, "Speak plainly, Brynden, please. What message."
"I told you she sent a report. Everything was as expected, if more detailed than I ever hoped I'd get. Except for something at the very end. After the coded sign off, she simply wrote: 'If he asks, tell him I'll meet him by the river.'"
The words hit Baelor like a bell being struck. Every part of him vibrates with a fire that he thought banked. Find a way to send me a message, he had told you, and I will come and find you.
And you did. You did. You've called. Now all he has to do is go and find you.
"So that means something to you, good." Brynden observes dryly.
"What happened to her family's lands?" Baelor asks. "You checked on that didn't you? After the war?"
"Of course I did, I vetted her thoroughly. Nothing really happened to them, the ruined keep is still there, from what I understand. So is the castle town."
"But who was given control over it? Who would I need to petition to have it returned to her?"
"Technically? Yourself."
That brings Baelor up short, his already half drafted orders of reparation halted.
"Explain."
"Her family was a vassal of the Martells, your Grace. Their property reverted to them after the line was declared extinct. They are, hilariously, part of the land parcels that came with your mother as her dowry to the crown. So through her, those lands are yours to administer."
He's right, Baelor realizes with a flash, the very research he'd done that morning in the pre-dawn light, pouring over the books the librarians had brought him, had said that the lands were originally a gift from the Martells.
He could give you back your home.
"I need to speak with the King," Baelor says, firmly. He's on the ragged edge of exhaustion, but if he speaks to his father now then preparations can be made starting first thing in the morning. Baelor starts making a mental list, he'll need to find an excuse of some kind, something he can convince his father with. Paying back a debt to a loyal family from the rebellion will get him a good portion of the way, yes, but far enough to excuse his absence for what will likely be at least another couple of months? Travel to Dorne alone will take a couple of weeks even by ship, and then Baelor will have to find someone to sail him up the Greenblood River to The Scourge.
"You're going in person then?" Brynden asks.
"I promised her," Baelor says simply. Because it is that simple. He promised he would come for you, all you would have to do is call. The part of his heart that quieted at knowing you were safe, stirs at the thought of seeing you again. It would have survived on the knowledge that you were alive, safe, and happy somewhere. But at the prospect, the hope of seeing you once more – it could learn to thrive.
"I'll come with you to speak with the King," Brynden says simply. "We should get your brother as well."
"Maekar? Why?"
"To strengthen our case for why you need to take a couple more months off to heal."
"What? I'm fine."
"Don't bullshit me, Baelor. You're standing up right now out of stubbornness and the dogged belief that you don't deserve to rest."
Baelor pauses, trying not to show how cut to the quick that makes him feel.
"And you think pitching this as, what, a vacation will make the King more inclined to send me on my way?"
"No, but I believe Daeron would be amiable to us accomplishing several tasks at once with one journey. My half brother does so love his little efficiencies."
"I don't follow," Baelor remarks, bemused.
"You need to pay back a debt that the Targaryen House owes to a family that was loyal down to the last member. We, the realm, need you to take time to actually heal from your injuries so that when you return to work properly, it is a healthy man, not an invalid haunting his solar like a pale, washed out ghost. And I, the Master of Whispers, need you to deliver a message to one of my best informants, since she's traveled beyond my normal sphere of reach."
That brings Baelor up short again, "No." He says quickly. "Brynden I won't let you send her off on another mission, not without letting her choose what she wants first. She could reclaim her house, replant the tea fields, build a family again," Baelor chokes out the last bit determinedly.
Whatever you want, he tells himself. Whatever you want for your future he will carve it from the tapestry of time with his own two hands if he must. You deserve no less.
"I'm not sending her on a mission, I'm not even offering her one. Although I will be mentioning in my message to her that she is welcome to work for me again at any point in the future. I never turn down information, especially from so reliable a source. No, I need you to pass on a message to her about her earnings."
"Earnings."
"Do you think we don't pay our informants?"
"You haven't been paying her these past eleven years?" Baelor demands. The Bloodraven gives him that exasperated look again.
"How, exactly, would I have done that? Don't you think her having extra money with no explanation would have caused the people she was being held 'captive' by some confusion? No, I did exactly what I do for all my informants in such a position. I put aside their earnings in an account and hold it in trust for them. I need you to pass this information on to her, so she knows the crown owes her a sum, and it is hers to claim."
"That is remarkably long sighted of you," Baelor says and finds he means it. He shouldn't be surprised. He knows that Brynden has always been someone who sees and plays the long game. He doesn't just think of tomorrow, or the next harvest, or the next war. Brynden, Baelor knows, looks out and tries to see the war that will be fought a hundred years from now. He looks for that conflict, and how to make sure the realm survives it.
"I'm aware. That's the job, your Grace." The Bloodraven says, his red eye once again fixed on Baelor with that strange look. There is so much in it, fondness perhaps, sadness for sure, and some kind of merciless calculation, like Baelor rests upon a set of scales – but he can't see what he is being weighed against. Maybe the Bloodraven can't either, perhaps that is why he keeps looking.
Brynden puts his cup down on the sideboard, and in the mirror hanging over it checks his reflection. Noticing the cobwebs, the younger man drags an annoyed hand through his pale hair, combing them all out.
"Let's go see your father, Baelor. If we talk to him tonight, you can get started in the morning with all your planning," he says, turning and striding for the door. Baelor follows him.
"I don't imagine it will take much planning, I'll just go with the Captain and a couple other Kings Guard. We can travel light and make better time."
"Hm, no I think you should take Valarr and Matarys with you. That will take a little extra planning, but not too much, even if you take Princess Kiera as well, which you should."
"Why should I bring them?"
"For one, I trust that they'll actually make you rest, which I remind you is at least one third of why you are going on this trip."
"Any other reason?"
"Matarys has never seen Dorne, and he should."
"And?"
"Because they miss you, alright? There, you made me say it. You know how I loathe sentimentality, Baelor."
Baelor pauses in their walk to the door, and Brynden stops as well. The Prince reaches out and rests a hand on Brynden's shoulder, and squeezes.
"Thank you," he says simply. "You didn't have to tell me this. You could have kept it a secret and I'd…I never would have known any different."
Brynden looks at him with that Bloodraven look, and says nothing for a few heartbeats. The fire flickers in the grate, Baelor thinks about the tea pot sitting on the low table and how happy he is he will get to return it to you after all.
"I could have. So don't make me regret it." The Bloodraven says cryptically, sliding back into his Master of Whispers countenance fully.
"And how should I avoid doing that, Lord Bloodraven?"
"Go to Dorne. Take your sons with you. Don't come back until you're fully healed."
"You just liked being interim Hand of the King."
The Bloodraven masks cracks just a little, something painful and almost wistful flashing through. "Would you believe me if I told you I really didn't?"
Baelor shakes his head with a small laugh, opening the door to the hall and gesturing for Brynden to go first.
"Of course I would, Brynden. No one with sense wants this job."
Baelor shuts the door behind them, and they both set out to seek an audience with the King.
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Part 10 < | > Part 12
