Raised by whores, what little had remained of the legacy of Aegon IV had been reduced to the violet eyes of a man with dark hair and nothing else to tell of his long disgraced royal blood. Violet eyes and courtesans - not Baldr himself but his mother and his mother's mother. Did it matter how far back? Aegon had liked his mistresses and most often, mistresses came with bastards.
It had never really been in anyone's favor to be Targaryn and a bastard - you might've asked the Blackfyres if there had been any left, but Baldr had one thing going for him. He had no idea who his great great grandfather was. Old blood came from Lys and his father, whoever he'd been, had come from there, too. It was an odd thing for a courtesan to have a child. It was hardly good for business. And yet, his mother, the Black Pearl of Braavos had thought to carry him and so there he was.
It was Lys, he supposed, that gave him a purple gaze, even if the rest of him screamed anything but blood of Old Valyria. He hadn't picked up the skills required for his mothers profession but he had always worked well with his hands. Give him metals and precious stones and a hot forge, and Baldr could create something viciously deadly or something that sparkled and shone. It was this skill that had landed him a job. What he had hoped to find for himself in Lys, he did not know.
Perhaps a connection to a faceless father? Perhaps a woman with whom he would settle down? Or maybe more adventures awaited him. Such desires certainly sang in his blood, unlike his mother who was content where she was. He heard things, old ghosts stirring, a throne drenched in blood and those who would move against the crown and the order of things as they were to inherit it. Crowns were terrible things, he'd always thought.
They weighed heavy, and those who were fit to wear them did not seek them while those who sought power and responsibilities should have none. Let people live as they wanted to live instead of trying to shepherd them like sheep, most often to the slaughter. All the good kings who might have been were dead and gone. Perhaps it was instead, time for a queen. In truth, he had little love for politics and philosophy. He was not simple or dull but happiest to dwell on other things.
Other things like the blades that hung behind him, near perfectly weighted and level when held, sharp as anything and polished to a shine. Baldr knew about blades if nothing else. He had heard excited whispers of an entourage and of a guest to Lys, who was due an honored welcome. He had not expected said guest to arrive at his forge, for most kept to the brothels and gardens and merchants of perfume and alcohol and glittering things.
His surprise was genuine when the older man, whom he had long apprenticed under, informed him of the nature of the visitor and even more so when the words that came from a yet faceless person sounded in a tongue distinctly feminine, confident and not unkind, inquisitive and polite. When he looked up, smudged dirty from his work, he cocked an eyebrow and stood up.
"Daggers, m'lady. Though, I am sure you have little use for such things, as you are said to be in command of great armies who might do all the fighting themselves."
He thought perhaps he should of addressed her as Highness but she wasn't yet queen of anything.
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