Baelon felt rather stifled by the sheer silence of the Godswood as he and Aemond stood beneath the great weirwood, its leaves as red as blood hung overhead, stirred now and then by a gentle breeze.
For a while, his mind could not help but wander back to his prior questions, the oddities surrounding yesterday's dinner, his mother's confinement, Rhaenyra's disappearance…
And...
'Did Helaena take that beetle back?' Baelon mused. He thought she had left it here, and with something so…robust in size, he had been certain he would have spotted it.
Well, it could only mean one of two things: either he was blind, or he would be in for a wonderful surprise upon returning to their chambers.
"It has been a great many years since we last spoke, brother." Aemond broke the silence first.
"Indeed." Baelon's gaze lingered on the carved face of the weirwood before he turned it aside, unwilling to stare too long into those eyes that had endured for more years than he could fathom.
As they stood in silence, all that flitted through their minds were stories of the past. Their childhood, littered with lessons of the sword and court.
Their family, despite its divide, endured for a great many years and remained reasonable despite their differences.
Yet…look where they were now.
Their pale brotherhood aside, neither seemed eager to grasp at what lay beneath this morbid silence.
Still, it was Aemond who drew them there regardless.
"Rhaenyra has departed for Dragonstone," he said at last. "So I have heard."
Baelon nodded noncommittally, curious about what was to follow, though he could half-guess it.
Aemond continued, "And she will not be content with silence. Not with what has passed. She will believe our mother guilty of it, of all that." His eye shifted, sharp as a blade. "And she will remember. She will not forget."
"You speak as though bad memory alone is cause for war."
"This is no mere memory. This...is a grievance," Aemond replied. "Should she ascend the Iron Throne, do you think that grievance…that hatred….will simply…dissolve? We are not to be set aside, brother. We are rivals by birth. Male heirs."
Baelon exhaled softly, shaking his head. "You give too much weight to what might be, Aemond. If both sides hold their course, if no provocations are made, then a peace may yet be kept. I doubt Rhaenyra is keen to watch the realm burn whilst she sits atop the throne."
"That is but a peace made from silence," Aemond said. "One far, far too fragile."
"Better silence than fire," Baelon returned. "The realm has endured enough suffering. To name another heir now, to supplant Rhaenyra, would see it tear itself apart at its seams."
Aemond regarded him for a long moment. "So you would trust in her restraint?"
"I would trust in necessity," Baelon said. "And in the understanding that neither side can afford the cost of breaking this peace, unless they wished to lose everything they held."
A faint, humourless smile touched Aemond's lips. "You always did prefer to believe men would act in accordance with reason."
"And you always assume they will not."
"Because they seldom do."
The wind stirred again through the weirwood's leaves
Aemond's gaze did not waver. "Then answer me this, brother."
He stepped closer, voice quieter now, though no less intent.
"Do you believe Rhaenyra would make a good heir?"
Baelon remained silent.
He knew the answer well enough. The Realm's Delight was merely that, a pleasing name for something far less so.
A hodgepodge of his father's indulgence and expectation, wrapped in a never-ending cloak of arrogance and disregard.
She may wish herself queen, but she had never truly cared to learn the art of ruling. Her years as royal cupbearer would, at most, make her a useful servant at the edge of a Small Council meeting.
Beyond that…her brashness would grate on her subjects, her temper would stir unrest wherever reason was needed.
Unfortunately—
She…was not a good queen.
The thought unsettled him more than he cared to admit. A tragic sort of truth.
Worse yet…the alternative.
"Then what do you propose, Aemond?" Baelon asked at last, staring into Aemond's last remaining eye. "To push Rhaenyra aside and let Aegon rule?"
By the Seven, he could not fathom what had possessed his mother and grandsire to press Aegon's claim so fervently.
Rhaenyra, for all her faults, was not completely inept. And more than that, she was the rightful heir.
Aegon…
Aegon was a wastrel. Ill-suited to anything resembling rule. A fine companion for drinking and whoring, perhaps…but a king? No.
By both Gods and men, no.
To choose him was to inherit all of Rhaenyra's failings and none of her strengths. What little she held, her legitimacy, their father's support, was absent in him entirely.
Silence fell between them once more.
Not the quiet of before, but something heavier, far heavier. The wind seemed to still as the rustling leaves above reduced to the faintest of murmurs, as the Godswood leaned in to listen.
Still, Aemond did not answer at once. He simply watched Baelon, his lone eye unblinking.
"When did I say Aegon was to rule?"
Baelon frowned, irritation threading his thoughts.
What? Now, these vultures had their eyes set on him? He knew it would come, but surely this was much too quick.
Shaking his head, Baelon pressed. "Surely you are not asking me to take the throne and rule the realm. I have enough trouble in Essos as it is; I will gladly decline and pretend I have not heard of it."
Aemond let out a quiet breath, something almost amused flickering across his face. "I knew you would refuse."
"Then what game are you playing, Aemond?"
Aemond's gaze did not waver as he stepped closer, a hint of a smile on half his face.
"Because there remains one person within these walls who possesses the demeanour, the calm, and the will expected of a monarch…" Aemond leaned closer as he whispered. "Me."
Absurd. Completely and utterly absurd.
Aemond. King?
He would sooner believe a Martell could mount a dragon than such a thing come to pass.
Not only would his father never allow it, nor his mother, nor his grandsire, and even the realm would retch at the notion.
Aegon's name was spoken at all only because of his birthright, with him being the eldest male heir.
Aemond…had neither claim nor benefits in the eyes of men who mattered. No banners would rise for him. Nor would there be any lords who would bend the knee.
Only doubt, scorn, and resistance would follow in the wake of his brother's whimsy.
Which meant he would need an ally. A powerful one.
'Wonderful,' Baelon thought bitterly. 'Here I was, almost willing to pity past mistakes, though he may not even recognise them as such, and now he drags me into this impotent ambition.'
He would rather leap from Vermithor mid-flight than linger in this conversation another heartbeat longer.
"Brother," Baelon said at last, voice long having lost its warmth. "I have no wish to pursue such ambition, nor should you. Your actions will only bring harm to those you claim to love and to yourself. You should pray the fires of your ambition do not consume you whole."
"Are you refusing?" Aemond cut in immediately, tension snapping through him like a drawn bow. "Why? You and I both know I am more suitable than either of them to inherit, so why do you refuse? Is it because—"
His hand drifted to the edge of the black mask that swallowed half his face.
"Is it because my body is no longer whole?" Aemond scoffed. "Do you think as they do? That such a wound disqualifies me from rule?"
Baelon opened his mouth, but the words never found space.
Aemond was already moving, turning to leave. His boots cut through the earth of the Godswood with grim finality.
Baelon watched him go without calling after him.
For a moment, he did not move as the mprbid silence returned.
Baelon exhaled slowly and shook his head.
He had thought of how he had wished to heal Aemond of the scars on his face.
Alas, whilst his spells could help flesh regrow, they could do little in the face of what had already scarred.
However, now Baelon had an unfortunate realisation…
Aemond only believes himself to be constrained due to his face, without regard for the wider picture.
So…what would he do if he were whole once again?
It was a bitter thought that he did not wish to entertain, yet the world proved once again how easy it was to stoke the flames of ambition.
He turned away from the great weirwood, as he felt its hollow eyes bore into his back.
***
Baelon moved quickly through the Red Keep, his pace brisk enough that servants and guards alike stepped aside without question.
Faces passed him in fragments.
A knight in the Red Keep livery, older now, frailer than the man Baelon vaguely recalled from his youth.
A handmaiden with greying hair who lowered her gaze too slowly, as if recognition had almost taken hold for a beat, yet slipped past her.
Everyone had changed.
Baelon turned at a familiar corridor, the one that led toward his chambers, only for a sudden collision to catch him at the corner.
A servant girl stumbled back, nearly dropping the bundle in her arms as she collided with his shoulder.
"I-I am so sorry, my prince!" She blurted immediately, bowing her head so quickly it seemed as if her neck was about to snap.
Her hands tightened around her things as though she might disappear into them.
Baelon steadied her lightly without much thought. "It is of no matter. Be careful."
She nodded rapidly, cheeks flushed with embarrassment, and muttered another apology before hurrying off down the corridor.
It was only then that Baelon noticed it.
A letter lay on the floor where she had stood.
He frowned, glancing down, then turned slightly as if to call after her, but she was already gone, her footsteps swallowed by distance and her figure by the winding halls of the Keep.
Then…something in his mind clicked faintly.
The parchment did not look like something a servant held. The seal, the fold, the quality of the wax, none of it matched her station.
So, for it to be coincidentally dropped here…was it perhaps for him?
Baelon bent and picked it up.
His eyes flicked around the corridor. It was empty. A quiet stretch of passage, his chambers only a short distance away.
"Is it from Silvo?" He murmured under his breath, turning the letter once in his hand. "But that makes little sense…"
He and Helaena had ridden dragons from Essos. By the gods, there was no swifter way to carry word across the world than their mounts.
Thus, if Silvo had sent this, it would already be outdated or impossible altogether.
So then who?
And more importantly…why here? Why now?
He realised, almost absently, that he had no clear enemies at court. But then again, he had no real friends either.
That, in its own way, was just as dangerous.
His thumb broke the seal.
The moment his eyes scanned the contents, something in him shifted.
The last remnants of doubt from earlier, the uneasy questions, the scattered suspicions about yesterday's dinner, his mother's confinement, Rhaenyra's absence….they shattered one after another.
Completely and utterly, as understanding rushed in where confusion once lingered.
His grip tightened instantly. The parchment crumpled in his hand, the edges folding in on themselves as the message was crushed into a furious ball.
For a moment, Baelon simply stood there, breathing slowly and shallowly through his nose.
"The. Absolute. Gall." He spat through gritted teeth.
Without another word, he turned and strode toward his chambers, steps faster now, purpose burning clean and cold through him.
Damn it all! If he did not act against this transgression, he may as well consider his life lived in vain.
Daemon Targaryen was indeed a petulant fly.
One all too eager to be crushed.