Chapter 58: Baelor XI
Mid 158 AC
(Warning: long chapter, contains dark elements)
Baelor grimaced as he stepped out from beneath the tent flaps that shaded his portion of the old manse, the bright Dornish sun immediately bearing down on him with unbridled anger. Midday was the worst time to work the men, hence his orders that no man was to do so unless necessary or within the safety of good shade, and that all carried with them plenty of water. He had seen the effects of sun stroke upon the Reachmen who thought not to carry additional water during the war, and those that survived quickly learnt their lesson. A swig from his own flask, always by his side, was enough to quench his thirst then, but now was not the time to dally. Striding over to the great cavern that had opened quite literally beneath their feet, with Ser Thorne by his side, he watched as several men ascended from within the sloped path.
"How goes the progress?" he asked.
"Quick, my prince," one of the men said, wiping the sweat from his brow. "Much cooler in the cavern than out here, but work's work, and we should be done before nightfall."
"So the new slabs of rock are in position to allow for the movement of wagons?"
"Yes, my prince," another said. "Slope will always be a touch steep, but with good shoes, the mules won't have much trouble, even with a full load."
"We can only hope there are full loads to be had, gentlemen," Baelor said. "Yet I have faith we shall find the answers we seek, and perhaps more. What of the scouts?" Far be it from him to simply wander aimlessly into an underground crevasse with naught but treasure in mind. He had men under his command, ones relying on his accruing skills to see them return home safely, laden with treasure or not.
"Still down, but the engineers have nearly finished the new camp within, though we need to bring down some more supplies, my prince."
"Carry on then." Watching them depart, before turning back to the veritable crater before him, Baelor sighed. Going underground was not something he looked forward to, but they would have to if they were to find the treasure he sought. Pushing the fear into his belly, and holding his head high, he slowly made his way down the rocky slope, Ser Thorne close by his side. Almost immediately, the harsh sun was replaced by cooler darkness, his eyes slowly adjusting to the scattered light of torches and braziers that marked their way. Surefooted, he descended further, the rocks around him jagged and rough, opening to a large, flat stone untouched by mud and surrounded by the supplies already brought below.
A great number of the men had said they would prefer to work down here, and even though the darkness was expansive, Baelor could greatly empathize with their wishes. Without the harsh sun beating down on them, and the air far cooler than any day's had been, setting up camp was almost leisurely now. Certainly, digging a new well around the old seep had been somewhat of a chore, but none of the mules they brought below seemed affected by the water, and after a few volunteers had been observed for several hours, none deemed it unfit for drinking. The sounds of the water not far away, however, were found to truly be that of a large river, lazily flowing around soft bends and along the shores of muddied, dark soil.
Baelor turned as a group of men approached, their torches burning low, though one of their number moved slower, without a torch.
"Report," Baelor said.
The scouts bowed. "My prince, we followed the river's flow and estimate that somewhere far downstream, it vanishes into the rock itself. Whether it somehow percolates into the river Wyl, or the surrounding wells we passed on our journey here, we know not, but it is a dead end."
"But not fruitless, my prince," the one in the back said, and produced the broken remains of a wagon wheel. "We found this near what seemed to be a cave in, far from the camp itself."
"Might this have come from the same cave in that Lord Greycairn discovered?"
"Judging from the occasional wagon tracks we followed from here to this wheel, it is very possible," the man said. "Judging from the rot, this has been here a great while, and though we found no bodies, it is possible they are yet buried beneath those rocks."
"So if this wheel is from that cave in, then we have stumbled upon the path they themselves followed," Baelor replied. He may have considered the treasure buried by the rubble, but given the wagon tracks, he felt that the melted stone indicated the rage of his ancestors at lost prey, rather than trapped treasure. "What of the other scouts? The ones venturing upriver?"
"Time's hard to tell down here, my prince, but their captain said they should be back for nightfall," the first scout replied. "With any luck, they'll have greater success than we did."
"Indeed," the prince replied. "Let us hope their trail does not end in a dead end as well. Very good, men, see to your needs, the sun is yet high and we are not yet ready to send out more scouts."
Try as he might, Baelor could not keep his eyes from closing. No matter how hard he tried to stave off sleep, no matter how terrible falling asleep was to him, fell asleep every night he did, just as he did beneath this moonless sky. He was enveloped in darkness, deep and terrible, one in which sounds came to him of terrible rasping breathe and guttural gurgling. The only thing he felt was the cold stone beneath him, hard and unyielding, and the chains that bound him there. Every night he awoke in chains, loose enough to move yet unwilling to bend, break or untie themselves from his body. Nothing could free him from this imprisonment, and as it had every night since that first terrible night, he bore witness to horrors.
The pale light shone from dark waters surrounding his stone prison, images occasionally flickering in and out before they determined their final form. The scenes he had seen in his nightmares were of terrible memories, the whispers of court that gave him crying fits when alone and in bed, of his cousin's merciless teasing and cruelty, of the distance of his father and the dispassionate demeanor of his uncle. To some they might be merely displeasing, but to him they hurt, a truly deep pain in his soul, like punches to his gut or the strike of a training sword along an exposed arm. Yet he had accepted these as mere recollections made manifest by stress, and fought through them as best he could, girdling himself against them come his waking the next day.
The images that came now were not of such times. Now, the color shown so bright from the water that it nearly blinded him, and when he opened his eyes, he was not in the dark, but moving over grassy lands, as if he were a swift bird despite his ever-present chains, and amidst gusts of wind, he landed in a canyon filled with dry shrubs and trees. All around him were young and old Dornishmen, some injured, others tending to their supplies, and even more erecting some sort of defense against the distant lights of a camp near their entrance.
"No, no," he muttered, long having put to rest these dark thoughts. None of them noticed him, or perhaps could not, for he was in their midst yet none said a word of him. "It was war! They were the enemy, but I… I did not mean to, even if it was for the better!"
Yet his words were ignored, mere whispers on the wind even to himself as a distant torch was thrown amidst a great gust of western wind. Grass turned to flames, flames to an inferno, and from within the sheltered canyon, Baelor watched the wall of flames approach. He could feel the heat radiating around him as winds turned flames into fiery maws, trees and shrubs immolating instantly, setting ablaze all in its path. All around him, their bodies bursting into flame even as they fell, the Dornishmen screamed, their horses fleeing the fire deeper into the canyon, as did whoever could run, but there was no escape from those flames. A man held a wounded younger one, a son perhaps, their sigils burning away as the fires consumed them and their cries, and Baelor could almost feel his own flesh cooking, smoldering that sickly smell of burnt pig like their own, the blistering driving the screams from his throat as thick, oily smoke consumed his vision…
He gasped, the darkness returning, the fires and bodies and smell disappearing in an instant. Coughing from unburnt lungs and blinking away unmade ashes, he was greeted by the same dark form hovering above him, as it had every night in this accursed valley. He could only see it from the contrast of the glowing waters around him, another island of dark surrounded by sickly light. Far larger than any man, perhaps as large as a smallfolk's cottage, its true shape was indistinguishable no matter how close, but draw closer it seemed to every night. What was it? Some fearful apparition brought on by his guilt, or a specter appointed by the gods, judging his worth based upon his actions in life?
"Yesss," it hissed, startling him greatly. Never had it spoken before, a long, ominous rasp that reminded him of a rusted sword, upon which a whetstone was heavily applied.
"What?" he replied.
"In a way, you are correct," it whispered, harsh and mighty in equal measure. "Your actionsss bring with them consssequencesss, dragonssspawn."
"It was war! A war they brought to the innocent people within the Stormlands!" Baelor countered, his words those he had told himself many nights during the war. To justify it to himself, or to explain away the guilt he felt, it did not matter. The war was over, Dorne was conquered, and his brother satisfied with allowing some of his plans for recovery. What more could he have done?
"Not alwaysss wasss thisss the truth," the great shadow said, and the images swirled once more, and the brightness overtook his vision.
Blinking away the clarity, Baelor saw… home. He knew these halls, these floors, the great banners of his family and the shining guards. The Red Keep, he was somewhere in one of the larger rooms in the Red Keep, and…
A woman of great beauty, her Targaryen locks falling splendidly against her shoulders, came bounding past his chained form to a door, where another with Targaryen curls entered. It was Daeron, only… older, even more handsome, and with a great smile upon his face.
"Daena!" he cried, and Baelor's shock was only magnified by the woman's angry slap. Granted, it was barely a slap, one among siblings and no assault upon a king, but Baelor yet winced at Daeron's flinch.
"You would have me marry the septon?!" she cried, and truly, he could see the resemblance. While never an ugly girl, his sister had truly… matured, and he wished to look away, a blush creeping on his face. Manners, on the other hand? That was certainly still Daena.
Wait, septon…?
"It is best for the family that we yet marry within, little sister, you know this," Daeron replied, rubbing his face. Striking the king was an offense punishable by losing that hand, or worse, but in their family, such rules were not so strict. "Baelor is a good man, a bit misguided, but he will come around to it."
"Why would he? He's never left the Red Keep all his life, not even to ride around the city's walls as I love to," Daena hissed. "He clings to his faith and nothing else, he lets the High Septon fill his empty head with ideals none could hope to attain, and yet judges us all for what he sees as failures on our part. How can you not see that?"
"Come now, Daena, Baelor loves you as all Targaryens do their own blood," his brother replied as he fell into a larger chair. "He's just a bit stubborn is all, just like you and I on other matters."
"Why couldn't you have me for your wife instead?" Daena growled, a touch of ugly anger marring her matured beauty. "He wouldn't touch me unless the Seven themselves came down and gave him the order to do so. He has even asked to become a septon, or have you forgotten that as well? His moniker was well-earned after cousin Aegon gave him it."
Baelor's blush faded and confusion, and a touch of anger, filled his belly. No he hadn't stayed within the Red Keep all his life. What did she mean by not leaving King's Landing. He wasn't even in the Crownlands now, nor had he been for years!
"Daena, Daena, please do try and keep some decorum before your king, it wouldn't do for our family's image for you to be seen as begging to be my queen," their brother said, rubbing his face in exasperation. "You're not the first to do so, nor will you be the last at this rate."
"I don't care about whatever lords are practically whoring their daughters out to you, so that they might be queen," their sister replied, just as the door opened once more. "To just announce the betrothal before the entire court, with both of us there, without discussing it beforehand? It was so embarrassing, to be-,"
"My king?" a soft voice called, and Baelor turned to see another enter the room. Silvery-golden locks, violet eyes, the paler skin, another Targaryen, but this one…
No, it couldn't be. Was this… him?!
"Brother! How good of you to join us," Daeron said, gesturing to another chair. "Come, sit, I've a meeting with the representatives of Lord Tyrell soon on his progress throughout Dorne as its temporary regent. He should be heading towards Sandstone by now alongside Lord Qorgyle."
This pale, waifish, ghost of a man was him. By the Seven, had he fallen ill? Had he finally cracked from the desert and gone mad, and returned to the Red Keep, never to return to the Stormlands? "You and your war, brother, will be the death of you one day," this… other Baelor said, soft and kindly. "Sister, I must apologize, I know you do not wish to marry-,"
"Damned right I don't! Not to you!"
"-but we must sacrifice our personal ambitions for the good of the kingdoms, as ordained by the Seven," he continued, as if she had not interrupted at all. "I myself do not wish for this, but it is our brother the king's wish, and so we shall wed."
"Excellent!" Daeron said, clapping his hands together, even as Daena's rage rose to where Baelor believed she might start throwing things. "Glad we could see to this issue so quickly. As for my own marriage, do not worry, I am sure I will find someone worthy of our house to be my queen. For now, though, onto another matter…"
In a rush of wind, Baelor felt himself hurtle through an open window, the scene rapidly disappearing before his eyes, even as he cried out in confusion. He struggled against his chains, yearning to be free, to break himself of their bonds and discover what he had seen. Pulling hard, harder than he ever had before, the chains cutting into him as the dark shape gurgled a laugh in the darkness around him-
With a start, he awoke, rising from his too fast for his body to correct itself, and with a tumble fell from his bedroll. Coughing at the sudden dust invading his face, he blearily looked around, the low light of dawn just now peering through the nearest flaps of the tent. All around him was near silent as a grave, save for the occasional snorts of a nearby horse, or the muffled footsteps of a passing sentry.
"Gods," Baelor muttered, rubbing his eyes, his head heavier than an anvil and his body aching with stiffness. His sleep had not been restful, once again, and even as he bemoaned this, he wondered just how much more he could take of this punishment. He had faced the challenges of his past, in mind, body and now soul, but these dreams, these new horrid visions… what were they of, truly? His regrets, of slaying so many men with what so many saw as a heroic achievement, but he knew to be a simple accident? Or his fear of where the future lay, should he not manage to overcome the vices he had unknowingly embraced before his departure into the wider world? Selfish piety, stubborn abstinence, an unwillingness to accommodate the feelings of others for the sake of his own spiritual purity…
Seven willing, he wouldn't die from this journey. He needed something to do, to take his mind from this… horrid night and the thoughts that accompanied it, but what else was there? He was in little mood to train yet again, as he had done near every day since the dreams first started, hoping that exhaustion would keep them at bay. Yet after some time, that had failed, and with how hot the day became, thoughts of training did not sit well with him. That the camps both below and above ground were complete meant he had no cause to supervise them, and he felt intruding himself on the tasks of the lords nominally under his command would leave both parties dissatisfied, and thus threaten the cohesion he had so staunchly tried to maintain.
He grumbled as he pulled himself to his feet, to make to dress for the day.
"Another rough night, my prince?" Ser Thorne asked, the man a fiend when it came to sleep. Early to rise and early to sleep was his motto, yet somehow almost always well-rested, and since his sworn shields kept the watch until the midnight sentries took over, Baelor could not help but be grateful the man awoke so early as to allow the sentries their own sleep.
"Yes, Ser Thorne," was all he could say. He did not want to worry him anymore than was necessary, but he could hide little from his guardian's sight.
"Old memories?"
"Not old, good ser, but painful and confusing, perhaps more than before."
The knight handed him his weapons. "The minds of men are fickle things sometimes, especially when they tell us of things we cannot immediately comprehend. After all, many men have tried to judge dreams and seek a deeper meaning in their collective memory, but in the end, we can only attribute them to the will of the Seven."
"I don't believe the Seven would send these, but I cannot know for certain." The dark mass spoke of him as 'dragonspawn' with its terrible hissing, but why would it show him such a future? This… other Baelor had no sense of training about him, his movement fluid and serene, as if he'd never needed to learn the stances or movement of a man under any sort of attack. Even he could feel how he walked now, after years in the training yard and on the move, compared to how he remembered moving around the Red Keep. Purposeful, strong, that was his stride now, for he moved with a destination, a goal in mind. The other… him? Not so much. To say nothing of the lack of training yard scars and scrapes upon his hands, his thin frame, his mane of hair…
Baelor absently slid a hand over one of his braids, a pair of the hair he had not cut for some time now. Down to his chin they now stretched, but to think of it being so freely loose as the others had been, to leave it easily grabbable by some potential opponent or foe, it showed the cares of the other him were not of his own. But was this meant to change? Would he become this other man, this other prince in but a few short years? And why had his future brother mentioned only Lord Tyrell as regent. What of Lord Baratheon?
Questions abounded, but he had no true answers for them. Yet did he want them answered? Would they prove frightful or painful to know, or even bear witness to?
"My prince, are you certain you are fine?"
Baelor nodded curtly, though wished he hadn't. "I will be with some rest today, Ser Thorne. Perhaps out under an old olive tree, where the breezes might blow, rather than inside this stuffy manse."
He was wrong, and it irked him so, almost as much as cousin Aegon used to. Under such a tree, not far from their newfound venture into the underground, and still within the safer boundaries of the camp, Baelor sighed. With so little to do, trying for a nap before his midday meal was proving impossible, and with it, he was forced to confront thoughts on what he had seen, what he had done, what he could yet do if his dreams were indeed like those of his distant ancestor, Daenys the Dreamer herself.
"My prince?" a voice said, and he turned to find Lord Wytch leaning against the crumbled remains of an old wall, the stone pocket marked with dried weeds and old, ruined vines. Up here in this high valley, things did not rot as fast as elsewhere.
"Lord Wytch," he replied, a tired smile coming to him, even as his heart clenched. Was he to forget his friend, should he crack from this venture, and return to Kings Landing, never to leave it again? "How long have you been standing there?"
"Long enough, my prince, to know something is wrong," the man said, a small pack by his side with the headstock and neck of a Stormlands guitar poking out. "May we speak?"
Baelor nodded, shifting slightly to a more comfortable position against the old tree. Lord Wytch, settling against the same wall, leaned back and glanced around.
"Nightmares, my prince?"
He wasn't even surprised by now. Though none had said anything of his… condition, not even Ser Thorne, it didn't take a Grand Maester to know he wasn't getting enough restful sleep. "Much like everyone else, I imagine."
"Many are suffering, yes, or they were before last night," Lord Wytch replied. "While my own nights have been tolerable, many of my men were plagued by terrible dreams. Today, though? Perhaps the best sleep they've had since we arrived in the valley."
That was strange. "What of the other lords?"
"From what I have gathered so far, much the same. Little to no nightmares, or at least bad dreams of the sort that aren't bound to drive a man mad or deny him a fit rest. What of yours, my prince?"
"Terrible, mostly memories of my life before I became Lord Baratheon's foster son," he said. Why would a prince tell a lowly lord of such troubles? Daeron would berate him, in his own way, of proper dissemination of information or something equally convoluted involving their family. To the Seven Hells with that, though, he was too tired to care about such propriety at this point. Besides, this was Casper, he could talk with him on anything, surely?
"Mostly?"
"Last night was… new. Something I've never experienced before, no matter what I drank before bed, or how tired or angry or saddened I was before."
Lord Wytch seemed to ponder this for a moment. "Might it be premonitions, as your ancestor Daenys once had?"
"I should hope not, they make little sense, but if they are of the future… I am not sure it is a future I want to live in," Baelor replied. "I saw what might have been myself, years from now by the look of things, but this future me… it did not feel like me. My sister Daena was there, as was my brother the king, all older as well…"
"What happened in the dream?"
"I was betrothed to my sister, but it was not on good terms. Daeron… he made the announcement before the entire court, without consulting myself or Daena. My future self seemed to accept it as the orders of a king, but Daena…"
"Did not take it well?"
Baelor could not restrain his snort. "Of course not. Her temper had grown only fierier as we grew older, it seemed, and… she did not want to marry me. A septon, she called me, nobody has called me that since I left Kings Landing years ago…"
Lord Wytch was silent for a longer time than most might be, before retrieving his guitar from his satchel. "Should you find yourself in a dream like this again, my prince, try and call out something that brings you great comfort. The name of a place you hold dear, of a truth you know that the dream cannot destroy, or even the name of a person you know. It has helped me in the past, perhaps it may help you."
"I will try, my lord."
"As it is, I know little of what causes dreams, my prince, nor what they might mean, but it seems to me this dream is a fear of your future, however it may come to pass. What do you want to do in your future?"
"Serve my brother, my family, the kingdoms I suppose," Baelor replied, shifting so that he might lay near flat upon the parched grass. "To be a good prince, whose legacy may be one of worthy remembrance." How many Targaryen princes and princesses had been all but forgotten since the Conqueror, save for if their ends were by horrible or ignoble means? Many remembered the deaths of his grandmother's first children, his lost uncles, for how wretched their deaths were, but those of others before them? Many had likely forgotten, and maesters would as well, if what few books that survived from those times were not transcribed again before their eventual decay.
"An honest goal, and one not to be dissuaded, I should think. Yet what is it you want for yourself, might I ask? Outside of this sort of legacy, outside of what you might do for our king and the now Seven Kingdoms?"
Baelor's exhaustion faded somewhat as his mind shifted, thinking to nights before this, when his dreams were fleeting but not unpleasant, of daydreams whilst he perused ledgers, of thoughts brought on whilst overhearing the conversations of others…
"Love," he replied, the word stirring something within him he could not quite place. It was from somewhere deep, deeper than he'd thought it be, but it was true nonetheless. "Love of family, love of the gods, love of the people… love of myself."
"The first are more easily gained than the last," his friend replied, a man who was more a father and brother to him than he'd dared admit aloud. Were he to say that, surely his family would not understand, would grow to hate him and Casper for their close bond. He did not want that; he could not have that. "Why love of yourself, my prince?"
"I have long thought of my life before these past few days, especially now that such terrible recollections haunt my dreams. Of a life that I was… to be blunt, Casper, I was squandering my potential within the Red Keep. In my quest to be as close to the Seven as I thought I should, I distanced myself from those I did not see as close to their light. My parents, my siblings, my cousins, the court itself… I was so alone, so very alone, and for the longest time, perhaps I found some sort of comfort in that, being alone before the Seven, as we all shall one day be. But then I learned of your sept, and wished to see it for myself."
He sighed. "I felt so conflicted in the days after I arrived in Lowhill, Casper. Here I saw a man, a lord over prosperous and content smallfolk, whose generosity was beyond that of what I had seen much richer lords in and around Kings Landing. I saw septons and septas in a town dismissed as backwater in a kingdom considered backwater by others in the South, truly helping the people they were pledged to in the name of our faith, with the hospital, the soaps, the food for the poor and the school for the children and adults alike to better themselves. In Kings Landing, certainly there are those who perform much good for the poor and downtrodden… but in that stinking city, I ignored what I had also seen until only after I left. I saw the corruption of the Faith, of its spirit of brotherhood, hospitality and salvation infested by malaise, by the trappings of the game of thrones, by the desires of earthly men and women who answered to the gods only upon death. Of the terrible strain the poor and downtrodden toiled under every day, no matter their lot in life… and then I saw the changes you brought about. For the good of others, you did so much, even though it directly benefited you to do so, and from that… I believe I saw what I was missing."
"Yes, my prince?"
"Your love, be it for others, for your lands, for the people under your care, or for the faith they had placed in you as their lord. I saw that love and realized… I did not have that when I was within the Red Keep. Certainly, I felt great affection, even love for my family… but only them. I felt disdain for those I saw as unholy, cared little for the plights of others, seeing only that they had strayed from the Seven, and not why or how. In that, I realized that as much as I loved my family, but did not love others, I did not love myself."
Baelor turned to his friend. "To love myself, I know I must love others, but I do not yet have what I wish to love the most."
"That is?"
Baelor sighed. Long had he had visions in his head, when work was slow and his tasks complete, of something he had overhead soldiers and lords speak of. "A family of my own. Children, to carry on the Targaryen name, to carry on my wishes and legacy in whichever way they see fit. A fine woman, who I can love and who can love me back. Am I wrong to wish for this?"
"Of course not, my prince," Casper replied. "I'd say those are very noble goals. Many lords seek only a wife who can give them connections, heirs, and warm their bed for as long as possible. I am an exception in that my wife and I are very close, that our marriage was not one of convenience, lust or the scheming of our ancestors. An alliance, to be sure, but we have made it so much more than that already. To seek love in your marriage, as a prince? A difficult goal, many might say, but for you? I would not call it impossible, or even improbable."
Baelor sighed as he leaned back, closing his eyes. Daena and he were to marry, but he would need to speak with Daeron on how the matter was broached. He could not, would not, see that dream of his come true, potential future or not. He would decide to move forward with his ideas, his goals, his plans for his future and those he loved. He already loved Daena as his sister, but once they to be married…
He would give her all the love he could muster, and treat her as she deserved, not as a princess, but as his wife.
A soft hiss made him open his eyes, fearing a dark shape, but he only saw Lord Wytch adjusting his guitar.
His friend noticed him and gestured to the instrument. "A song to ease your mind, my prince?"
Baelor nodded, and slowly his mind drifted away, a sleepless rest overtaking him as his friend's song drifted through the air.
… ride on family, ride on true, ride on momma like I know that you'll do, and ride on red destrier ride on, ride on…
That night, though he had gained some strength from his rest during the day, there was again that vast pit of darkness, and again, the chains bound tightly to him to the small patch of stone surrounded by sickly glowing water. Yet as Baelor gazed upon his reflection, the gurgling and hissing closer than ever before, he saw something strange, something that shocked him to his core. He saw not his face, but that of pale scales, the color of his hair, and of purple eyes within an elongated head, the snout opening to show sharp teeth, and a puff of smoke erupting from his nostrils as he exhaled.
Baelor had seen the last of the pitiful creatures that his father had tried to hatch, the tiny malformed dragons that had long since died out. No bigger than cats, and while what he saw was indeed larger… he still seemed sickly. Limp, weak, where his breathing hurt, and his body ached from the tighter chains that encased his form. The dragon was him, and he the dragon, bound to this place, an allegory for his ancestry? He tried to look around, the pale glow of the water showing him a body that mirrored much those same qualities. Underfed, tattered wings with visible scars and holes, a tail limp and unassuming… he was weak. Was this who he was within, despite the exterior he had tried to craft since his time in the Stormlands? He was of the blood of the dragon, but this body was weak, so weak under these chains, even weaker than he had been before…
"Yesss," that horrible voice said, harsh and rasping, gliding along as that same dark mass rose from the water, far closer than it had ever been. "Your form laid bare, your sssinsss manifesssted in your flesssh itssself, and the truth we all know. You are naught but a beassst, sssome sssickly thing masssquerading in the form of a prince."
Was he? To some, his house was that of a lineage of conquerors who held to neither gods nor men, but he had worked for so much already, to pull himself away from much of that legacy. He sought neither conquest nor glorious war, but to be remembered for great deeds, and to improve the lives of others through them. What prince could say that by four and ten, he had achieved what he had already? None, that was who, not even the kings of old across Westeros, and with that, Baelor held his head high despite the fear in his belly, holding onto the words his friend had told him. "I am indeed the blood of the dragon, monster," he countered, the chains rattling around him. "I indeed have sins to my name, too numerous to count, and there will only be more as I live. Yet," he said, pointing a sharp talon at the dark mass, "I will not let that stop me from accomplishing what I will."
"Accomplisssh?" the… beast replied, somehow sounding amused as the waters around them swirled and grew brighter. "Do you really believe you will accomplisssh anything? You will be forgotten, a mere ssspeck in hissstory…"
"I am Prince Baelor of House Targaryen, I will accomplish whatever I set my mind to, and be remembered-,"
The sudden pressure upon him was as an anvil across his head, and Baelor cried out, flattening himself against the stone as if pressed upon by the form before him. The aura that rose from the monster as smoke, he could feel its anger, its hatred, the power it had over him, no matter his struggle. Any more force upon him and surely he would be crushed beneath this unholy weight-
"Your convinctionsss… amussse me," it said, as the glow brightened further, and the scene around them changed. "Yet you will not be ssso amusssing once I have broken you, and your mind isss mine. Sssee for yourssself, prince…"
The pressure remained even as the pain trailed off, and as if he were pressed by a boot to the ground, Baelor looked to see himself once again in the Red Keep. Daena was there, clad in white, angry at his future self… who was wearing a crown of flowers. Why did he have a crown!?
"You cannot be serious! Please, brother, do not do this!" Daena cried, anger mingling with what Baelor could scarcely believe.
Fear. Daena was afraid. His brave sister, who stood up to lords and knights alike, how could she be afraid of him? Where was Daeron?
"I married at the behest of our brother before the Seven, may he rest in their embrace," this… mockery of his future said. "Yet now, I see the truth, and as king, I must undo the mistakes of Daeron. I shall have the septon annul our marriage, and with it, you shall no longer be wed to me."
"But we are married! I am your queen!"
"Yet never once did we consummate our marriage, despite your insistence, rendering such an arrangement void in the eyes of the Seven," was the man's reply, and Baelor felt his body grow cold at that tone. Sanctimonious, stern, cold… without an ounce of understanding in it. "You and our sisters shall find no sinful distractions within the court, for I shall build of you a sanctuary within the Red Keep, one where you shall be safe from the temptations and evils of lesser men."
"Baelor, brother… my king, please, please do not do this," Daena cried, her tears tearing at Baelor's heart even as a pair of guards approached her. How dare this man, this… mockery of him, and all he ever stood for, even think of doing this to their mutual sister! To Rhaena and Elaena!
"I am the king, and by my will, this is final," was the reply as the guards escorted her away, upon which Baelor shouted in anger and despair. How could it have come to this? Why was Daeron dead? Who had killed him? Who did this mockery of a man think to punish his family, not their enemies, upon ascending to the Iron Throne?
"Answers! I demand answers!" Baelor cried as the images faded away, the chains rattling and buckling under his struggle… only for his words to die in his throat, replaced by a cold, sharp pain as the pressure returned. Gods above, why was this happening? Why was he being shown this?
The dark form happily gurgled before letting up the pressure once more, and the water flashed again, new images changing. Daena was there, older and even more beautiful, but the swell of her belly, the maids rushing around her with the grand maester… she was with child! She was giving birth!
No, no, impossible, how could she have become with child if his mockery of a Targaryen annulled their marriage?
In mere moments an infant was in the maester's hands, a wailing boy, but he bore the looks of a Targaryen all the same. Who could be the father, then?
"His name, princess?" the midwife asked as she wrapped the baby boy.
"Daemon," Daena replied breathlessly, slumping against her bed. "Daemon Waters, in the honor of my grandfather."
Baelor felt his body lurch as the scene changed yet again, struggling to adjust as his mind was equally barraged by despair and too much knowledge to simply dismiss. Inside a vast sept, gilded and richly made, obscenely so, he saw his older self alone amidst the many, many pews. He… looked terrible. Pale and emaciated, as if he were mere skin upon bones. His crown was of wilting flowers, and his clothes, rough and unfit for the likes of a noble, let alone a prince. Even a pauper might try to find more suitable wear…
"Forty days," Baelor heard his counterpart mutter, his whisper echoing softly across the great space. "For forty days have I fasted before you, oh great Seven Who Are One, and One Who Is Seven, with today being the forty first. The birth of my… nephew has brought great shame to our family, and I must beg for your forgiveness for the transgressions brought upon your chosen king."
The man looked up to statues depicting the aspects of the Seven, their features lifeless in marble, cold, colder than the stone beneath Baelor's struggling form. Baelor tried to shout, but the force clamped his mouth shut, the fire within unable to escape but through his teeth amidst cries of pain and grunts of outrage, unseen, unheard by this vision before him.
"What must I do to right this wrong, to save my family from the eternal damnation that surely awaits them, should they continue upon this path? My will remains steadfast, but my mind, my body… they are failing in this sacred task you have placed upon me. For ten years have I served as king, and for ten years there has been peace, but I fear… my purity will come to an end. Surely Daena, or Rhaena, or Elaena, one of them will come to me in my weakest hour, and I will succumb to their temptations. I cannot, I will not, I have remained pure," the man hissed, vitriol and pain amongst every word. "Shall I be damned if this comes to pass? Shall I forever be denied a legacy of piety and charity, should I flounder amidst earthly pleasures?"
The man retrieved a small vial from the pocket of his robes. "Truly a wonder known only to you, Almighty Seven, how something so light can yet feel so heavy," this future Baelor muttered, the small wooden vial unremarkable, save for the red wax sealing the contents within. "Long have I carried this, to never again suffer as my cousin did among the Wyls, as I did after being bitten by vipers. Quick and painless, I was led to believe, and I do hope so, for I have had enough pain in my life from the lack of piety upon this world. Yet here, now, with this in my hands… is it now a key to salvation?" The withered man looked back up to the statues. "Long have I wished to leave this sinful world behind, oh great Seven, to wash myself of my sins on this world and join you in the heavens. Yet to die by one's own hand is a sin in the eyes of many, but you… you would not fault me for it, would you? My time grows short, as does my vigil, and I fear others will take me away from this holy place, to see to a kingdom I have ruled in your name alone."
"Fool!" Baelor cried, freeing the crushing force from his mouth. "You are befuddled by the consequences your foolish choices have brought upon you! You are not me, I will never be yo-,"
"Yes, I see now," the older Baelor said, standing from his pew, the popping of joints echoing around the empty, massive sept. "To die sinless, I must commit this one sin, by your will, so that my family need not suffer for eternity after I am gone. To you, Seven Who Are One, I commend my spirit withe the last sustenance I shall have upon this world, so that the souls of my family may know peace henceforth." With that, he uncorked and gently drank the liquid within, soon placing the wooden vial within a nearby brazier, watching as it smoked and burned.
Then the older Baelor returned to his pew, kneeling to pray one last time, and as the doors behind him opened not long after, to a much older Viserys and several attendants, Baelor watched his future self slump over, a serene expression overtaking his sorrowful features as they rushed to his side.
Baelor let out a strangled cry. That fool, that blasted, blind fool! How could he do this to his mother, his sisters, his family? How could he care so little for them, yet claim he did this on their behalf? How-
"Indeed, foolisssh," the great beast replied, closer than ever before. The smell wafting from it, sickly and rotten, nearly gagged Baelor, and amidst his struggles, it continued. "In more waysss than you could ever know…"
More and more images appeared, sound coming and going as they did, maddening in their revelations and too terrible for Baelor to unsee. Uncle Viserys as king, only to die so quickly, and his cousin, his absolute wretch of a cousin, ascending to the throne. Of the many women on whom he foisted bastards, including his youngest sister! Of the anger that Aegon felt towards his sister-queen Naerys, and the disdain upon the death of their brother and then her. Of his elevation of Daemon to a trueborn heir, of the newfound Blackfyres…
Of Daemon's war against his older half-brother and king, Daeron the Good. Of the Great Bastards and their many squabbles, wars and descendants. Of plagues, civil wars, rebellions, and the lines of kings to follow for generations after. At least one wildling invasion, in which his successors did nothing, of the continued reaving of Ironborn, slaving by Essosi, of the ruin and death visited upon the lands by all who marched to war every generation or two.
"Stop! Stop it! Stop it all, please, I beg of you!" Baelor cried, but the shadowy beast only laughed, guttural and malicious, closer and fouler than ever before. His anguish, the pressure upon his body and mind, it all only grew, and the stone beneath him began to crack.
Of a king who sought books more than his marriage bed.
"Please, this is a dream! This is not real! It shall never be real! Please, father, mother, someone!"
Of a king who died beneath castle walls, putting down a revolt.
"Lord Baratheon! Ser Thorne!"
Of a king who tried to resurrect dragons, and lost most of their family in a blazing inferno, reminiscent of the one he had created the year before.
"Daeron! Daena, Rhaena and Elaena! Help me, please, I can't face this anymore, I cannot do this any longer!"
Of a king who a shadow passed over, a familiar shadow with bloody eyes, who grew to burn alive those who did nothing to deserve it, and treat his sister-wife more horribly than anything Baelor had ever seen.
"By the gods, Seven Who Are One, help me! Release me from this torment!"
Of children being slaughtered to make way for a new dynasty upon the throne, and the wars that followed the death of that king.
"Please, someone! Anyone! Lord Wytch, anyone, please help me!"
Of his final descendants lost in the world, alone and afraid, one ancient, blind and dressed in black, another lost in grass and desert with fire all around her while horrid roars filled the sky, and one more, the coloration wrong, but the features yet there, staring out at a sea of white in the darkness, amongst which bright blue eyes appeared in countless numbers…
The visions faded as suddenly as they had formed, and the beast shrank back, screeching as something appeared between them. Tall, wreathed in shadow, howling as a storm and bringing with it the smell of salt and sea, wind and rain…
The stone beneath Baelor cracked and fell away, but the figure grabbed Baelor from the void and hoisted him up, the chains slipping from his body, no longer that of a dragon but his own, once again strong and entirely human. A new stone appeared beneath them, the coloration that of the roads throughout the Stormlands, solid and dependable, upon which Baelor gasped and clutched himself.
"No!" the great shadow cried, lunging for them, the horrid smell returning in force. "He isss to be mine! Mine!"
The figure spoke a language Baelor knew not, eerily similar to his own, and yet so entirely different, he could not decipher it. Whatever the figure said, it rose with strength at every word, words that sounded familiar, and from an inkling in his recovering mind, Baelor thought back to a sept, long ago, when he was yet a boy, and heard similar words muttered by another…
The great beast laughed maniacally, its form more evident now, the shape clearer, yet still wreathed in darkness and a thick, soupy fog. "You may claim all you want, but you are weak, as isss the prince! You are but mortalsss before a god, whossse power cannot be broken by mere interference from the likesss of you! What can a mere, foolisssh mortal do?!"
The figure was silent for a few moments, the silence around them deafening against the backdrop of the sounds of storm from its body. Then, with a slump of what had to be the shoulders, it raised a hand, and snapped ethereal fingers. A new scene played before them, a harsh desert of unparalleled flatness in the middle of the night. Around them were old buildings, of strong and solid wood and brick long since dried and cracking before the desert sun. Human figures in and around the structures lay still, unmoving, as if mere statues. Indeed, Baelor looked closer, and they were lifelike, but seemed far too freely open to be a carved statue. Models of some sort, much like a maester might use to simulate a person? Why were there so many here? What were these strange structures that meandered through the area, of long metal ropes along tall posts, and a metal cart with four wheels but no horse?
"What isss thisss mockery?" the great beast asked, as a sound unlike anything Baelor had ever heard before sounded in the distance, a long, shrill horn blow. "What isss thisss compared to my power?"
"This," the figure said, in a voice so distorted Baelor could barely understand the words, "is the power of man."
Then the night turned into day as all sound vanished, and Baelor felt heat so indescribably hot that surely, he had fallen into hell. Around him the buildings, figures, everything immediately began to smoke and catch fire, only for all of that to be blown away by such a horrendous force that everything just… shattered. Every building, every structure, amidst this unholy heat that turned mannequins to ash in an instant, their shadows burned into the wooden homes as they were smashed apart as if by the fist of an angry giant. Everything, everywhere, it was annihilated in mere seconds, worse than anything Baelor had seen, worse than a storm, worse than an inferno, worse than anything he had seen in his nightmares…
The great beast shrieked in fearful agony as it cried "I will find you! I will find you and have what isss mine!" Yet even as it did so, the same invisible force that slammed into everything else crashed into it, and with an unholy, garbled shriek, it faded away, and darkness returned. The figure turned to Baelor, who would have retreated were it not for the lone stone upon which they stood.
"Who are you?" he asked, willing himself not to stutter in terror. What he had seen… it could not be real. It was beyond anything he could ever comprehend, let alone explain.
"You will know, someday," it said, before offering its hand. "Now, Prince Baelor, it is time for you to awaken."
Gingerly, all sense screaming for him to run from this other monster, this other abomination, Baelor slowly took the figure's hand.
Baelor awoke suddenly, his body stiff but still, once more in his bedroll. His dreams already faded from his mind, even as he struggled to remember them. He remembered his future self, the actions taken that… destroyed his family, but after that, much of it seemed to simply… fragment, and blur together, as paint upon a canvas simply slopped together. Kings he did not know of, but knew their deeds, appeared in his memory, and others he knew their names, but nothing of what they did. A dark figure, standing between him and certain oblivion, and then a scene of destruction he could not find words to describe…
"My prince!" a voice cried, and Baelor turned to see his sworn shields escorting a captain of the scouts, the man hurriedly kneeling before him.
"Yes?" he asked, rising, feeling… utterly rested, as if the nightmares of the previous days had been nothing but his imagination. Yet he could remember them, near all of them, save for last nights…
"My prince, we have found something beneath the lands around us," the man said. "We meant to return last night, but we could not find sleep, so we continued our venture underground, and came across something extraordinary."
"Yes?" Ser Thorne asked, close to Baelor's side.
"There are structures beneath the ground, they appear to be… domiciles, coming to the edges of a great natural lake, likely spring fed, my prince. We kept our distance from this small town, and save for their outline caught by the natural glow of the waters, we could not determine if it was abandoned or not. But that is not the most important part."
Buildings beneath the ground? They must have gone far, certainly, for none of the other scout reports had seen such things. "What have you seen?"
"A great pile of gold along one of the shores, heaped and stretching beyond what we could truly determine," the man said with a great smile. "From our vantage point, we saw what could only be the treasure of the Wyls, somehow transported and left far from the surface. On our path we found this," he added, producing a small satchel, slightly caked in mud and looking near rotten.
Baelor peered within and saw something entirely unexpected. Reaching in, he pulled forth a coin, laden upon one side with a great turtle, the likes of which were not in Westeros…
"A Rhoynish denar," he said, excitement driving away thoughts of his dreams. "I read they were known as 'scutes' in honor of their Old Men of the River, the names they gave to their great turtles. Their carving is similar to how certain scales fell from those great beasts as they aged, I believe. None have been minted in centuries, not since Rhoyne fell to the Freehold long before the Doom."
"Their value alone as a piece of history might have maesters come groveling," his sworn shield Borros snickered.
"Indeed," Baelor replied, turning to Ser Thorne. "Summon the lords, we are to make for the treasure forthwith."
"With how many men? We know not when Lord Baratheon's reinforcements will arrive, nor if there will be more bandits."
This was not the time to dally and try and evenly spread out their forces. With structures beneath the lands, that meant there may be people, and with that, a greater danger than they had thought. "We have near a thousand men, but enough must be left behind to look after our wounded and ensure our supplies are not attacked once more. Once the lords are gathered, our numbers chosen and the men readied, we make for the treasure, and this… lake town with all due haste."