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Kings and Queens, and Breath of Death

Baela

Whenever the pain broke through the milk of the poppy that they dozed her on, she could heard the shouts– the shouts of maesters, the shouts of the maidservants who bather her burnt, feverish body, the shouts of the knights who came in, insisting to see her with their own eyes to be sure that she was truly at the Stranger's door, that her attendants were not lying. She would wince at the pain these exchanged wrought upon her lacerated mind but that would only make them yell louder. Why did all these people shout anyway? She was too stunned, too wrapped in the haze of the palliative, in too much pain to realize that her raw mind was taking the faintest whisper and turned it into something grotesque.

"She was so brave," the maidservants said and Maester Hunnimore scolded them for talking too much but he did not deny it. Baela was surprised that she did not feel any satisfaction. Bravery could only give so much delight, it seemed. If fierce enough, the pain in one's body could override it – and how! She would close her eyes under the bandages and drift back into a restless sleep that would leave her startling awake with a scream – or startling awake when they started screaming as the Stranger and the Mother fought their ceaseless battle leaning over her on opposite sides, trying to drag her into opposing directions until she sobbed from the pain of tearing.

"Is she ever going to be beautiful again?" she heard one day as she lay on her pillow, trying not to stir, trying to convince herself that it did not hurt this much, that the burning in her body and the entire left side of her face was a product of her feverish imagination.

"No," Maester Hunnimore yelled back and Baela wondered how such a thunderous roar could sound so mournfully.

You old man, she thought angrily. How dare you think that it matters? Jace will barely notice it, for he has never looked at my face when… and then she remembered that Jace was already dead, claimed by the sea, and that at the end, he had not wanted her even when she had still had her beauty. He had not expressed any wish to have the betrothal broken, of course, but Baela would not have wed him if he had been alive… and now, she could not wed him at all. Tears prickled her eyes, but the bandages were so thick that they soaked the tiny bits of dampness immediately, refusing her hot skin this small relief. Between nightmares, heavy sleep where even nightmares could not break in, and the changes of bandages, being bathed with wet towels, and given clear soups to drink, Baela had all the time in the world to remember… because a princess was not given the luxury to forget.

The moment her stepmother's travail started – this was the stopping of time, the overturning of the hourglass before its time, the heartbeat during which everything began to fall apart. Life as she knew it was no more, and not just because of her uncle's death and the usurpation Aegon and his traitorous mother of his had accomplished. Baela was old enough to actually remember the day of Viserys' birth – what she remembered in particular was that Rhaenyra had visited them to see how their lessons were going and said she had some paperwork to do, still unaware that the birth would start in the afternoon and before night fell, she would have a new son. This time, her screams and curses lasted for eternity and at the end, they only produced a deformed thing that Baela was grateful she did not have to see. And from then on, everything developed as if in a nightmare that she could not wake up from. The moment when her father placed the crown on Rhaenyra's head, when the gathered crowd cheered and acclaimed the new Queen, he turned into someone Baela did not know. She had always heard much about his vaunted bravery, had felt proud when she had been compared to him in this… but she had never seen this fierce delight in his eyes, the very thing that had likely won him this repute. There was no doubt that he hated the situation with passion, that he detested the usurper and this conniving Hightower kin of his more than Rhaenyra herself, perhaps… but he thrilled in the possibility of a battle and this scared Baela, although it would not be until many years later that she'd be able to put her unease in words, realize what the reason was. And while for a while the idea of a just war might have held some appeal to her as well, it was quickly vanquished when the first ravens arrived.

Baela wept for weeks and even months for Luke, always kind and accepting. But she wept in secret because Rhaena would not weep in front of people, even her, and if Rhaena would not, then neither would she. But it was worse than the time Rhaena's dragonet died – and then, Baela had thought that nothing could surpass this in awfulness. The delight that she took in her own Moondancer was still tinged in guilt and discomfort – just how much worse could still having Jace be?

Infinitely worse, it turned out.

Of course, at the end she did not have him. As she struggled to uphold Rhaenyra's Dragonstone duties together with Rhaena while their grandparents took care of the greater ones, as she glanced at the sea at any chance she got, hoping to see great wings, Jacaerys had fared better: not only had he yielded a smashing success with the North, seemingly without much effort, but he had managed to find love as well, it seemed. Find someone else.

Baela might be like her father in many respects but there were many things that she could tolerate – and some that she would not! She made her decision as soon as she dragged the words out of the mouth of the so reluctant Jace: Baela Targaryen would not become Jacaerys Velaryon's wife. She would not suffer the humiliation of being his queen and having competition in the face of a mere bastard, a Snow. Of course, her father and stepmother would not hear about this but she would make it work. Somehow. When they won.

For quite a while, she hugged her hatred for Jace as a precious gem against her breast. Here, he had achieved something that he had not even wished for: he had made her secretive and dishonest. But she knew she could not risk announce her decisions right now. Everyone – even he! – would be terrified and Baela certainly did not want to know what her father would do. She had heard the rumours about his own deeds while he had been still wed to Lady Rhea… The only ally she might have had, her grandmother, had found a fiery death, worthy of a Targaryen princess but one that had taken her from Baela anyway. She had never imagined that anything, anything could take the Queen Who Never Was down and the world would just keep existing.

The worst thing was that outwardly, things had not changed. They worked together, they hatched plans, they considered things like safety against their grandfather's vengeful rage… They were together all the time and he tried to stay with her even when they did not have to be around each other. At each refusal, he looked like a kicked puppy, as if he had been the one who had heard that they were unwanted! As if she had been the one who had betrayed all their childhood plans and dreams, and secret innocent kisses here and there, for someone she had known for mere weeks!

"So, was it his mistake, or yours?" Rhaena asked on the eve of her leaving for the Vale.

"His," Baela said without hesitation.

"You have to forgive him, then, you know," her sister said, folding a white linen shift. "He loves you so much."

Now, this was so ridiculous that Baela opened her mouth to laugh but instead, a sob came out. Rhaena threw her arms around her sister without saying anything. "Are you going to tell me?" she finally asked. "When we see each other next?"

Baela nodded. "When we see each other next," she promised and wondered how people could dismiss Rhaena's strength just because she had been unlucky with her dragon.

Little did she know that when they would see each other next, over a year would have passed. That she would be so deeply sunken into the lie that she would have wed Jace – because who could ever support the rightful queen if the truth came out that her presumed bastard had fallen in love with another bastard, even if he was dead now? – that she would be unable to tell the truth even to Rhaena because the words would simply not come out. That their father would have fought a glorious, vain death, leaving all of them – Rhaenyra, his sons, his daughters – to fend for themselves. That they would be the only ones left - the four of them or rather, the three of them as they would think at the time. That they would be unable to help Aegon who bore the deepest scars. That after her determination not to wed someone who loved another girl over her she would end up wedding a man who would make love to more women than she cared to count. That her entire life would be determined by a single act of bravery and loyalty that she would never, ever come to regret but as she could not sleep at night, the stinging of the scars driving her mad and urging her to compulsively examine the ruined half of her face as Alyn either slept or was far away in a bed that he did not sleep in, she sometimes wondered bitterly if this moment had been truly worth a lifetime of agony.