Chapter 50: Baelor X

Late 157 AC

The Tor was a sight to behold after a long march along the sea. To its far south lay the Scourge, a beacon of fresh water and life in a land more akin to barren wastes than anything else. To its north, just visible on a clear day, lay the thin blue line denoting the Sea of Dorne, and with it, many of the coastal settlements that House Jordayne drew its power from. Here, a relatively short ride from those teeming blue waters, lay the castle town surrounding the Tor itself, whose myriad of canals and wells turned a rather sparse land into one filled with groves of fruit trees and vineyards. Small pastures along the hillsides sheltered from the harsh sun grew grasses for small herds of goats, and from the castle town, the sounds of the forge, the market, and the constant thrum of walking smallfolk blended into a subdued yet colorful echo. Fruits, olives, spices and more moved through countless hands, to be eaten, used for dyes, or to be sold at whatever markets could still accept such goods while King Daeron's blockade was in effect.

After the Battle for the Gates, the march to Yronwood itself had been rather lackluster in comparison. A raid here or there on the caravans had been expected, but so few had tried it, and all that had had been caught or killed, the former being given the option of the Wall with what few black brothers followed in their army's wake. With that great castle and its towns taken without a fight, courtesy of Lord Yronwood giving his oath of neutrality for the remainder of the war, the last few weeks had been ones of marching, riding, and occasionally ensuring no scorpions had crawled into his sleeping quarters during the night. Every so often a man or two was found dead amidst the camp, unlucky enough to have not checked their bedrolls for the stinging devils and having rolled over them in his sleep. Watered-down oil from cedars, a gift from Lord Yronwood, saw to no lords succumbing to such pests.

Even with such light losses, and his water wagons constantly protected from attack or sabotage, Baelor was glad to see Lord Jordayne ensure the peaceful surrender of the great keep and its town. A siege would have been an awful thing, given how many ladies of Dorne lords had found themselves sequestered in the towers. His brother may not be looking for a Dornish bride, lest he face revolt from nearly every kingdom under their banner, but keeping so many under a watchful eye was not without its benefits. With such hostages, no local lord would risk riding out to attack the king's men, especially since many of these ladies were now heirs to lands, given the deaths of their fathers, elder brothers, or cousins.

Still, as he was poured fresh lemon water by a servant of the court, with water taken only from a well that was constantly checked for poison or anything else foul to one's body, Baelor sat in deep thought, a common occurrence these days. After all, he had much to think about, ranging from the projects Lord Baratheon had had him complete years before, to the health of his close friend, to the matters of the war and the future that lay before him. He dare not yet ask his silent companions on the latter, believing his sworn shields and Ser Thorne to be far too busy keeping to the shade to escape the harsh sun. Yet not long after he'd arrived with the army in Yronwood, his brother had finally taken him aside and spoke to him of this future, diverging far from what Baelor had had planned for himself, if only in private.

Baelor wanted to build the Crownlands as Casper had his lands, and if possible, the kingdoms themselves. It was slowly becoming a desire he had no intention of quenching, but controlling, finely tuning until it would serve him well, not distract or ruin him. Everywhere he turned he could not help comparing the lands to Casper's, seeing wasted potential at nearly every turn. In a sense, such observations mirrored his ongoing reflections of himself from years past, of a boy who worshipped the Seven without realizing the deeper truth behind their words. Intense thoughts for such a young man, he knew his mother would say, but he was more than just young, he was a prince. Good princes looked to keep the peace, but great princes looked to build that peace to last a lifetime, or even more. He wanted to become that prince, one worthy of remembrance. He wanted to turn this heap of stone that called itself Westeros into a great land of marble, a jewel in the world to inspire envy in so-called 'greater' lands. While Daeron ruled and his uncle administered law and order, he wanted to see to the prosperity of these lands, under the guidance of none but his own eyes and those with the wisdom to aid him in his endeavors. Food aplenty for all, so that none may face starvation. Good roads and bridges, with what Casper called industry putting to good use the untold bounty of these lands for the betterment of its people. Aqueducts to ferry water to thirsty crops and thirstier smallfolk, and great trade routes along every road and coastline, from the Wall to Sunspear itself and back, and even further beyond.

That he should marry Daena was not… unexpected, but it did hamper those wondrous plans, ones he had written in his journal and looked over every so often. Unless she were willing to travel with him away from Kings Landing, he would be greatly 'encouraged' to stay in that city, the stench of which he was already planning to solve. Such a marriage seemed the opposite of his cousin's situation, instead the eldest being unwed while the younger brother was married, but for all his brother's ambitions and faults, it was a sound plan to have them marry. With Daeron having a younger brother already, if he were to become a kingly uncle to any of Baelor's potential sons, then the line would be even more secure. It would just as likely keep the more powerful lords seeking his favor, in the chance he might select one of their sisters or daughters to be his queen. With such a marriage in place, Daeron need not fear his brother's possibly non-Valyrian queen seeking to have the king die, so that Baelor, and thus her, become the new monarchs of the kingdoms. Some of the more insidious might see to Daeron and Daena's demise, but that would take far more planning and intrigue than a lord should be capable of.

Yet deep inside his heart, there was another matter, one Daeron need not know of just yet. Did he want to get married, let alone to his sister? The thought of sharing his bed and life with a woman was not unpleasant, as the Seven-Pointed Star encouraged, but it would cut down on his plans. He did love his sister, all of them in fact, and although only those dreams of an older Daena did spark something inside him, he wasn't quite sure what that was. He was three and ten, to be four and ten come only a few months, she only a year younger, and while other lords and even kings had been betrothed or even married at such a young age, he wasn't sure if he could be the man his sister deserved. She was equal in stubbornness to him, but whereas he did what needed to be done regardless of how he felt, she was a wild and free spirit, truly an untamable dragon by all accounts. Never mind the fact that his brother had bid him not to tell their sister of this secret, wishing only for it to come about once the war was won and Dorne was fully under the Iron Throne.

After all, what made a good husband that could guide Daena when necessary? The Seven dictated a fair and just man would rule over his wife, but also protect her, to be loyal in all ways and observant of the rites the Seven held dear. Daena chafed under authority, the entire family knew this well, but he could not simply allow her to run free. Her actions would surely receive disdain from the more traditional members of the court and kingdoms, especially if she were to be queen through some tragic event. Daena also did not play well with other girls unless they followed her lead, so simpering or vacuous ladies in waiting would never be able to keep up with her wit or demands. But then, who was he to impose his will on her, especially at the bequest of those who would seek his favor no matter his marriage? He had seen how Casper treated his sisters, serving as a strong guiding figure and directing them where they needed, yet still allowing for freedoms others might never consider. Daena would adore the bow Daeron had procured from the Yronwoods, and while she had greatly loved his own gifts, what could he offer her that she would like?

"Something to last," he muttered, flicking open his small journal. Half-dreamt ideas flitted through his mind as he wrote of the lands he had seen. Perhaps commission a painting, depicting her during one of her activities? No, she'd never hold still long enough for that, and Daena wasn't a patron of such arts. Take her on a tour of the Stormlands? No, she preferred life in Kings Landing and the surrounding lands, and while he'd love to see it, she'd be bored to tears by Lowhill's sept. Looking through his notes, he saw the beginnings of something else, of how he described the sensations that filled him whenever he found himself somewhere new. The feeling of a storm in the desert, wild and beautiful, or the sleepiness of Shipbreaker Bay during the summer. Nights spent in the great Kingswood, a deep darkness that no mere torch could hope to match, or how he had heard of the beauty of the Red Mountains in springtime. Perhaps thoughts of an older Daena were like this sensation, but rather than the land, it was the young lady who would one day become his wife.

Yes, yes, while she may not like a portrait, or a visit to a sept in another kingdom, a good song for her would most certainly impress a girl such as she. Now, if only he could find the right melody for it…

"My prince," a voice he recognized as Ser Thorne's muttered, pulling him away from his thoughts. Thankfully the shade of the many parasols shielded them from the sun, and with the additional guards all around him, from the potential eyes of spies or assassins.

"Yes, good ser?" he asked, putting his small notebook away. There would be time for that later, before he was to join his brother for supper.

"You have a visitor, my prince."

Odd. He wasn't expecting anyone today, as most of the Dornish lords and ladies had been confined to rooms befitting their stations, under heavy guard as well. His brother was holding court in one of the larger halls with as many lords as could attend, but Daeron had bid him to relax and rest before they would depart for the final march to Sunspear. "Who?"

"Lady Allyria Jordayne, my prince, one of Lord Jordayne's eldest."

That was odd, but given this was her home, she and the rest of her family had been allotted slightly more freedom. Still, he had not been expecting her of all people to seek him out. He would have to do away with Baelor the boy for now, and instead don the mask of Baelor the Prince, to ensure House Targaryen put on a strong, united front. It pained him to change between the two so often, but princes were expected to mature faster than they had any right to be. In time, perhaps neither would be needed, having merged back into one and the same. "Does she come alone?"

"Her handmaids are with her, my prince."

"Bid her to enter, good ser. They may remain by the door within the shade but silent until our business, whatever it is, concludes. Have the guards done their duty?"

"I carry no weapons, Prince Targaryen," the young lady said as she entered, her bronzed skin accented by her darker hair, done in long curls. As per his orders, the three handmaids, two of whom cast him venomous glares, stood back, flanked by his sworn shields. "Your guards were most thorough but caused neither myself nor my handmaids any shame."

Well, that was good, at least. Any woman may try an assassination, his brother had told him, especially the fierier Dornish ones. Given the looks of those two handmaids, he believed it, though the third was giving him a rather… dreamy look. Best to ignore that. "Be that as it may," he said, ignoring Allyria's lack of a bow upon approach. "You and I will not be near one another. Whatever it is you wish to speak of will be from a safe distance. Let none think you attempting anything untoward, nor myself anything unsavory."

"A gentleman," she countered, lounging on her shaded couch as if there were no war in Dorne, and he was just a simple visitor. To be so at ease in his presence immediately raised his suspicions, but he said nothing. "To think that such a great number of traits have been applied to you, young prince."

"True ones, I should hope," he replied. "More and more names seem to follow wherever I go."

"Ah, yes, from Blessed, to Builder, and now to Fyrestorm," she said, looking him in the eye. He dare not flinch, though from her expression, she was not happy to have him in her home. He could not fault her for that. "Though the story behind each is not so clear. I would like to know of them sometime, war permitting."

"The war will be over sooner than later," Baelor said. He wished it hadn't happened, but even he saw the reasons behind it merely than to stoke his brother's ego. The Dornish had raided the Stormlands for far too long, and though they were loath to admit it, the Stormlords had done the same for just as long. A peace between united lands would hopefully see such barbaric practices laid to rest. "My brother the king is certain that the Martells will see the folly in continuing to resist and instead join the realm my ancestors worked so hard to unite."

"I would not be so sure, prince," she replied. "Though my father may believe this war to be as good as lost, given the surrenders and captures of many Dornish at the Gates, there are many more that will continue to fight on, even if the lords bend the knee to your brother the king. From the lowliest smallfolk to the greatest of the nobility."

"Will you, my lady?"

She seemed startled by that. "What? No, no, I am no fighter, unlike some of the ladies of Dorne. I would defend myself, but I have no skill in the spear or dagger."

"Then we shall have to ensure that the peace following the war's end will be more preferrable than more death and destruction. So that you are not put in such a position. The losses of the war, on both sides, will take time to heal." Baelor had already seen enough dead before he'd entered Dorne itself, and the more that he saw of war, the more he grew to dislike it. "Rebuilding will take long as well, but I am certain my brother will allow for good, honest men to aid in that endeavor."

"Why would you even bother rebuilding the lands already destroyed by the invasion?" Allyria asked. "The Conqueror left his conquered to their own devices, and the Dance famously destroyed the Riverlands many times. Some say they are still rebuilding after the devastation."

"Indeed many are, a blight upon my father's legacy, but one my brother and I will correct," Baelor countered. "For all the shared history and heritage, many kingdoms see not what the others can do for them, or what they can do for others. It is a lonely land in that way, where martial might and grandiose posture take precedence over care, charity, and goodwill."

"A faithful adherer of the Seven, then," she replied with a sincere nod. "But do you practice what the High Septon preaches, prince?"

A dangerous question in Kings Landing, but here, to gain some level of trust, hidden truths would need to be brought to the light of day. A gamble, to be sure, but despite the potential problems, it would be her word against hers. Would anyone even believe the rumors of the Dornish in the middle of the war? Or would they merely take it as slander, to try and discredit him and by extension his brother the king?

"Not quite," he replied, folding his hands in his lap and looking off towards the distant sea. "The High Septon is… not the sort of man whose teachings I would willingly follow, especially on certain… topics."

"Oh? Such as?"

"For the longest time, the sale of indulgences has been growing more and more prevalent in the larger congregations. I did not know of them until my latest return from my fosterage, and uncovered such actions during my tour of the city I had been away from for so long."

"Indulgences?"

"To assuage themselves that their loved ones have passed into the embrace of the Seven, the higher septons 'allow' them to pay a sum to 'speed along the process' through the prayers of the Faith. Just one of many things that continue to bother me."

"I can't imagine many smallfolk could afford much more than a few coppers, if that, to do so for their dead."

"Indeed, most cannot, especially in that city. Have you ever been to Kings Landing, Lady Jordayne? Before the war, that is?"

"No, but I have heard tales of a great city from our merchants doing business there before your invasion. We used to sell our fruits and spices there." One of her handmaids snorted at that, but she was ignored.

"Were it a genuinely great city, then you'd have taken a voyage to see it," Baelor countered softly. "It is a golden mask, a shining edifice covering a stench that plagues the air and fouls your memory. For every great manor, splendid street of commerce or the great docks, there are countless fithly hovels and cramped lower districts. In the city's center and dockyards are the poorest of the poor, smallfolk whose lives make their countryside brethren seem well-off. I have only seen some of it, and already I know the city to be a shadow of what it could be." Long had he heard tales of the great cities of Essos, and now that he had the knowledge to contribute, perhaps one day their own city need not be thought of 'barbaric'.

"How does your High Septon fit into this?"

"The man, among other things, is not the problem, as those are far too numerous to be tied to just one man. He and his ilk are, however, a symptom of the disease that so infests the city in which my family's power originates. While tens of thousands wallow in squalor, the High Septon and his immediate followers maintain a life of resplendent luxury, greater than many lords across Westeros. They call for charity, compassion, and brotherhood, all the while collecting donations and work from those who have so little. The sale of the jewels from his person alone could likely feed the entirety of the city's poor for a day in grain and were the Crown to strip his 'greatest' devout similarly, those smallfolk could be fed a week."

"Then why not do so?"

"The Faith is dear to me, Lady Jordayne, as is my… understanding of its truer tenets. The excesses of the High Septon, and those in the uppermost echelons of the Faith, is a symptom of the rot in Kings Landing, a rot likely spread throughout the Faith from here to Oldtown and beyond. Many a Poor Brother, septon and septa I have met from origins humble and plain, but the content of their character exceeds anything I have seen from their so-called leaders. Yet," he paused, the Sept of Lowhill coming to mind, "I do not entirely blame them; their leaders, that is. The price of such authority is a lack of those who will hold you to your morals and keep your soul clean from sin. Such power does not come lightly and can corrupt as easily as it can be wielded."

"Then why not fix this problem yourself?"

Baelor turned back to her, that same older Daena from his dreams standing behind her in his mind's eye. Such lines of thought could become dangerous to his family, especially his future wife, if he did not take the time to plan and prepare for as many reactions or problems that might arise from it. Of the many things Casper had taught him, was that preparation meshed well with opportunity, but a lack of planning would only lead to failure. He could not afford to fail, as he had already with his plan for the Kingswood, and by the true tenets of the Seven, he would see the excesses of the Faith brought to heel.

"I'm afraid I may have to, once the war is won and I return to Kings Landing."

The silence was uncomfortable, until a gentle cough from another of her handmaids broke it, the one who had been staring at him this entire time. Flashing the young woman quick glare, whose gaze dropped soon after, Allyria turned back to him. "Prince Baelor, if you don't mind me asking, I have heard tales of your… friend, of the House of Wytch."

"Yes?"

"What can you tell me of him?"

The night came in with soft clouds blotting out the stars to the east, the western skies remaining clear as the moon finished its waxing into nothingness. In the uppermost floor of the great manor Baelor had taken for his own, he found he could not come to sleep with ease. After Lady Jordayne had departed, he had been left to his own devices in the Tor's tower until supper's feast, in which Daeron had proudly told him that the Dornish resistance would soon be no more. Lord Tyrell had smashed his way through the last of Prince's Pass, and the western coast had fallen under Loreon Lannister. Even the Stark heir and his host of Northmen were mere days behind them, and with their supplies maintained and full, the march to Sunspear would begin shortly after they joined their forces. All that remained was the force of ships under Alyn Velaryon, and should he divide the Greenblood, the war is all but won, his brother said. Whether the Martells and the rest of Dorne would continue to fight, or submit to their new rulers, remained to be seen.

Now, long after he had eaten his fill, and none of the tasters had died from poison, he had looked to find something to read until his eyes grew heavy and his bed could claim him for the night. The manor had belonged to a great trading family, similar perhaps to those of Braavos, save for the fact they plied their trade only with their northern neighbors and wherever in Dorne they could find good markets. Given the lack of trade due to war, it was no wonder they had so 'graciously' offered the king their manor as a place to reside. That, and it was easily defendable, with guards at every door and near every window, as there had been two more unsuccessful assassins since departing Yronwood, and his brother was taking no chances, even in such a fine manor. Still, with the wealth of these merchants came the trappings of those who had money to spend, and curiously, a library filled with old tomes and scrolls, most of which the prince had never seen before.

As his list of hobbies grew, from practicing the bow to overseeing projects for his foster-father, Baelor had begun to feel that reading was one of the few joys that had carried over from before his time with Casper. True, he now read more than just the Seven-Pointed Star, but now his temperance had led him to feel that each book or scroll he read would give him something he could use later in life. Already, he knew more about growing food in the desert than he had even a week prior, something that would come in handy should his brother ever listen to his ideas for making Dorne prosper again.

Now, with a new book in hand, he sidled up against his headboard, his treasured oiled lamp casting enough light to not strain his eyes. The old text was Sandserpents and Waveradiers, an approximate history of many of the famous raiding lords of Dorne. Apparently, though the book was clearly written with an emphasis on Dornish perspective, the methods and supposed reasoning behind many such raids followed a clear pattern. When times grew tough in Dorne, usually after a harsh winter drought, Dornishmen would take to raiding their northerly neighbors for food, by ship or by sand steed. To Baelor, even if the raiding itself was distasteful, another pattern began to emerge, a curious one at that.

For much of the book's history, chronicling centuries of time condensed into only relatively short periods, until comparatively recently raiding was done for food and perhaps supplies. Around a century after the coming of Nymeria and her ships, raids were described as much bloodier affairs, including the times that the Dornish managed to lay siege to Nightsong and other Marcher castles. In these, glory was quite a noticeable addition, one where raiding for food was less prestigious than raiding for the sake of raiding. Why this was, the book did not say, but as Baelor turned the page once more, a new title caught his eye. Of the many families that had supplied great raids or raid leaders over the years, one such name stood out. Ulwyck the Blackadder, a man who had carved himself a name from the Sea of Dorne through the Stepstones and even to the shores of Essos. His exploits seemed unbelievable to the young prince, but Baelor knew that even if half of his deeds were simple embellishments, much like his own would no doubt become, then they not only all had a grain of truth to them, but some were likely still true.

Ulwyck was a raider by both land and sea. From the lands of Wyl he raided into the Stormlands no less than five times in his life, and into the Reach thrice as well. The deeds in the book glossed over a great deal of the outcome of those raids, but given his plunder was as often valuables as it was food for hungry people, it was likely a rather bloody career. He'd even killed a Marcher lord's heir in one such raid, possibly a Dondarrion, and sent him back to his lordly father stuffed with adders. Yet the greatest of his deeds was, apparently, striking Valyrian ships long before the Doom consumed that ancestral peninsula. No less than thirty merchant vessels fell to the Blackadder, and three genuine Valyrian warships were taken as spoils. So much plunder was brought back that, according to the book, he singlehandedly built the lands of Wyl from fairly backwater into one of the more powerful lands in that portion of Dorne. For a family whose name had been synonymous with raiding and treachery, Ulwyck had been a breed all his own to acquire such wealth and put it to such use. That his death at the old age of eighty was one without incident indicated the man had lived a truly full life, one of terrible actions against his neighbors, but a full one, nonetheless.

Yet at the end of this fiend's portion of the book, Baelor grew confused. All this wealth the book spoke of was not what they had found in the vaults of Castle Wyl. Sure, there had been old trophies, and a great deal of Dornish gold, but nothing like the book spoke of. No ancient weapons or treasures of Valyria, no Valyrian or even old Essosi coinage, not even the armor from the men whose ships Ulwyck had taken for his own.

"Surely they could not have spent it all, not even the Wyls would be so foolish as to throw away such power," Baelor muttered, turning to the final page of the man's life. Holding onto gold was a good way to ensure that even in lean times, nothing went awry, but even if Ulwyck had spent half his hoard improving Wyl lands, then the remainder should have been enormous. There was mention of such treasures possibly being lost during the war with House Targaryen, and even if the Conqueror burned that castle as the histories said he did, the vaults were untouched by the flames, being so deep within its structure. Had the Wyls of that time taken it somewhere safe, in case their castle was seized by invaders? The many tunnels and caverns beneath the Wyl were vast, some natural and many others carved over the generations, but his men had scoured many of those caverns. Unless there were those lost to time or cave-in, there was no method by which that extinct house could have hoarded such excess of treasure.

There was a knock at his door, and he rubbed his eyes as his sworn swords appeared with a messenger.

"Yes?" he asked, setting the book aside.

"News, my prince," the Celtigar said, nodding to the messenger.

"Lord Velaryon has broken Plankytown and sailed up the Greenblood. Dorne has been split in twain, and the castles along its banks are being sieged as we speak."

Then the war would be over sooner than later. His brother had thought the storms would delay Alyn for weeks yet, but it would seem those same winds had driven their ships faster than thought. "Does my brother know?"

"Indeed, my prince, I went to him first," the messenger said with a bow.

"Very well, thank you," Baelor replied, nodding to his men. "I wish to sleep now. Goodnight, good sers."

Sighing as they left, sleep finally coming to him even as thoughts of the war's end loomed large. His dreams, indistinct as ever, carried with them a strange sight. He did not see an older Daena, nor that large green man with a donkey, nor even the great dark storm that surrounded him like a protective blanket. In a place he knew not, before him lay a great pool of milky water, under a mighty cavern's ceiling, and though nothing else happened, the sight in his mind's eye filled him with a strange sort of… foreboding.

Perhaps something had been in that spring water after all.