Chapter Text
Baelor Targaryen was born with a string of words given by fate—like most of the population in Westeros did, like most of the people living in the west side of the known continents.
Although now, much unlike with how it was in the past, possessing the set of words forming your one’s first address to you didn’t really matter much—to him, or to anyone of noble blood south of the swampland of House Reed, just north of the Twins in the Riverlands—
A soulmate was now seen as more of a suggestion, after all; something you could indulge if you’re lucky, rather than something of a divine blessing all must follow and await for—before deciding who to marry.
In centuries passed, the words first spoken to you by your perfect one was more holy to the separate nations that now form the Seven Kingdoms; but soon enough, as the Andals brought forth and slowly imbued the importance of honor and duty above the traditions, sacraments and teachings of the First Men and their Old Gods… as the second Targaryen Queen consort, Rhaenys the conqueror herself, arranged marriages to secure the House of Dragons’ influence and authority over the lands they now rule with fire and blood; and previously, darker magics—
Most nobility south of the neck fully accepted and embraced that sometimes, love could be an afterthought, and something to be managed;
for survival is paramount, for maintaining status and expanding influence is more beneficial than predestined “love”—especially the higher your status or ambitions were, especially if the fates were feeling humorous and would give a noblemen or women’s heart to a mere peasant, whore, or hedge knight—seven save their soul.
And so, since then, the fashion of Lords and Ladies just marrying their children to those who would benefit their house more had became the norm—and so, like most of the continent, Crown Prince Baelor hadn’t really minded it much when he was made to marry the Lady Jena Dondarrion when he turned twenty namedays old; even though her respectful greeting to him is not the string of words carved beautifully on his arm, even though the warmer words in her finger were not the ones he first spoke to her when they first met at a tourney for her honor held by her house.
(Not all could be lucky enough like his father and mother after all—with his namesake King Baelor I arranging his heir’s heir and young nephew’s marriage to the Dornish princess for peace alone, but then had accidentally and miraculously brought and tied the rightful soulmates—Daeron and Myriah—to each other’s hold, forevermore.
Not all could be as fortunate as his youngest brother Maekar were too—who unexpectedly met his own soulmate, the Lady Dyanna Dayne, at the chance encounter late into the evening of the very feast celebrating Baelor and Jena’s marriage.)
The heir of the Iron Throne truly had no qualms about forsaking and setting aside whoever his soulmate could be, and just marry Jena like their fathers agreed. And as years passed, he still doesn’t regret doing as he was bid—for he had began to be fond of his wife the more he spent time with her, for he grew to appreciate Jena more and more as time passed by them both; he could perhaps even go as far as say that he’d also began to love her truly now—as he watched her carry then give birth to their first son and heir, Valarr, and then to their second son and spare, their Matarys, just two years after their eldest child.
When almost a decade passed and no consequences or anything negative that might make him regret or even question his marriage to Jena came, Baelor thought whoever his soulmate would be won’t affect his life at all—he’d thought that whoever spoke his words, or when they would speak it, wouldn’t affect or even complicate matters much; for he is truly content with Jena after ten years of marriage—and at that present, he could even say that it sometimes feels to be mistake that the gods did not plan for them to belong to each other in the first place;
with how they truly love each other so, when they respect and listen to the other like they do to no one else they’ve ever known—
They were happy too, very much so; with their own family of four, with their two beloved sons—Valarr and Matarys—whom they loved and cherished more than they ever thought to. Some could even dare say that they look as happy and content as true married soulmates do; similar to how his own parents were growing up and raising their four princely sons, who are all so different from each like fire and water, like the air and solid figures.
Similar enough to how Maekar and Dyanna are said to be, as well; apparently appearing to be much more preoccupied with raising their now eight year old son and heir, as well as a second born child—another boy—who just recently turned five-namedays old.
Two sons—whom Maekar says would probably like to meet their eldest uncle, aunt and cousins soon. Both not even four-seasons-changed old children, whom Dyanna eagerly wants to show off to Jena, for she swears that ‘her Daeron and little Aerion are the most beautiful babes in the world she had ever looked upon—‘
As the now familiar words from his memory of his brother’s letter fade into Jena’s voice—Baelor snaps at last, and wakes from his thoughts; bringing him back to the present, bringing him back to where he and Jena are contently sat in his solar and drinking their Dornish Red.
“—handsomer and prettier than even both of your boys who inherited brother-in-law’s mismatched eyes of brown and royal indigo—”
Baelor began to smile and chuckle the more he listens to his wife’s rereading of Maekar’s letter in a teasing tone and amused, beautiful smile once more; all the while everything clicks into place around him, all the while he notices how close empty both their glasses had been.
He could remedy that last bit, at least.
And so as he rises from his seat and pries Jena’s goblet from her hand to bring it along side his own towards the pitcher, the heir remembers that it is the night before they are set to depart the Red Keep and journey towards his brother’s seat; the night before they are set to leave and finally visit his brother and Dyanna after almost a moon since they wrote the very letter Jena rereads—which insisted that their nephews deserve to get to know their Uncle, Aunt, and little cousins at last; after the recent rebellion of Daemon Blackfyre, and after the previous years before that too—when Jena and Dyanna’s subsequent pregnancies stopped the two couple from meeting the other, the last time being almost nine years since; when Baelor and Jena last visited Summerhall to spend time with both Maekar and Dyanna after their beautiful wedding held at the Starry Sept, the nearest Grand church befitting the Prince who holds the Dragon’s summer castle.
“Baelor, darling,” The Crown Prince stops from refilling both their goblets to turn and tilt his head towards Jena, curious at the inquiring tone she used. “Do you think there could be a deeper reason for your brother and Dyanna to insist not just our presence, but our children as well?”
“Perhaps they just wish for our children to get along well with each other, know each other like family should.” He replies, before letting his mind wander about it as well, before then resuming to pour into their goblets until it is halfway full with the red, exotic and exquisite liquor; a gift from Daenerys. “Do you suspect that they have other reasons? None nefarious, I hope.”
“Of course not, Baelor.” Jena scoffs good-naturedly as she watched Baelor walk toward her, before then accepting the drink he gives her. “I just think… with the both of them wanting for us to bring the children along… what are the chances that they suspect one of their boys to have either of our Valarr or Matarys’ words?”
Baelor takes a sip of his own red, thinking, before speaking.
“It wouldn’t matter anyway, for they couldn’t have married each other for the church and the council would forbade it—in account for our sons needing to sire heirs of their own in the future, in accordance to betrothing Maekar’s sons to other houses in the reach or stormlands to guarantee a foolproof peace with dorne through princes of the blood.”
(They did not speak of how while technically allowed, the bonds and marriages of the same sex were still frowned upon by Andal law; even though their seven god’s’ scriptures itself hold nothing against such unions.
They did not speak of it, for they know tradition is the true reason why perhaps five of the seven kingdoms would not allow and welcome such a match for its future king—)
“It would be a disappointment for them, if it were so. But nonetheless, it is our duty to the crown comes first—no matter how much it would ache for either their son or themselves to not let the bond be realized like theirs were.”
Baelor agrees, and yet again begins to very much appreciate Jena’s cold yet always truthful approach with things—
Still, however, he remains quiet awhile—before saying anything once again, after weighing down what it meant to admit what he believed so.
He is sure after all, that Maekar would want and prefer it for his and Dyanna’s children to marry for love as he did. But in the end, he knows too, that his youngest brother would never dare betray and defy their father’s—and especially their mother’s—will and decision.
Maekar would most certainly sulk and be unhappy about it for years perhaps, but even with that Baelor knew already that his youngest brother would make sure his sons do their part, if things come to that—like Baelor would to his own sons.
“Well… let us just hope that if it comes to, the children would come to accept that even though we can’t always have what the gods designed, it does not mean they wouldn’t find happiness somewhere else,” The crown prince say, before reaching out to hold Jena’s hand with his. “…with someone else, with whoever they end up vowing to belong to—for the rest of their life, until death.”
The crown prince and his wife would… speak some more late into the evening then, before eventually retiring into their separate sleeping chambers—hours after thinking of soulmates, and each person’s respective duties to the realm.
Afterwards, Baelor would, uncharacteristically so, find himself more emotionally exhausted that evening than he usually would be—after a night spent unwinding with Jena, after an evening spent with his wife’s wisdom that would’ve usually left him either intrigued, or much comforted by. Although, seemingly worst yet, he found it much more difficult to fall asleep as easily as he normally could’ve, too—for instead of falling fast asleep, he’d spend the night being unsettled that he had missed something; had perhaps forgotten something he had been trying to remember for so long, something he felt as though he had lost long, long ago.
(The heir of the good king would find himself doing something he’d never done in so long; Baelor would, vulnerably so, spend the night tracing and rereading the words in his arm; the very set of words that he convinced himself time and time again that he did not care nor want to hear out loud, the very set of words that had been on his skin for thirty years now—
The Hammer would remain silent as he ran his fingers on each word—at the swoop of letters, at the quiet dignity and elegance of the handwriting, too.
And during that dead and quiet of the night, he’d find himself almost lost at his fated string of words; the very words he had been so fascinated to in his youth for being so refreshingly careless and honest, straightforward enough to give the impression that whoever it was from was someone so unashamedly true to themselves, no matter the consequences their words might bring them—)
In the end, Baelor had barely managed to sleep—for whatever unsettled him that he refuse to name bothered him much for the rest of moonlight til dawn arose from his window.
And for some unknown reason, too, he could not shake off the feeling as though a change to come is about to draw the inevitable, as was fated to—
(he felt as though it was only a matter a time before he meets the other half of his soul, the one whose words claim his as their perfect one—their’s and their’s alone..
Exactly how they too, belong only to Baelor—)