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The Spring Prince was dead and only two sons remained of King Jaehaerys.
Two sons, and no clear heir. Valerion had not known Baelon well, they were so apart in age that he was closer to his nephew Viserys in that regard than Baelon, but he knew what was to come, and also did not know, for everything was so very different in this life. So much had changed and so much had remained the same. It weighed down on his shoulders that he might be responsible for it all.
That there was more he could have done.
No, best not walk down that path again. It was one he had thought on long and hard, through sleepless nights on Dragonstone, after singing Gael to sleep with his silver harp. The path was worn and well to him, but he knew that walking down it would be futile, for what could he possibly hope to achieve? He was the sixth son of the king, a man of no importance, and not one of any great skill. He wasn’t as smart or handsome as Aemon had been, nor was he strong and brave like Baelon, or the single-minded ability to focus like Vaegon. All he had were his harp, his songs, and his dreams.
But not even they would help him this night.
Outside the thunder crashed and boomed, rain assailing the city, as if the gods themselves were crying tears and letting their wrath fly. Inside the Red Keep was quiet, shuddering with the rain, a sense of mourning on every corner and face. Valerion only had the click of his boots and the crack of thunder for company, and for a moment he wondered if bringing Gael along would have calmed his nerves, but quickly dismissed the idea. His sister-wife was sweet and simple, and it wouldn't do to burden her with more than she could handle. He had promised their mother to keep her safe, and he endeavored to do just that, no matter what was to come.
Two knights of the Kingsguard flanked the king’s solar. Valerion could hardly see their faces in the darkness, and he said not a word to them as he entered, the gloom not fading as he shut the door. Only a dozen candles lit the solar, but even in the weak light he could see how tired and old his father was, how heavy the crown weighed down on his head. This latest death was only the latest in a series of blows rained down by the Stranger, and it seemed to hit harder than the others had.
Valerion sat next to his brother, the man summoned to King’s Landing from the Citadel. Vaegon was an archmaester now, he recalled, and his time at the Citadel had not changed much in him. He had a harsh look to him, and the chain of his office hung loose around his slender neck, the many metals of the links all twinkling in the candlelight. They had spoken little and less during their childhood, and that had not changed after they had become men grown. Valerion sometimes wondered what life would have been like if he too had gone to the Citadel, but that thought was always counterchanged with the memories of Gael’s laughs and smiles, and so he wondered no more.
“Baelon is dead,” the king said at last, his voice so soft amidst the distant boom of thunder.
“Yes,” Vaegon said, “he is. But that is not why we’re here, Father.”
“No, it is not.”
“Then why are we here?”
“Baelon is dead.” Their father looked at them both, so old and sad. “Tell me, my sons. Who is my heir?”
“Viserys,” said Valerion. “Valerion,” said Vaegon.
They looked at one another. A laugh escaped him. “Me?” Valerion laughed again at how serious his brother looked, sitting their straight backed and unwavering. “I am not suited for the throne, nor do I want it. Baelon was heir, so it is only reasonable that his son should follow him.”
Vaegon disagreed. “From what I have seen and heard of Viserys tells me that he is wholly unsuited for the responsibilities of kingship, nor is he suited for high command, nor any position that requires him to compromise between two opposing parties. It is not in his nature to offend, and that is a flaw a king cannot have.”
“So you would pass the responsibilities to me?” Valerion scoffed. “Doesn’t Andal law say that a grandson comes before a son in the line of succession? Viserys is Baelon’s heir, so he should be Prince of Dragonstone, not I.”
“Father broke with Andal law when he named Baelon over Rhaenys, so there is precedent for him to do so again.” Vaegon looked to their father. “It has been a topic debated on by my fellow archmaesters for many months and all have come to the agreement that the succession of the Iron Throne is different to that of any other seat. The king is the highest power in the land, and his word is law, so whatever he decides shall be so.”
“Father,” Valerion said, drawing the old king’s eyes away from rain pelting the windows. “Please. I do not want the throne. My skills are not in statecraft or any other useful talent. I play well at the harp and sing songs I hear from my dreams, nothing more. And what of Gael? She dislikes King’s Landing and the Iron Throne, and she wouldn’t do well as queen. Viserys is the better choice, not I.”
“Viserys will not be a good king,” said Vaegon. “And Daemon is wild as he is ill-suited in being anything other than a warrior thrown at the enemy. Think on it, brother. Would you leave the realm in their hands?”
“You say that as if it would be better cared for in mine own.”
“My sons,” the king said. “Baelon is dead.” He sighed, then held up the necklace of linked golden hands, the badge of office. “It has been a month since I lit his pyre and watched him turn to ash.”
Valerion bowed his head, for nothing else than to not see his father cry.
“He is dead,” Vaegon said. “And nothing will bring him back to life, so we must focus on the living, and on the succession.”
“Then I ask you both again, who is my heir?”
“Not I,” Valerion said at once, looking up. “The Iron Throne cannot pass to me.”
Vaegon sniffed. “Then the lords must decide if we are to prevent war.”