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“Seven hells, I’d commit war crimes for a bath.”

Baelor’s mouth twitched into a smile. He looked up at the black sky. “Is the rain not bath enough, brother?”

“Fuck you,” Maekar retorted, water dripping down his black helmet. The horse beneath him shook its head, splattering water from its mane. Baelor’s horse, Ceraxes, huffed in annoyance, and he petted its neck, soothing him.

The Stormlands had certainly earned their name. It was mid-afternoon, near as Baelor could tell, yet the clouds were so thick and dark he could believe it to be midnight. It had rained more days than not in his time here, fighting against the Stormlanders that declared for Daemon Blackfyre. All of the thousands of men marching behind them were just as miserable as the Targaryen brothers, especially with the last battle. It had been a Targaryen victory, but only barely, with heavy casualties on all sides. The men needed rest.

Baelor wasn’t sure they were going to get it.

Lightning flared across the sky, turning night to day for two precious seconds. In that time, the aptly named Tall Tower rose above them.

Tall Tower was the seat of House Rye, a small noble house sworn to the Baratheons, and thus declared for the Blackfyres. They held the smallest amount of lands among the storm lords, barely more than twenty miles in diameter. More of a holdfast, really.

Young Daeron, riding on Maekar’s other side, said something that was swallowed by the thunder. Maekar turned his head. “What was that, son?”

“Just like my dreams,” the fourteen-year-old said.

Baelor and Maekar shared a look. As a child, Daeron’s dreams—nightmares, more like—had been concerning, but nothing more. Not until they started coming true. Three months into this rebellion, and the brothers had learned to take the royal squire’s visions seriously.

Fifteen-year-old Valarr, on Baelor’s other side, was the one to ask, “Good dream or bad?”

“Not sure,” Daeron admitted. “Two dragons were using this tower as a shield, one red, one black. Whoever held the tower survived.”

As far as Daeron’s dreams went, that one was pretty straightforward.

“Right. How many men do they have?” Maekar asked, studying the tower with a critical eye.

“Not nearly enough to withstand us,” Baelor replied. “We’ll set up camp and ask for a peaceful surrender.”

#

Setting up camp in the middle of a thunderstorm was less than ideal, but the soldiers and servants did their best. Maekar grumbled about how they could be sleeping indoors if they bashed the gates open, but Baelor refused to order such an assault. Let the sun rise and allow Lord Rye to see the army that outnumbered his own ten-to-one, at least.

Besides, royalty or not, Baelor felt a little guilty being able to sleep indoors while his men suffered. It was good for them to see their leaders enduring the same hardships as them, at least every once in a while.

Despite the mud, muck, and wet, as soon as Baelor’s tent was up and he got into some dry clothes, he fell fast asleep. Days of marching after a horrific battle will do that.

The servants woke him at dawn. “Not a cloud in the sky, Your Grace,” his valet cheered.

Thank the Seven.

Baelor dressed, took breakfast, and ordered his horse and son/squire ready. The camp was spread around him, a little less organized than he would’ve liked, but that had likely been due to low visibility and the encroaching forest around Tall Tower. The trees were cut back so nobody could sneak up on the small castle. Well, “small” may not be the right word. Skinny was more apt. Narrow. Behind the circular stone walls rose a five-story spear that cut through the sky, taller than any trees around it. Given the radius of the walls from that tower, Baelor could guess that there was enough room for a stables, a courtyard, and perhaps a sept outside the tower itself. That was it.

Two flags flew above the top of the tower. The standard of House Rye was a gray silhouette of the tower itself, on a sunset-orange field. Above that was the rebel flag: a black dragon on a red field, defiantly glaring down at the army.

Baelor, Valarr, and a handful of guards road to the castle walls. Several men were spotted on those walls, their gray-and-orange armor shining in the growing light. However, that same light betrayed them. As they drew closer, Baelor could see that most of those “soldiers” were made of straw. A clever defense tactic designed to confuse the enemy and draw their fire. It also boded well for Baelor’s forces. An enemy that needed straw men to boost their numbers was obviously lacking in soldiers.

He reached the gate. “I am Prince Baelor Targaryen,” he called, voice ringing out in the crisp air. “I wish to speak with Lord Travan Rye.”

The human guard at the top nodded and disappeared. Valarr brushed his hair out of his face, the single silver streak stark against his black curls.

“You need a cut,” Baelor said fondly, rubbing his son’s head.

Valarr wrinkled his nose, making his father chuckle. Gods, his boys grew up so fast. Just yesterday it seemed Valarr was toddling around the Red Keep with a wooden sword and shield. Now here he was squiring for his father.

Maetarys had been cross when he’d learned that he was to stay behind while his older brother went off to war, but Baelor forbade him from marching. For one, he was too young. For another, if Baelor’s forces failed, he needed at least one son alive to carry the burden of the throne. He’d also ordered his youngest to protect his royal mother and grandmother, as well as the young children Maekar was leaving behind, should Blackfyre forces make their way to King’s Landing. Maetarys had begrudgingly agreed.

The thick wooden gates opened a crack, just enough for two men to slip out.

Baelor frowned. The elder was too old to be Lord Travan, his hair already white. The penny in his sword handle marked where he was from, and Baelor realized he recognized his face.

“Ser Arlan of Pennytree,” he greeted. “I remember you at tourney. Four lances, was it?”

“Aye, Your Grace,” the elder knight replied.

The other man—no, not a man. This was a boy, probably no older than Valarr but much taller, frowned at him. “You told me you broken seven lances against the prince.”

Arlan gave a toothy grin. “Ah, well. Memory’s going with old age, I’m afraid.”

The boy rolled his eyes before focusing on Baelor. He did not bow. “Your Grace.”

“You are not Travan Rye,” Baelor commented.

“My lord father left less than a fortnight ago, Your Grace. To Wagstaff. You’ll not find him here.”

Wagstaff. Another minor house, though much larger and more powerful than Rye. They’d declared for the Blackfyres, and, if Baelor’s memory served (and it always did), the current lord had only daughters. No sons.

“And you are?” Baelor prodded.

The boy’s face turned red. “Pardon, Your Grace. I’m his son, Duncan Storm.”

Storm. A bastard.

“My lord father left me in charge of Tall Tower, and to defend it against attackers until he returns,” Duncan continued. “Likely with a much bigger army.”

Baelor was glad he’d left Maekar to oversee the camp. If he’d heard that, he’d have snorted and insulted the boy to his face. Baelor himself appreciated the boy’s bravery, even if it was foolish.

“Large enough for ours?” he asked mildly, tipping his head to his camp. Already his men were re-setting the tents, moving to properly surround the castle and prepare a siege.

Duncan’s back stiffened. “’Tis the attacker who has the disadvantage in a siege, Your Grace. Not the castle.”

“Mm-hm. Typically, when a lord is away from his castle and he has no legitimate heirs, he sends his lady wife,” Baelor said. Sending out a bastard could be easily taken for insult.

The boy finally looked down. Ser Arlan was the one to clear his throat. “Sickness, Your Grace. Last month.”

Damn. Which meant Baelor had to negotiate with a teenager. Some men would call that a blessing, as he had twenty years on the lad. But any parent could tell you that teenagers were the most stubborn, unreasonable lot the gods had ever created.

Still, he tried.

“No man can doubt your bravery, Duncan Storm,” he said. “But it is foolishness to waste lives on a lost cause. Your castle walls may slow us down, but it will not stop the inevitable. Nor will your straw soldiers. Open your gates, strike your banners, and your men will be unharmed.”

Duncan snorted. “Oh, yes, we’ve heard all about your mercy, Your Grace.”

Baelor frowned at the sudden sneer. “What have you heard?”

“Burning soldiers alive as they beg for mercy. Raping the women and even the Silent Sisters, be they smallfolk or noble ladies. Aye, we’ll probably lose a battle. But at least in battle we get the chance of a quick death, and an honorable one, too.”

Valarr sputtered. Baelor held up his hand, silencing his son. “Where did you hear these tales?”

Duncan counted his fingers. “Lord Baratheon, Lord Wagstaff, my father…”

Baelor ran his hand down his face. Words may be wind, but they still held power. What better way to ensure men fought to the grisly death than to convince them that surrender held an even worse fate?

He studied the boy, and the knight behind him. “Ser Arlan. You and I are not friends, but you’ve traveled all Seven Kingdoms and met several members of my family. Do you put much stock in these tales?”

“I met your family in peace time, Your Grace,” Ser Arlan replied, his voice rough and level. “War turns even the kindest of men to beasts.”

“I see…” He played with the rings on his fingers, meeting young Duncan’s unwavering blue gaze. “I would be insulted by such false tales, but I can see that you genuinely care about your people and want only what’s best for them. I want the same for my own. So, I have a proposition.”

Duncan frowned. “Your Grace?”

“I will give you three days and two nights. In that time, you are free to walk about my camp. You may speak to my soldiers, my servants, the camp followers, anyone you wish to speak to. You can ask them what orders I have given, what punishments I and my brother have given out. No harm will come to you. You will be able to return to your tower unharmed and unmolested. I swear by the old gods and the new.”

The boy’s brow furrowed. “And after?”

“After that, we’ll revisit the discussion of your surrender.”

Duncan stared at him. So did Valarr, though Baelor kept his eyes on the tall rebel. The bastard looked back at Ser Arlan, who was much better at guarding his emotions. “We’ll have to discuss that inside, my lord.”

Interesting title to give to a bastard, even if he was acting lord. Though perhaps that could be due to Daemon’s rebellion. Would Duncan still cleave to the Blackfyre cause in the hopes of raising his own station?

No matter. Baelor had set his terms, and he turned his horse to leave. “We’ll speak tomorrow morning, Duncan Storm.”

#

“What in the seven hells are you thinking?” Maekar demanded. “We could take this castle in a single afternoon!”

“We could,” Baelor agreed, stretching his back and shoulders. The servants made the tents as comfortable as possible for royalty, with cushioned chairs and tables for writing and maps, although Baelor drew the line at unnecessary décor. No need to slow their march more than necessary.

“But we have an opportunity here, brother,” he continued, looking at not just Maekar, but Valarr, too. His son’s confusion had been silent, but obvious as they rode back into camp.

“What kind of opportunity? Is this about Daeron’s dream?” Maekar asked.

“Partially. But do you know what lies our enemies have been spreading, fast and far enough for nobles to believe it?”

Maekar frowned. “What?”

Baelor told him, repeating Duncan’s words. His brother’s frown deepened. “We don’t do that shit to people who surrender. Seven fucking hells, we don’t even allow it to those on the other end of our swords. We’ve gelded men who lay hands on women, and executed those who trifled with Silent Sisters!”

“Precisely,” Baelor replied. “If we sack this castle, we give our enemies more arrows in their quiver. We allow these rumors to fester to the point where great lords and ladies may believe them, and cost us time and battles that we cannot afford. But if we wait and give the boy the chance to swear to us, we show our mercy and disprove those tales. Simultaneously, we give our soldiers a much-needed rest, and our father and uncle time to gather more allies. Three days is a small price to pay, don’t you think?”

“And letting this bastard boy wander around our camp?” Maekar challenged.

“He’ll obviously be guarded. But he should see the scale of our forces. As much as I want him to join our side willingly, if he does so out of fear or despair, so be it.” Although, if Baelor had Duncan’s character, he didn’t think either of those emotions would make the boy falter.

Maekar grunted. “Well…suppose we could use the rest. If we can take this damn tower without bloodshed, then fine.”

Baelor smiled. “Thank you brother.”

“Don’t thank me yet. If this goes poorly, I’m holding it over your head forever.” Maekar stood with a sigh. “Bastard or not, who the fuck leaves their castle and son when it’s about to be besieged?”

Baelor’s smile fell. “I wonder the same thing.”

#

“It must be a trap,” Maester Melvan argued. “The moment you step outside those gates, you’ll be seized and held as hostage at best. Killed at worst.”

The maester may have been old, but he had a strong, harsh voice that filled the stone room at the top of Tall Tower. The lord’s chambers. Duncan didn’t deign to sit behind his father’s desk. Not even since being named acting lord. Instead, he paced the length of the wall, going to and from the window. Every time he reached the cloudy glass, he could see Targaryen men moving their tents, surrounding his little castle.

His. Didn’t matter what the law or his father said. Tall Tower was put in Duncan’s care, and he intended to keep it and its people in one piece. Dragons or no dragons.

“From anyone else, I’d agree,” Ser Arlan said. “But this is Prince Baelor. He’s a man of his word. If he says you can wander his camp every day for three days and return to the castle every night, then he means it.”

Maester Melvan scoffed. “War turns men to beasts, Ser Arlan. You said it yourself.”

“Aye, but if Baelor wished to be a beast, we could do little to stop him. He could use those three days to take this castle by force. He’s choosing not to. Why?”

The maester shrugged, his great chain jingling with the movement. “Perhaps they’re weakened through disease? Perhaps they need to wait to gain more allies or join with a larger force.”

The fourth person in the room, Rafe, rested her chin on her knee, possible through the irreverent way she sat on the chair. The late lady of the castle had often bemoaned how she was a year older than Duncan, yet acted half his age. “What does it matter? We’re dead anyway. There’s not enough food in this castle to last even a week, with how many people Lord Dunk let in. Not unless we kill the horses.”

“Castles are supposed to shelter the smallfolk in times of war, not just lords,” Duncan said, for what felt like the hundredth time.

Rafe shrugged. “How do we know that the men Baelor lets you talk to will be truthful? Three days isn’t long. He could be playing a ruse.”

“For what purpose?”

“His own sick pleasure. Lords and princes are more susceptible to that kind of cruelty.”

Duncan grimaced. Base-born he may be, he’d gotten lucky. Not in his father, though the man had never spared the rod or his words, but in his stepmother, Lady Alira. Rafe hadn’t had that, not until last year when the men of the surrounding guard caught her stealing and dragged her before Lord Travan for judgment. Duncan and Alira had managed to talk him out of chopping off the girl’s hand, instead having her work as a castle servant. If she wasn’t starved and abandoned, she wouldn’t steal. Although she hadn’t learned any manners, either, despite Alira’s best efforts.

Maybe that was what Duncan liked about her. She was honest in a way so many people weren’t, even toward a bastard.

Ser Arlan shook his head. “I find that hard to believe of Prince Baelor. Even if he’s as cruel as the rumors say, he’s still a practical man. His brother even more so.”

“You want to risk our lives on that?” Maester Melvan challenged.

“Doesn’t matter,” Duncan decided. “We have three days. We’ll use them to their full. I’ll play Prince Baelor’s game. Rafe, you play yours.”

#

Two hours after Baelor spoke to the young bastard of Tall Tower, the gates cracked open again. His sentries noticed long before he did, calling out warnings. He got on his horse and rushed to the action, just in time to see the doors close behind Duncan’s heels.

The boy was alone, a sword and dagger on his belt.

Baelor silently ordered his men to stand down and dismounted his horse, approaching the boy on foot. “Well?”

Duncan raised his chin. “I’ll speak with your men, Your Grace. But you should know that if I am killed or taken hostage, Ser Arlan has been ordered to refuse all ransom, and resist your attacks in whatever way deals the most pain to you and your men. We’re not a large house, but we’ll make you pay for every inch of ground with blood.”

Baelor’s mouth twitched toward a smile, gathering his horse’s reins. “I’ve seen your knight’s viciousness in tourneys and battle, Duncan. I’ll not incite it if I don’t have to.”

The boy hesitated only a brief moment before following the prince toward the camp. His blue eyes went to the horse. “Handsome creature.”

The prince smiled. “Ceraxes is one of my favorites. You may pet him, if you like.”

Duncan touched the horse’s mane, face softening as he did. “You name all your horses after dragons?”

“I do, yes. Though my brother mocks me for it.”

“…I named my horse Thunder.”

“That is much easier to pronounce.”

Duncan giggled, just a little, before growing serious as they reached the camp, and Baelor’s personal guards. Including one Kingsguard.

“This is Ser Gwayne Corbray,” Baelor introduced. “He’ll be watching over you while you’re here. It’s not just my honor being put to the test.”

The boy gave him an annoyed look, but bowed—bowed, he hadn’t even done that to Baelor!—to the Kingsguard. “Ser. We’ve heard all about you from the Vale. It’s an honor to have you here, though I wish it was under better circumstances.”

The middle-aged knight smiled, clearly amused. “Agreed. Where would you like to go first?”

#

Duncan did his best not to squeal and blush as he was led through the camp by a Kingsguard. One of the greatest warriors in all the Seven Kingdoms! He’d always dreamed of joining their ranks. Most Kingsguard were noblemen, sure. Second or third sons who wouldn’t inherit anything. But some had also been bastards, particularly bastards of nobles.

Duncan had always known that if he worked hard enough, became skilled enough with the sword and any other weapon he could master, then perhaps, some day, he could join their ranks.

What good is a bastard, if not to die?

He shoved his father’s words out of his head and focused on the task at hand.

Baelor’s army haled from the crownlands, Dorne, and the Vale. As he had a man from the Vale as his escort, Duncan decided to start there. Walking through mud to that part of camp, he shyly looked up at the knight. Though not by much; his height already put him eye-to-chin on Ser Gwayne.

“They say the Kingsguard know the royal family best, Ser,” he said, once he could get his tongue working.

Ser Gwayne smiled, a kind thing through his blond beard. “Aye. If we’re doing our jobs right.”

“What are your thoughts on Princes Baelor and Maekar?”

Gwayne thought for a moment. “Even if Daemon Blackfyre truly did have the better claim to the throne, I would side with King Daeron. He raised not just two, but four good, honorable sons. Many people at court whispered about Prince Baelor behind his back, worrying he’d be too Dornish. But he keeps to the Seven better than most men I know, and is a truer knight than most men who have that title. Maekar, too, though he swears like a sailor.”

Duncan frowned. “Why’d they whisper about Prince Baelor? He seems warrior enough to me.”

“Aye, he is. But…well, mayhaps it’s because they had a more Targaryen-looking bastard to compare him to. Daemon Blackfyre…he’s committing treason, but he’s still honorable, in his own way. And the court whisperers say that he looks like Aegon the Conqueror come again. But we don’t put crowns on people’s heads for their hair color. Prince Baelor’s a good man. More than that, he’ll be able to keep Dorne in the fold once he’s king. You look at history, you see that if a king gains territory in his reign, his son often loses it in his. The conquered territories try to rise up, thinking the son weaker than the father. Sometimes they’re right.”

“But Prince Baelor isn’t?” Duncan pressed.

Gwayne shook his head. “No. In fact…well, his father’s not a weak man. But he’s no warrior. He’s a diplomat. A good one, too. Daemon Blackfyre is a warrior, but no diplomat. Prince Baelor is warrior and diplomat both. That’s what you want in a king.”

Duncan turned that over in his mind as they reached the tents with flags and standards haling from the Vale. Several men had cracked open a casket of ale, and as soon as they saw Gwayne and Duncan, their eyes bulged.

“Seven hells, is that the Bastard of Tall Tower or a young giant?” one of the called. “How old are you, boy?”

Duncan flushed a little at the title, but straightened his back. Bastard I may be, but today I am a lord.

“Three-and-ten, ser. Though only for another month,” he answered.

The soldier’s jaw dropped. “Three-and-fucking-ten. Seven hells. What do they feed you in there, horses?”

“I would never!” Duncan gasped.

The man laughed while Gwayne put a heavy hand on his shoulder. “They jest.”

Now Duncan was truly blushing. Seven above, he was terrible with people.

“Come, have some ale,” the soldier said. “Prince Baelor said he wants you to meet us properly, not just from those nasty rumors. Best way to do that is over a few horns.”

It could be poisoned, warned a voice in his head that sounded like Rafe.

Duncan shrugged it off. Of all the ways these men would kill him, he doubted that poison would even cross their minds.

#

“Lord Duncan, is it?” the Dornishman asked, grinning over the woman in his lap. “Come, take luncheon with us!”

Duncan’s face heated. He'd thought Prince Baelor looked foreign, with that darker complexion and mis-matched eyes. But these Dornishmen were even darker, spoke with an accent, and had far more colorful clothing. He looked at the woman kissing the man’s neck. “Ah…is this a bad time?”

“Not at all! We all die some day, so we get what pleasure we can when we can.” He kissed the woman’s cheek. “Though I must say, my dear, I do need to eat.”

She raised her eyebrows. “The food, or…”

“There is a child present,” Ser Gwayne scolded.

“Is there?” The Dornishman looked up at Duncan. “Really?”

“Three-and-ten.”

The Dornishman scoffed. “I was younger than that the first time I had a woman. Prince Baelor says you’re to judge his men, but I say the best way to judge someone is by their women, Lord Duncan.”

“I’m no lord,” Duncan corrected, taking the seat offered in the Dornish tent. It was much brighter and more colorful than any of the other in camp.

The Dornishman frowned. “You’re the Rye lord’s son, aren’t you?”

“Yes, but I’m a bastard.”

“So?”

“…so bastards cannot inherit or become lords unless the king makes them legitimate.”

The Dornishman snorted. “I try not to judge my northern brethren, but your views on bastards are so strange. I don’t see why you must hate someone born of passion.”

Duncan blinked. “I’ve…always heard we were born of sin.”

That was what the septa always said about him. And most others in Tall Tower. If his mother had survived the birth, she’d probably say the same. Everyone knew that she hadn’t been exactly…enthused…with Lord Travan's advances.

“Bah!” The Dornishman waved it away. “Even if that’s so, there’s no reason to blame the child for it. Blame the parents, if you must, and let the boys and girls grow happy and healthy with everyone else. Had you been born a Sand, you’d have ten thousand brothers and sisters, and a million aunts and uncles.”

“And plenty of paramours, ready to climb that tall tower,” the woman on his lap added with a wink.

The man laughed, Duncan blushed, and Ser Gwayne rolled his eyes.

#

“He did what?” Duncan gasped.

The crownlander nodded, slurping his evening stew. “Aye. Soon as Prince Baelor heard what’d happened, he ordered the rapist gelded. Then offered the woman moon tea and the use of his maester. Her husband, the knight, abandoned the Blackfyres then and there and swore to the prince. Apparently some Blackfyre men had done the same to his sister earlier, even with the family on their side, but because those rapists were Blackfyre knights, no one did anything.”

Duncan studied his empty bowl. He and Ser Gwayne had reached the crownlanders’ portion of camp just in time for supper. He hadn’t hesitated to eat. The more he ate out here, the less he took from Tall Tower’s stores. “I always heard that Targaryens were monsters,” he admitted.

The crownlander shrugged. “Aye, some are. Just like all men. I’m old enough to remember Aegon the Unworthy. Monster may not be the best word, but he was a shit king. His son Daeron, though, he’s a good sort. And, let me ask you this, boy, who’s truly the monster: the man born into the throne, or the man tearing apart the realms trying to steal it?”

#

Ser Gwayne escorted Duncan to the gates at sunset, unharmed, and with his head spinning.

#

Before the sun rose on the second day, Maekar shook Baelor awake. “We have a problem.”

“Gods, what is it?” Baelor groaned, hauling himself upright.

“We’ve been shooting down ravens going to and from Tall Tower,” Maekar said. Baelor nodded; that was standard procedure for a siege, cutting off communications with any potential reinforcements. All the letters had been brought to Baelor. Most were from the tower maester to Lord Travan, informing him of the siege and Baelor’s odd proposition.

“One slipped the archers’ arrows and got in,” Maekar said through gritted teeth.

Baelor sighed, getting out of bed. “Well, let’s hope it’s nothing important.”

It was probably from Lord Travan himself, checking on his son and estate.

He shooed his brother out of his tent and got ready for the day. It was too early for breakfast, so he took the opportunity to walk around his camp, checking on the trenches being dug for the (hopefully unnecessary) siege and his men. He hadn’t prepared them for Duncan beyond sharing the rules of his terms and his hopes that a more honest look at his army will quell the vile rumors. His men had responded with amusement, but agreement. According to Ser Gwayne, they were more than happy to regale the boy with tales of their exploits, of Baelor and Maekar’s decisions—good and bad—and even their own personal thoughts on the rebellion.

He’d been particularly startled and taken by the Dornish, as Baelor suspected he would be. While he personally preferred the customs and culture of the Crownlands and surrounding Realms, he did hope to bring Dorne’s attitude toward illegitimate children to the rest of Westeros. Perhaps that was foolish, considering the nature of the rebellion he was currently fighting. But maybe, if Daemon Blackfyre had been more accepted, hadn’t been spat upon by the laws and customs of the land, hadn’t been punished for his parents’ misdeeds, he wouldn’t have staked his claim in the first place. Maybe, if he’d been granted the same kindness Dorne granted its bastards, they wouldn’t be here.

He made sure to check on the washerwomen while he was at it. “Washerwomen” was a polite phrase for “camp follower,” which was a polite phrase for “whore.” Not all of them, obviously. Some were the genuine wives or daughters of low-born knights and soldiers. They even actually washed the laundry and did other such chores. But quite a few earned their coin through a more carnal trade.

So long as the men treated them gently and paid them fairly, Baelor was fine with it. Though his gaze did linger on one of the younger women. A girl, really. Couldn’t be older than four-and-ten, with darker skin and curly hair that she tied away from her face. Had she even bled yet?

He met eyes with the older woman washing the sheets next to the girl. The woman shifted a little closer to the younger, and Baelor nodded, leaving them be with the unspoken promise that the girl would be looked after.

#

Baelor’s sentries reported Duncan squeezing out of Tall Tower again right after sunrise, just in time for breakfast. His mouth twitched. A boy that large, growing that fast, must eat as much as a village. It was wise of him to take advantage of Baelor’s hospitality to spare whatever was in Tall Tower’s stores.

That thought gave him an idea. A few hours later, as the servants were setting the royal pavilion up for lunch, he sent men to invite Duncan to join them.

“Why?” Maekar asked, sharp and annoyed as usual.

“To give him the chance to see our supply lines and logistics,” Baelor replied. “They win wars better than soldiers.”

His brother grunted, but didn’t argue.

Ser Gwayne brought Duncan to the large tent. The boy stared at the spread before him, wide-eyed, and Baelor bit back a smile. His chefs had not held back, with herb-roasted chickens, baked greens, and even pears cooked in honey. He motioned to the seat between him and Maekar. (He was willing to gamble his and his brother’s lives on the slim chance of Duncan thrashing honor for a kill, but not their sons’, who sat on the other side of their fathers.)

“Ser Gwayne tells me you met your first proper Dornishmen yesterday,” Baelor greeted as Duncan sat down.

“They were…” The boy faltered, visibly searching for words. “…very open about their emotions.”

Maekar snorted into his wine goblet. Valarr poked his head around Baelor to grin at the younger boy. “You get used to them. You’ll never find better mummers for court, I’ll tell you that.”

“As you say, Your Grace,” Duncan demurred.

They filled their plates, Duncan’s carrying half again as much as Baelor’s. There were a few other lords and knights in the pavilion, of course, happily chatting with each other and helping themselves to lunch. A little show for the not-so-little bastard. But Duncan didn’t speak to any of them, mechanically putting food and drink in his mouth, a thousand-yard-stare that didn’t focus on anything.

Baelor frowned. Teenagers were notoriously moody, especially in stressful situations such as a siege. But this seemed…different. “Are you well, Duncan?” he asked lowly.

“Fine, Your Grace,” he automatically replied.

Baelor’s frown deepened. He met Maekar’s eyes over the boy’s shoulders, but his brother just shrugged.

“How…” Duncan tapered off, the word preventing Baelor from pushing his own inquiry. “How does King Daeron treat his wife?”

“My mother?” Baelor confirmed. “It wasn’t a love match. They married to help bring Dorne into the fold. Better a marriage than another fruitless war. But they’ve always cared about and respected each other. He certainly doesn’t dishonor her the way his father did.”

“If they didn’t get along, I wouldn’t be here,” Maekar offered. “They’d have stopped with Baelor and Aerys. Heir, spare, done.”

Baelor rolled his eyes, but couldn’t refute his brother.

“And…” Duncan lowered his voice. “…how did he treat his half-siblings? Before all of this?”

Maekar raised his silver eyebrows, but it was a fair question. One Baelor was eager to answer.

“Quite well, actually,” he said. “He couldn’t undo their legitimization, and didn’t try. But he kept them close, gave them court positions, didn’t order them to do anything that would bring them dishonor…only some of my uncles betrayed us. Others, like Uncle Bryndyn, he’s firmly on my father’s side.”

“Bloodraven,” Duncan said bluntly.

“Yes. Though he’s not nearly so fearsome as the smallfolk claim.” He tilted his head, deciding to push back. “What of your parents, Duncan? How did they treat each other?”

Duncan turned back to his food. “Mother died having me. There was no question who my father was. Everyone knew he raped her even before she began showing.”

Valarr choked on his chicken. Even Maekar blinked. Baelor kept control of his face. It wasn’t the fact that Duncan was born of rape that was surprising, but the matter-of-fact way he said it. Such bluntness was rarely seen in court.

“So, I suppose you could say he killed her,” Duncan continued. “And if he’d had his way, he’d have killed me, too. Or left me out to die. It was Lady Alira who insisted on bringing me in.”

“Really?” Baelor asked, fascinated.

He nodded. “She and my father weren’t a love match, either. They tried to have children, for years before I was born. But it never happened. She said that my father should write to your father, have me legitimized so that they’d have an heir for Tall Tower. She was always good to me. Treated me like her own.”

His smile was a soft thing. Baelor let his confusion show. “If you father has no other children, why didn’t he try to legitimize you?”

If Duncan was sickly, or simple, or mad, or dishonorable, then Baelor could understand. But so far, the tall boy seemed to be everything a noble father would want in a child, minus the circumstances of his birth. And while Aegon the Unworthy's final proclamation of legitimization has caused the Realm so much heartbreak, as a father, Baelor could better understand. For all his faults, the late king had wanted to give his children the chance of a better life.

Duncan shrugged. “He never liked me, I suppose. Called me a mistake.”

He popped some bread in his mouth, seemingly oblivious to Baelor, Maekar, and Valarr’s confusion and sympathy.

Seven hells, Baelor had known this boy only two days, and already enjoyed his company. Valarr looked like he was plotting a way to smuggle him along their march. Even Maekar’s face darkened at how Duncan described his father, although perhaps that was just his own views on parenthood shining through.

Duncan looked up at the tent ceiling. “You should put something over that, Your Grace. It’s going to rain again, and you don’t want your roof to leak.”

“There’s hardly a cloud in the sky,” Maekar scoffed, back to not caring. (Or at least pretending he didn’t.)

Duncan raised his eyebrows at him. “It’s going to rain, Your Grace.”

Daeron set down his wine glass and spoke for the first time all luncheon: “I may be the one with the dragon dreams, but I wouldn’t argue with the Stormlander about storms, Father.”

Maekar rolled his eyes. Baelor ordered his servants to put up the tent covering.

#

Duncan stayed in Baelor’s camp until sundown again, returning to Tall Tower under the escort of Ser Gwayne. Baelor watched them go, twisting his rings around his fingers as he stood in the mud. Above his head, stormclouds gathered.

“Father?” Valarr stood next to him, following his gaze. “He seemed troubled.”

“His castle’s being besieged. That would trouble even the most hardened of lords,” Baelor replied.

“Something else.”

Baelor sighed. “I agree.”

“…some of your men have been talking to the surrounding villagers. What few remain.” Valarr jerked his chin to Tall Tower. “Apparently many of them went there as soon as we were spotted. And Duncan didn’t close the gates until we were in sight.”

A very kind gesture from an acting lord, although arguably a foolish one. The more people in a besieged castle, the more quickly they ran out of food.

“And?” Baelor asked.

Valarr took a breath and straightened his spine, the way he always did before he was about to do something unpleasant. “Apparently, Lord Travan is known to take a rod to his baseborn son. Even when he doesn’t deserve it. His lady wife even had to step in, once or twice, just to keep the boy alive. Ser Arlan, too.”

Seven hells.

Beating one’s children was not uncommon in Westeros. Baelor had never raised a hand to his sons, and nor had his father or brothers. But it was common to give a slap to a particularly unruly child to keep them in line. Knights would do the same for the squires. Judgment didn’t fall unless the child had not misbehaved.

And even then, there would be little legal punishment.

“Why was such a thing allowed to happen?” Valarr demanded. “Queen Alysanne had Jahaerys pass a law protecting wives and children against excessive abuse.”

“And what defines excessive?” Baelor asked. “It’s often up to each Realm to decide. And even when they do, most things simply aren’t reported. It’s considered a family matter, not one to be taken by a court.”

“Ridiculous,” his son muttered. “If we can geld rapists—which we apparently should have done, as well—then we can take hands that fall too heavy.”

Baelor smiled. It was a bitter thing. “When this war is done, you and I can go over those legalities and present improvements to my father. Although I don’t know how much good it will do.”

“Fine,” Valarr agreed. “But I want to at least try.”

#

Duncan tapped the rolled-up letter against the writing desk, watching the rain splatter against his bedroom window. He’d read and re-read it half a hundred times since its raven landed in the rookery, missing a few feathers thanks to a close call with a Targaryen arrow. He almost wished the arrow had struck true, though that was a rotten thing to want, the death of an animal doing its honest work.

Someone knocked sharply on his door, then opened it before he could admit them. He knew who it was just from that.

“Shouldn’t you be sleeping?” Rafe demanded, closing the door behind her.

“Can’t,” he admitted, tearing his gaze away from the rain to his friend. “Well?”

She was still dressed in the common clothes of a washerwoman, the dress brown and stained and unflattering. She crossed her skinny arms. “Well. Men are men, no matter their banners. But nothing seems particularly rotten about this group. The other women there like working for Prince Baelor. They feel safe and protected, from the prince’s men and the Blackfyres. They’ve told me that Baelor and Maekar have had rapists gelded regardless of what banners they march under, or the banners of the women they go after. Except for a highborn one, but he was sent to the Wall. They pay everyone fairly. And they don’t burn anyone alive. Only the dead, and only the Targaryen dead. Don’t know what they plan to do with the Blackfyres, but I guess that doesn’t matter.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Duncan agreed, eyes drifting back to the rain. He’d heard much the same as Rafe, from all the men he’d talked to, highborn and low. He’d worried that they were having him on. Gods knew he was terrible at spotting a lie, or even a joke. But nothing got past Rafe, and it was a relief to know that he wasn’t being made a fool.

“What are you going to do tomorrow?” she asked.

He huffed a bitter laugh. “Probably something foolish.”

#

Baelor rode up to the gate at sunrise, with Ser Gwayne and half a dozen other guards in tow. A few feet from the gate, he dismounted and ordered them to stay back. Foolish, perhaps, to leave his guards behind now that the truce was officially at its deadline. But he and Duncan both had honor. He knew he wouldn’t be harmed.

A couple of Tall Tower guards watched from the wall, but their bows remained firmly at their backs as the gate cracked open, and Duncan slipped out again. He had his sword and dagger at his belt, just as Baelor did.

A new face popped up on the wall, watching the proceedings with a scowl. Baelor frowned, seeing that it was a girl. In fact…

He laughed, pointing up at her. “I do believe that girl is supposed to be doing one of my men’s washing.”

Duncan followed his finger. “Oh. That’s Rafe. I had her spy on your camp, in case you were lying. Sorry.”

“A wise use of spycraft, Duncan. How did you get such a creature?”

“She tried to steal the blacksmith’s coin, a village over,” he admitted. “My stepmother and I convinced my father to hire her. People only steal when they have no other means of filling their bellies. She…probably stole from a few of your men, now that I think about it. But it wouldn’t be anything too bad.”

“Just a dagger and a few stags,” the girl called down. “And only from those who slapped my ass.”

Gods, please let this boy see sense and bend the knee, Baelor prayed. He bottled up his amusement, meeting Duncan’s eyes with a serious gaze. “Well. It’s been two nights. What’s your decision?”

The boy studied him for a moment, his face oddly unreadable. Not the determined ferocity of a young lord protecting his castle, the day they’d met. Baelor almost wished for it. At least then, he’d know what the boy was thinking.

Duncan stepped forward. Baelor heard his guards’ armor shift behind him, the men stiffening at the approach. He himself stayed still. Duncan’s hands remained away from his weapons, holding only a rolled-up letter.

He held it up to Baelor. “It’s from the raven your archers missed yesterday morning.”

The prince took the letter and unrolled it.

Duncan Storm,
Your father has agreed to marry Lord Wagstaff’s eldest daughter in seven days. You are invited to attend the wedding, if you are able.

It was unsigned, most likely written by Wagstaff’s maester. Not even Lord Travan himself.

“Your father intends to inherit Wagstaff upon its current lord’s death,” Baelor said, keeping his voice as level as possible.

Duncan nodded, his neutral mask cracking. “He’s not coming back, is he?”

Baelor couldn’t bring himself to lie. Especially not after realizing a far more sinister truth. Lord Travan was sacrificing Tall Tower, and his baseborn son, to get the larger prize of Wagstaff. It might even earn him greater favor from the Blackfyres, making such a “noble sacrifice.” If the Blackfyres won, and his new bride gave him more than one son, then Lord Travan could recollect Tall Tower and give it to his second son. And as a bonus, he wouldn’t have to give anything to his inconvenient bastard, because said bastard would be dead. Killed by Baelor’s army in a siege that Duncan, brave boy he was, would insist on enduring to protect his people from the atrocities spoken of in those rumors, the very rumors Lord Travan himself had told Duncan.

“You know,” the boy said between sniffles, wiping his eyes before the tears could fall, “when he made me acting lord, I was actually hopeful. I thought that maybe, finally, he was treating me kindly. Or at least giving me a chance to make a good name for myself. I could be useful. I could help! But then I overheard him talking to Ser Arlan, who didn’t think he should leave. We’d heard you were coming by then, and Ser Arlan said a lord’s place is at his castle, and a father’s place with his son. You know what my father told him? What good is a bastard, if not to die? He—he only kept me alive for Lady Alira’s sake, and now…”

Baelor’s heart shattered. He forgot the war, the rebellion, everything else, knowing only that there was a boy breaking before him, and he was a father. He pulled Duncan into a hug.

They were of even height, a fact that would’ve been funny at any other time. But Duncan seemed to shrink in his arms, dropping his face against Baelor’s shoulder, muffling his cries. Baelor ran his hand through the short blond hair, murmuring, “I’m sorry, Duncan. I’m so sorry. You did nothing wrong. You did so well this week. Shhh…”

It didn’t take long for Duncan to get himself under control. He pulled back, wiping his cheeks and red-rimmed eyes. Baelor could see the moment he pushed down the lost little boy and once again donned the mantle of acting lord of Tall Tower. His voice was thick with grief, but steady: “I have your word that none of my people will suffer for my father’s misdeeds?”

“They will not be punished,” Baelor swore. “Nor will I order any men you pledge to me to the vanguard or other such dangerous posts unless they volunteer for it, or I have no other choice.”

Duncan drew his sword. Ser Gwayne shouted something behind Baelor, but he didn’t bother turning. The boy knelt, placing the sword at Baelor’s feet. “I yield Tall Tower to you, Prince Baelor, and offer you my service, such as it is. I am your man.”

Baelor smiled, holding out his hand to help the boy back up. “I think I, and the Realm, could very well use such a good man, Duncan of Tall Tower.”

#

Maekar glared down at the letter. He looked up at Baelor. “I get to kill Lord Travan.”

“Get in line,” Baelor growled.