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Baelor still isn’t sure what magic was at work in Ashford that cast him back a decade and a half to his own past. He’d closed his eyes at Ashford, his last sight the bluest, blue eyes he’s ever seen and then… he awoke nestled in Balerion’s great mouth, in the chamber beneath the throne room. There was no headwound and, when he’d finally stumbled his way back up the stairs into the throne room, it was to find his father much reduced in years and… a younger Ser Gwayne who had full use of his eyes, and no scar cutting cruelly across his face, from where Blackfyre had stolen from him his sight.
Baelor hadn’t understood then what had happened, and he doesn’t understand it now, either, hours later, but he knows what this is. It is a second chance. A chance to do better. He knows, now, that Redgrass is coming. That Daemon will rebel. That his father’s Hand, Lord Butterwell, is at best a fool and at worst a traitor. That Quentyn Ball cannot be trusted and must be dismissed as swiftly as is possible. Ironically, that one will likely be Baelor’s easiest task, Fireball always could be trusted to be easily provoked, and with Willem Wylde newly sworn to the White, in what Quentyn believed was his place, it won’t be difficult to get a rise out of him. Whether Baelor can goad him into laying hands of on him outside the training yards, that’s another question. Baelor’s certain it can be done, and unlike with Ser Duncan, he’ll ensure there is no question of Fireball’s guilt.
“Your grace.”
Well, Baelor thinks, they do say to speak of the devil is to make him appear.
“Ser Quentyn,” Baelor says, turning to the man, unable to keep the amusement from turning his lips at their corners. He knows Quentyn blamed -blames, now, he supposes – him for his losing out on the White Cloak to Ser Willemn. Baelor had always wished he had been responsible for that, but it wasn’t his to claim. Ser Quentyn had merely had the misfortune of rubbing Baelor’s father the wrong way. Why Lord Butterwell recommended his father to keep Ser Quentyn on even after that brings Baelor back around to ‘he’s an idiot, or he’s a traitor’. “My condolences on losing out on the White Cloak,” Baelor says, putting his thoughts back to the matter at hand. “I understand you forced your sweet wife to become a Septa so you could swear yourself to the White? That seems somewhat… premature, do you not think?” he asks, borrowing a leaf out of dear Daella’s book and putting on this most innocent, butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth expression.
“I knew you had something to do with this, you little shit,” Quentyn snarls, Baelor blinks, startled at how effortless it was to provoke him, even given the knowledge it would easy. They'd not crossed paths at this point, in the original timeline. Could Baelor have done this the last time?
“The correct term of address is ‘your grace’ or ‘my prince’, ser. I could have your tongue for such insolence,” Baelor says, narrowing his eyes. “Perhaps you’ve been spending too much time with my uncles, ser. You’ve forgotten how to address those trueborn of my house.” He bites back a smirk as he notes the way Quentyn’s hands clench into fists at his side. Just a little bit more.
“Is that how you did it?” Quentyn asks, stalking forward. “Did you whisper in your father’s ear that I’m… what, conspiring with his enemies? Last I knew, Prince Daemon was a loyal supporter of the Crown.”
“Last I knew, Lord Daemon wasn’t a prince,” Baelor says, raising an eyebrow. Quentyn pauses, then sucks in a breath. Aegon’s decree had legitimised his bastards and bestowed upon them the title of prince and princess, but Baelor’s father had removed that term of address when Daemon had officially claimed the name ‘Blackfyre’ upon his marriage to Rohanne, declaring it the start of House Blackfyre. Baelor’s father had decreed that only those of Houses Targaryen or Martell could carry the claim of Prince or Princess. An acknowledged law that had been in place for years, now, too long to excuse a simple slip-on Fireball’s part.
Lost in his own thoughts, Baelor misses the moment Fireball moves, his great hands reaching for Baelor, snagging him around the shoulders, and hauling him around, to press his arm like a band against Baelor’s throat. Baelor doesn’t allow himself to panic. Has been a bloodied warrior for far too long to allow that. Instead, he uses both hands to wrench Fireball’s arm down, away from his throat, then he dips his chin down so he can breathe. He twists under Fireball’s arm and steps back, slamming his elbow up under Fireball’s chin.
“Your grace!” he hears Ser Connington exclaim, rushing towards him. “What happened, your grace?”
“Ser Quentyn attempted to kill me. I demand he be taken to the Black Cells until he can face trial!” Baelor croaks, rubbing at his throat, as the Kingsguard rushes to subdue Fireball. He’s sure he reacted fast enough to limit any lasting damage from the attack, but his neck hurts and he feels light headed.
“You’ll pay for this, you Dornish bastard!” Quentyn snarls. If Baelor weren’t so out of sorts, he’d probably preen, as the stupid man adds further fuel to the fire of his own execution.
“No, ser, you will pay for this treason,” Baelor mutters, taking a stumbling step away to collapse into Maekar’s arms as his youngest brother comes thundering down the hall. “Maester,” Baelor whispers, letting his brother hold his weight.
“I’ve got you, Baelor. Let’s go,” Maekar says, hauling him along down the corridor. “Ser Connington, see Ser Quenten to the Black Cells!”
“At once, your grace!”
“Just some bruising and irritation, nothing to really worry about, your grace,” Maester Yormwell says, gently patting Baelor on the shoulder. “You’ll be fine in a few days, but we’ll keep an eye on it.”
“Thank you, maester,” Baelor murmurs, looking up as the door opens and his father rushes in. “Kepa.”
“Baelor! Gods, I’ve just heard!” his father exclaims, hurrying forward to grab his hands, squeezing tight as his father eyes the bruising starting to form on Baelor’s neck. “How dare he?”
“He’s a traitor, kepa,” Baelor whispers, leaning forward to rest his face against his father’s shoulder. His father sighs and wraps his arms around him. Baelor wishes he’d been able to do this one last time, before he’d died at Ashford. “Blamed me for not getting the White Cloak. Called me a Dornish bastard. Claimed Daemon was a prince.”
“I’ll have his head for this, Baelor, mark my fucking words,” his father growls, pulling back, to take another look at his neck. “He could have killed you, Baelor.”
“I think that was rather the point, kepa,” Baelor grumbles, gently swiping his father’s hands away. “I’m alright, kepa. Promise.” It’s certainly no blow from his brother’s mace; that’s for damn sure.
“Please. Be careful, Baelor,” his kepa says, pressing a kiss to his temple. “Your loss would break me, trēsy. I could not bear it.” Baelor flushes with guilt he can do nothing with. His father would have had to endure his loss after Ashford, and worse, his father would have had to contend with the knowledge that it was Maekar’s hand that did him in.
“I’ll be fine, kepa, but I will be more careful. I promise.” And he will, now that Fireball will be in no position to whisper poison into Daemon’s ear. Now that Fireball will be unable to prevent Daemon’s capture, when the time comes, if the time comes.
There is a commotion in the hallway, as Baelor allows Maekar to fuss at him on the way back to Baelor’s chambers.
“Gods, what the fuck is happening now?” Maekar mutters, as they turn a corner towards the shouting. Baelor knows they should probably avoid it, given Baelor’s already had one brush with death today, but he’s never been one to shy away. He grips his hand on his sword, sees Maekar doing the same as they step forward.
“What is the meaning of this?” Baelor asks, his voice rasping, but he’d expected that. It would probably be another day or two before his voice returned to something resembling normal, and if he’s not careful, he might lose it entirely for a time.
“Your grace!” a small group of Gold Cloaks exclaims, each of them turning towards Baelor and Maekar and revealing the two small children in amidst them. The children are dressed in tattered clothing, covered in dirt and cobwebs. They both have their eyes cast to the ground, though the girl looks up just once, to shoot him a side eye, that causes her expression to shift towards something Baelor might call an unholy mix of fear and hope.
“My brother asked a question, sers,” Maekar snaps, his hand still resting on the hilt of his sword. The Gold Cloaks shift uneasily on their feet, one steps forward like they’re going to answer, but he’s beaten to the punch by the smaller of the children, who takes a shaking step forward and Baelor sucks in a breath as he meets a set of familiar blue eyes. The bluest blue that Baelor has ever seen. The last set that Baelor was ever supposed to see. What is Duncan doing here, of all places? Why is he here? This never happened the first time, but then… Baelor hadn’t provoked Fireball the first time, either. Did he do this? Did he change this?
“Please, your grace,” the boy says, voice shaking as he drops clumsily to his knees, his arms wrapped around a bundle he refuses to relinquish, that makes it awkward for him to balance as he lowers himself down. “Please, you have to help.”
“Do I?” Baelor asks, with a bitterness that doesn’t deserve to be laid at this boy’s feet. This boy, he may be Duncan, but he is not Ser Duncan, and even if he were, Baelor’s choices had been his own. “Help with what?”
“Your grace, these urchins snuck in through the tunnels and-“
“Please, your grace, please!” Duncan says, interrupting the Gold Cloak. The boy flinches when the Gold Cloak turns towards them with a raised hand, the boy curling around the bundle in his arms.
“Hold!” Baelor snaps, the fire in his throat roaring to an inferno as he pushes the limits of his injury. “Tell me, child, what is it you think I could help with?” In answer, the girl turns, starts pulling at the bundle in Duncan’s arms. Baelor isn’t sure what he’s expecting, as he takes a few wary steps forward, but it is not the sight that greets him. Another child. Small. So very small. With Baelor’s skin colouring, and Valarr’s little, silver streak in their dark head of Martell curls. Gods.
“H-his name is Baelarr, your grace,” Duncan says, looking up at Baelor with those blue eyes of his, so uncertain. “H-he’s yours, your grace, and he needs help and-“
“Mine?” Baelor croaks, the sound utterly unconnected to the injury to his neck.
“Your bastard, your grace,” the girl says, casting her gaze to the floor. “His mother was a whore, named Lysarra.”
“It has to be a lie, your grace,” the Gold Cloak says, shooting the children irritable looks. “They’re just making up lies to get out of trouble for-“ Baelor waves a hand for silence, his eyes locked on the child cradled in Duncan’s arms. The child has stirred, a feverish purple eye peering out at Baelor from between locks of his messy, curls. Slowly, the second eye opens and Baelor sucks in a harsh breath at the steel grey that’s revealed. Lysarra’s grey. The grey of the Starks of Winterfell. Gods. This boy really is his, isn’t he?
“What’s wrong with the boy?” Baelor asks, shooting the Gold Cloak a narrowed eyed glare when they go to interrupt again, then he sets his gaze back to the children, his child.
“He’s ill, your grace. A summer fever. The maester in Flea Bottom says he needs medicine, but we can’t afford it, and the maester says he…” Duncan trails off, clutching the boy tighter to him. It’s not difficult to put those pieces together. Did this happen in the other time? Did Baelor have a son he never knew about? A boy who died because he fell sick and there was no medicine for him?
“Why come to me now, when you have kept him from me?” Baelor asks, wishing he could ask Ser Duncan this question. Wishing he could know. Did he have another son all along? Did he lose a son?
“Will you help him?” the girl asks, before Duncan can answer. “W-we’ll answer all your questions, but please… will you help him?” Baelor breathes in, then nods his head.
“Yes, come with me,” he says, turning on his heel and heading back towards the maester's chambers. Maekar curses beside him, but Baelor can’t right now.
“Move!” the Gold Cloak leader commands, and Baelor pauses, turning back towards them.
“You’re dismissed, the children will be fine with my brother and I playing escorts,” Baelor states. The Gold Cloaks hesitate, then share looks among themselves, before they bow to Baelor and hurry off down the corridor, away from where Baelor will be heading. Thankfully, he's had enough of them for one day.
“Come along, children.”
“Your grace?” Maester Yormwell says, as he opens the door to their knocking. “Is your throat-?”
“No, maester,” Baelor says, which is, perhaps, a lie. His throat is aching, more than it had been before. He’s sure he’s been overdoing it, but he’s not the concern now. “We have another patient for you to tend. Some sort of summer fever, I believe,” Baelor says, turning to beckon Duncan forward. The boy hesitates, looking at Baelor like he’s not sure if he’s real. It’s not at all like the way Ser Duncan had looked at him, when he’d taken his helm off and said that he would take Ser Duncan’s side. That had been admiration, awe, hope. This is… uncertainty, disbelief, fear. Like Duncan’s afraid he’ll trust Baelor with this, only for Baelor to rip it out from under him. “D- Please,” Baelor says, almost messing up and saying the boy’s name, even though it hasn’t been granted to him yet. Thankfully, it could be misconstrued. Perhaps, Baelor had meant to make his plea a command and changed his mind at the last minute. Only Baelor will ever know that truth.
“Your grace,” Duncan mutters, ducking his head and hunching his shoulders as he shuffles forward. In his arms, Baelarr whines, his little, emaciated hands clenching in the blanket he’s wrapped in.
“Oh,” Yormwell exclaims, when he lays eyes on the boy. He turns quickly, giving Baelor a look, that Baelor can’t help but flush under. Yormwell has known him since he was a boy, was one of the first to ever give Baelor the talk, complete with lectures on ensuring he fathered no bastards. Yormell tuts at him, before turning back to Duncan and Baelarr. “Well, little one, let’s have a look at you.” Yormwell holds his arms out for the child, Duncan hesitates, clutching Baelarr to his chest, turning to the girl with a desperate look on his face.
“We’re already this far, Dunk,” the girl says, shooting Baelor an uncertain look, then turning to eye Yormwell just as uncertainly. “If they’re going to kill us, we’re already dead.” Baelor sucks in a breath.
“No one is going to be killing you. You are just children,” Baelor states, shooting a glare at Maekar, when his brother opens his mouth to argue. Baelor has no interest in hearing whatever his brother might have to say on the matter, though he knows his brother will certainly be complaining to him about it later. He looks back at the children with a frown. “How old are you?” he asks, as Duncan hesitantly hands Baelarr to Yormwell. Gods. Baelor’s boy is so tiny! “I know Baelarr is five. But what about the both of you?”
“Five?” Yormwell asks, shooting him a look. Baelor sighs, nodding his head. He’d done the mental math on the walk to the maester's chambers. “You’re certain?”
“I know the exact night the boy was conceived, maester. Yes, I’m certain,” Baelor answers, crossing his arms over his chest. “What’s wrong?”
“The boy is too small,” Yormwell says, cradling the boy against his chest. He frowns as he turns, to place the boy on his table. “How long has he not been eating?” Duncan and the girl shift awkwardly on their feet.
“He hasn’t eaten well since mother died,” the girl says, ducking her head. “Sometimes, we can’t get enough coin for food and… even when we do, he often throws it back up. We managed that with peppermint tea for a little while, but now…”
“What of the aid programmes?” Baelor asks, furrowing a brow. “The programmes we run with the Septs, and the orphanages?” Both children shoot him baffled looks.
“What aid programmes, your grace?” the girl asks, rubbing her hand up her arm. “The orphanages are full and… they’re not safe, anyway.”
“Not safe?” Baelor asks, looking at his son. “Surely, it would be better than this?”
“Th-the fighting pits wouldn’t take him, he’s too small, and they don’t accept girls, and I’m not… I won’t leave Rafe,” Duncan says, looking down at his feet.
“The fighting pits?” Baelor asks, sharing a perplexed look with Maekar.
“The fighting pits,” Duncan says, casting a look up at Baelor, then hastily looking back down again, hunching his shoulders. “King Aegon started them.”
“My grandfather?” Baelor asks, furrowing a brow. “His cruelty was certainly… well known, but why would he do that?”
“No,” the girl – Rafe, must be – says, shaking. “Not him. We know all about his cruelty. Hard not to, given our circumstances. No. Aegon II. He funded the fighting pits during his days as a prince.”
“Gave them money, and all his bastards, too,” Duncan mutters, fidgeting with the blanket in his arms, now that it’s no longer containing Baelarr.
“What-what are the fighting pits?” Maekar asks, venturing into the conversation for the first time, startling the children, who must have forgotten he was there.
“Forgive me for interrupting,” Yormwell says, all eyes turning towards him. Baelor’s breath catches at the grim look on the man’s face. “This isn’t a summer fever.”
“But the maester in Flea Bottom said-“ Rafe starts, only falling silent when Yormwell shakes his head.
“I would not speak ill of my colleague, but they were incorrect. There is, perhaps, an illness lurking here, as well, but it is not the immediate threat,” Yormwell says, brushing a gentle hand over Baelarr’s messy curls. “The threat is severe malnutrition. It is… potentially fixable.”
“Potentially?” Baelor asks, his chest tight. “Yormwell. Please. He is-“
“I know what he is, your grace, but I cannot perform miracles,” Yormwell cuts off Baelor’s plea. Baelor sucks in a breath, clenches his hands into fists. “I will do what I can for him, your grace, as you know, but… I cannot make any promises.”
“Is he going to die?” Duncan asks, clutching the blanket against his chest.
“Possibly, young one. We might have caught this early enough, yet, but I will not know for certain until later,” Yormwell says, frowning. “Has he been drinking water?”
“We try,” Rafe says, stepping towards the table, to brush her hands over Baelarr’s stomach. Yormwell had removed the boy’s shirt, and Baelor can now see just how emaciated the boy truly is. Baelor can count every single one of his ribs. “It’s hard to get clean water."
“Alysanne’s fountains-“ Maekar says, Rafe and Duncan both turn to look at him, odd looks on their faces.
“The fountains ran dry after the Dance,” Duncan says, stepping up beside Rafe. He wraps Baelarr up in the blanket, then scoops him up into his arms, cradling the boy against his chest again. “Well, the ones in Flea Bottom did. I don’t know if they still run elsewhere.” Baelor knows they do, there is an entire section of the Master of Coin’s ledgers dedicated to the cost of the upkeep for the fountains. He’d seen it plenty enough as the Hand in the other life to know. “We get water from the Blackwater, if it’s strained and boiled it’s… mostly safe to drink.”
“Mostly,” Yormwell says with a sigh. Baelor cannot blame him. How did he not know about this? Not just in this life, but in the past one, too. As Hand, this is something that should have been brought to his attention. The care of the Smallfolk in the city is paramount. It was what lost Rhaenyra her crown, her son, her dragon, and her life. “I shall make a drink for the boy. He needs to be re-hydrated before we can consider feeding him. This will be a long, drawn-out process. If we do this wrong, the boy will die as a result of the treatment intended to help him.”
“W-we can’t pay for that,” Rafe says, pressing a shaking hand over Baelarr’s hair. The boy stirs, whimpering and pressing into her hand. “Shh, valonqar. It’s alright, little song. We’re here.” Baelor shares a look with Maekar at the unexpected High Valyrian. It’s… flawless, complete with the accent that Aunt Rhaena would have praised.
“Mandia?” Baelor presses his hand over his heart as he hears his boy’s voice for the very first time. It’s so very soft, so very weak.
“We’re here, little song. The maester has something for you to drink, sweet one. Be brave, and lekia will sing you a song later,” Rafe says, smiling at the scoff Duncan gives.
“I will, will I?” Duncan asks, that same flawless Valyrian falling from his tongue. Baelor wants to know if Ser Duncan spoke thus. He must, if all that is different is that Baelor’s been sent back in time. So, why? Why do these children know Valyrian? Why do they speak with the sort of accent his Aunt Rhaena would call ‘native’? “You can’t just make decisions like this for me.”
“I can. It’s my privilege as the first born,” Rafe says, smiling.
“First born what? Pain in my arse?” Duncan says, Baelarr lets out a small, pained giggle. Duncan sighs, brushing a hand over the boy’s emaciated cheeks. “Very well, little one. If you’re brave for the maester, I will sing you a song later.”
“Here,” Yormwell says, gentling pushing a small mug into Rafe’s hands. “See if you can get him to drink this. I’ll refill it when it’s empty. He should drink as much as he can.”
“Right,” Rafe says, before she stills, looking at Yormwell with wide eyes. “I… we really can’t pay, maester.”
“It’s covered,” Baelor croaks, swallowing painfully. “For you and Duncan as well.”
“It’s just Dunk,” Duncan… Dunk says, casting him a look. “I’m… there’s no Duncan, it’s just Dunk.” Baelor wonders where ‘Ser Duncan’ came from then, though he can’t blame the man for it, Ser Dunk certainly doesn’t sound as good.
“Unfortunate name,” Maekar mutters. Baelor pinches the bridge of his nose, but Dunk only snorts.
“Could be worse. Got a friend called Pudding, and another called Ferret,” the boy says, Maekar laughs. Baelor sighs, he’s not certain his brother understands that Dunk is not joking.
“For us?” Rafe says, looking at Baelor. He furrows a brow, then retraces the conversation in his head, before he nods.
“Yes. For you as well. I would not see you parted from him, but I will claim him. He is my son. He has suffered because I did not know of his existence, but that’s over now,” he doesn’t know why those words make the children pale, and share a look. He frowns. “What?”
“You didn’t know?” Dunk exclaims, wide eyed. “Rafe…”
“I… mother never said. I always just assumed…” Rafe hesitates, shaking her head.
“Your mother was… Lysarra?” Baelor asks, struggling to see the resemblance at all. Rafe and Dunk both shake their heads.
“No. My mother was Deria, a Dornish whore. She ran the Wildfyre, for a time,” Rafe says, softly. Madam Deria. Baelor only met her the once, the same night he met Lysarra. The same night he conceived Baelarr. “Dunk’s mother was a maid in the Keep.” Rafe turns away, holding the mug up to Baelarr’s lips. “Come on, little one. Drink.” Baelor watches with bated breath as Baelarr takes small sips from the mug, making faces at Rafe as he swallows. “I know, little one. It probably tastes terrible, doesn’t it? But lekia will sing you a song later, for being so good.”
“You’re not blood siblings?” Baelor asks. Rafe makes a face, so does Dunk.
“My mother left me on Rafe’s mother’s doorstep shortly after I was born. Rafe’s mother is the only mother I ever knew. Lysarra died birthing Baelarr. Rafe’s mother took him home with her, raised him alongside us ‘til her death. Blood don’t mean nothin’, and if it did… he’s our nephew anyways, on account of that fa- uh…” Dunk trails off, shooting Rafe a wide-eyed look. Rafe huffs at him, rolling her eyes.
“What my idiot little brother meant to say, is that Baelarr is our blood, anyway, because Aegon the Unworthy was our shared father.”
“Ah,” Baelor murmurs. Fuck. Was Ser Duncan-? If he’d just said, all of that terribleness about the Trial could have been avoided. It would have been a family matter, to be dealt with behind closed doors not- Baelor forces himself to breathe in, exhaling slowly. “Well, that makes things easy,” he says, ignoring Maekar’s disbelieving scoff. “Your father legitimised all of his bastards upon his deathbed. I will ask my father to officially recognise you, and you may stay here in the keep, under my protection. I will raise you alongside my sons.”
“Sons?” Rafe says. Baelor stills for a moment, suddenly realising that Matarys hasn’t even been born yet, and won’t be for a good few years, and Valarr… gods, his boy is a baby! Jena… Jena’s still alive!! Matarys not yet born and… himself not yet Hand. This is… the period of his life where he spent his time sailing back and forward between Dragonstone and King’s Landing, being the Master of Laws and the Prince of Dragonstone, before he’d finally given it up after Redgrass when he became Hand and left a castellan in his place to run their ancestral keep in his place. Jena... Jena and Valarr are on Dragonstone. No wonder his wife hasn't sought him out yet, what with news of Fireball's attack spreading through the court already. She probably doesn't know about it, yet.
“Baelarr and Valarr,” he says, to cover for his slip. “My youngest is only a few months old.”
“Oh,” Rafe murmurs, turning her attention back to encouraging Baelarr to take more sips of the drink.
“Why would you want us?” Dunk asks, furrowing a brow at him. “I understand wanting Baelarr. He’s yours, but Rafe and I… we’re just urchins.”
“You are my son’s elder siblings. I have no doubts that, without you, my boy would have already died out there, and I’d have never known.” He wonders if that’s why. If Ser Duncan never mentioned any of it at Ashford, because he figured it wouldn’t mean anything at all, because it never had before. Baelor cannot fix Ashford, but he can fix this. “Beyond that, you are my youngest aunt and uncle. By my grandfather’s decree, you are already legitimate. You are already members of my house. I am not…” he breathes in, then exhales on a sigh. “I am not in the habit of abandoning my family, not unless they force it of me.”
“Oh,” Dunk says, confused. “What… would that mean?”
“Well, so long as you choose to remain under our house, you’d be a prince and princess of our house. If you decide to found your own house, you’d become a lord or a lady, and lose the royal title, as your brothers, Daemon and Aegor, have,” Baelor explains, his gaze drops to Baelarr. “I would need to discuss with my father, but I would seek legitimisation for Baelarr as well.”
“Brother-“
“Shh, Maekar. It is my choice, only father can gainsay me in this. He’s… he’s my son,” Baelor whispers, his heart clenching. He will never know what happened to Baelarr in that other future, though, given the state of him now, he can guess. He hates that his guess is probably accurate, too. He hesitates, looking at the children, while Rafe coaxes Baelarr into drinking more. “Can I… can I hold him?” Baelor asks, getting three sets of eyes on him, though the mismatched set seem like they struggle to focus.
“Is he my kepa?” Baelarr’s little voice asks. Rafe smiles, brushing her hand over the boy’s hair.
“Yes, little song. He is.”
“Oh,” Baelarr murmurs, narrowing his eyes at Baelor. He breathes in deep, then reaches out his hands towards Baelor in the universal gesture of asking to be picked up. Baelor’s breath catches, but he takes a stumbling step forward, then another and another until he’s close enough to scoop the boy up into his arms, tatty blanket and all. He cradles the boy close, careful not to squeeze too tightly. A sob catches in his throat as he feels Baelarr’s emaciated little arms wrap around Baelor’s neck. He’d be worried, about the injury from Fireball, but Baelarr doesn’t have any strength in his arms to do any damage at all.
“My son,” Baelor whispers, tears trailing down his face. “My boy.”
“Baelor,” his father says with a sigh, his mother frowning at him from his father’s side.
“I know,” Baelor says, adjusting Baelarr in his arms. Across the room, curled up in Baelor’s bed, Dunk and Rafe sleep. They’d not wanted to be separated from Baelarr, and neither had Baelor. “I know, muna, kepa, but please… look at him and tell me you would make any different choice,” Baelor says, pulling open the blankets covering both of them, so his parents can see just how gaunt his boy really is.
Yormwell had been insistent that they needed to ensure Baelarr was hydrated first, before they could try to fix his hunger. They’d spent the first few hours with him, just getting him to drink whatever mixture Yormwell had made up, then finally, Yormwell had gotten them to alternate the drink with a mashed food of some sort, potatoes, banana, beans, peas, etc. Baelarr was on a two-hour roster, Baelor was to wake him every two hours to get him to drink, and eat something, if he felt up to it. Dunk and Rafe had their own roster to keep, as Yormwell said they were malnourished, too, just not anywhere the extent that Baelarr was.
“He’s so small,” mother whispers, as she comes to stand before Baelor, her fingers brushing over Baelarr’s shrunken cheek. “Oh, Baelor.”
“I know,” Baelor whispers, covering the blankets back over Baelarr when his boy shivers in his arms. Yormwell had been adamant they needed to keep the boy warm, and the best way was to cover him entirely in blankets, as Dunk and Rafe had been doing, or to share body heat with him directly, skin-to-skin, and to wrap them both in a blanket. So, Baelor hadn’t hesitated at all to strip off his shirt, cradling his boy close as Yormwell wrapped them up in blankets. “I don’t know what I’ll do if he dies,” Baelor says, wiping at his eyes. It was one thing, to survive his son when he didn’t know that he had, but this?
“You’ll survive,” his kepa says, coming to rest a hand on Baelor’s shoulder. “For Valarr, but also for him. So, you can change things, so no others will suffer as he has.” Baelor tries to swallow a sob but fails. “Oh, my son,” his father murmurs, as both of his parents pull him into a hug, careful of the boy in his arms.
“I didn’t know. I didn’t know about him. He’s been hurting, starving, dying, and I didn’t know. I didn’t-“
“Shh, little sun,” his mother croons, rubbing her hand over his back. “You know now, and we’ll all do our best for him, for all three of them,” she says, casting a look towards the two children in his bed. “Maekar said Alysanne’s Fountains don’t work?”
“Yes, I don’t understand. I could have sworn there is a costing for it in the logs,” Baelor says, as if he doesn’t know already, that there have been millions given towards the upkeep of the fountains. Though, it’s not like he could speak to that with a certainty without having to explain how he knows. “The aid programs aren’t working as we intended, either, it seems.”
“I’ll look into it,” his father says, frowning. “I’ll have a talk with Brynden as well. We’ll need to find a way to check if my father has any other bastards running about in the city.” Baelor doesn’t think it’s likely they’ll find any. They’d never found Dunk or Rafe in his first life. Never heard whisper of any other of his grandfather’s bastards running about aside from the already known ones.
“Kepa?” a small voice asks, Baelor’s breath catches as he drops his head to meet Baelarr’s mismatched gaze.
“Yes, my little one?” Baelor asks, having learned that Baelarr doesn’t speak common, only Valyrian. Apparently, Deria had started him on small words, the same all young children learn, but after her passing, Dunk and Rafe hadn’t bothered so much with common, especially when they, themselves, aren’t entirely fluent in it, though Baelor never would have guessed. He figures Dunk must have learned from Ser Arlan, in their years together.
“Mandia and lekia?” Baelarr asks, blinking tiredly up at him.
“They’re still sleeping, little one, exactly where they were before, see?” Baelor asks, turning away from his parents so he can show Baelarr Dunk and Rafe. “Since you’re awake, you should have some more to drink.”
“Blrgh!” Baelarr exclaims, making a face.
“I know, little one, but you’ll feel so much better, soon,” Baelor says, as he carries Baelarr over to the table, to grab up the mug of the drink for the boy. Baelor still isn’t really sure what’s in it, boiled then cooled water, yes, some of their precious salt stores, sugar, and beyond that… Baelor has no idea. Yormwell’s been making it up in batches, leaving carafes on the table and replacing them as Baelarr drinks through them. “Here, little one,” Baelor murmurs, holding the mug to Baelarr’s lips. His son sulkily sips at the drink, before turning his face away. “Well done, my little one. Did you want more of the mashed banana?”
“Not hungry,” Baelarr says, wriggling to hide his face in Baelor’s chest.
“Alright. Are you going to go back to sleep? Or do you want to meet your kekepa and mumuna?” he asks, glancing at his parents out of the corner of his eye. Baelarr considers for a few moments, then shakes his head, staying hidden against Baelor’s skin. “That’s fine, little one. There will be time to meet them later. You rest, now.”
“Kepa?” Baelarr asks, hesitant. Baelor hums in answer. “Story?” the boy asks, peering up at Baelor with hopeful, mismatched eyes. Baelor smiles, brushing his hand over his boy’s hair.
“Of course, my dear one,” Baelor says, wandering over the couch tucked against the wall. He sinks down into it with a tired sigh and ponders what story to tell.
“You should tell him of Nymeria,” his mother comments, as she and his father sit at the table in the corner, out of the way. “Her conquest of Dorne.” Baelor smiles, inclining his head.
“Very well, mother,” he agrees. It will be good practice for him, to translate the story into Valyrian. He's absolutely going to lose his voice, but he doesn't care. “Once, long ago, on the shores of the Rhoyne…”