AC 283
Tower of Joy
Pov Baelon
Baelon Targaryen had been born in the year 234 after Aegon's Conquest, in the shadow of the Red Keep, eldest son to Jaehaerys II, the king they called wise and just. He was tall and lean, even in his later years, with a puckered scar above his left eye—a memento from some forgotten skirmish in his youth—that lent his sharp features a perpetual air of wary cunning. Baelon had never hungered for the Iron Throne, content with his books and his quiet counsel, but his younger brother Aerys, the one they named the Mad King, had seen threats in every shadow. Paranoia had gnawed at Aerys like a rat in the granary, until he banished Baelon from court on some whispered accusation of treason. "You eye my crown," Aerys had hissed, spittle flecking his wild beard, though Baelon had sworn his fealty a hundred times. Exile had followed, a wandering life across the Narrow Sea and back, but blood called to blood. Now, in this forsaken tower amid the red mountains of Dorne, he knelt beside a dying woman, his brother's second wife—Lyanna Stark, the wolf girl whose beauty had set the realm aflame.
She lay pale and feverish on a bed stained with blood, her dark hair matted, her breath coming in ragged gasps.
In her arms, she clutched the babe she had just birthed, a squalling thing with a tuft of dark hair and eyes that might one day burn violet. "Jaehaerys," she whispered, naming him after the wise kings of old—one Baelon's own father, whose rule helped bring peace and had held the realm together longer than any other. Baelon took the child gently, his long fingers cradling the tiny head, and passed him to the wet nurse hovering in the corner, a stout Dornish woman with eyes wide as saucers.
From below came the clash of steel on steel, the grunts and curses of men locked in mortal dance. The Kingsguard—Arthur Dayne, Oswell Whent, and Gerold Hightower—had held this tower for moons, faithful to their vows, guarding the secret that could unmake kingdoms. Baelon respected them for it, these white cloaks who had forsaken the world for duty. But duty demanded more now. Lyanna's eyes fluttered, her hand clutching at his sleeve. "Protect him," she rasped, blood bubbling at her lips. "From all of them. Promise me."
Baelon nodded, his throat tight. "I swear it by the old gods and the new." He rose then, signaling the nurse to slip away into the hidden alcove behind the tapestries, where a narrow stair led to the cellars and freedom beyond. The fighting grew fiercer below—shouts, the ring of blades, a scream cut short. He crossed to the ancient chest he had dragged with him from Dragonstone, its iron bands rusted but sturdy. Inside lay treasures long hidden: Blackfyre, the sword of kings, its blade rippling like dark water under torchlight. He had claimed it in the War of the Ninepenny Kings, from the last pretender of that cursed line, a Blackfyre descendant whose blood had soaked the Stepstones. Beside it, nestled in velvet, was a dragon egg, petrified and veined with obsidian scales, a relic from the Doom itself.
He lifted the sword first, its weight familiar yet heavy after years spent more with scrolls than steel. These days, he read of histories and stars, not swung blades in tourneys. But blood remembered. Then the egg—he placed it carefully in the babe's swaddling, tucking it against the child's chest. "May it hatch for you one day, little king," he murmured, though he knew the odds were cruel. Dragons were gone from the world, or so men said.
Lyanna's breath hitched, her eyes glazing. "Rhaegar... he promised..." But the words faded, and she was gone, the she-wolf of Winterfell reduced to a husk in this sun-baked prison.
Baelon gripped Blackfyre and descended the winding stairs, his boots scraping on stone worn smooth by time. Father, I have failed you, he thought, the words a bitter echo in his mind. You forged peace from ashes, and I let madness consume our house. Forgive me this last stand. The scar above his eye throbbed, as it always did before blood was spilled.
He burst from the tower door into the blinding Dornish sun, sand crunching underfoot. The yard was a slaughter pen: bodies sprawled in the dust, blood turning the red earth black. Only four men yet drew breath. Ser Arthur Dayne, Sword of the Morning, danced with Dawn in hand, his white cloak torn and bloodied, facing off against Eddard Stark—grim-faced Ned, with his greatsword Ice gleaming—and Robert Baratheon, the usurper himself, hammer raised like a storm god's wrath. Howland Reed, the crannogman from the Neck, lay slumped against a wall, clutching a gash in his side and a twisted leg, his frog spear broken beside him. The other northmen and Kingsguard were heaps of cooling meat.
Robert roared, swinging his warhammer in a crushing arc toward Arthur's back. The knight was faltering, a deep wound in his thigh spilling blood. Baelon moved without thought, leaping from the shadow of the tower. He drove Blackfyre into the meat of Robert's thigh, the blade sinking deep, then kicked the big man aside with a boot to the ribs. Robert bellowed like a wounded aurochs, crumpling to one knee as blood spurted.
Baelon hauled Arthur back by the cloak, whispering urgently in his ear: "The babe—Jaehaerys. Get him to safety. The nurse waits below. Go now, Sword of the Morning, while there's breath in you."
Arthur's eyes widened beneath his helm, but he nodded once, sharp and sure, before staggering toward the tower door, Dawn trailing in the sand.
"You bastard Targaryens!" Robert snarled from the ground, his face twisted in rage and pain, hammer still clutched in his massive fist. He struggled to rise, blood soaking his breeches. "I'll crush your skull you whelp!"
Ned Stark advanced, Ice held high, his grey eyes cold as northern ice. "Let us go to my sister, Baelon. We have no quarrel with you. You've been gone from this madness—exiled by your own kin. Stand aside, and live."
Baelon met his gaze, Blackfyre steady in his grip. The sword hummed with old power, or perhaps it was just the wind through the mountains. He parried Ned's probing thrust, the clash ringing like a death knell. "No," he said, voice calm as a maester's lecture, though his heart pounded. "I will protect Jaehaerys—your nephew, Ned Stark. Lyanna's son by Rhaegar. The true king, not this pretender who sits on the throne on lies and stolen crowns."
"Liar!" Robert screamed, hauling himself up with a grunt, leaning on his hammer like a crutch. "Lyanna would never go with that dragonspawn bastard! He raped her—stole her! I'll have your head for this, you craven exile!"
Ned faltered for a heartbeat, Ice lowering fractionally. "Lyanna's... son? By Rhaegar?" Doubt flickered in those Stark eyes, the honor-bound wolf caught between kin and king. "That cannot be. The realm bleeds because of him—because of what he did."
Baelon pressed forward, Blackfyre flashing in a riposte that forced Ned back a step. "What he did? Love, perhaps. Or folly. But the babe is innocent, and the dragon's blood runs true. Would you slay your own sister's child, Lord Stark? For a throne built on Baratheon bluster?"
Robert swung wildly, hammer whistling through the air, but Baelon sidestepped, the blow cratering the earth. Pain shot through his old bones—this was no tourney melee, no practice yard. He was no longer the warrior of his youth, but cunning could fell giants where strength failed. "The gods will judge us all," he said, circling as Ned recovered, the three of them locked in a deadly triangle. "But today, I stand for the blood of my house. Come then, usurpers."
The air shimmered with heat and the metallic tang of blood, the red mountains looming like silent judges over the carnage. Baelon Targaryen, exile and scholar turned reluctant guardian, felt the weight of centuries in his veins—the fire of Aegon, the wisdom of Jaehaerys, the madness of Aerys—all converging in this forsaken yard. Blackfyre sang in his hand, a blade forged for conquerors, now wielded by a man who preferred quills to swords. But necessity was a harsh master, and he had no choice but to embrace the dance.
Robert Baratheon lunged first, his warhammer a blur of fury, propelled by rage that drowned out the agony in his thigh. The blow came like thunder, aimed to shatter Baelon's skull, but the Targaryen prince sidestepped with the grace of a shadowcat, years of exile-honed instincts guiding him. He countered swiftly, Blackfyre slicing across Robert's armored shoulder, parting mail links and drawing a fresh spray of blood. The usurper staggered, roaring curses that echoed off the tower walls, his stag-emblazoned surcoat now a ragged banner of defeat.
Ned Stark pressed in from the flank, Ice sweeping in a controlled arc, honorable and precise as the man who wielded it. "Yield, Baelon," he growled, his voice laced with the grim resolve of the North. "For the sake of the realm—end this folly." Their blades met in a shower of sparks, Valyrian steel against Valyrian steel, the clash reverberating like the toll of a funeral bell. Baelon parried, twisted, and riposted, driving Ned back with a feint that exploited the Stark's momentary hesitation— that flicker of doubt about the babe upstairs, his sister's blood.
Robert recovered with bullish tenacity, swinging low to sweep Baelon's legs, but the prince leaped aside, landing a boot to the Baratheon's wounded thigh. Robert howled, dropping to both knees now, his hammer thudding into the sand as he clutched at the gushing wound. Seizing the opening, Baelon advanced, Blackfyre descending in a merciless arc. The blade bit deep into Robert's arm, shearing through muscle and bone just above the elbow, eliciting a guttural scream that shook the very stones. The usurper's hammer fell from nerveless fingers, clattering uselessly to the ground. Robert collapsed forward, face-first into the blood-soaked earth, his massive frame twitching as shock set in. "You... dragon scum," he gasped, spittle and dirt mixing on his lips, but the fire in his eyes dimmed, replaced by the glaze of impending oblivion.
Baelon stood over him, chest heaving, Blackfyre raised for the killing blow. One thrust, and the Stormlord would be no more—the man who had shattered his house, claimed a throne on lies of rape and abduction, ended. The scar above his eye burned like fire, a reminder of old battles, old regrets. "For Rhaegar," he murmured, "for Lyanna, for the dragons that were."
But before the blade could fall, a cry pierced the air from the tower's shadow. Arthur Dayne emerged, limping heavily, his white cloak a tattered shroud, Dawn sheathed at his back for speed. Beside him hurried the wet nurse, the babe Jaehaerys bundled tight in her arms, the dragon egg still nestled against his tiny chest. The nurse's face was ashen, her eyes fixed on the horizon where the red mountains met the sky. "My prince!" she called, her Dornish accent thick with terror. "More coming—we have to get you and the king out of here!"
Baelon whirled, following her gaze. There, cresting the distant ridge, a banner fluttered in the hot wind—a crowned stag on yellow, black antlers stark against the sun. Baratheon reinforcements, no doubt—riders thundering down the pass, dust clouds billowing like storm fronts. Dozens, perhaps scores, drawn by the clamor of battle or some ill-fated scout's report. The tower's isolation had bought them time, but no more.
Arthur reached Baelon's side, his hand clamping on the prince's shoulderder. "She's right, my lord. The child—Jaehaerys—he is the last hope. We cannot hold here. The hidden path through the cellars leads to the wadi below; horses wait there, saddled and provisioned."
Ned Stark, recovering from the fray, lowered Ice slightly, his gaze shifting between the fallen Robert and the approaching host. Conflict warred on his face—the pull of loyalty to his friend clashing with the revelation of kin. "Baelon... if what you say is true... go. Take the boy. But know this ends not here Keep my nephew safe."
Baelon hesitated, Blackfyre still poised over Robert's prone form. Mercy or justice? The usurper groaned weakly, blood pooling beneath him, but alive—barely. To leave him was to invite pursuit, a vengeful storm that would never cease. Yet the babe's cries rose faintly from the nurse's arms, a reminder of oaths sworn to a dying woman. Protect him. From all of them.
With a curse under his breath, Baelon sheathed Blackfyre and turned away, sparing Robert the Stranger's kiss—for now. "Another day, Baratheon," he said, voice like gravel. "May your wounds fester with the lies you've sown."
He joined Arthur and the nurse, scooping the babe into his own arms as they hurried back into the tower's cool embrace. they fled, the sounds of approaching hooves growing louder, a thunderous heartbeat chasing them into the depths. The cellars opened to a narrow cleft in the rock, horses stamping nervously in the shade. Baelon mounted swiftly, cradling Jaehaerys against his chest, the dragon egg a hard lump beneath the swaddling.
As they spurred into the vanishing into the labyrinth of red stone, Baelon glanced back once. The Tower of Joy receded, a sentinel of secrets and sorrow. Ned Stark stood alone in the yard now, tending to his fallen king, the stag banners closing in. Blood called to blood, but survival demanded flight. For the true king in his arms, Baelon would cross seas and mountains, rebuild from ashes what madness had burned. The dragons might yet return—and with them, fire and blood.