Chapter 15: Passing of Spring

Chapter 15: Otto Hightower (100 A.C. Twelth moon)

Small Council Chambers

Otto contemplated how things were as Baelon granted a Corlys to add twenty war galleys to the fleet that would be stationed in Seadragon Point.

Barth's death had been inconvenient, yet the King had rewarded his service with a place on the Small Council as the master of laws. The new Hand wasn't a firm believer, and he had seen it in the policies Prince Baelon implemented.

For example, instead of giving generous donations to the faith, it was cut down and given to programs feeding the poor. A waste of resources.

Then there was the increase in the maintenance of the city's sewage system, which was something he and Barth had slowly decreased its funding, and what if the city smelled more? That coin could be spent elsewhere.

What irritated him the most was the increase in payments to Night Watch, a glorified criminal colony. Unfortunately, the master of coin and master of ships were both firmly in the camp of the prince, and with the King became more and more absent in his rule due to his advancing age. Baelon word was law.

"How are things processing. Concerning the preparation for the Royal hunt to celebrate the new year." Baelon questioned as he looked at Lyman.

"The preparations are going splendidly. Most of all, tents and other necessities were set up. We should be able to leave on the first day of the new year. Also, most of the lords also have arrived." 

"Good, it been the first true event the crown has hosted since my mothers, and goodfather's passing. It should pass a new leaf." Baelon sated. Giving his youngest son a smile, the boy had become the official page and cupbearer of his father after he became seven almost two years ago. He knew the boy would also become the squire of Harold Westerling when he became ten when he would travel North.

Otto had noticed that the boy listened. Not just listen because he has nothing else to do. He listened to want to know what was going on, and there were instances where the boy's eyes would shoot up in recognition. It was as if he had figured something out, yet how or why could he not place it? The boy was seven. 

"Indeed, your grace, the realm could do with some celebration. The past year has been a sad one." Corlys noted.

"Your grace, there is a dispute I wish to bring up to you." He began. "Of course, Otto, what is your wish to bring up?" Baelon replied.

 "The dispute of between houses Pyle and Blount. Both have written about the fact that trees have been cut down in their part of the Kingswood, and both sides are saying the land is theirs. As well known, the crown controls most of it, as it is for your grace and his benefit, as well as food for the crown. Part of it is still controlled by the houses that surround it." He explained.

"Indeed, it is well known that since the acquisition of the Kingswood, the borders of the territory haven't been well defined. I can remember a similar case between the Houses Langward and Gaunt. Do you already have a solution to the dispute?" Baelon noted.

"Well, I already invited both sides to court to come to explain their case further and bring evidence for their claims. After that, I hope to find a settlement or His grace, or Your Grace will have to arbitrate a ruling." He ended with a smile.

Hopefully, after this, the faithful Pyle's will be further aligned with me. I will make sure they are granted favorable terms. The Blounts always have more algin toward the Stromlands and are stubborn and blunt by nature. Farland Blount had been a difficult man to deal with in the beginning days as the steward of Barth.

"Very well, Otto. I shall step if needed. If that's all, this small council session is ended," Baelon proclaimed.

As Otto walked from the chamber. The old grandmaester halted him. "Ser Otto. I received this letter in the morning. It's from Old Town."

"Ah, thank you, Ruciter."

"With pleasure, sir," Ruciter replied before the man walked on. Loyal to the Hightower and Citadel, yet man is getting on in age. Otto mused as he looked at the man as he walked away slowly.

Not long after, Otto Hightower arrived in his chambers and poured himself a cup of wine.

"Ah, Arbor Red. Nothing better," he murmured, savoring the taste.

Once finished, he seated himself behind his desk and broke the green seal marked with the Hightower sigil. The letter was written in his brother's familiar hand.

Dear Brother,

It has been a delight to witness your rise through the ranks. Though it still pains me that you had to serve a commoner, that matters little now.

You are now the Master of Laws. Two of the seven seats on the council are ours. If only Beesbury were more loyal, we might have secured even more influence.

But the waiting is over. You've done well. Your daughter now serves within the King's household, whispering your name and singing your praises.

One last thing—soon spring will pass, and with it, the old. Then our tower's fire shall burn all the brighter.

After he read that, Otto placed the letter down.

 'The prince will die. So, too, will Ruciter.

It is already in motion. If I become Hand now, there's a chance I could gain full control—at least for a time. And if I entrench myself deeper in Viserys's confidence, all the better. He is not a steadfast man. The pressure of a son has already weakened his resolve. With the help of the maesters' potions, it will be a continued struggle. If only such methods worked on that Northern heathen…'

Otto picked up the letter once more, reading the final line again.

Be ready, brother and our house will rise to be the greatest of the realm.

Lord Hobert Hightower, Lord of Old Town and Guardian of the Citadel.

Otto stood up, threw the letter inside the hearth, and watched the letter that would change the world forever burn. He smiled and looked outside toward the west, toward Old Town.

Jaehaerys Targaryen (101 A.C. First Moon)

Kingswood

Jaehaerys looked around

'Everything had gone wonderfully. Celebrating the 101 years of their rule. As he looked around, he saw even Rhaenys smiling, mostly because she had seen her daughter with Aemon. Aemon, the boy, brought a smile to his face. He saw in him the promise of the prince who was to come in him, the Song of Ice and Fire. Balerion's interest in the child and his obedience, as if he were a loyal hound, had only strengthened his certainty. The future line of the throne must carry his bloodline forward. He and Baelon had long discussed it and used it to reconcile with Rhaenys and Coryls.

Viserys, on the other hand, was expected to have a son, and he would marry a daughter or descendant of Aemon in the future, who would marry into his line. Their lineage would be vital to help Westeros face the looming storm from the North. He had feared the prophecy's arrival with each passing winter in his life. Yet, it had not materialized, except for those wintry emotions, the loss of his children, and ultimately, the death of his beloved Alysanne. ' The thought brought a smile to his face as he observed the people reveling on the second feast day of the hunt.

"Father, you're smiling. It's been a while," his son remarked, wearing a smile of his own.

"Yes, Baelon, I haven't felt this much peace since your mother's passing. The family seems to have healed and found happiness again. It brings me great joy, my boy," he replied, his voice filled with emotion.

"I feel the same way, Father. Even Daemon seems to have warmed to his other siblings. His time in the Vale may have softened him, though he was vehemently opposed to the match," Baelon said with a chuckle, and Baelon winced a little.

"Perhaps he has changed. Perhaps Alyssane death helped him see his errors. Maybe, with time, he will be a father and you again a grandfather. Speaking of fatherhood, I've missed your siblings, Baelon," he admitted. Many of his children had passed away, but as a king, he couldn't forgive all that had happened. Nevertheless, he loved them deeply.

"I know, Father. I've missed them too. Perhaps you could write to Seara and try to mend the bond," Baelon suggested, speaking kindly. He, too, had felt the pain of losing a child. Little Aegon hadn't survived long after his mother's death, leaving Baelon melancholy until he met Lyanna, his good daughter, who had brought him out of it.

"Oh, Baelon, I wish I could. If you ever have the chance to go to Volantis, please tell her that I love her?" He pleaded.

"I was too harsh, and it was my fault for choosing the realm too often over my family when I had you, Aemon, and Barth at the time to give the reigns to and spent time with them instead," he lamented, knowing that Alysanne had often implored him to send for her. But the unity of the realm and the humiliation she would have faced kept him from doing so.

"I know. It's a lesson I will take to heart. As for Seara, I will, Father, and I'm glad to hear you say it," Baelon replied before leaving to lead the hunt he had entrusted to the younger generation.

A few hours later, he sat outside the main tent, watching Baelon return with his three sons and a great elk on a sled. Aemon seemed to be dragging a boar behind him.

"Well done, my kin! It appears fortune has bestowed upon us a grand feast," he declared as he stood from his chair, then Aemon proudly presented a boar he had single-handedly felled.

"Grandfather, I slew this boar entirely on my own. Behold," Aemon declared with pride, pointing towards the boar resting on the second sled.

"Well done, my young Dragonwolf," he commended the boy, enveloping him in a warm embrace. Aemon's accomplishment at the tender age of eight filled him with hope and pride, seeing great potential in the lad.

"People of Westeros, my son and grandsons have provided us with a splendid feast," he proclaimed to the assembled crowd. "Let us relish the bounty of meat and partake in the revelry for the coming days. As we enjoy these days of celebration. As we celebrate the 101 years of the reign of House Targaryen. Enjoy the rest of the festivities." his voice echoed, carrying his words to every corner of the gathering.

Baelon Targaryen (101 First Moon)

Tower of the Hand

Baelon winced, panting heavily as he entered the study of the Hand. Sweat clung to his brow and dripped onto the cold marble floor, where the engraved emblem of the Hand's pin shimmered faintly in the torchlight.

'Ruciter's illness, what a cursed inconvenience,' he thought bitterly. He had never truly trusted the man's aides, yet now, in his current state, he wished he had gone to them. He clutched at his stomach, breath short and labored.

Lyanna had questioned him about the pain earlier, concern in her eyes. But he had brushed it off, unwilling to cast a shadow over the celebrations. Not when the hunt had brought his family rare joy since his mother's passing.

Collapsing into the chair behind his desk, he poured himself a cup of wine with a trembling hand. He drank it in one swallow, the burning in his throat a welcome distraction from the agony in his gut.

He leaned back, trying to breathe through the pain, and muttered under his breath, "By the gods… what's happening to me?"

Suddenly, a sharp, searing pain lanced through his abdomen. Baelon doubled over with a cry.

"By the Mother, what was that?" he gasped, gripping the armrest of the chair with white-knuckled hands as the pain stole the breath from his lungs.

"Father, are we going for a dragon ride?" a small voice called out, and he looked up to see Aemon standing in the doorway.

"Sorry, son, I don't think I can right now. I still have some work to complete today," he replied, his voice heavy with pain. Trying to send his smart boy away.

"Father, is everything alright?" Aemon asked fearfully, and the roars of Balerion and Vhagar resonated outside.

"Everything is fi..." He was cut off by another stabbing pain and collapsed into his chair.

"No, Father, please!" he heard his son plead, tears in his eyes. It was the last thing he remembered before losing consciousness.

"Baelon, please stay with us," a voice called out as another wave of fire shot through his gut. The pain was unbearable—it felt as if he were aflame, like his dragon.

"My prince, you must lie still," came an old voice—strained, but steady. "The best you can do is not move and disturb the injury."

"Save my father, you old wretch, or—" Daemon's voice snarled, just before a loud crash as Ruciter was slammed against the wall.

"Daemon, enough! The Grand Maester is doing what he can. He's as sick as Father is," Viserys snapped, trying to hold everything together.

"Ahhh!" Baelon groaned, another surge of pain coursing through him. The world began to blur. He was fading again.

He awoke to the sound of weeping.

"No, please, Kepa, don't leave. I don't want to lose you," Aemon cried in Valyrian.

Baelon turned his head slowly and saw his son being held by Viserys, while Lyanna sat beside the bed, her face streaked with tears.

"Oh, Baelon the Brave, be strong, my love," Lyanna whispered, gently placing her hands on his face. "Please, all of you, leave us for a moment. I need to be alone with my husband."

When they had gone, her voice softened, almost reverent. "Baelon, thank you… for everything. For our children, for this family. But now you must fight. Fight for us."

Her words brought him momentary peace as he gazed into her grey eyes.

"I love you, Lya… you and our children. After Alyssa—ahhh..." he tried to speak, but the pain returned.

"Take it easy, my love," she said, taking his hand and kissing him. Her lips were salty with tears, but the kiss brought some small relief.

"After Alyssa, I never thought I could love again," he murmured. "But you, my she-wolf… you rekindled my heart."

And then the darkness returned.

He didn't know how long he lay there. Time blurred. On the final day, his youngest son came to him.

"Father… I'm sorry," Aemon whispered, voice shaking. "I thought it was enough… but for things to truly change, I must be ruthless. I couldn't save you. But I will keep our family strong—and the dragons, too. I'll prepare the realm for Aegon's prophecy."

Baelon felt the boy's cold tears soaking into his chest.

"Thank you for being my father these nine years," Aemon continued, sobbing. "I couldn't have asked for a better one."

Baelon no longer felt the pain. His body was already letting go, he realized. But he summoned what strength remained.

"Aem… Aemon… I love you, my boy. Be happy. Fall in love. Fulfill your duty to your family."

He stroked his son's cheek with a shaking hand.

"I will," Aemon vowed. "But Father… I couldn't save you. Balerion wasn't alive before. I tried to change things so you'd live, too."

Baelon blinked slowly. It was an odd thing to say, but Aemon had always understood the world more deeply than other children.

"Aemon… it was never your duty to save me. The gods decide such things, and life does." Baelon said voice strained. "But you… you will have a role to play. I knew it the moment Balerion chose you. I am proud of yo…"

His words trailed off as the cold came for him at last.

(In 101 A.C., during the first moon, Prince Baelon Targaryen died from a burst belly.)