Chapter 76: Baelor XIII
Late 162 AC
Warning: contains scenes of mental distress
"House Toland surrenders to you and your authority," the man said, kneeling in the dust before the heir to the Iron Throne and his entourage of sworn swords, sworn shields, and Ser Thorne. By his side, Lord Baratheon stood proud but silent, having decided that this was to be Baelor's first official surrender without his immediate oversight. Around them, the barest beginnings of a siege camp were already being disassembled, making way for an orderly camp surrounding the castle town.
Baelor nodded solemnly as one of his aides produced a scroll, one whose contents had been specifically written for this day, as each had been for the surrenders before. "For the surrender of House Toland to the Iron Throne and the standing down of all remaining fighting men, the hostages already provided by House Toland shall remain unharmed. Taxes owed shall be paid directly to the Iron Throne for the next five years, provided no harm is done to those occupying these lands as garrisons to ensure the peace, in which case more hostages will be taken. In turn for your surrender, no looting shall take place in your lands, and you shall be under the protection of the Iron Throne and whomever my brother declares to be the next Lord Paramount of Dorne."
"Is not Lord Martell the bearer of that title?" the kneeling lord asked, glancing up in surprise.
"His brother was set to be as such before his assassination, my lord, and as such with the civil war and revolt ongoing, a coronation to declare him as such is unavoidably postponed." Baelor bit back a grimace at the thought of the reports on who had all died at that terrible banquet. "As it is, Lord Toland, please rise and answer me, for I am curious as to why you surrendered so quickly. Ghost Hill has a history with my house, one that some lords might have seen repeated in sending a fool to do battle with my champion."
"I am in no position or desire to do so, my prince," Lord Toland replied, rising to his feet. "Despite my initial unease with surrendering to King Daeron, mine eyes have been opened to the trouble we face should we fight such a lost and expensive cause as independence. Within a fortnight of Lord Martell's death, my neighbors openly declared for whomever they wished, driving wedges between us all. I turned inward rather than march upon my fellow Dornish, but since then we have been besieged on all sides by any manner of foes. My lands have been relatively untouched by the civil war's initial blows, but the aftereffects of Lord Martell's assassination are yet felt to this day. Hungry mouths stream into my lands, refugees from those suffering from famine. Raiders and marauders probe my borders, seeking weaknesses to exploit and plunder to carry off. Even along the coast I have barely the men to spare to repel potential slaver raids, as I have heard their numbers in the Sea of Dorne are swelling as the war continues."
Whilst he had heard of Dornish holding their forces to their own lands before, having liberated several since the civil war started, Baelor had heard nothing about pirates beginning to swarm the coast like flies upon carrion. Given how such fiends always preyed upon the helpless and undefended, it did not surprise him. "With your lands now under the protection of the Iron Throne, a detachment of ships from the Royal Fleet may be stationed in your harbor, to better aid in defending our combined borders. All other ports in the Sea of Dorne likewise have had ships stationed to sail the coasts, some entirely from the Royal Fleet, and others mixed with whatever ships those Dornish lords yet had on hand."
"My harbor is not large, my prince, as it may hold perhaps ten at a time, but with the seas growing more dangerous, I've fewer fishermen venturing beyond the sight of shore. If they know that the Iron Throne has sent ships out there, holding back the attempts by Essosi to enslave my people, then they will be more liable to go and bring in their catches, alleviating the hunger many of my people have begun to feel."
The prince nodded solemnly. The strain of this conflict was affecting even those that saw little fighting and were he to prevent famine from spreading here as well, he would need to ensure that supplies would not be disrupted. "I will see to it that word is sent to Lord Velaryon, the Master of Ships, so that trusted men may be stationed here to protect your shores."
"You have my sincerest thanks, my prince," Lord Toland said. "Shall you dine in your camp tonight? Or would you rather in the comfort of my halls, as sparse as they have become in these troubling times?"
At first, Baelor was unsure whether to accept this invitation. Lord Toland had indeed not sent anyone out to fight, as far as any evidence had shown, but to have holed up in his castle and lands did not speak particularly well of him. Pragmatic, yes, but some would call it cowardly. Baelor did not agree with the men that would think this way, for he saw the suffering of the smallfolk whose lords had thought to fight everyone and anyone they seemingly could, for whatever reasons they might have in these trying times. However, before he could answer, a familiar voice cut through his thoughts.
"We most graciously accept your offer of hospitality, the details of which I will discuss with my foster son, Lord Toland. We shall await your bread and salt in the meantime."
The Dornish lord nodded and departed, flanked by far more men than he had arrived with, those being a great number of their Stormlander troops who would ensure the castle was secure. Baelor, letting out a sigh he'd not been aware of, turned to his foster father, who wordlessly nodded for him to follow.
"Your first genuine surrender, one without a drop of blood spilt," Lord Baratheon said after a few moments. "How did it feel?"
"I felt… relieved," the prince replied, biting back more… fragile words. "I'd been alongside you for all those others, yet this one felt… different."
"Aye, it would, given the differences we have seen during this damned war," his foster father said. "Just be glad that this one did not end with a siege, nor the starving people within giving themselves up for a chance at food, as that would have undoubtedly burned through most of our own supplies."
"Is it common to feel annoyed at a man's decisions, when they were decisions you would have taken in the same situation?"
Lord Baratheon gave him an odd look. "Whatever do you mean?"
Hold it in, hold it in, do not let him see. "What it appears Lord Toland did was for the best of his people and his house. Surrounded by foes or unknown variables, he decided to consolidate his forces, hold to his lands alone, and hold out with no clear declaration of loyalty in mind to Martell, Targaryen or some other house. He did not call for our aid nor send ships, which we could have used to establish a beachhead earlier in this revolt. Yet he did not raise his hand against us."
"If it weren't for the fact that he kneeled to us the moment we began to set up our camp in preparation for a siege, I'd have thought the man to be performing his compliance in a malicious way, as I have heard it said before."
"How can compliance be malicious?"
Lord Baratheon chuckled. "Quite easily, my prince. Say a lord was meant to write to his liege lord of issues troubling his lands, in the event he could not manage them himself. If he were to write constantly to his lord of problems, no matter how great or small, he would be ignoring the spirit of the law, but not breaking the law itself. Or, for example, a lord could pay his taxes entirely in groats and pennies, despite his taxes being more efficient when using silver or gold."
"I see… I think," Baelor replied, again biting back words his foster father would not understand. "Yet as to how Lord Toland has acted?"
"Nay, I think he was playing it as smartly as he could with what he knew. If he rode into other Dornish lands, he stood the chance of fighting Dornish that have declared for the Iron Throne, either by accident or design, and thus would be an enemy. By staying in his own lands, this lord has managed to weather the conflict surprisingly well, even with the refugees from other lands straining his food stocks. That he took in these refugees in such times speaks a bit more favorably of his character, does it not?"
"I believe so," Baelor said, the thought of starving smallfolk bringing back… unpleasant memories. "Were I so cut off, I'd have done much the same, and yet… why not send for aid by ships before the pirates have apparently become more and more numerous near Dornish shores?"
"Any number of reasons my prince," Royce said. "Come, let us wash, hopefully whatever Lord Toland's larders have are fit enough for our stomachs, even after so long on the march."
The posturing that followed his quick camp shower was as usual. Escorted by a crowd of sworn swords and shields, and the buildings and vistas around scoured for any sign of assassins or traps, the procession into the castle town was met by a combination of relieved silence and the dull murmurs of the crowd of smallfolk. Men and women with growing touches of gauntness seemed to be almost as common as those of a healthy complexion, the sight of which filled his belly with yet another ache. This had become far too common a sight these past months.
Moving into the castle was another showy affair. Bread and salt were offered and accepted, the former of which did not taste nearly as pleasant as that from Wytch lands for some reason. Supper was a properly yet quickly arranged affair, and while he knew where his room was to be, and how many were to guard it, Baelor always kept as many men near him as was reasonable.
"With this portion now secured, and our forces marching on every hold between here and the Greenblood's tributaries, it will only be a matter of time before this can be settled once and for all," Lord Baratheon explained to Lord Toland, Baelor watching in silence as they ate. The food tasters had been plentiful, the food itself mildly spiced yet filling, and while nothing like the Red Keep or Stormhall, it was far more varied than the food he had grown accustomed to on the march. After all, care had to be taken to keep the finer sand grains from worming their way into the stores and rendering food very unpleasant to eat.
"That is good to hear, my lord," Lord Toland replied, his family sitting in silence with them. Young children for the most part, save for a daughter perhaps Baelor's age, one whose gaze drifted to him every so often as they ate. Either she didn't realize he'd noticed, or it did not matter to her, a oddly common trait among Dornish ladies he'd met thus far.
'Not another one," Baelor thought, annoyance, exasperation and amusement blending into a strange feeling in his belly. He'd started noticing how Dornish girls were looking at him ever since he'd been in Lord Yronwood's castle, where the maids and more than a few Yronwood scions had taken to staring at him whenever they thought he might not notice. At least Lord Toland's was pretty, a trait he'd noticed tended to be common among the Dornish ladies with Rhoynar ancestry. That, or they spent more time with their maids anointing themselves with oils, perfumes and powders to keep up such an appearance.
He shoved away the thought of Daena dressed up with such similar perfumes and powders. It would not do for him to lose his composure at dinner, when he was supposed to be presenting a serious and princely façade.
"Within two moons, provided we face no great sieges, I am confident we shall find ourselves outside of Sunspear's walls," Lord Baratheon continued. "If there is to be a siege it will hopefully be short, provided we are able to link up with Lord Yronwood's forces."
"Lord Yronwood has raised a force to march on Sunspear?" Lord Toland asked.
"Aye, along the Greenblood, to secure our side of the great river and swell our forces with lords who have held out as you have. Cleaning out bandit nests along the river and those of whatever marauders have arisen has won us the support of these lords and the smallfolk alike, assisting our mutual goals."
"That he is able to keep in contact with your forces is a testament to how capable his messengers are in these trying times," Lord Toland said. "Were it so that messengers were never waylaid by bandits or those with ill intent. Such envoys once were given respect enough to remain unimpeded in their duties, yet I fear the number who have lost their lives in this war has reached such a critical point that few may wish for such a task."
"Which is why we are trying to end this war, Lord Toland," Baelor said, setting down his utensils and folding his hands below his chin. "The revolt that was to happen has turned upon Dorne itself, and every day we do not end the fighting, the more the suffering spreads. You yourself have spoken of the refugees that have come to your lands, seeking shelter and succor from the ravages of the fighting of your neighbors. In my time on the march, I have seen the likes of things I did not see even in the previous war, things that are too terrible to name in front of your children. The longer this persists, the more terrible things we will witness, and the longer it will take for Dorne to recover."
"Prince Baelor?" Lord Toland's daughter asked, her voice soft yet carrying well over the table.
"Yes, my lady?" the prince replied.
"How is Dorne to recover from everything we have endured? Will the Iron Throne aid in our struggle?"
"The Iron Throne already aids in your struggle, my lady. Civil wars tend to be the affairs of kingdoms alone, but this coincided with a revolt against my brother's throne. Were it up to lesser kings, we might have abstained entirely, and yet I could not in good conscience do so. The sooner that this is over, the sooner we can begin rebuilding Dorne, and bring it further beyond what it once was, as have the Stormlands and other kingdoms begun to under my brother's rule."
"They have? How so?" Lord Toland asked. "I am afraid not much news has reached this far into Dorne from the king's other subjects, especially during these trying times."
"For several years now, the Stormlands as a whole has not imported any grain from the Reach," Lord Baratheon said. "Courtesy of one of our lords and the efforts of his family, we have the tools to till and plant more land than ever before, all the while using less beasts of burden to do so. With the addition of the crops imported from across the Narrow Sea by Prince Baelor himself, and save for a few stubborn smaller lords scattered throughout, every keep has adopted the means of producing more than enough for their larders and smallfolk alike these days."
"The Crownlands and North have begun adopting these practices and crops as well, with the Neck in the North becoming one of their primary sources of rice, a staple of lands around Yi Ti," Baelor added, falling into a usual pattern as he had with other Dornish lords. Hopefully this would take a good deal of dinner, so he could excuse himself for bed. "I would see to it that Dorne would do the same, even if the realm does not have the spare land to turn into more farmland. As for Dorne's other shortcomings, already we build and expand upon her roads and bridges where needed. In time, I believe aqueducts from the north could ferry excess rainwater and snowmelt to Dorne's thirstier interior, where it would be most welcomed. As for the…"
It was if he were running in circles, always on the move, and yet never seeming to progress to his destination. Endless halls, unseen ceilings, and a gray haze that lingered like smoke upon a still battlefield.
"Craven!"
Not that there was a genuine destination. It was not a matter of where he could escape, but when.
"Butcher!"
Words he had heard time and time again in his quiet moments, no matter the praise and flattery that fell upon him, were thrown into his face and carved into his mind, no matter how hard he tried to shut them out.
"Dragonspawn!"
The three condemned that berated him dropped alongside the others, the ropes snapping taut amidst the cracks of their necks. Baelor watched the memory of it, as clear as if he was still there. Yet as they swung, their voices joined those of others long since dead.
"Unworthy!"
Try as he might, Baelor could not drown out their voices as he ran through the great halls of his dreamscape. Having only begun to see this after a half-forgotten nightmare before the events beneath the Undersand, it had become a source of comfort, where he could retreat from the pressure of the day whenever he slept and awaken refreshed and renewed. Here, his dreams were safe; here, he was safe. Yet as the war dragged on, it had begun to twist, slowly at first, but more and more as his days saw little else but the ravages of this conflict. In time, no matter how hard he stood against its advance, this sanctuary had become its own hell, the likes of which he could barely withstand more than the waking world itself.
"Impious!"
The worst of it was that not every night was like this. Some nights were calm, peaceful, and he would awaken completely refreshed and ready for the day. Others were strange yet wonderous, dreams of nonsense that brought him neither grief nor ill, but instead a sense of joyful exuberance, like the stories his mother would tell him as a young child. Yet the nights that were the worst, the ones that he dreaded to fall asleep to and craved to wake from… had been steadily growing worse still. Filled with the whispers of kin, kith and strangers alike, bearing down on him as he relived some of the worst things he had seen or done, his doubts and fears manifesting like ghosts and other horrid apparitions. It was all he could do to not break down and sob in his rooms when he awoke from such terrors, as he could not even wave them off as dragon dreams, for there was no prophetic nature to them at all. A prince could not be seen falling victim to things nobody else could see, lest they think him mad, and so he bore this burden in secret, even from his sworn shields and swords. He doubted even his foster father knew of these troubles.
"Foul wretch!"
He swatted away the specter before him, of the memory of that hanging he had ordered. It had not been his fault for the deaths of their sons against the forces of his foster father, yet their attempts on the lives of his sworn shields to get to him had left him little choice. Refusing the black or Silent Sisterhood, even at his urging to save their necks, had brought about a sickness in his stomach that no medicine could treat, even if by all rights he should not have offered them even that. Their bodies, swinging in the desert wind, still haunted him at times, accusing eyes peeking out from bulging purple faces.
Then there were the others, those whose lives had been destroyed by this conflict. People, men and women, young and old, he had seen them all and bore the burden of remembering their tragedies. Witnessed their struggles, spoken with them, eaten with them, overseen their cries for justice and attempted to bring relief to their lives.
A young girl, crying in confusion as her father lay choking on his own blood, the arrow lodged in his lung from a marauder's errant shot leaking his lifeblood onto the sands of their village as his men stormed it.
An old woman, screaming and crying and slapping the bandit who had had a hand in the rape and murder of her only daughter, her limbs unable to inflict more than superficial damage before Baelor's axe removed the bandit's head from his shoulders.
The sight of a child laying as a parched husk along a trail, eye sockets pecked clean by carrion birds, alongside the dried remnants of their parents, victims of famine as they tried to reach safe lands. Others along the same miles of road, scattered here or there, some partially buried by wind and sand, desiccated arms reaching for salvation out of their reach.
The man grieving over the bodies of his children, lives taken from him by sickness brought into his village by a band of marauders, his screams unlike any which Baelor had heard before. Baelor's bile would occasionally rise in his throat at the thought of the man's body, swinging from a nearby tree, having joined his children in the embrace of the Seven after seeing to their burials.
Even amongst his own men, those who had seen too much or bore the burden of surviving whilst kin and comrades had not. Men weeping as they held their fallen brothers, fathers grieving sons, sons wailing over the lifeless bodies of fathers. Men never injured by battle succumbing to illness or spoiled food, or those whose unsteady steps sent them tumbling off a steep path through gorges and slopes meant for goats, not men. Boys away from home for the first time found dead from scorpions they had failed to keep from infiltrating their rucksacks, or good and honest men crippled by the sudden kicks of adder-startled mules.
The tapestry of suffering was an unending parade as he traversed Dorne, and while he had done his best to avoid it these past months, it had now invaded his dreams, leaving him a shivering, shaking mess when he rose with the sun. It was not the thought of battle that brought him distress, as he had seen with other men whose cries could be heard after random clashes of metal, or when thunder rumbled close enough to sound as hooves from a charge of cavalry. Nay, the people of Dorne who were suffering, their lives ruined by this revolt and resulting civil war, it was their faces, their cries, their unknown fates that were driving him mad.
How had the war become this terrible? It was nothing as he had recalled it being during the first war, when he aided in conquering lands and battling Dornish armies. What awful curse had been inflicted upon the Dornish for them to so readily tear themselves apart in such a fashion? Was this from the death of that dreadful godling within the gloom of the Undersand, when its words were silenced by Lord Wytch and himself? Or had it been another's doing? On the worst of these nights, thoughts crept into his skull like worms burrowing into a fallen apple. Had… had he been the one behind this? Was the prince and heir of House Targaryen to blame for the suffering of these people?
"Lecher!"
"Spoiled princeling!"
"Fyrestorm…"
A voice soon joined the throng as he had begun to think this. A mirror image of him, flitting about, a spectral wraith in his own mind wearing his face, and yet entirely not him. He had never worn such a cruel smile, his eyes had never glittered with such malicious delight, and it taunted him with wheedling words that were beyond what he thought himself capable of. This… other Baelor was not real, it could not be real, and yet it persisted on those worst nights, arriving as an unwanted guest that he could not simply banish from his presence.
"They did this to themselves," he muttered, cutting off what would have only been another barb to his heart from his twisted image. It was a mantra he had repeatedly needed to tell not only himself, but to others when their own thoughts turned inward and dark.
His false image chuckled darkly, moving between the paintings and tapestries that lined his halls. The cruelty within reminded him of a king generations from now that burned men alive, yet the madness was missing, controlled instead by an iron will that would cut any in its way. "Would they, had you not entered Dorne thrice now? Once for war, once for treasure, and now to finally send them to their knees?"
"They were raiding into the Stormlands years before, it was a justified response then as it would be now, were they not so terrified of the consequences."
His shade mockingly pondered, tapping his chin. "Perhaps, were it not for the raids of the Stormlanders in kind. We both know there is never just one side raiding another, especially in lands like these. It is the nature of border lords to raid with or without the permission of the king, yet to use that as part of the excuse to subjugate an entire princedom?"
"That was not my doing," Baelor replied. He refused to say our, lest he give this twisted version even more power than it had already gained through words alone. "It was my brother's wish to see this, and their other transgressions, come to an end. A united Westeros is one less likely to suffer at the hands of its immediate neighbors, hence his efforts to put the Vale clans to heel."
"No, it was not your doing, as it was sloppy and short-sighted. A convenient excuse on his part, to use the raids to rally more lords and ladies to his cause, where he intended to 'right the wrongs' of your house's history with Dorne by conquering them, as your ancestors failed to do. He succeeded, but with the blood of untold numbers on his hands."
"I did what I could to alleviate the suffering of a war I did not start!" Baelor roared in reply. "I saw to it that excessive looting and rape were forbidden, punishable by death or the black no matter their rank. Sieges were peacefully settled without the need to storm a keep more times than not. Lords and ladies were treated fairly, with only minimal penalties upon those who resisted and none upon those who did not fight. Hostages were to be scattered across Westeros to keep them safer from Dornish plots back home and to open their eyes to lands and peoples beyond their sandy realm. I imported food to alleviate the losses of burnt fields and orchards to reduce the chances of famine. I saw to so much of it, I tried, I tried so hard…"
The pitying look was worse than a direct insult, as if he were a mere child that could not understand why his pet cat couldn't play like it used to. "Yet it wasn't enough, was it? You wanted to do more, but could not, for either tradition or others stood in your way. War is bloody, you always knew this. Even when the words of the Seven were among the few things that filled your little pious skull, you knew that the ways of the world were dark, bloody, and oftentimes cruel beyond measure, and the means to combat these would require a will far greater than merely your own. What of the smallfolk starving in the streets of Kings Landing during your family's feasts? What of the poor mothers whoring out their daughters so that they would not find themselves without a home whilst you sleep soundly? Or the city's septons, fat and gaudy, bearing trinkets of higher stations whilst their devoted struggled to feed their children?"
The prince grit his teeth in smoldering shame. "I know all of this already, having witnessed it all and more, but there is only so much I can do as a prince, and even more than I cannot. There are lines that, if crossed, must be done with extreme care, and I cannot afford to do so at this time." It was an entirely valid excuse, considering all he had gone up against, but still an excuse that beat against his heart.
His shade sneered derisively. "Of course you can combat these issues, you meek milksop, and the ones you claim you 'cannot' are merely obstacles for now, as have been all the things you've thus far overcome. The smallfolk of Kings Landing know no better than the illiterate sheepherders of the Essosi steppes. Your culling of the corruption within the goldcloaks and the solidification of their duties as peacekeepers, the renovation and rebuilding of the Dragonpit, the importation of distant crops and the knowledge of how best to grow them; these are just the start of your plans. There is so much more that you could do for the city of your forefathers and the kingdoms they conquered, so much more that the lands under the Iron Throne so desperately need. Fleabottom comes to mind, that stinking cesspit and churning cauldron of filth and disease."
He had given this plenty of thought, ever since his brother had approved a small-scale start to his original plans for the exploitation of the Kingswood days before they had marched to war. Yet no matter how often he tried to determine better ways to go about his plans, they always circled back to their implementation. "I cannot force the smallfolk from their hovels, not with the maesters signaling the end of summer and the beginning of autumn. Even if it meant I would tear down their ramshackle buildings to create newer and better ones, the likes of which I have only ever seen in Lowhill and other Wytch towns, I will not treat the subjects of my house with such contempt."
"Bah! Who cares for the poorest of the poor? They stand in the way of such a grand vision, of a rebuilt Kings Landing, the envy of a continent! The masses will surely thank you endlessly for your foresight in widening the streets, renovating the sewers and allowing for a greater degree of prosperity, just as they no doubt would appreciate ridding the city of its worst inhabitants."
"They would, but it would not replace the fact that lives had to be destroyed for it to be accomplished."
His dark imitation shrugged. "How many lords grieve for the smallfolk lost during the harsh winter following the Dance, save for how it affected their rents and taxes? How many cared for the number of smallfolk levies turned to ash by dragons during the Conquest itself? None care, none remember, and you should not either."
"If we care not for the smallfolk, then they shall rightly revolt against our rule," Baelor countered. "For all that they provide for us, the laws we provide for them in return cannot be so easily dismissed, as twisted and numerous they may be. I have seen the consequences of smallfolk being used and abused by their lords for however and whenever they please, it is not a pleasant sight, nor should it be tolerated." He would never be a tyrant, not even a kind one, for he had seen the loyalty and love of the people of Wytch lands, the kind that would persist for years to come. It was that kind of loyalty that he would wish for his house, even from the lords and ladies that had pledged themselves originally under the threat of dragons.
"The smallfolk exist to provide for us whatever we need, be it their tax, their labor, or their very lives for our wars. Why should it be any different now than how it has been for untold generations?" his opposite asked, and for a moment, there was something of his cousin Aegon in the man's features. A mere flicker of it, but the hunger, the envy, the disregard… it was all there.
"House Targaryen is striving to improve upon the legacy of its ancestors. I am striving to be a better man, a better prince, than those that came before me." Thoughts of his ancestors and kin came to mind, of envious princes whose hunger drove his family apart time and time again. His mirrored face twisted slightly, and in its features he saw that which he had only seen in tapestries, that of his grandfather Daemon. That same blood, covetous of power and quick to anger, flowed in his veins as it did the cousin that he so detested. Was it any wonder that, in another life, his cousin was the way he was, where power had come to him along with nothing to keep his inner desires in check?
Was this a curse upon their lineage, to suffer when hearts were good, and to excel when cruelty replaced kindness and wisdom?
"You are already better than those that came before, Fyrestorm," his shade replied, face returning to a crueler version of his own. "Yet why stop there?"
"…no, no, I will not even think of that path," the prince replied, the other voices falling away as darkness, frightful and deep, cast itself over his mind. More faces appeared, twisted in anger, fear, or contempt. "I will not drive my family apart for the sake of my own wants or desires!"
"You say that, yet you feel that I am an obstacle in your path," one said, warping into the visage of his brother. Crown askew, with blood pooling from the corners of his mouth, and a hateful glare in his lifeless eyes. "You would seek to usurp me, to use the throne as an avenue for your own plans for our house."
"Never! I am no kinslayer or usurper, you know this! I will never be another Maegor, nor another great-uncle Aegon, nor any other covetous prince from our family's past."
His shade moved through his brother's face, melding the flesh into his own, like a hand retreating from a tub of hot wax. "He is in your way. He is foolish, his plans are bloody, and he will bring ruin to your house. He care for himself and his own desires, not the wellbeing of the kingdoms he has sworn to rule."
"My brother is my king!" Baelor cried. "No matter our disagreements, he has given me no doubts as to seeking what is best for our house in this day and age."
"He will bring death and suffering to the people, just as your cousin would."
Baelor could not bite back the hatred in his voice. "My brother is nothing like Aegon. For every fault of my brother, my cousin's actions are worse, worse than I could have ever imagined…"
The very same man's visage appeared, bloated and dripping with wriggling worms. "You are weak, a pathetic excuse for a Targaryen. No matter your achievements, no matter your works, you will always be the pale little septon hiding away in his rooms. Head in your book, without a cock between his legs and no fire in his blood, a little goat playing at being a dragon."
His shade's dark chuckle rumbled like distant thunder, moving alongside the false Aegon. "Is Daeron not in love with himself, the idea of being a king who commands, rather than a king who leads? He cares not for the future of his line, content to remain unwed even as the major lords begin to grow upset at his spurning of marriage offers. Your cousin meanwhile cares little for the opinions of those he considers his lessers, his own wife included."
"Daeron will marry in due time, I am sure of it. I have spoken with him on the matter before." Even with his letters with cousin Naerys, he could not deny that his cousin's woes had only been briefly reprieved with her husband's marching off to the Vale.
"Yet if he does not? A bachelor king is one easily replaced when his heir is wed. Yet he deigned that you and your sister would wed, an unpopular decision concerning the maidens of the realm. Rather that betroth you to a powerful house for leverage and alliances, as it has been for this great game for generations before our house's arrival, he remains focused on the glory of a house long since past its prime!"
"Better Daena is to wed me than to fall to the temptations of my cousin!" Baelor roared in reply.
"Will she resist this temptation in your marriage? Aegon is a handsome son of House Targaryen, perhaps even more than you are. She is a most headstrong woman, prideful in ways that rankle your tender sensibilities and more than capable of duplicity. Who is to say she will not pass of Aegon's child as your own until it is too late for you to do anything about it?"
"She will not! I will not allow that to happen, for the likes of Daemon Blackfire and his illborn siblings to taint our family!" the prince countered.
"The kindness of your heart will be the doom of us all!" another voice cried, and from the shadows emerged Daena. Eyes streaked with tears, much as they were when he saw the future that had once been possible, where he spurned her and locked her away 'in comfort' to resist temptation. "A prince, let alone a king, needs to be strong, decisive, and willing to do what it takes to secure his house's future! When the need is most dire, you react with indecisive compassion, not ruthless pragmatism. Your friend the Wytch is more worthy a prince than you!"
"No, he is not!" Baelor cried, his admission wounding him worse than their biting words. Falling to his knees, as their faces swam around him, he held his head in his hands, unshed tears breaking free. "I am a worthy prince of House Targaryen!"
"He is more worthy than you could ever be!" false Daeron roared. "He is willing to be cruel when called for, and kind only when it suits him. The deaths of Dornish bandits by his hands drove terror into their hearts not even dragons could match!"
"I burned alive an army of Dornish, to where they fear me as much as he!" He regretted their deaths, but not the lives he had saved of his own men that day, a juxtaposition that still gave him grief. How could he celebrate saving lives while also feeling terrible for taking them?
The shade of the bloated Aegon cruelly wheezed. "Your burning of those Dornish was a fluke, a mere folly of wind and weather. When the decisions are hard, you let others lead you, allowing for your decisions to be overridden without so much as a fight. You are no dragon, but a puppet whose strings he cannot even see."
"I make my own destiny, after what I have witnessed!" Baelor roared through the tears. Hidden envies bubbled in his throat, scalding his tongue with every word. "I aided in slaying a godling whose influence was molesting all Dorne's waters! I saw the future of our house and have already begun to make sure such a dark future never comes to pass!"
"Yet can you?" the tear-soaked Daena hissed. "Men can no more overcome their nature than they can fly! In your heart you are too pious, too weak, too unable to make your own decisions without needing someone to encourage you first. For all that you have changed, you will still be the shameful little dragon that preferred the life of a septon to that of a prince!"
"I… I…" Baelor trailed off, trying to find fault in her words, but they were not truly her words, but his own. Deep and dark thoughts, finding greater purchase as this war went on, ones he had long thought banished. Traitorous desires and wishes, kept under a tight leash, yet threatening to spill from his lips even now, amidst his tears.
He envied his friend's accomplishments and life, of Lord Wytch's seeming inability to do wrong. Of the beauty of Casper's marriage to Mylenda and the love they so clearly held for one another, a love Baelor was unsure he would ever achieve for himself, let alone be worthy of. Casper had done so much in so short a time, yet he, a prince, had done so little without Lord Wytch's hand in the matter. He would not have even met the man were it not for the sept of Lowhill drawing his attention all those years ago.
He mistrusted the lords and men he served alongside, not for their strength of arms or their willingness to follow his orders, but at the games that were being played throughout the kingdoms even now. With his brother off to war, what hidden plots could he not see? What lies were told to his uncle with which he built a grand picture of how the kingdoms were faring, only for such a structure to face inevitable collapse should the truths come to light?
He despaired at the silence of the Seven. No matter his cries, no matter his prayers and nightmares, they never answered. Nothing did these days, no matter whose name he cried.
"Seven, please, help me," he muttered, but received no reply.
His false visage sneered as it reappeared before him once more, eyes boring into his own, as if daring him to beg, to cry out, for it would be all for naught as it had been for many nights now.
"Father, ancestors, aid me in my hour of need, please."
The other faces, joined by many more, continued to circle around him, their jeers and taunts, curses and insults washing over him like a chilling rain.
"Lord Baratheon! Please, I beg you, wake me from this terrible torment!"
The faces drew closer, poisonous words beginning to overwhelm his ears, and finding purchase upon his very lips, threatening to fill his mouth with hate, fear, and so many lies.
"Casper!" he cried, struggling beneath their influence, drowning in their sins and his own, real or self-inflicted. "Casper, please, Casper, if you can hear me…"
The faces were upon him, biting into him, tearing his clothes and flesh alike with sharp words and sharper teeth. They were devouring him, rending him apart, and what would remain once they were finished? What would remain of Prince Baelor, once all that he was had been stripped away? Would they join with him, a cancerous mass of inner demons overtaking what he had become? Would he become as his visage, and those of others he denied?
Would he descend into… madness?
A flash of lightning crashed through the air, the light searing away the faces, their screams of rage and agony drifting away as smoke upon a stiff wind. Even his own terrible visage, eyes alight as the lightning struck it from behind, opened its mouth unnaturally wide as it cried out in surprise and terror, before vanishing as it was reduced to ash. Blinking away his tears in the fading light, the rumble that followed shook him to the core, as if he were bouncing around within a great gong of Yi Ti. Then, as the light faded to inky dark of a midnight storm, and the rumble was replaced by soft whispers of rain upon cobblestones, he looked up to find…
"You?"
It was the very same figure he recalled from… a lifetime ago, it felt. Wreathed in dark storm clouds, outlines traced by the occasional flashes of light, their entire face was cast in shadow, save for the dim violet light emerging from where the eyes would be.
"Yes, prince," the figure replied, offering an armored hand. "I am here once again. You are… distressed."
"… yes, I am," Baelor muttered, accepting the pull to his feet. "This war, what I've seen, it is all… so much. I'm not sure how much more of this I can take." He felt calm in the presence of this… stranger, yet felt a kindred connection he could not place.
"You will endure, Prince Baelor," the figure replied.
"Yet what if I can't?" the prince asked. "Can you help me? I know it is shameful for me to ask-,"
"No, it is not," the figure replied, cutting off his self-reproach. "There is no shame in asking for help when you need it most from those you know and trust. I will help you as I can, but it must be through your own will, your decisions, that you recover from this lapse into madness, as brief as it was."
"Madness?" Baelor asked softly. So, he had been cracking under the pressure of it all…
"Indeed, but fear not, for this is something everyone must endure at some point. The only difference between yourself and those same suffering is how you will respond to this. Will you fall into deeper despair, or will you rise again, as the sun upon the eastern sky?"
"I… I will try," Baelor asked. "Though tell me, why help me? I remember your voice but cannot put a name to it. I remember your help when I was drowning in visions of the future, yet what you showed me to free me… I can only remember in the barest of memories. You came then, as you did now when I called out for… my… friend…"
The figure was silent for hours, or perhaps mere moments. "I know of your friend, Lord Wytch. His closeness to you is what called me to your aid, though more I will not say."
"Why not?" Baelor asked, hating to sound petulant for his rescuer's recalcitrance. "How are you connected with Casper?"
"I will explain in time, lest the… wrong conclusions be drawn, and context unknown," the figure replied, as the world around them began to brighten, and Baelor realized he was about to wake up. "Next you need me, call for your friend, and I will show you the answers to what you seek."
"Answers?" Baelor asked, noticing his own voice growing faint as the waking world rose to greet him. "How will I know what to ask?"
There was a smile in the figure's voice… somehow. "You will know when the time comes… my prince."