Chapter Text
Innocence is subjective, by all means.
Even the purest of souls can be tainted in the blink of an eye.
Whether it was by the furious flames of war or thick drops of blood, never water. Only the finest of Targaryen blood was enough to corrupt, forever tainted and cursed as a bloodline.
The reasoning behind it, she did not know, but what she did know is that she should have left well enough alone. She should not have been wandering the dank halls of the castle, and certainly not alone, but she had.
Her night gown ghosts along the ground, its uneven surface cool and damp on bare soles. In her right hand hangs an oil lantern, alight with flickering flame, guiding her through the narrow corridors. Each turn had been committed to memory early in life, familiarizing herself with the fastest routes and even venturing below to evasive tunnels, much to the chagrin of her father, who much preferred her to remain tucked warm in bed and faring as the lady she was meant to be.
Baela did not care for such roles and seldom fantasized about her future as a wife and even further down the line, a mother. Even now, the term gives her a moment of pause, seizing movement and furrowing her brows; she used to think of her mother often but as she matures, she often forgets her mother's soft cadence and the way she effortlessly commanded a room.
Laena was the definition of power, a likeness she will replicate one day, given the chance.
She ignores the weary eye of a guard and falters not, meandering the labyrinth until she reaches her destination. Her palm caresses the brass knob, feeling its intricate design imprint there, and pulls until the heavy door relents. She is greeted by a flurry of dust and the intoxicating scent of ink and parchment, inviting her inside and into its realm of secrecy. The door shushes closes behind her and she inhales deeply, grateful for the privacy she finds, desiring nothing more than solitude.
As much as she adored Rhaena, her dear sister had the gift of gab and an affinity for late night conversation. Always an easy feat of burning the midnight oil with Rhaena at her side. Smiling fondly at the mere thought, she drifts toward the circular weirwood table centering the room.
There were long forgotten books stacked one on top of the other, all routine reads courtesy of the Maesters. Dragging a finger over one of the books collects a thin layer of dust on its pad, signaling just how long it had been free of the shelf.
She takes the book atop the stack and inspects it: A History of the Valyrian Freehold. She hums at the title and sets down the lamp, thumbing briefly through the pages, eyes darting across inky letters. She has half the mind to take a seat and read it from cover to cover, but freezes at the sound of clinking, followed closely by a wayward sniffle.
Quite the peculiar symphony this late in the evening. She could choose to ignore it and read like she intended to do. Or she could sate the curiosity that restlessly rattles in her bones. But no, it was probably nothing. Perhaps a steward or handmaiden in the halls, nothing to be concerned over.
And so she glosses over it in favor of taking a seat in the chair, one leg crossed over the other, her thumb releasing the latter pages and returning to the very beginning. She had read this book once before, some years ago, on a consistent quest for knowledge, but as she ages and comes to be in the world, she ought to relearn the history.
Perhaps not verbatim, but enough to provide answers if questioned.
She settles in and hums as the book weaves a tale taking place some thousand years earlier.
Just when she teeters on the edge of being consumed, she hears a faint but shuddered breath, silenced by a steady pour. Unable to quell the spirit of inquiry, she reluctantly closes the book and places it in front of her, shuffling around the leg of the chair to where the disturbance originated. There are several rows of bookcases lining either wall and there she is at the center, her fingers tracing over the spine of books as she nears closer.
She wonders if it were just a product of an overactive imagination, that perhaps she was in need of rest. But as she approaches, she can hear rustling and blunt nails tapping a surface. Brows furrowed and dark eyes slicing through the darkness, Baela turns abruptly and finds the silhouette of someone perched at a windowsill. Next to the figure is an embellished chalice and two jugs of what she assumed to be liquor, if the pungent scent in the air was anything to go by.
The culprit mumbles under their breath, presumably a curse or two, then weakly thuds a head of platinum against glass. If she had to guess, she would assume it was Aegon—part of her wants to chuckle at the idea because he would never be caught in such a place of scholars and merit, but the closer she steps, the more her inference was validated.
He barely registers her presence, far too occupied with trying to pour more liquor, but to no avail. Hearing footsteps, he releases a gruff groan, murmuring a low, "Seven Hells, you ought to not let the cup of your future king run dry... Go on, then."
For someone who appeared so lost in his cups, he was quite coherent, all things considered, minor slurred speech aside. Baela folds her arms over her chest in a defensive posture, stopping in her tracks and observing his disposition; he was dressed the same as supper and clearly had not bathed that evening, for his hair appears greasy as it clings to his forehead and cheeks, his face flushed a faint shade of scarlet. Even the tips of pale ears peaking through platinum appear tinged with red, a sign of how deep he was in stupor.
As if jilted by the lack of obligement, Aegon releases a scoff, his head slickly sliding against the glass as he makes to seethe. Instead of greeting her with his usual vitriol, he sniffs derisively, shaking his head, mumbling under his breath once more, "so much for Arbor Red. The Gods have sent me a useless cousin in its stead, seems like."
Baela does not respond at first, simply stands there, lips pursed and glowering, but the latter does not press further, just remains mute and grabs for his chalice. He brings it to stained lips once more and bends his neck at an impossible angle, shaking the chalice in a desperate attempt at garnering the very last remnants. She rolls her eyes promptly and marches over, snatching up one of the empty jugs and inspecting the inside.
"I refuse to believe you sat there and consumed not one, but two jugs of wine and are still demanding more," chastises Baela, both marveling at his ability to hold his liquor and flabbergasted that he was still functioning. And yet, the bottom of the jug is barren, not even the smallest of drops remain.
Aegon seems affronted by the action and makes to snatch it back, but she swiftly shifts it out his grasp, "you could always make use of yourself, cousin, and return to the kitchens. Then by all means, you may fuck off back to wherever you came from and leave me to my solitude and worldly sorrows."
"Whom do I resemble that would do such a thing? Let alone oblige your whims? Certainly not I," tersely defends Baela as she swats at one of his grabbing hands, returning the empty jug to its original position. He looks perturbed by her words; his cheeks have filled with air that he releases in a single exhale, lids narrowed to slits, "—and what would you know of worldly sorrows, anyhow?"
Part of her thinks it would be wise to leave him alone and perhaps go for a stroll elsewhere. To feel the night envelope her in its balmy evening air. To inhale the saccharine sweetness of late spring with the undertones of petrichor and crackling fire. Perhaps to visit her beloved dragon, take to the skies and peruse the sights from above. But the way that his expression softens considerably, with or without his intent, has her filled with a myriad of questions that she needed answers to.
Because there was no way that Aegon knew of sorrow, of this world or the next.
He shifts, his perspired back sliding effortlessly over the streaked glass to face her more directly. His eyes resemble the raging sea in Driftmark—all rolling waves and cerulean, cresting alabaster with glassiness, storming with secrets, hidden and not worth drowning for. He blinks owlishly at her, his head canting imploringly to the side as he examines her. She shifts uncomfortably and decides she doesn't quite like how he looks at her like something worthy of study and admiration.
His eyes continue to soften the longer he stares, transfixed, sweeping from the crown of her curls, traveling down her clavicle, and ultimately pausing at her bare feet. He pauses thoughtfully, then slowly returns his gaze to her almond eyes, his lips quirking in a barely there smirk, one that disappears just as quickly as it materializes. He shakes his head dismissively and murmurs another curse, a single drop of perspiration meandering from his brow and collecting in the well of his collar bone.
"You are right, cousin. Just this once. For I know nothing at all, yes?" He offers a humorless snort, clicking his tongue, "that is what they say, is it not? That I have neither the brawn nor the wit of my brother, nor do I possess the sight and gentle nature of my sister." She opens her mouth to speak, more so to agree wholeheartedly, but Aegon's voice cuts through the silence, "who has spare time to read parchment cover to close? To train for tourneys, whilst gaining favor with my mother?"
Seemingly on a tangent, Baela remains patient and allows him to expel such intimate thoughts. Courtesy of her leaden limbs, she somehow makes it to the windowsill and takes an unceremonious seat. She can feel the heat wafting from his skin, even through layers of fabric and material, nearly steaming in the quaint distance between them.
He reaches for the neck of the jug once more but stops midway, knowing damned well it was empty, ten times over by now, and yet he still desired to try. Like second nature to him.
"You do not have to succumb to your—" She hesitates, recollecting his verbiage, "worldly sorrows. How unwise it is to harbor such emotions and the inability to release them."
She knew that better than anyone else after the passing of her mother. To think she had been there to tuck her in that evening. That she had brushed a kiss to her head and brushed her curls to the side. That she knew the entire time what her fate would be, singlehandedly taking charge of her own demise.
That she had awakened feeling the emptiness in her chest long before the realization that her mother had been charred to ashes, and by her own dragon, at that. Pain that lingers, hollowing her soul, that she swear she has overcome, only for the feelings to flood her core the moment she is reminded.
Blinking through the haze, she chances a glance at Aegon, finding him enamored with his chalice. His forefinger traces the circumference of the rim, staining the pad crimson, "and what would you have me do instead, pray tell?" He peers at her through his lashes, as if challenging her.
Baela shrugs a halfhearted shoulder and adjusts the cloak over her shoulders, embracing herself for warmth as she tucks a leg beneath her, "individual journeys such as these do not have one universal solution," explains Baela, wetting her bottom lip before continuing, "sometimes it is best to know that you are not alone. That certainly helps."
He utters a nonsensical laugh at that, his head thudding back against the glass. He doesn't even react to the sound it makes, simply finds amusement in her words, his lips twisting into a wry grin, "and the cure to loneliness? You claim to know it all, but have yet to supply me with anything of use."
She was never particularly close to Aegon or the rest of her cousins, for that matter, but there was still a bond there that could not be overlooked. One that was bound in blood and forged in fire. And even so, she had always felt an invisible barrier with the likes of Aegon in particular, as if he were born in spite of tradition.
Someone so foreign and difficult to get a grasp on. There was a lack of connection there that she had for someone like Jace, for example, whom she had known her entire life and had grown increasingly fond of in recent years.
Aegon continues to evade her, in more ways than the obvious.
Being kindhearted was wasted on such a person, offhandedly thinks Baela, as she averts her gaze to the chalice. Noticing her distraction, he resumes his trek around the rim, tracing over the detailing there and venturing lower to its body. He had never been warm and welcoming like his sister. He had never been tactful like his brother and capable of instilling terror. Perhaps she had feared him as a child, to some extent, but truthfully, she had always viewed him as a jester of sorts.
Someone to laugh at and not take seriously, for there was nothing stern nor stately about him. He was just there, existing for the sake of it, if she had any say in the matter. Serving as a means of humbling the Hightowers and inheriting the throne. Nothing more, nothing less than that. Not deserving in the slightest, but continues to persevere and succeed in some regard.
Her nose crinkles in disdain, flickering her gaze from his finger to find a new station outside the window. She could barely see anything at all, just faint lights dancing on the other side of the glass and wafting smoke from simmering fires, but it was better than looking at him. Or so she tells herself.
"Some would appreciate the likes of company," retorts Baela stiffly, running her hands up her arms and down in a circuit, needing the friction for warmth, "contrary to your belief, you are not presently alone. Gratitude would be the next logical stance, no?"
Taken aback by the sentiment, he tightens his grasp around the middle of the chalice, so tightly in fact that his knuckles turn alabaster. Leave it to him to take offense, she muses, but when she turns to face him, she finds something teeming on his countenance. Unexpected and solemn, it is, the sincerity that etches across his features. Any malice he may have had melts instantaneously, his guard withering alongside it.
He releases a shuddering exhale and allows his mouth to droop into a frown, his eyes wide and practically pleading. Typically, he was a fortress as far as genuine emotion went, but the longer she holds his gaze, the more she feels like she understands him on some base level. That feigning strength was a necessity, not something to be taken lightly.
That it was better to hide behind a carefully crafted facade than simply exist as you are. His brow twitches minutely, his bottom lip quivers, but he quickly regains composure and smooths his countenance into one of indifference.
"What do I know of logic?" Aegon breathes, possessing a lilt. He manages to find his footing on the floor and rises, limbs creaking in protest, hissing at the crackle of bones. Sparing a glance to the jugs, he decides it was best to leave them, though he would not forego his chalice, grasping at it and shooting her a fleeting glance. It was a split second, but just at the corner of his mouth, she could have sworn there had been a smile, "let us never speak of this again, cousin."
"Best to not speak again," counters Baela, the humor thankfully not flying over his head.
Aegon lingers a beat longer than needed, probably just regaining his bearings, she assumes. He nods in agreement, rolling back on his heel, then propels forward, officially making his exit. She can hear him stumbling down the rows of bookcases, muttering incoherently to himself, and decides that it may be time to make her own retreat. Lest she return to her chambers to a series of questions from Rhaena about her whereabouts.
She would not make this a habit, she swears to herself. There was nothing to gain from nurturing this budding relationship, nothing but anguish and general feelings of nausea.