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XVI. The sweet and the dead.












Tragedy is a vail that is wrapped around House Targaryen. It sunk its teeth in their skin and flesh like a wounded dog trying to break bones. Alicent believes it's a curse. Genna believes she hasn't prayed enough. Helaena foresaw it in a dream, unable to help it.

Genna wept in the chambers. The pain in her belly increased, the ache unbearable. The ladies tried to soothe her, hands on her forearms when they helped her walk around. She screamed and cried, "I want my – I want my mother."

But no one answered her pleads. She begged the Seven to allow her to live through it. She prayed for Jaehaerys, she prayed for Helaena and her children. The green fabric was stripped from her and a white dress was pushed over her shoulder. The servants tried helping her down the hallway of the Keep to get her to the birthing chambers as she cried. The Maesters said it's better if she doesn't see the blood of Jaehaerys nor his headless body.

It was then that Baelor emerged from where he was. He scratched his aching arm when he ran across the hallways of the Keep, yelling through the panic for his daughters. The Kingsguard was searching for who did it. Panic settled in Baelor when he reached Rolan, "where are they? What happened?"

Rolan shook his head, nervous fingers on his sword, ashamed of what he hasn't done, "someone came through the passages."

"Where are they?" he doesn't mean just his daughters then.

Rolan doesn't answer right away, "the girls are with the Dowager Queen and – and my lady is in the birthing chambers."

His heart dropped to his stomach, fingers clasping the open doublet, "no. Wh – what, why? It's too soon."

Before Rolan had the chance to speak, Baelor pushed pass the crowd and to the open hallways. He reached the chambers where his wife's screams and pleads were heard but before he could open the doors, Grand Maester Orwylle stopped him, "my prince, it is not – I cannot allow you inside."

"What's happening?" he asked with quick and rigid breaths, hands on his hips, tears in his eyes.

Orwylle clasped his hands together, "my lady is . . . the babe is too early, the cycle is not finished yet."

Confusion, pain and grief clouded his mind. He couldn't think straight, especially not through her screams, "what – what does . . . Is the babe coming?"

"He is," he nods his head, letting the prince know the babe is almost for certain a boy by their calculations, "but I fear my lady is not strong enough to bare the child."

"No," Baelor shook his head, closing his eyes, "no – no, she is strong enough. She survived three times before, Grand Maester, she will –"

"- she is losing blood, my prince," Orwylle stops him and he opens his eyes, "the babe is placed wrong. We may open her and save the babe but she . . . she might not make it."

Tears fell down his cheek and he paced to the end of the hallway. He stared at the chaos around, his fingers fidgeting. His voice was barely above a whisper, "tell me what to do."

Inside, Genna begged for her mother, her father. Orwylle shook his head, "I cannot tell you what to do, my prince."

Baelor and Genna were different here. While she begged and screamed for her mother, Baelor whispered, "I want my mother."

And his mother came.

Alicent's eyes were blown wide when Rolan escorted her to the birthing chambers and she saw Baelor crying in the hallway, "what has happened?"

"The babe won't come," he choked out with a low whisper, eyes fixed on the floor, "I either let her die naturally or I cut her open like a fucking lamb."

Alicent gasped quietly and covered her mouth with her hand. She prayed for Baelor's safety every day and now she cursed herself for not doing the same for Genna, "what are you going to do?"

"I do not know," he whispered and he finally looked up at his mother. He was her mirror, "tell me what to do, mummy."

Alicent didn't know how to comfort her children. She loved the bones of them, she'd step in front of them against a dragon, knowing she stood no chance but she had no idea how to tell them she loves them, to guide them without crushing them against the shore like a wave. She bites the inside of her cheek and instead of her hand going to her son's tear covered cheek, they rested against her hips, "I cannot tell you what to do, Baelor."

Genna screamed again – full of pain, agony. She was terrified, praying to the Seven for the Stranger not to take her yet. Is this what being seventeen felt like? Baelor's fingers fidgeted with every scream she let out. He turned to Rolan then – he looked for guidance, for someone to tell him what to do. Ashamed, Rolan shook his head and Baelor looked away.

His boots clicked against the floor again. Orwylle reached out for him but the prince was out of the reach when he pushed open the doors. The ladies settled Genna in the bed and her head was pressed back. He stood still like the statue of the Warrior inside the Sept – there was so much blood. The blood Genna accidently brushed against was on the wall she held herself against. Pools of blood were spread on the floor and on the gowns of the ladies. His wife was covered in nothing but blood, the white of the gown long gone.

Orwylle was behind Baelor and he whispered against Genna's screams, "your decision must be quick, my prince, she's losing too much of blood."

Only then the sobbing Genna realized the doors were open. Her teary eyes glanced their way and she saw Baelor – white as a ghost, standing like the statue she admired within the Sept every morning when she prayed, "Baelor?"

He forced himself to look in the face he caused nothing but pain and agony. It was a way of the Gods punishing him, he believed. He took a few careful steps forward until he reached the side of the bed. His fingers fidgeted by his side loosely. He didn't know how to comfort her. What to say to his dying wife? That he'll let them cut her open like a lamb for slaughter in hopes of saving a son that might not even live to see the morning? To thank her for saving his daughters? For protecting Helaena? To apologize for what he did and what he was to do?

Her hands reached for his fidgeting ones – blood stained both their skin, "I don't want to die. I want – I want to see our girls, Baelor. Pl – please."

"They can't see you like this, Genna," he whispered back and he believed he was doing a good thing before a terrible one. He doesn't want his daughters to see their mother bleeding to death, skin prickled with sweat and pale as a ghost.

"Can you pray with me?" she asked then; she didn't ask for him to pray for her – she wanted to pray with him. She was just a girl, grasping to the hopes she'll live through this.

Baelor didn't once look at her then. He didn't have the courage. He turned his head over his shoulder and looked at Orwylle. He nodded his head his way and with that the fate of Genna Lannister was sealed.

Orwylle motioned for the ladies to prepare for what was to come. Baelor knelt by Genna's side, holding her hand in between his, "o the great Father I pray, for justice in war, this day. To the Mother I ask in strife, keep well and protect my wife. From you, innocent Maiden, I beg safety for women."

Orwylle climbed on the edge of the bed by Genna's feet. She looked away from Baelor's avoiding gaze and down at the man. Panic set in when the ladies refused to look at her eyes and one held her left arm down. Genna's head shook when she whispered, "what's happening?"

Baelor didn't look up when he continued, "dear old Crone, wizened and wise, keep alert my mind and eyes. Smith, forger of sword and shield, strengthen my steel in the field."

"Baelor?" Genna asked again, looking on her right, "Baelor, I'm scared – what – what's happening? What – what are they doing?"

She turned her head to Orwylle, "Grand Maester, what are you doing?"

"It will only hurt a little, my lady," he cooed to her, nodding to the lady to help Genna sip on some milk of poppy, "it will be over soon."

She cried and kicked like a wounded lamb. Baelor held her hand in his, blood staining his skin, her palm sweaty against his, "warrior, give me courage, strength, resolve, and battle-rage."

When the first line was made in the lower part of her belly, Genna let out a war cry. The birds outside the window flew away, making their way to Casterly Rock, surely. Rhaella and Alyssa were being soothed by Myna in her chambers, Aemond pacing up and down. Visenya cried on their bed. Rhaella's head perked at the scream in Myna's lap. She only soothed her with running her hand across the back of her hair.

Genna screamed, kicked and fought. Her hand was held by Baelor through the whole thing. She begged Baelor – to stop this, to not allow this, to let her be with their girls, to let him hug them tightly tonight once again. She didn't know it was him who ordered this to happen. She wanted to hopelessly believe that he wouldn't do that to her – that even if he couldn't love her, he wouldn't allow this to happen.

The babe was brought from her bloody belly. He cried but only for a few short breaths. He was in too much pain – scales clasped his small cheek and his legs never fully formed. There was something that reminded Baelor of a dragon. Of Moonfyre who roared loudly outside. He was not only sharing his rider's pain but also the girls who was bleeding on the bed.

She thought of her girls then – when she saw the babe being pulled out of her in a blurry vision. She realized she will never see them again. She will never see them grow up; she will never be able to rescue them from living through the same fate as she did. Baelor will be allowed to marry them off to some old lord if he wanted. It will only be Baelor to protect them from the world of snakes, lions and dragons. They will worry, she thinks, they will wonder where I am, what happened to me. Visenya will be hungry soon. Alyssa has to get ready for her studies. Rhaella needs her hair to be pinned up. And father. He will worry about me.

And then Genna Lannister dies. Everything she ever felt, all her hopes and dreams vanish forever. She never got to see her home again. She never had the chance to bring her girls to the beaches of Casterly Rock. But Genna was once more reunited with her beloved mother and the son she never knew.

"And Stranger, master of fright, may you meet my beloveds tonight," Baelor finishes the prayer Genna wanted and collapses his head against the blood-stained dress on her chest, sobbing.











When the morning came, the Silent sisters took care of Genna's body. They dressed her in a golden dress – a gift from her father on her wedding day. Something to remind you of your home, he'd say. They gently pulled her hair back and braided a few braids along her ginger hair. She was washed of blood and looked like the Mother reborn.

Baelor wasn't there. If he wanted to be, he would be. Instead, he found himself within the Sept. An eerie place he only ever went if he tried to pull a façade for his mother. He didn't believe in the Gods, not when they turned their backs on him. He knew the prayers; he knew everything about them but never trusted in them.

His knees hit the floor in front of the round table full of light candles. His eyes – once bright and lilac, now only dark and almost grey – watched the candles burn. Perhaps they were mocking him. Maybe they were punishing him for the sins he committed and those he will.

Baelor doesn't hear the shoes that pad from the back of the Sept. He doesn't notice the man – long, grey outfit, the Seven-pointed star around his neck like it would suffocate him at any given time. His fingers clasp his other wrist on his stomach when he approaches, "it has been long since we had the chance to host you, my prince."

"The Gods punish me," Baelor chokes out and holds onto the side of the table, his knuckles turning white.

The Septon allowed the prince to weep for some time before he speaks again, "the Gods do not turn on its people. They show us the right path to a greater cause."

If he'd say the words, he'd bleed for sure. He'd feel the Gods slice through his back and let him bleed out on the floor of the Sept, laughing down at him. Instead, Baelor looked up at the man and whispered, "then what is the greater cost in this?"

The Septon looked away from the prince and his fingers reached out to lit one more candle. A whisper left his mouth when the fire started to burn bright, "for the late lady Genna."

He continued then, "it is not in my power to tell you what the greater cause is, my prince. It is in the nature of the Seven to stray you down the righteous path. It may be thorn, blood and flesh full but the righteous path nonetheless."

"Was it the righteous path to kill my wife?" he'd ask then and he's not sure if he means the Gods killed her or if that was his own doing.

The Septon's fingers curl around his wrist and he held them against his stomach, "it is a strange path, my prince. One we do not quite understand. But the lady Genna . . . the lady Genna was a good girl. She often prayed here. In the same spot as you are now. She'd talk about wishing to go home for the time she was here. In a sense, she is home now. I believe her mother was waiting for her."

In religion, Genna found peace. Baelor found nothing but suffering and death.

"Who are you?" Baelor finally asked after a moment of silence and he looked at the candles.

"Galeo Baratheon, my prince," the man replied but didn't move from his spot.

"Borros Baratheon's brother?" he asked again and looked up at him.

The Septon nodded his head, "the very same."

Baelor bit the inside of his cheek. It was so harsh that blood dropped from his flesh, "were you there when my nephew was killed?"

"No, my prince," Galeo shook his head, "I have been a Septon for longer than you have been alive. I have not been home in ages. My brother didn't see it either. Your brother followed the late prince with his dragon from what I know."

"The bitch queen of bastards killed my wife and son," Baelor spit out the insult as wildfire and pushed himself off the floor, "I care not for the spilled bastard blood of my nephew. I actually applaud Aemond for it. But what is done is done."

Galeo didn't reply at first. He watched Rhaenyra grow – he'd watch her being loved by the smallfolk, by the lords and ladies of other Houses, receiving the title of the Realm's Delight. And he watched her lose her mother and later father, as well as children. The Septon tilted his head, "do you believe she stood behind it?"

"Who else?" Baelor asked, "who else cared about her bastard sons? It matters little now. My wife is dead. My son is dead. My nephew was killed. My sister will not leave her chambers nor tend to her other two children. Aegon is drinking and raging for as far as I know. Aerys and Jaehaerys will be avenged – if not by Aegon, then by me."

It was the first time he'd say his son's name. There was a list in his mind for his children – Alyssa, Rhaella, Visenya were chosen by him. So was Aerys. Genna had no say in it in any pregnancy.

"My half sister will have to respond in fire and blood," Baelor spoke before he walked to the main doors of the Sept, watched by Galeo.

"My prince," the man called after him and Baelor stopped but didn't turn around, "I believe the plot runs deeper than just by your sister. You were attacked in your own home, within your own walls. Does she truly have that much power to just walk inside and kill whoever she desires?"

The rats. The rats are everywhere. The rats come play at night. The fucking rats.

Baelor feels sick to his stomach like he wants to violently puke any Dornish red within his system. He turns his body to look back at the Septon and lets the heavy silence wash over them. Genna was afraid of someone lurking within their home so was Helaena. They had no listened and the prophecy was fulfilled.

"You know more than you let me know," he replies and it comes out barely as a harsh whisper.

Gaelo shrugged his shoulders, the grey Seven-pointed star glistering in the pale light of the Sept, "all I do is observe, my prince. And I believe the issue lies within your own walls."






And while the king drank and raged, ruining the old sculpture of the Old Valyria of their father, Baelor found himself inside Helaena's chambers. She leaned against the bed's frame, old green fabric pressed to her nose – because, at the end of the day, it was the only thing left of her first-born son.

She didn't hear her brother stepping inside nor did she hear his ring click against the cup of milk of poppy he brought. Baelor reached his sister's side and offered the cup, "drink this."

Helaena flinched away and finally looked at her brother – he was the same: hair messy and far from his every day style, his eyes puffy and red from crying, his cheeks swollen, wearing the same clothes as the day before. She moved away from him, fingers gripping the fabric, "I do not wish it to cloud my judgement."

"Your judgement is already clouded," Baelor spoke and looked on the floor – the blood, the stains, "as is mine."

"I do not wish to do it," Helaena breaths out as she stands by the window and the sun shines down on her, "to grieve with the smallfolk. I do not know them; I want everyone far away from me."

Baelor's brows furrow and he looks at her, "the smallfolk? Why would they be here?"

"They wish . . ." she starts and takes a shaky breath, "they will have my son's body on display. So will Genna's."

If the cup was glass made, his gripping fingers would shatter it in million pieces. His brows furrow when he asks, "what?"

Helaena doesn't respond but her bare feet move across the cold floor and Baelor notices the small amount of blood on the edge of it, stained by that on the floor. She picks another fabric – this time the golden colour of the sandy beaches with a lion and five dragons upon it – and pushes it in Baelor's chest, "for Genna."

"They will do what with her body?" he prompts again, fingers holding the fabric.

Helaena doesn't respond once more as she moves around the chambers, reality of what happened slowly sinking in. The anger rises in him then – he'd been a pale ghost walking around the Keep with no one replying, no one hearing him. The cup is discarded on the floor and so is the fabric when he stalks quickly to Helaena, his fingers curling around her throat when he glares down at her, "answer my fucking question!"

His sister lets the fabric fall down at his movement, her own fingers curling around his wrist. She wishes he'd squeeze harsher and snap her neck or simply not allow the air to reach her lungs. But she knew he'd be to blame and she didn't want that for Baelor; she wanted him to be content, happy even, with his girls. So, she answered through wheezes, "they – they plan a funeral. For – for – for the smallfolk. To show what has – what has happened."

Baelor only stopped squeezing her neck when her lips started to fade in a light blue shade. It was like he snapped back in reality and he let go of her throat. Helaena falls a step away from Baelor and reaches for her aching neck, trying to find a way to breathe again. He swore not to be who his father once was but he was doing it all in one vicious cycle of abuse.

His fingers suddenly ached and he wanted to tear them, cut them off for what he has done. They fidget: close and open, close and open, close and open until he speaks in a quiet voice, "I'm sorry, Hel."

His sister nods, still holding her throat, "I know."

He leaves then. It's what he always does – he hurts people and leave them with the consequences of his actions. He forced Genna in multiple pregnancies knowing her body was still weak after the twins' birth and then her blood remained sticky on his hands. He slept with Myna and then forced her to drink the moon tea. He promised to marry his two girls to Rhaenyra's son for his own sake. He sustained the same abuse his father showed to his mother with Helaena, leaving her bruised. He forces these awful things upon the only people that ever cared for him.

Baelor moves through the Red Keep – it's dark and gloomy and it reeks of the metal smell of blood. He thinks the smell will haunt him forever. People saw him more as a ghost now; no one said anything, turning their looks away and bowing their heads. There was no one left in the Keep for him, he realized; he was alone now. There was no Genna Lannister left waiting for him in their chambers to soothe whatever pain he felt.

His boots click against the floor when he pushed the doors of the Council chambers open and Aegon flung his cup close to his head in a spit of rage, "no!"

No one looks at Baelor when he enters. He's not supposed to be there, why would anyone care? He looks at Tyland then – he's gripping the edge of his seat and stares onto the long table in front of him. He's been crying ever since the news broke to him that his only child is dead; died in childbirth. Baelor didn't tell him nor does he plan on speaking to him.

Alicent is the first – and only – to notice Baelor walking in. There's a push by her feet suddenly as she stands from her chair and moves to her second oldest. He's staring mindlessly in front, not sure what to say or do when his mother reaches him. He's a mirror of her soul – the dishevelled hair, eyes shot red from crying – when he looks at her. Suddenly his lower lip wobbles when Alicent pulls him close to her, fingers holding the back of his head, of his dark curls. His hands stay by his side for only a moment before they grip the back of his mother's dark green dress, sniffling in her shoulder, "mummy."

"It's alright, sweetling," she whispers in his head, pressing a gentle kiss to his temple while her eldest raged with the Council, "it's alright."

"They're gone," he mumbles in her shoulder and for those few moments he doesn't care how weak he looks, what they'll say, "they're – they're gone."

There's not much she can say to his grieving son. What word would it make it hurt less? What would have soothed her son that not only lost his wife but his son too? So, she said nothing. Her fingers soothed the back of his head, his back, anywhere she could reach.

Only then did he hear that it was Otto's idea to send the bodies to be seen by the masses. Aegon was against it – screaming, smashing, grieving. And when his grandsire continued, Baelor broke from his mother's touch, "no."

Only then did the Council notice he was there. Otto looked to his second oldest grandson and his nails dug in the palm of his hands, "perhaps the prince should go rest."

"You will not have my wife and my son paraded through the streets like they are dead dogs," Baelor replied and he thought he'll crumble anytime – not sure if it's the grief or the anger – and Alicent held him by his elbow to stop him from moving from his spot.

There's a beat of silence, only the small chokes and sobs coming from the twins on the opposite sides of the table before Otto speaks again, "it is done, my prince. You should rest now."

"We were attacked in our own home!" Baelor screamed out again and his mother tried to hold him back from moving with silent pleads of calling his name, "within our own walls! You expect me to rest!? My wife was killed! My son was killed! My nephew was killed! Who did you lose!? You slept peacefully through the night! You will not have anyone paraded through the street!"

"Baelor," Alicent tried again, fingers tugging him by his elbow until she had no more power and she looked at Ser Criston for help.

He moved around the table quickly and grabbed Baelor's arm before he could reach Otto. He banged his hand against Criston's chest – against the Kingsguard plate – and tried to wriggle out, "let go! Let go of me! I am the prince! Let go!"

"Take the prince to his chambers," Otto replied, his voice not wavering, staying calm as before.

Aegon pushed his face deep in the palms of his hands, biting back sobs as he listened to Baelor being dragged from the council chambers. Because, at the end of the day, Aegon Targaryen remained the dog on the leash. 











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