The Prince of Whispers Ch22: The death of Spring

The morning sun filtered through the canopy of Blackwater Rush’s edge, casting golden streaks onto the dew-laden grass. Horses nickered softly as the royal hunting party prepared their mounts, and the clink of bridles and low murmur of voices filled the still air. Prince Baelon Targaryen, known to most as the Spring Prince, now the Hand of the King, stood at the edge of the glade, watching the forest.

Beside him, his son Aegon adjusted the leather strap of his quiver, his purple-green eyes alert beneath his silver-gold hair. The prince, now a man of his own right, had grown into his frame, lean with the promise of strength. His hands were steady and his voice commanding, even among knights twice his age. His son even had a sellsword company to his name, even though it was absorbed into the guards of King’s Landing and Dragonstone.

Baelon was proud of that. He could see the fierce spirit of his deceased wife in his son at that moment. There was that untamable spirit that lingered so heavily with Aegon and Daemon.

‘If I had been willing to let go of my hate and accept things as they were, I could’ve avoided so much heartache.’ Baelon mused, disappointed in himself over his past actions that estranged him from his younger son.

But that was in the past. He was now working closely with his son to help his father rule the Seven Kingdoms. He was determined to make amends for lost opportunities. This was why he arranged this hunting trip, and he was fortunate that Aegon agreed without much prodding.

“Are you certain you saw it?” Baelon asked the huntsman again, eyes narrowing.

“Aye, my prince,” the man replied, gesturing into the dense woods. “White as the snow, tall as a warhorse. It stepped into the glade just before dawn. Looked me right in the eyes and vanished like mist.”

Baelon looked to his son. “A white hart. An omen, if the old tales speak true.”

Aegon gave a small, amused smile. “Then let us chase it, father. Better us than some hedge knight who’ll boast of it in a tavern.”

Baelon grinned. “Spoken like a Targaryen.”

With that, the party rode forward into the forest hunting for a magical deer – a white hart.

The hunt stretched through thick underbrush and fern-choked hollows of the Kingswood. The white hart proved elusive. Hoofprints led them in circles, teasing glimpses of pale movement vanished before the eye could fix on it. By midafternoon, they split into smaller parties. Baelon and Aegon rode together with a single Kingsguard, Ser Robin Shaw, to carry game and maintain the trail.

Aegon got the chance to use his bow as they came upon a wild boar gorging upon the roots of an oak tree. He carefully nocked the arrow on his bow and let the arrow fly once he set the target. The boar fell with a whine as the arrow punched straight through its neck.

“Good aim. You have a skill with the bow that most in our family lack.” Baelon patted his bow arm with an appreciative smile.

Aegon didn’t wait and let the animal suffer. He finished his suffering with his hunting knife and secured the body on horseback.

By twilight, the stag was still free, but the chase had brought them deep into the quiet woods. Baelon called a halt near a mossy hillock by a small pond, where they could water the horses and make camp for the night. A fire was soon coaxed to life, flames flickering over the staked boar meat. The air filled with the scent of pine, wet earth, and simmering meat.

Baelon reclined on a rolled cloak beside the fire, drinking warmed wine from a skin. Aegon sat across from him, his sword laid neatly beside his hip, his boots removed, bare feet stretched toward the warmth.

“Do you recall your first hunt?” Baelon asked, taking a long draught.

Aegon stared off into the distance as the memory came to the forefront of his mind.

“The squirrel that nearly killed me?” Aegon said fondly with a chuckle. “I remember the pain more than anything. That squirrel came out of nowhere and jumped onto my shoulder. I fell from my horse and nearly broke my neck.”

“The mighty Aegon Targaryen, rider of the fearsome Findfyre, fell by a squirrel.” Baelon laughed.

Even Ser Robin chuckled as he adjusted the stake to cook the meat properly.

“I’m sure you had your own fair share of embarrassing stories from your first hunting trip.” Aegon said, looking expectantly at his father.

“Unfortunately, my hunting trips were rather boring. I accompanied my brother Aemon on my first trip, and we came back empty-handed.” Baelon said with a shrug.

“Prince Aemon told us the sight of you made all the game in the Kingswood flee in all directions.” Ser Robin helpfully added. “Said you had that same effect on all creatures.”

“Did he now?” Baelon said with a huff.

They sat in comfortable silence for a time, sipping their wine, listening to the wind in the leaves. An owl hooted distantly. When the meat was cooked sufficiently, they hungrily started munching on the singed meat.

Baelon broke the silence.

“Lord Boggs sent a raven. Says you left them ‘humbled and chastised, but in peace.’ He says the Crackclaw lords were satisfied with the arrangement you have established with them.”

Aegon shifted, reaching for a small flask of water.

“They were bristling with resentment, yes. The lords there are unused to oversight and value their sense of independence. They dislike the hold the Celtigars enjoy on their lands.”

“You resolved the issue then?” Baelon prodded.

 “I summoned them to the seat of House Boggs,” Aegon said. “And waited in silence when they arrived. Said nothing until they argued themselves hoarse. Then I reminded them of their oaths to the Crown, and that the taxes levied came not from Celtigar’s whim, but your own hand.”

Baelon smirked. “So you threw my name before them.”

“I didn’t forget to use the names of our dragons. When it rattled them sufficiently, I offered a compromise. I offered to adjust the tithe on timber exports slightly in exchange for full back-payment of the taxes owed. I assured them Celtigar’s collectors would no longer bother them. I promised them the new collectors will be knights of good repute, handpicked by me.”

Baelon laughed.

“So, you offered them dignity, and they gave you gold.”

“I didn’t challenge their pride and offered the best solution available. The gold was a consequence.”

Baelon studied him for a moment, then nodded slowly.

“Diplomacy – a skill I’ve only mastered in part. Your grandsire was better at it. You may be better still. It’ll serve you well in the future.”

The fire crackled between them. The smell of the meat thickened as Ser Robin served them more pieces from the fire. They ate in silence for a while, the meat crispy and filling. Above them, stars began to blink in between the canopy of tree leaves.

Baelon leaned back against a tree with a sigh.

“When Viserys is king, you’ll face worse than tax disputes.”

“That is far away. You’ll have your time on the Iron Throne, and that’ll consolidate Viserys’ position.” said Aegon.

“Things can change. Nothing is certain in the future, and your brother refuses to bond with another dragon.”

“He has Daemon’s and my support.” said Aegon.

“A king must have two strengths – the strength in character and the strength of arms. Viserys lacks the latter. He must not depend on others for that strength, even his own brothers.”

“Why? You think I or Daemon might not be dependable?”

“Yes. As hard as it is for you to accept, you and Daemon might not have your interests aligned with Viserys’ in the future as you build your families. Your interests will align with those of your wives and your children.” Baelon said sagely.

“Is that what happened between you and your brother?” Aegon asked.

“When you have children of your own, your view of the world changes. When my father decided to name me heir, I could’ve fought against the decision and forced my father to acknowledge the succession through Aemon’s bloodline.”

“You didn’t.” Aegon said softly.

“I didn’t.” Belon nodded with shame. “I made a token protest, but when your grandfather remained firm on his choice, I backed down.”

“You wanted the crown?”

“No. But I envisioned a future where Viserys would inherit the throne. It was a powerful vision, and the alternative where my children became subordinates to Velaryons made me a silent spectator.” Baelon admitted.

“Do you feel regret?” Aegon asked curiously.

“Sometimes, yes. But there are days I feel like I did the right thing. Only the future will tell whether I was right or wrong.” Baelon said with a faraway look.

They sat quietly into the night, the crackle of the fire and chirp of crickets the only sounds. Daeron curled into his bedroll and began to snore softly. The horses shifted near the brook, stamping at gnats.

The moon rose high, silvering the trees.

Suddenly, a branch snapped.

Both father and son were instantly alert. Aegon had his bow in hand; Baelon his dagger. Silence again as they kept their eyes peeled—then a glimmer of white.

Ser Robin was also alert with his hand on a spear.

Through the trees, beyond the brook, stood the white hart.

It watched them, serene and unafraid. Antlers like the branches of weirwood trees crowned its proud head, and its coat glowed in the moonlight. Its breath misted softly in the chill air.

Neither man moved.

Aegon slowly raised his bow and nocked an arrow. Ser Robin took aim with his spear, but kept himself from throwing it.

Baelon suddenly threw the hunting knife in his hand, and to the surprise of them all, it struck the target. The white hart fell on the forest floor with a dull thud.

“That was a good throw.” Aegon said after they reached the fallen white hart with a spear lodged through its body.

The creature was dead before it hit the ground.

“I have to say your spear went straight through the heart, my prince. It died instantly.” Ser Robin said, pulling the spear out of the white hart.

“Of course it did,” Baelon said while rubbing his stomach with a grimace.

“Is there something wrong?” Aegon asked, noticing the discomfort in his father’s face.

“I think that boar didn’t agree with my stomach.” Baelon said, sitting down on the floor with gritted teeth.

“I’ll have it bled and prepared for transport, your grace. Please take some rest.” Ser Robin said, before he went on to prepare the white hart for safe transport.

“Go help Ser Robin. I’ll just sit here and take some rest.” Baelon shooed his son away.

Baelo sat there holding the side of his stomach and watched his son help Ser Robin. He suffered from occasional phantom pains in his stomach when they were finally ready to depart. Riding his horse out of the Kingswood became a difficult task with the pain, but he made it out eventually. When he was clear of the Kingswood, Aegon was quick to arrange for a wheelhouse to transport him back into the city. Exactly how his son managed to arrange it so fast when they were at the edge of the forest was a mystery for Baelon.

But he wasn’t complaining.  

The hunt was suspended with the capture of the white hart, and he was rushed to the Red Keep. Grand Maester Runciter was quick to receive him in the healing chamber. As moments passed, his agony only increased. The pain was unbearable, and Baelon feared he’d die any moment.

So, he immediately called for his sons before his wits left him.

Fortunately, Daemon had arrived in the Red Keep yesterday, though Viserys was still in Dragonstone.

When Daemon and Aegon came to his side as per his wish, the maesters and their acolytes stepped outside.  

“Father.” Daemon knelt by his side, close to his head, while Aegon sat near his legs.

“I feel fortunate that I could see two of my sons before the Stranger takes me away.” Baelon said with a dry laugh, suppressing the pain that flared up from the movement.

“Please don’t say that. Grand Maester Runciter has sent for the best healers from the Citadel. They’ll heal you in no time.” Daemon said confidently.

“A man knows when he is due for the next world. My regret is that I didn’t get a warrior’s death.” Baelon said with his eyes closed.

He opened his eyes when he felt Aegon touching his feet. His eyes fell on his youngest son, and all that he had done to make his youngest son so wrothful bubbled up into his mind.  

“Still, there is not much for me to worry about. I have three strong sons to carry on my legacy and protect the family. Remember, the bond between you brothers will be the shield that protects the crown. Do not let anyone threaten the bond and keep it strong.” Baelon said and turned to stare at both his sons in their eyes. “Promise me.”

“We promise.” Daemon and Aegon said.

“Daemon, be strong so that your siblings and your king may rely on your strength. Aegon, be ever vigilant so that no threats to our family hide from your sight.” Baelon commanded.

Daemon and Aegon nodded.

“My only regret is that I did wrong by you, Aegon. Grief has twisted me and made me a bitter man – a lesser man. All those times I could’ve spent happy with my children’s side, I threw it all away.” Baelon said with great remorse.

“When you have children of your own, you must not become a father like me.” Baelon said, taking in a ragged breath. “Be better.”  

“Father, please don’t strain your body. Be at peace.” said Aegon.

“I’ll try to be. Now go and leave me to my thoughts and pain. There is much I must atone for before the Stranger comes calling.” Baelon said before calling in the maesters.

He spent the night under the milk of the poppy. That night, he dreamed of his wife laughing and playing with all three of his children.

“Come, Baelon.” Alyssa called with a wide smile, her silver hair dancing in the wind.

It was with a pleasant smile that he ran to his wife, and everlasting joy filled him once she was in his arms once more. The weight of responsibility no longer burdened his shoulders. He was at last free.

******

The red dawn cast its first pale rays over King's Landing, touching the spires of the Red Keep with a solemn glow. There were no bells ringing that morning. No laughter in the streets. The air was still, and even the gulls circling the towers above the bay made no sound. It was as if the city itself was holding its breath.

Prince Baelon Targaryen, the Spring Prince, had died in the night.

The entire city was now mourning, as were the rest of the Seven Kingdoms, once the ravens flew to all corners of the realm.  

Aegon stood now in the chamber of the Silent Sisters, where his father’s body lay wrapped in white silk, a golden dragon brooch pinned at the chest to the black doublet he was wearing. The smell of lavender oil and rose water filled the cold room. Septas murmured prayers as they worked, washing and binding the body with solemn care.

He could hear the mournful cries of Vhagar. The dragonkeepers had tried to calm the old beast, but Vhagar was overcome with grief at the loss of her rider. Across the city, Targaryen banners were lowered, and black flags now flew to signal the city’s mourning. The bells of the sept tolled seven times every hour in slow, measured cadence, a toll not heard since the passing of Queen Alysanne.

Gael joined him and hugged his arm as he stood vigil. Her eyes were red and puffy from crying.

“What have they decided?” Aegon asked.

“The pyre will be built on Rhaenys’ Hill.” she told him. “The ashes will be interned in Dragonstone with the rest of the family.”

“I see. That’s good.” Aegon said before falling silent.

“So many of us are dying.” Gael said quietly with a sniffle.

“How is his grace?” Aegon asked.

“He has not said a word. He is grieving.”

Aegon took a deep breath and let his shoulders drop. There was nothing much he could do besides grieve at this point.

When Viserys finally returned to King’s Landing with his family and Rhaenys with hers, the funeral procession began from the Red Keep. The lords and knights in attendance were given the chance to pay their respects to the crown prince before the procession started. The smallfolk lined the streets as Baelon’s body was carried to Rhaenys’ Hill while the bells tolled in the city. Many lowered their heads as the bier passed, a litter of carved wood draped in Targaryen colours, pulled by two pale horses.

Baelon’s body lay upon it, veiled in silk, his sword resting by his side. Aegon rode ahead with Daemon, dressed in black leather with a crimson cloak and a silver dragon clasp. Viserys rode with Rhaenyra on his horse behind the bier. Rhaenys, Aemma and Gael rode in a wheelhouse with Jaehaerys, hidden behind gauze curtains.

They reached the top of the hill by evening.

The pyre had been built in the Valyrian tradition—a towering spire of white pine and scented wood, shaped like a pyramid and ringed by black stone torches. Caraxes was already there, and Daemon immediately went to the dragon’s side once they arrived.

“The gods are cruel indeed for allowing me to live beyond the time of my children.” Jaehaerys said at last before pressing a final kiss on the brow of Baelon.  

Jaehaerys nodded at Daemon before pulling back from the pyre with the help of Viserys.

Everyone did the same by pulling back from the pyre. Daemon guided Caraxes close to the pyre. The Blood Wyrm towered over everyone and waited for the command.

“Dracarys.”  

Caraxes breathed bright flames that lit Baelon’s pyre.

‘So passes Baelon the Brave.’ Aegon thought as the fire burned bright while the sun started to dip low over the horizon.

Aegon’s eyes fell on his family gathered before the pyre. With the death of his father, he foresaw a great chasm forming between his brothers and Rhaenys. He feared Rhaenys and Corlys would push for the succession to be reconsidered now that his father was dead.