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The Face in the Mirror
The shears weighed heavy as betrayal in his hand. The betrayal of his mother and the heritage he carried in his blood. The betrayal of himself.
You have your mother’s eyes, his father’s voice, warm and proud. Always proud. Baelor had striven his whole life to ensure disappointment never entered his father’s voice when he spoke of his firstborn, his heir.
His mother had once taken his hand in hers, their skin a perfect match (Mud Prince, snickered at his back and he pretended he did not hear. Words are wind, he told himself. A mantra to live by. A wall to press his back against and draw strength from.) “My son,” his mother had said when he was still young and possessed the tender heart of a child. “If there is one thing I have learned north of the Red Mountains, it is that you and I will always have to work twice as hard to get half as much. It is a terrible weight we must bear, this pressure upon us, these eyes ever waiting for us to falter, ever eager for our ruin, but we have no choice but to bear it.”
He was not allowed mistakes. He did not allow himself to make them. He had to be perfect. He could not afford to fuck up. They were all of them waiting for him to fail.
When Daemon had a sword in his hand he was transformed. He became a wholly different creature, one who met Baelor in the yard with anticipation, eager for the thrill of a worthy opponent. And, even when Daemon triumphed –as he usually did in the yard, while Baelor sent Daemon into the dust time and again with a lance in his hands—Daemon would still have this gleam in his eyes, his face flushed, wearing a grin he could never suppress, not here, doing what he had been born for. For those few brief moments before the rest of the world crashed back in and split a gulf between them, there would be respect in Daemon’s eyes when he looked at Baelor.
And then it would be over. Aegor would be there, his dark shadow falling over Daemon like the black hole of the moon eclipsing the sun. His hand would land on Daemon’s shoulder with the weight of ownership, possessive and controlling in all he did, this angry boy nursed on bitter hatreds from the breast and weaned on thwarted ambitions. Aegor would flash a look of triumph at Baelor as if it was Aegor who put him in his place.
They never called him Mud Prince to his face, but he would see it there in their eyes as they crowded around Daemon, hanging off him, spooning flattery into his ever-eager ear. Not for the flattery, no; Baelor did not think Daemon so shallow a creature. But Daemon could not seem to help himself from giving ear to every mouth that cozied up to him, like a house flower kept in a darkened room reached towards the barest glimpse of sunlight.
When I have children of my own, Baelor would think, pity curling its soft fingers around his heart as he watched Daemon drink up the words of the sycophants and power-hunters he called friends, I will love them. I will not let the sun go down on a single day without saying the words. I will not let them grow up hungry, until they are stray dogs who would follow any stranger into peril for the promise of a meal, or a starving man who reaches out for any scraps, gorging himself on the wholesome and the poisoned alike, so hungry he would take anything he could get.
Baelor watched the way Daemon’s eyes kept searching Aegor out, to seek his approval or to assuage his fear that Aegnor had not grown bored of his place at Daemon’s side and left him. He watched until he could not stomach it any longer and turned away.
Aegor was the worst of the lot because Daemon trusted him, absolutely, unconditionally. If Aegor stood on a knife’s edge and held out his hand, Daemon would take it and follow him to the precipice. If Aegor told him to jump, he would jump, and believe, right to the bitter end, that Aegor would be there to catch him.
One day, when Aegor had asked too much, had pitted himself against Daemon’s love for his twins and come out the looser, Aegor might finally realize that no one would ever love him like Daemon had loved him. But it would be too late. Aegor would only ever be the man Daemon once called brother but who had broken his trust and his heart with it.
At least, that was how Baelor hoped it would end. But some days he feared when Aegor held out his hand, Daemon would take it in one hand and pull his boys onto the knife’s edge with the other.
Baelor looked at Daemon, surrounded by false-friends. When will you see they are all of them liars? When will you cast them off and stop giving ear to their poison? Or are you too broken to resist them?
The voice of Aubrey Ambrose’s squire carried across the gulf separating Baelor from Daemon and his false-friends, “—sent him sprawling in the dirt, Daemon!”
“A homecoming for the Prince of Mud,” Aubrey Ambrose snickered, “a touching family reunion.”
Daemon’s smile flickered, as it always did, stiffening, dimming, eyes finding Baelor’s for a heartbeat, holding. Then, mouth flattening, Daemon looked away. He said nothing as his false-friends’ laughter closed over his head.
Ser Symond of the Kingsguard shifted at Baelor’s shoulder. “No,” Baelor said, “I’m leaving.” Bringing attention to the insults would only poke the beehive. They wanted Baelor to react –overreact. They wanted an excuse. He would not give them one. He could not afford to fuck up. He had to be perfect.
He squared his shoulders, lifted his chin, and walked away. Did he look like a prince? Or a beaten dog slinking away to lick its wounds?
Baelor brought the shears up to the first curl, pulled it taut, and snipped. It fell and curled up like spilled ink on the floor. It looked like betrayal.
“Your gorgeous curls,” his mother had run her hands through his hair. Curls fell into his eyes, and she smoothed them back. “So handsome,” she kissed his cheek, “Baelor the Beautiful,” she teased.
He had rolled his eyes, but could not deny her complements, even the teasing ones, pleased him more than they should. He could not afford vanity. It made one weak to flattery, and he could not afford to be weak.
His mother had combed her fingers through his hair, meeting his eyes in the looking glass, “Lady Jena has certainly noticed her soon-to-be-husband is the handsomest man in every room.”
No, that was Daemon Blackfyre. He tried to smother that thought too. It was not jealousy, not truly. He did not wish to be Daemon Blackfyre, or have his face; he just wished…It would have been easier, if he had inherited something from his father. Just his eyes, or a streak of silver-gold through his hair like Cousin Elaena. But those thoughts tasted of betrayal. To have his father’s eyes, he had to wish away his mother’s. To have his father’s hair, he had to give back his mother’s thick, black curls.
This was a weakness in him. There was vanity in the pleasure he took from the way his curls fell so effortlessly right. There was a shamefulness in the way he looked upon his appearance and wished to alter it to fit that pale, silver-gold ideal. There was a vulnerability in the way he gathered up complements just a little too attentively when he should have brushed them off, unmoved and unswayable by fair words. It was one thing for Daemon’s head to be turned by flattery, for he was not the Prince of Dragonstone. He would never be king, as Baelor would. A king could not afford the weakness of vanity.
Baelor picked up the next curl and cut, and then the next and the next. His mother’s legacy drifted to the floor like ashes. Forgive me, Mother.
He did not stop until every curl was sheared. Only then did he let the shears drop from his hand, with the heaviness of a murder weapon, to clatter against the stones. He stared at the face staring back at him. It looked like a stranger’s. His brow was clear of curls for the first time in memory. His skull curved a foreign shape. Even his eyes looked different.
I will grow accustomed to it. He stood. Enough time staring at himself in a mirror. He had duties to see to. But he hesitated at the door, feeling naked and exposed. I will grow accustomed.
It was, perhaps, fated that Daemon Blackfyre would be the first he crossed paths. Baelor almost thought Daemon would not notice. It was only Baelor’s vanity that had given a bloated importance to a few curls.
But Daemon did notice. Immediately. Shockingly. He jerked back, as if taking a blow, and then drew closer, as if compelled to look upon some horror playing out before his eyes.
He did not stop until he had come within arm’s reach, which was strange in itself, for outside the yard Daemon was particular about keeping a distance between them. When they passed in a corridor like this, Daemon would almost seem to press himself up against the wall as if fearful of brushing up against even Baelor’s sleeve. It was not disgust. Baelor knew that expression well. It was a skittishness he could not quite put his finger on. Perhaps Daemon was ashamed of how he acted in the company of his false-friends. If he was, he had never once tried to apologize or offer even the flimsiest of excuses.
“You cut your hair,” Daemon said, aghast, as if accusing Baelor of some terrible crime.
Here, in the dimly lit corridor, Daemon’s eyes were so dark a purple they bled into black, but not quite, not this close. Everywhere Daemon went they called him beautiful, the Valyrian ideal. His dark, purple eyes were hauntingly contrasted by hair more silver than gold. His nose was just the right balance between delicate and proud. His mouth possessed just the right amount of volume and curl. His cheekbones were gloriously high, and his jaw neither too weak nor too blocky, but defined, with just the right dash of cradleable-fragility.
Had Baelor spent too many hours observing that perfect, Valyrian face from afar? No doubt. It was not that he wanted Daemon’s face for his own; it was just…he did not know, only that it hurt to look too long from afar.
“Yes.” Baelor had many things to say, but none he could give voice to. Do I look more like a Targaryen now? Will you let me walk down the corridors of my own father’s keep without disparaging me now? Will you stop hating the father if the son looks less like the mother? Will you silence all your treacherous tongues if I wring all the Dornish out of me; if I become the embodiment of the perfect Andal knight, the perfect Valyrian prince, the perfect everything? When am I allowed to make a mistake? Five years? A decade? A lifetime? When will I stop having to try twice as hard to get half as much?
“You—but—that’s not what I—I just wanted you to—” Daemon’s mouth snapped shut and his face twisted. His mouth trembled around some great emotion. This was the moment. This was the moment the gulf finally closed between them and they stopped staring at each other across it and spoke for the very first time. Baelor would learn at last if the Daemon he had built out of a thousand moments of observation was even real at all, or if he had only seen what he had wanted to see.
But then Daemon’s jaw tightened and his face blanked as he suppressed the emotion trembling just there in the curve of his mouth. His fists clenched. His eyes dropped from Baelor’s face, and he continued on his way as if he had never seen Baelor at all. He walked right passed him, close enough their shoulders brushed. Baelor felt the heat of Daemon’s passing, smelt the citrusy scent of Rohanne on him, and words piled on the tip of his tongue. I could be your friend, Daemon. I would be a true friend to you. But he could not let those words out.
“Father, maybe, if I befriended Daemon—”
“No, Baelor. Your intention would be to make peace, but it would be seen as a capitulation. Until the boy separates himself from the dregs of my father’s court, you cannot be seen in close company with him. You are the Prince of Dragonstone. Every person you take into your circle must be worthy of your favor, for their actions will reflect back on you. You cannot keep company with a boy who, the moment he leaves your side, surrounds himself with those who disparage you.”
The words to call Daemon back, to offer his hand, to breach this gulf between them, rotted on Baelor’s tongue. He had to be the perfect prince, the perfect heir to the throne, and the Prince of Dragonstone did not hold his hand out to a boy who kept company with those who sneered Mud Prince at Baelor’s back.
Baelor allowed himself only a backwards glance as Daemon walked away. Daemon did not look like a man grown, for all his height. A last bit of lankiness still clung to his frame, allowing only the promise of his future strength, and he did not yet move with a man’s confidence, his growing years still too fresh in the back of his mind when legs were suddenly too long, voices cracked, and bodies betrayed them in the most humiliating ways.
Daemon’s arms had tucked in close to his sides, and his head had bowed. His hair had slipped forward to hang in front of his eyes, and the soft, loose curls at his nape peeked out. His hands were still fisted at his sides. Was he angry with himself for not finishing the words he started, or angry that he betrayed even a moment’s dismay over a bit of shorn hair?
What do you think of me? Am I your rival? Your enemy? Your envy? Do you wish you could be me, or do you wish you could destroy me?
And then Daemon was gone, taking all the heat in the corridor with him and leaving the taste of a thousand unsaid, rotting words in Baelor’s mouth.