Brightsmile (Baelor Hightower Fic)

[aemon_palehair]

The bells of Oldtown rang as if in celebration.

Baelor Hightower did not think it felt like one.

From the high western gallery of the Hightower, where the wind carried the scent of salt and river reeds, he watched the Dornish procession wind its way along the wharf road. Bright silks flashed between the pale stone buildings — orange and red and the fierce gold of Sunspear. The Honeywine caught the colours and broke them apart in ripples of light.

Princess Elia rode at the head of it, straight-backed and serene, her dark hair bound in copper silk. She did not look back.

Her brother did.

Oberyn Martell turned in his saddle as if he felt the weight of Baelor's gaze. Even at this distance, Baelor could see the faint curl of amusement at the prince's mouth. The Red Viper gave the smallest incline of his head — not mockery, not quite courtesy either — and then faced forward.

The sails unfurled.

The Martell banners lifted.

And the sun of Dorne slipped toward the horizon.

Baelor rested both hands on the cold stone balustrade. He had known, in the way one knows a fever is coming — in the shift of a laugh, the slant of a question. Still, knowing did not soften the sting.

"She was too delicate for you anyway."

Baelor did not turn. He knew the voice.

Garth.

"She would have melted in the Beacon Fire," Gunthor added brightly from somewhere behind him. "Or fainted at the sight of you in armor."

Baelor exhaled slowly.

His brothers joined him at the balcony, their silver hair catching the morning light. Garth leaned over the railing without ceremony, grinning down at the departing ships. Gunthor clasped his hands behind his back in his best imitation of courtly solemnity.

"You frightened her," Garth went on. "All that farting, dear brother. My, my. You should watch your meals better."

Baelor chose to ignore him. For his peace of mind.

Gunthor snorted. "I smelled it, you know. I was having lunch in the kitchens. The kitchen maids nearly fainted."

Baelor turned on them then, heat rising in his chest. "You think this amusing?"

"A little," Garth admitted cheerfully. "You were so certain of it."

"I was not certain," Baelor snapped.

Gunthor tilted his head. "You were composing children's names in your head."

Baelor felt his jaw tighten. It was uncomfortably close to the truth.

He had not been certain. But he had hoped.

The match had made sense. Dorne and Oldtown bound by marriage. Southern strength. Influence at court. Stability in uncertain times. He had spoken with Elia of books and ports and governance, of trade through the Summer Sea and the needs of smallfolk after long summers. She had listened enthusiastically.

Happily.

It had seemed like nothing could go wrong.

Then came the dinner. The laughter. Oberyn's voice cutting through the hall like a blade:

*"Baelor Breakwind! Yes, that suits you better than Brightsmile."*

And Elia — sweet, gentle Elia — trying not to laugh. Failing. Covering her mouth while her shoulders shook.

Baelor had smiled through it. Had to. A Hightower does not show wounding.

But the name had lodged somewhere beneath his ribs, sharp as broken glass.

It was not cruelty, Baelor knew. It was choice. Oberyn had chosen a different path for his sister, and the jest was merely the blade that cut the knot.

"She is Dornish," Garth said, softer now. "They choose differently."

"She chose the lions," Gunthor added. "Her mother intended her for them anyway."

That landed harder than the rest.

Baelor turned back to the sea.

The Martell ships were already smaller now, bright specks against the vast blue. Somewhere aboard, Elia would be seated beneath a canopy, hands folded, perhaps relieved. Perhaps already forgetting him.

"You'll have another," Garth said, clapping a hand to his shoulder. "Half the realm's daughters are prettier."

"And more likely to tolerate your abomination of a stomach," Gunthor added.

Baelor shoved his brother lightly, but there was no strength in it.

Below, the harbour resumed its usual clamour. Dockhands shouted. Carts rattled. Gulls cried. Oldtown endured, indifferent to youthful disappointment.

Garth continued prattling on about Baelor's misfortune, and he was truly considering tossing his brothers off the balcony when a shadow fell across them.

"My sons."

They turned as one.

Lord Leyton Hightower stood in the doorway, robes pale as mist, the chain of office resting easily upon his shoulders. The light from the Beacon Chamber behind him fractured through the great lens above, casting faint rainbows across the stone floor.

He had watched the departure as well, then.

Garth and Gunthor straightened at once.

Baelor inclined his head.

"Father."

Leyton's gaze lingered on the horizon a moment longer before settling on his eldest. There was no mockery there. No pity either.

Only calculation.

"You are disappointed," Leyton said.

It was not a question.

"I had hoped she would come around," Baelor replied carefully.

"Hopes are sails," his father said. "Useful when the wind favours you. Dangerous when it does not."

Garth shifted, clearly sensing that this was no longer a scene for brothers.

Leyton continued, voice calm as tidewater. "Princess Elia is frail, and Dornish blood runs thin beneath all that sun. They fancy themselves our equals, but they have neither the reach nor the history to sustain such pride. She was never truly suited for Oldtown."

There was no heat in the words. That was what made them land.

Baelor had heard this before — the quiet assumption of superiority, the dismissal of Dorne, their neighbours across the Red Mountains as something lesser. He had never questioned it. Why would he? He was Hightower. The Beacon of the South.

But now, standing where Elia had stood not days ago, he thought for the first time that his father was wrong. Elia hadn't seemed lesser. She was warm, intelligent and the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. He wondered if she had sensed it. That cool assessment. That certainty that she was being measured and found wanting not as a person, but as *Dornish*.

"I am not diminished by her choice," he said, more firmly than he felt.

"No," Leyton agreed. "You are not."

He stepped forward, resting his hands on the same stone where Baelor's had gripped moments before.

"The realm is wider than Dorne. And you are a man now. Seven and ten."

"Eight and ten in two moons," Gunthor supplied helpfully.

Leyton ignored him.

"It is time," his father said, "that the realm sees you. It is time they see the future of Oldtown."

Baelor looked at him sharply.

"You will tour the kingdoms," Leyton continued. "Highgarden. Storm's End. Riverrun. The Vale. Perhaps even Winterfell, if you are bold."

Garth's eyes lit. "A progress?"

"Think of it as more of a tour," Leyton corrected.

Baelor's pulse quickened despite himself.

"To be paraded?" he asked, bitterness bleeding through despite himself.

"To be chosen," Leyton said evenly. "And to choose. There are plenty of young maidens around the realm who would be eager for your hand. And their fathers for your gold and steel."

Silence settled between them, broken only by the distant crash of waves.

"You would have me beg?" Baelor asked.

"I would have you see," Leyton replied. "The realm is not a ledger to be balanced from Oldtown alone. You would bind it one day, if fate favours you. You must know it first."

The wind tugged at Baelor's cloak.

Beyond the harbor, the Martell ships were little more than shadows now.

"Take your cousins Jon and Gwayne," Leyton said. "I will provide you with a modest escort of knights. Hunt. Feast. Spar. Listen more than you speak. Let the daughters of the Seven Kingdoms judge whether the Light of Oldtown is worth standing beside."

Gunthor grinned. "And try farting less this time."

Baelor shot him a look.

But something steadied in him.

The sting of rejection had not vanished.

It had sharpened.

Princess Elia had chosen to look past him.

Very well.

He would chart his own path. Let the realm see him. Let them measure. Let them judge.

He would prove himself worthy of being seen.

"When do I depart?" he asked.

Leyton's expression softened, just slightly.

"With the next favorable tide."

Below them, Oldtown thrummed with life — ancient, unhurried, eternal.

Baelor Hightower watched the horizon where the Dornish sun had vanished and felt, beneath the ache of youth, the first stirring of something harder.

Not wounded pride.

Resolve.

---

The tides remained favourable for a fortnight after the departure of the Martells. Baelor spent those days in a strange suspension — training in the yard until his arms ached, reading reports he did not retain, walking the city streets at odd hours. His smile returned when required, but it sat differently now. A shade more deliberate.

Garth noticed. Garth always noticed.

"You're practicing it," he said one evening, finding Baelor before a polished silver plate in his chambers.

"Practicing what?"

"That smile. You're making it happen on purpose instead of letting it happen."

Baelor had no answer.

On the final night before departure, when the seas lay calm and the forecast promised fair winds, Jon appeared at his chamber door.

"Put on something less lordly," he said.

Baelor looked up from his letters. "Excuse me?"

"You've been brooding for a fortnight. We're not going on this tour while you're still carrying Dornish ghosts. Put on something less lordly and come with us."

Behind Jon, Gwayne grinned. "Unless you'd rather sit here and count your humiliations. I hear three is a good number to start with."

Baelor sighed.

But he rose.

---

The Citadel's bells fell silent as they descended into the warren of streets near the harbour. Perfumed smoke drifted from the Street of Silk Lanterns, where coloured glass lamps hung from balconies and laughter spilled freely into the humid night.

Jon walked at Baelor's left, quiet and observant, taking in the shadows and the doorways with the calm assessment of a man who missed nothing.

Gwayne ranged ahead, already scanning the crowds with an appraising eye.

"You could at least pretend to enjoy this," Gwayne called back.

"I'm enjoying it silently," Baelor replied.

"That's not how enjoyment works."

They stopped beneath a carved archway painted in fading gold, a sign bearing a reclining mermaid swinging gently overhead.

Gwayne clapped Baelor on the shoulder. "You look as though we're marching you to the Wall."

"You are," Baelor replied dryly. "In spirit."

Jon folded his arms. "We're leaving tomorrow. You've been brooding for a fortnight. Again, We're not going on this tour while you're carrying ghosts."

"I am not brooding."

"You watched the harbour for three hours yesterday."

"I was considering trade routes."

Jon's expression did not change. "Of course you were."

Music drifted from inside — lute and soft drums. Women's laughter echoed, low and practiced.

Baelor hesitated.

"I do not need—"

"No," Jon agreed calmly. "But it may remind you that the world is larger than one princess."

"And that not all women prefer lions," Gwayne added.

That earned a reluctant half-smile.

They entered.

---

The interior glowed warm and amber. Cushions scattered across low couches. Curtains of gauze drifting lazily in the evening breeze. The air smelled of citrus oil and wine.

The women inside assessed them in a single sweep — cloaks, posture, swords — and adjusted their smiles accordingly.

A woman approached Baelor first. Older than him by a few years, with dark curls pinned loosely at her neck and intelligent eyes that missed nothing. She reached out and, with casual intimacy, straightened a fold of his collar no one else would have noticed was askew.

"It's good to see you back, my lord. It has been long since you last graced my establishment."

Baelor rolled his eyes, but a small smile tugged at his mouth. "It's my pleasure, Tyanna."

She studied him shamelessly. "What ails you, my lord? You brood as though you've come to argue philosophy."

"Do men often argue philosophy here?"

"Only the sad ones."

Gwayne had already vanished toward the back stairs with a redheaded girl, his laughter echoing behind him.

Jon accepted wine and settled near a window with a blonde woman who seemed more interested in conversation than coin — Jon's way. He could draw stories from anyone given time.

Baelor remained standing.

Tyanna tilted her head. "Has she just left you?"

He blinked.

"Is it so obvious?"

"You are not drunk enough for this to be triumph," she said. "And not angry enough for revenge."

He exhaled slowly.

"She chose someone else."

"Is he better looking?"

Baelor stared at her. "How am I to know that? I've never met the man."

She burst out laughing. Baelor remained stoic.

Slowly, she recomposed herself. "You should smile more, my lord. They named you Brightsmile for a reason."

"I try."

"Well, if you're trying now, that's a damn poor attempt."

Despite himself, a small smile tugged on his lips.

"Ah, there it is," she said, triumphant.

She took his hand and led him to a private room, shutting the door behind her.

"Sit," she said, gesturing to a cushioned alcove. "You need not dwell on that any longer. Let me help bring a smile to that pretty face of yours."

He hesitated only a moment before sitting.

She stepped out of her robes without ceremony and walked toward him. Baelor kept his eyes on her face. He tried, anyway. She smiled, slow and knowing, and made no effort to hide herself from his wandering gaze.

She straddled him and took his face in her hands, kissing him deeply.

"Will you marry soon?" she asked when they broke apart.

"I sail tomorrow to find out."

"And does that trouble you?"

"It does not," he said automatically.

She waited.

Baelor looked down at his hands.

"It does," he admitted.

"Because you were refused?"

"No." He paused. "Because I do not wish to be refused again."

That was the truth.

Not desire. Not wounded pride.

Fear of being measured and found lesser.

She kissed him again.

"You are young," she said. "Men tend to think marriage is a conquest. It is endurance."

He considered that, but his mind began to blur as she moved against him.

"My father says I must see the realm," he said, breathless.

"And what do you wish?"

Baelor pressed his face into her neck, breathing in her scent — rich perfume and warm skin and something earthy beneath.

"I wish," he said slowly, "to build something that does not crumble when the wind changes."

She smiled faintly.

"Then do not begin it in a house built for wind."

He understood.

She began to work at his breeches. He stopped her.

"I can't. Not anymore. I'm sorry."

She sat back, unbothered. "There is no need to apologize, my lord. Is there something else I can do to ease your mind?"

"Let's just sit and talk."

And they did.

---

When he emerged, Jon was already waiting, wine cup empty, expression unreadable.

Gwayne reappeared moments later, hair disheveled, grin wide.

"You're finished already?" he demanded. "I got a girl with tits the size of my head, and you're done in—" He squinted at Baelor. "Wait. You didn't."

Baelor said nothing.

Gwayne's jaw dropped. "You talked? All night? In a brothel?"

"If I'm to marry soon, it would be best if I don't disgrace my future wife with a bastard don't you think?. Besides, she understands me."

"She's a whore, Baelor. You will have a better chance getting a tree with child. She probably drinks moon tea like water."

"She's a person who happens to sell a service. And she gave better counsel than half my father's advisors."

Gwayne stared. Jon quietly smiled.

"You're strange," Gwayne declared.

"So I've been told."

They stepped back into the cool night air. The sounds of the Lantern House dimmed behind them.

Jon fell into step beside Baelor. "She was right, you know. About endurance."

Baelor glanced at him. "You heard?"

"I happened to."

They walked in silence for a moment.

"You'll find someone," Jon said quietly. "Not because you're a Hightower. Because you're you. That's what they don't see yet. But they will."

Gwayne, ahead of them, was already launching into an enthusiastic retelling of his evening that Baelor firmly tuned out.

The Hightower rose in the distance, its great beacon burning bright, casting light over the sleeping city.

Baelor looked up at it — the flame that had guided ships home for millennia. The flame he would one day tend.

Jon's words settled somewhere warm.

They walked on through the sleeping city, three young men on the edge of everything — Gwayne's laughter behind them, Jon's steady presence beside them, the realm ahead.

And Baelor Hightower felt, for the first time since Elia's departure, steady.

---

The Hightower stirred before dawn.

Servants moved through its spiralling halls like ants through pale stone, arms laden with traveling cloaks, polished helms, bundles of parchment, sealed letters bearing the tower-and-flame sigil. In the yard below, grooms brushed destriers until their coats shone like burnished copper and moonlight silver.

Baelor stood before the long table in his chambers while a servant fastened the clasps of his travel cuirass. Not war armour — his father had insisted on that — but polished steel chased in pale gold, the Hightower flame etched over the breast.

"You look too pleased," Malora said from the doorway.

Baelor glanced up.

His eldest sister leaned against the frame, dark-eyed and observant, fingers stained faintly with ink. Malora missed little in Oldtown, and less beyond it.

"I am not pleased," Baelor replied.

"You are restless," she corrected.

"Seven hells, sister, must you always be so serious?" he asked, turning to face her properly.

Behind her clustered the others in uneven formation.

Garth, already smirking.
Gunthor leaning too far forward.
Leyla, Denyse, and Alyssane stood in a quiet cluster of gold and silver, their expressions a spectrum from composed to solemn to bright-eyed
Little Humfrey clinging to Rhea Florent's skirts.
And Lynesse — wide-eyed, silver-gold curls tumbling free — staring at Baelor as though he were riding to war rather than courtship.

"What is this? I'm only going on a tour of the realm. I'm not marching to my death," Baelor exclaimed.

"Is it a sin for us to want to bid farewell to our brother? Besides, you are going to come back married," Alyssane declared.

"Or rejected by seven kingdoms instead of one," Garth added helpfully.

Leyla elbowed him.

Malora stepped into the chamber, circling Baelor once like a maester inspecting a curious specimen.

"You look presentable for once," she said plainly.

"I try," Baelor replied dryly.

"Make sure to listen," she said, ignoring his sarcasm. "Listen. Let them speak. Women remember men who listen."

Denyse nodded agreement.

Gunthor scoffed. "They remember men who win tourneys."

"That too," Malora allowed.

Baelor fastened his sword belt himself, and strapped Vigilance to it.

"Highgarden first?" Leyla asked softly.

"Gulltown. Lord Grafton is hosting a tourney to celebrate his son's coming of age. I mean to enter the lists and hopefully find a proper lady to wed," Baelor answered.

A small shift passed through the room at that.

Leyla's eyebrows shot up. "The Vale? You mean to marry an airheaded Valeman?"

Baelor sighed. "The Valemen are Andals and worshipers of the Seven above, Leyla. A match would be prudent. Besides, I'm to tour the realm. Not just Gulltown or the Vale. There will be plenty a maiden to choose from."

Garth grinned knowingly. "Try not to let them throw you from the Eyrie."

"I shall bring rope," Baelor replied.

Little Humfrey tugged at his mother's hand. "Will there be giants?"

"No giants," Baelor assured him, crouching so he was level with the boy. "Only very loud lords."

Humfrey considered this gravely.

Lynesse stepped forward next. She was young still, but there was already something luminous about her — the pale coloring of their line catching every shard of light. Baelor crouched down to meet her.

"Bring me something from each castle," she demanded. "A ribbon. Or a story."

"I will bring both," Baelor said, poking her cheeks.

Behind them, footsteps approached.

Ser Hobert Hightower entered with Jon and Gwayne at his side.

His uncle's hair had faded to pale ash, but his bearing remained martial. Jon stood tall and quiet, already knightly in demeanour. Gwayne looked far too eager for the road.

"You have packed light?" Hobert asked without preamble.

"Light enough," Baelor replied.

"Good. A young lord weighted by excess looks soft."

Gwayne laughed. "We are to charm, not conquer."

"Charm first," Hobert said. "Conquer if necessary."

Lord Leyton entered last.

The room quieted without command.

He looked over the gathered children — near-grown and half-grown alike — and the faintest satisfaction passed across his features. Legacy embodied.

"Enough crowding," Leyton said mildly. "Give him space and let him breathe, else he'll perish of suffocation before he can even board his ship."

Soft laughter followed.

Lady Rhea Florent stepped forward then, graceful as river reeds. She was his father's fourth wife. For the sake of little Humfrey and Lynesse, he prayed she would be the last. To his own quiet surprise, he had come to hold her in genuine regard.

She adjusted Baelor's cloak herself, smoothing the heavy wool at his shoulders.

"You will remember," she said gently, "that courtesy is armour too."

"I will, my lady."

She studied him a moment longer.

"And do not mistake kindness for weakness. Nor strength for cruelty."

Garth coughed theatrically.

Leyton's eyes flicked toward him.

"Outside," his father commanded.

The procession descended the winding tower stairs together.

The yard below was bright with morning sun. Horses stamped and tossed their heads. Thirty Hightower knights in silver and green stood at attention. Sailors were already shouting along the quay. The ship that would carry them southward bobbed at anchor, white sail furled and waiting.

Alerie was absent — living Highgarden with her husband Mace already — but her absence felt like proof of time's passage.

One of the knights offered him a horse, and Baelor mounted smoothly.

Jon and Gwayne followed.

The siblings gathered near the gatehouse.

Gunthor called up, "If she rejects you, bring back her sister!"

"Or her dowry," Garth added.

Malora shook her head but did not smile.

Leyla raised a hand in quiet farewell. Denyse mirrored her. Alyssane waved enthusiastically until Rhea gently steadied her.

Humfrey clung to Lynesse's hand.

Lynesse lifted her chin as if committing the sight to memory.

Lord Leyton stepped forward last.

For a moment, it was only father and son.

"You carry the Light of Oldtown," Leyton said quietly enough that only Baelor could hear. "Do not let it flicker in another man's shadow."

Baelor inclined his head.

"I will not."

Leyton placed a hand briefly against his son's booted knee in a rare public show of affection.

"Go, then."

The gates opened.

Hooves struck stone.

The escort moved as one through the streets of Oldtown, past fishmongers and septas and dockworkers who paused to bow as the tower-and-flame standard passed.

At the harbor, the gangplank was lowered.

Baelor reined in once at the edge of the quay and looked back.

The Hightower rose behind him, pale and unyielding, its beacon unlit in the daylight but no less present.

His family stood small now against the vastness of stone and sky.

The wind shifted.

Salt and promise.

He turned his horse toward the waiting ship.

Gulltown first.

Then the realm.

And somewhere within it—a bride who would not look past him for a lion.

The tide turned, and with it, Baelor Hightower sailed toward his future.

 

[To-be-hero-X]

You know one chapter alone Baelor shown how much better than he is then rhaegar Dornish can fuck off

 

[MrSplashy]

This is becoming more better and I agree fuck the Dornish not literally by the way!