"Are you riding back to King's Landing with me?"
Baelon turned his head slightly as he addressed the three younger children gathered before him.
Prince Aegon gave a sharp snort and folded his arms across his chest. "No. That city is damp and suffocating," he said, his lip curling in distaste. "Every time I set foot there, I feel half-dead. I do not know how Father endures it."
Though he had spent his childhood in King's Landing, the years at Harrenhal had sharpened his contempt into something visceral. The capital's filth, its reeking alleys and clogged gutters, offended him now more than ever.
It was said that on his first return, when Baelon had insisted he accompany him, a passing cart had splashed him full in the face with waste from the street. Witnesses claimed Aegon had stood frozen, mouth open in stunned disbelief.
He denied the tale whenever it was repeated. Yet the fury that seized him at any mention of the city lent the rumor a certain credibility.
"I will go," Aemond said, stepping forward without hesitation. "There may be danger."
"And I as well," Princess Helaena added in her soft, distant voice. Her hands were folded neatly before her, but her gaze was attentive.
Baelon inclined his head once. "Good."
He looked back to Aegon. His expression cooled, all warmth draining from it.
"You will remain and hold the castle."
His voice lowered, quiet but edged like honed steel. "If I learn that you have crept into my Tower of Weeping again, or used my Myrish tapestries to wipe your arse, I will strip you naked and hang you from the gates of Harrenhal."
His eyes drifted downward in pointed implication.
"Not by the neck."
Aegon stiffened. The color drained from his face as a shiver traced his spine. He straightened at once and placed a hand over his heart in solemn oath.
"You have my word," he said earnestly. "I shall not go near the Tower of Weeping again."
He meant it. He feared his cousin more than he cared to admit.
Baelon treated him with a generosity few others showed. Yet when crossed, Baelon's mercy vanished utterly.
"See that Grey Ghost and Sheepstealer are well fed at Dragonmont," Baelon continued. "Grey Ghost in particular. He grows swiftly."
He turned to a waiting knight. "Have the Kingsguard prepare to depart. Three days' provisions. Full harness and plate. They ride ahead."
This had become his custom. The white cloaks secured the road first, seeing to any threat or unrest. Only once matters at Harrenhal were settled would Baelon mount his dragon and take to the skies.
More often than not, he reached the capital before the riders.
Dragons were swifter than any horse ever bred.
He faced Aemond and Helaena once more. "Make ready. When you see Tyraxes take wing, follow."
Helaena inclined her head serenely. "Dreamfyre is ever ready," she replied, her tone calm and certain.
Aemond adjusted the clasp of his riding gloves before answering. "Okay."
There was a flicker of dissatisfaction in his eye. His dragon, though formidable, remained the youngest among the three. She could not yet rival the seasoned endurance of Dreamfyre, nor the immense power of Tyraxes.
Tyraxes was but sixteen years of age, the same as Baelon. Yet the red-scaled beast stretched near sixty meters from snout to tail, wings vast enough to cast half the yard into shadow.
Aemond clicked his tongue softly, awe and frustration mingling within him.
A dragon raised beside its rider was no common thing.
As for the foolish talk that bastard dragons grew faster, he dismissed it with silent scorn. By such reasoning, Tyraxes himself would qualify.
Far to the south, within the Red Keep, another struggle unfolded.
In the chamber of Otto Hightower, the air lay heavy with incense, thick enough to cling to the throat.
Otto reclined beneath embroidered covers, his skin pale as parchment, his breath shallow and uneven. Each rasp seemed dragged from a failing chest, as though death already lingered beside him.
Queen Alicent Hightower stood beside the bed, her face smooth as porcelain, her posture unbending.
The scent of incense clung to the air.
Grand Maester Mellos withdrew his bloodied hands from beneath the coverlets and wiped his brow with a square of linen. Sweat had gathered along his temples despite the winter chill.
"Your Majesty," he said at last, keeping his gaze lowered in deference, "the Hand's wounds are grave. I have done all that learning and skill permit." His fingers tightened around the cloth. "But I fear he has no more than a week."
He braced himself for anger.
Instead, Queen Alicent Hightower answered in a voice colder than calm.
"I understand."
Her hands were folded before her, though the knuckles had gone faintly white.
"See that he is attended day and night. If the end comes…" She paused, her throat tightening only slightly before she mastered it. "Ensure that he does not suffer."
Mellos blinked, startled by the restraint in her tone. "As you command, Your Majesty."
A knock sounded against the heavy oak door.
"Your Majesty," came the muffled voice of a eunuch from the corridor beyond, "Prince Baelon has returned to King's Landing with Prince Aemond and Princess Helaena. His Grace requests your presence."
For the briefest moment, Alicent's fingers flexed at her sides.
"I shall come at once."
She cast a final look upon her father's ashen face. Whatever daughterly grief stirred within her, she buried it beneath duty. Then she turned and swept from the chamber.
She was going to see her son.
In the great hall of the Red Keep, Viserys sat heavily upon the Iron Throne's lower steps, cushioned now by silks and furs to ease his pain.
Time had not dealt gently with him.
His once broad frame had thickened, his movements slowed by aching joints and failing strength. His face bore the pallor of a man long acquainted with illness. Matters of rule passed more frequently to the Small Council, as the king's endurance dwindled.
Otto Hightower and Ser Jason Lannister had carried much of the realm's burdens in recent years.
Now Otto lay dying.
When Prince Baelon entered, with Aemond Targaryen and Princess Helaena Targaryen at his side, Viserys' tired features softened.
"You have come," the king said, relief threading his voice.
Baelon bowed his head. "Uncle."
"Father," Aemond and Helaena echoed
Viserys' gaze moved between them. "Where is Rhaenyra? She did not return with you?"
Baelon straightened. "She remains at Harrenhal, overseeing the fleets in Blackwater Bay. Word reached us that agents from Volantis seek to slip into our ports."
He clasped his hands behind his back, composed.
"She chose to stay."
In truth, Princess Rhaenyra had changed much these past six years. The sharp edges of youthful arrogance had worn smoother. The reckless pride, the brittle airs of a queen not yet crowned, had begun to fall away.
Baelon's discipline had shaped her as much as time had.
A complicated light entered Viserys' eyes. Relief warred with something like regret.
"Then perhaps," he murmured, almost to himself, "I did one thing wisely. Sending her to Harrenhal."
Silence settled over the hall, broken only by the faint crackle of torches.
At length, the king shifted, drawing a labored breath.
"So. Otto will not recover?"
"Grand Maester Mellos judges his chances poor,"
Viserys exhaled through his nose, long and slow.
"My strength wanes with each passing moon," he admitted. His gaze lifted, heavy but intent. "I require a Hand. One capable. One I may trust without question."
His eyes fixed upon Baelon.
"You are my first choice to serve as Hand of the King."
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A/N: Advance chapters available on Patreon,
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