Aegon chose his moment carefully.
"Could we have roasted mammoth tonight?" he asked, keeping his tone light, almost casual. "The Dawnwatchers reported a wild one sighted beyond the marsh."
Six years at Harrenhal had taught him to read Baelon's humors as other boys read books. Today, there was a brightness about him, a rare ease in his bearing.
For all his iron resolve, Baelon was generous beyond measure to those he called his own. So long as a matter did not trespass upon his deepest principles, he denied them nothing. Under his protection, none of the children had ever known want.
Not long past, Helena had taken to the skies upon Dreamfyre to inspect her holdings along the Grey Gallows. She had returned windswept and dissatisfied, her mouth set in a thin line.
"Broken stone and salt wind," she had declared bitterly. "There is nothing there."
Prince Baelon had listened in silence. The next day, fleets sailed from Harrenhal's docks heavy with timber, quarried stone, master craftsmen, and chests of gold. Fortresses rose where rock had stood barren. Harbors were dredged from stubborn shoals. Shipyards and fishing towns followed in swift succession.
Aegon had once glanced through the ledgers in the tower solar. The sums recorded there were enough to purchase lesser lordships outright.
The sight had stirred something uneasy within him.
Once, he had wished that his own lands might be transformed with such vigor. Yet he knew himself too well. He was no natural lord, no architect of prosperity. Baelon had already given him discipline, dignity, and purpose. To demand more would be indulgence.
He would not become another weight upon those vast coffers.
Baelon's lips curved faintly. "Very well. Roasted mammoth it shall be. There is a hind leg kept in the granary of the Howling Tower. Have it brought out and set upon the spit."
He paused, fingers drumming lightly against the arm of his chair.
"Laena arrives before dusk. She brings spices traded from the Summer Islands, acquired from the Tidebirds. We shall taste something unfamiliar tonight."
At that, Aegon, Helena, and Aemond exchanged glances, their expressions uncannily alike.
They all remembered the previous summer.
On Prince Daeron's sixth nameday tourney, Baelon had ridden beneath the banners of Harrenhal and taken the champion's crown. Before the eyes of all King's Landing, he had named Laena Velaryon Queen of Love and Beauty.
The memory still burned bright.
Daeron had been born, as he always would have been.
After her second year at Harrenhal, and once she was certain Baelon posed no threat to her children, Queen Alicent had returned to King's Landing. Yet she had never wholly withdrawn her gaze. Several times each month she flew back to see them.
As Aegon, Helena, and Aemond grew stronger in body and steadier in conduct, her trust in Baelon's guidance deepened.
Especially in Aegon.
The boy who had once tried her patience beyond endurance had been tempered in Harrenhal's stern forge. He was not brilliant, nor especially charming, but he stood straight now. He listened. He endured.
He did not shame her.
Thus, when she conceived Daeron in 113 AC, her journeys northward ceased. Instead, Prince Baelon escorted the three elder children to King's Landing each month.
The tourney day had been unforgettable.
Before a roaring sea of nobles and smallfolk, Laena had descended from the stands and pressed a kiss to Prince Baelon's lips. The city had erupted in cheers.
It was said that Corlys Velaryon had laughed until tears streaked his cheeks.
King Viserys had not laughed at all.
No matter. The applause rolled like thunder across the field, celebrating what the people believed to be a romance worthy of song.
The children had stood frozen, eyes wide.
Later, in hushed voices, they confessed that Lord Otto Hightower had approached them during the tilts. He had spoken softly, carefully, his words polished smooth.
Advice, he had called it.
Guidance.
Aegon remembered the way Otto's hand had rested lightly upon his shoulder, the weight of it gentle yet deliberate.
But Prince Baelon's creed had already taken root within them. Family before all. Blood before convenience.
Otto's words had slid away like rain down a dragon's scales.
More than that, Aegon and Aemond had begun to discern the shape beneath the courtesy.
Ambition.
To be born Targaryen was to guard the dignity and supremacy of their house. That truth had been hammered into them without cruelty, without softness.
Otto's counsel was no simple guidance.
It was encroachment.
And encroachment upon House Targaryen was not to be forgiven.
"My prince."
The castle steward, Illys, called the Weeping Knight, materialized behind Prince Baelon with such silence that even Aegon failed to hear his approach. In his gloved hands lay a sealed letter bearing the crowned stag of King's Landing.
"Word from the capital," he said, inclining his head. "Ser Otto was set upon by a mob while overseeing the city patrols. He is gravely wounded and lies insensible. His Grace commands your presence. Prince Aegon is to accompany you. The matter is urgent."
Prince Baelon did not flinch. He had long since grown accustomed to Illys's shadowed ways.
He extended his hand and broke the seal, scanning the contents without visible haste.
When he finished, he folded the parchment with measured care.
"Prepare our departure," he said calmly. "Inform His Grace that we ride at once."
Aegon studied his guardian's face, searching for some flicker of surprise or concern.
He found none.
Only the faintest curve of satisfaction at the corner of Prince Baelon's mouth.
Six years.
Six years since he had departed King's Landing with three quiet resolutions set firmly in his mind.
First, remove Otto Hightower.
Nearly accomplished.
Second, cut away the festering instabilities within the capital before they could ripen into crisis.
Almost complete.
Third, secure the unquestioned right to educate Aegon, Helena, Aemond, and Daeron.
Achieved.
Prince Baelon rose, fastening his cloak with steady hands. His expression remained composed, but there was a sharpened light in his eyes.
The game, it seemed, had reached its final move.
From the very beginning, Prince Baelon had set each stone with care.
Why had he never openly exposed Otto Hightower's quiet faction-building? His careful cultivation of influence within the City Watch? His patient weaving of alliances through marriage, coin, and favor?
Because exposure had never been the point.
He required Otto placed squarely at the center of King's Landing's reconstruction. He required the Hand to be seen reshaping the city with his own authority, issuing decrees in his own name.
Only then could the fury of Flea Bottom fall upon him.
And only then could Queen Alicent be denied the chance to shield her father from the consequences.
It was unfortunate that Otto had not perished outright. Unconsciousness was inconvenient. Death would have simplified matters.
Still, the design remained intact.
Prince Baelon's game required three hands upon the board.
The first was Jason Lannister, now commander of the City Watch in Prince Baelon's stead. His task was restraint and reinforcement. When chaos erupted, he would arrive not as conspirator, but as savior. His cloaks would seal the streets, restore order, and bear witness to Otto's fall.
The second was Mysaria.
Through the Feast House, she had gathered the city's underbelly into something resembling structure. Cutpurses, informers, sellswords without banners, men and women who had long ago learned that survival in King's Landing required quiet obedience to unseen masters.
The attackers had come from her ranks.
Desperate men. Hungry men. The sort who could scarcely afford a loaf of bread after the demolitions.
Before employing them, Prince Baelon had ensured their families were quietly removed across the Narrow Sea to Tyrosh, settled with enough coin to live in modest comfort.
Assassins required leverage.
Coin bought service. Blood secured loyalty.
Their grievance needed no invention.
Otto's redevelopment campaigns had torn down illegal dwellings, cleared entire alleys, and evicted families who had lived for generations beneath sagging roofs. In the name of order, the City Watch had enforced his decrees with cudgel and mailed fist.
Hatred had festered in the cracks left behind.
So when those men struck at Otto Hightower in vengeance, the act rang true.
Every order Otto had signed was preserved. Every demolition recorded. Members of the City Watch would testify to the unrest, the threats, the mounting resentment in Flea Bottom's twisting lanes.
The story would require no embroidery.
Otto Hightower, loyal Hand of the King, struck down while bringing order to a lawless quarter.
A martyr to duty.
And after?
The Red Keep would have cause enough to sweep through the capital with righteous fury. Criminal dens would be broken. Agitators seized. Flea Bottom would be scoured from end to end.
The underbelly would tremble.
Order would return, sharper than before.
It was not a subtle design.
But subtlety was not always required.
Baelon commanded the largest host sworn to Harrenhal. He commanded dragons besides.
In Westeros, power shaped memory. Power decided which version of events endured.
He rose from his chair and fastened the clasp of his cloak, his expression calm, almost contemplative.
Those who objected would speak.
Those who resisted would rise.
And those who rose against dragonfire…
Would burn.
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A/N: Advance chapters available on Patreon,
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