"Alicent, I've come to see you."
Baelon pushed open the door without knocking, the hinges sighing as though accustomed to his small intrusions. Sunlight streamed through the high arched windows of the queen's apartments, casting long gold bars across the tiles. The air inside was warm with the scent of rosewater and damp linen.
Alicent Hightower reclined on a cushioned couch near the window, her hands folded across the gentle swell of her belly. The green silk of her gown hung loosely around her, yet even loose cloth could not hide how far the child had grown within her. Several months now, round, unmistakable, and impossible to ignore.
Despite the weight she bore, the queen's face still held a girl's softness, pale skin unlined by age or worry, lashes long over green eyes that revealed every flicker of emotion. She hardly looked the mother of a toddling prince.
"It's you, Baelon," she murmured, her expression brightening with an almost involuntary warmth.
The boy climbed onto the seat beside her, legs dangling above the floor. Since her marriage to King Viserys, Baelon was the one soul who came to visit her every day. Even when he had no news, no gift, no purpose beyond sitting quietly at her side, he came. And in the silence of the Red Keep, its halls vast, and cold, his presence soothed her.
She sometimes suspected he sensed her loneliness. That he came for that reason alone.
Otherwise why would a child seek her out so faithfully?
"Here," Alicent said gently, scooping a spoonful of bright, fragrant fruit from a small gilded bowl. "From the Summer Isles. They say they are impossibly sweet."
Baelon accepted her offering dutifully, tasting the syrupy flesh while the queen continued to speak. Her voice flowed like a soft stream, carrying with it ordinary grievances, of keeping a castle running, of heaviness in her limbs, of restless nights and days that felt endlessly long.
He listened in silence as she talked, tilting her head back against the cushions. A slight wince crossed her features as she shifted, and her free hand pressed lightly against her belly.
"…and the maids keep spilling ink on the accounts. I'm forever correcting their columns," she sighed, rubbing her temple. "And everything smells too strongly to me. Spices, candles, even the rushes."
Only halfway through did something catch the boy's attention.
"Next month," Alicent muttered as she dipped the spoon again, "Viserys means to host a royal hunt in the Kingswood. For Aegon's second name day."
Her shoulders sagged with visible exhaustion.
"This hunt will cost dozens of gold dragons… and I must prepare spices and preserves and salted meats for thousands of guests…"
Baelon glanced at the heavy accounting ledger resting on a nearby side table. Its cracked spine and swollen pages testified to nights of weary calculation. He reached over and pushed it away with a boy's casual scorn.
"You can leave castle matters to the steward," he said with unfeigned sincerity. "You shouldn't exhaust yourself like this."
Alicent's expression softened. She raised one hand and brushed her fingers over his silver hair, smoothing it as one might soothe a fretful child.
"Oh, my sweet Baelon," she whispered, "you are always the one who thinks of me."
Her voice lowered once more, drifting into quieter complaints, the loneliness of the Red Keep, how King Viserys remained buried in his stone-carved dragons, how he came to her chambers only when he needed her body, never her counsel nor her company.
Had Baelon been older, ten years, twelve, or grown, she would never have spoken such truths aloud. But he was only six. Small. Gentle. Safe.
Baelon did not respond with words. Instead he slipped his small hand into hers. His palm was warm, the gesture earnest. For a moment, the queen simply breathed, letting that touch anchor her.
By midday, the sunlight had brightened to a harsh white. Baelon rose from the cushions and bowed lightly.
"I'll visit again tomorrow," he promised.
Alicent's answering smile was tired but genuine.
He left the chambers and made his way to the Great Hall, his soft leather boots whispering down the corridor. Guards saluted as he passed. Servants bowed. Courtiers whispered behind gloved hands, watching him, Daemon's son, silver-haired and sharp-eyed, moving with a quiet confidence unusual for one so young.
The Great Hall glowed with polished wood and gleaming metalwork. Rich tapestries lined the walls, depicting the proud history of House Targaryen, dragons soaring above burning fields, kings crowned in triumph or ruin. At the tables lay platters of roasted meats, honey-glazed fruits, fresh loaves, and an entire suckling pig, its skin crisp and glistening.
Only two figures occupied the long table.
One was a man with thinning silver-gold hair beneath a small crown, his features marked more by fatigue than true age. Viserys I Targaryen, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men. Lord of the Seven Kingdoms. Protector of the Realm.
Opposite him sat a striking girl of fifteen, silver hair cascading over her shoulders like molten moonlight. Her bearing was noble, her gaze sharp. Rhaenyra Targaryen, Princess of Dragonstone, the Realm's Delight, rider of the golden Syrax.
Yet the air between father and daughter was frozen-solid.
Baelon stepped forward as though he sensed nothing at all.
"Good day, Uncle. Cousin Rhaenyra."
Viserys brightened instantly. His smile stretched wide, affectionate, almost relieved.
"Baelon! Come, sit." He gestured eagerly. "I had them prepare lamb, your favorite."
Across the table, Rhaenyra stiffened. She pushed back her chair, movements taut with irritation.
"I'm finished," she said curtly.
She rose before either of them could answer. Her boots struck the stone with sharp, precise steps as she strode away, her braided hair swaying behind her like a banner pulled taut in a harsh wind.
Neither Viserys nor Baelon spoke until the echo of her departure faded.
"You and Rhaenyra quarreled again?" Baelon asked lightly, settling into his seat.
Viserys exhaled in resignation. "Yes… another disagreement." He rubbed the corner of his brow with two fingers. "She is fifteen now. Two years past the age she should have chosen a husband, yet she refuses every proposal I present. And she thinks, Seven help me... that I mean to strip her of her claim."
Baelon said nothing. He saw the weight pressing down on the king's shoulders. Saw the hurt, the guilt, the helplessness.
"Rhaenyra is brilliant," Viserys continued, voice gentler. "Brilliant and stubborn. But she is young still, too young to understand the truths that rule this realm."
He stared down at his wine cup, its rim trembling slightly between his fingers.
"Aegon's birth changed everything. Every lord knows it."
He let out a humorless laugh.
"If not for tradition," he murmured, "I would never have inherited the crown over my elder sister. The law does not say men must come before women… but centuries of custom speak more loudly than any law."
Baelon's fork paused mid-air. His gaze drifted to the king's face, the faint sadness, the lingering confusion, the father trying and failing to grasp affairs greater than his heart.
Viserys shook his head sharply, as though dispelling unwelcome thoughts.
"No more gloom." He forced a brighter tone. "Next month's Kingswood hunt, you'll join us, yes?"
Baelon nodded, but the king leaned forward, lowering his voice.
"And keep your dragon far from the forest. The last thing we need is some lordling scorched by mistake."
He took a hurried swallow of wine. Too hurried. His face tightened, a faint hiss slipping from between his teeth. One hand pressed briefly against his ribs beneath his robes.
Baelon stood at once. "Are you well, Uncle?"
Viserys straightened quickly, pasting on a smile. "I'm fine. Truly. Sit, sit." He patted Baelon's shoulder fondly. "I only wished to tell you about the hunt."
There was tenderness in his gaze, rare, deep, and almost paternal.
"You're growing up, Baelon. The realm's lords should see you. Alicent will prepare everything, leathers, bows, a fine mount. Consider them my gifts."
He ruffled the boy's hair affectionately before exiting the hall, moving with slow, deliberate steps.
The grand chamber fell into a hush the moment he disappeared. Candle flames flickered. A trail of incense drifted upward in ghostly coils. Only the gentle clink of Baelon's fork remained.
He stared down at his plate, thoughts drifting far beyond the hall.
A hunt in the Kingswood…
"The white hart should appear there," he murmured to himself. "If the tale holds true."
He frowned slightly.
"Tyraxes has flown over those woods for years and never found such a creature…"
He placed his fork down, eyes narrowing with distant calculation, quiet, thoughtful, and far too wise for a boy of six.
The candles swayed gently, casting long shadows across the empty seats where a king had sighed and a princess had stormed away. In the quiet that followed, Baelon sat alone, small, silver-haired, and watching destiny unfold one fragile thread at a time.
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Next chapter- Uncertain Eyes
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