Half a month later, Baelon Targaryen crossed the threshold of the royal wheelhouse, an ornate behemoth of black lacquer and pale ivory, built by the finest craftsmen in King's Landing. From a distance it looked like some great striped beast slumbering in the shade of the Red Keep's towers; inside, it was as vast as a chamber and twice as comfortable, hung with velvets and lanterns of polished brass.
The instant Baelon stepped through its carved doorway, the warmth of the place turned brittle, like ice snapping beneath the heel.
Young Prince Aegon sat on the floor with a wooden dragon clutched in both hands, swinging it in some private, imagined battle. Queen Alicent rested nearby upon a cushioned bench, round with child and visibly worn, her smile fragile with exhaustion. King Viserys reclined beside her, trying, always trying, to look at ease.
And opposite them, Princess Rhaenyra sat rigid as winter-forged steel.
"You did not return last night," she said at once. Her voice was sharp enough to cut. "Where were you? I waited for you all evening."
Her complaint fell so cleanly into the charged silence that even little Aegon paused mid-battle.
Baelon blinked. So it begins again.He forced a weak smile. "Didn't I tell you? I was in the queen's rooms, helping to care for Aegon."
A poor excuse, and he knew it. Rhaenyra's eyes narrowed, dark and dangerous beneath her silver-gold lashes.
Baelon suppressed a sigh. Since the day he had been returned to the Red Keep as an infant, he had been raised in Rhaenyra's chambers, had slept in the cradle near her bed, learned to walk across her carpets, clung to her skirts when the world seemed too large. Their bond was deep, warmer and more tangled than typical sibling affection.
But that sort of closeness had its teeth.
Whenever Rhaenyra's mood soured, Baelon became the one she turned to, her balm, her lightning rod, her favored creature to scold when life displeased her. He rarely minded. But last night…
Last night, Alicent Hightower had "invited" him to try on new courtly attire. Yet once he entered her rooms, she had not let him leave. Not until the candles burned low.
Beautiful women lie, Baelon thought with a silent sigh. Alicent lies. Rhaenyra lies. All beautiful liars, carving the world to their liking.
Rhaenyra flicked her gaze toward Alicent, a single, glacial glance, then closed her eyes with exaggerated indifference, as though neither the queen nor Baelon merited her attention.
Yet even so, she shifted to her right, creating the smallest of spaces beside her.
Baelon slipped into the seat without hesitation.
Rhaenyra did not open her eyes. Instead she lifted her left leg and draped it across his lap, chin tilting upward in silent command.
Baelon felt a faint laugh tug at him. For years he had known exactly what this meant.
Massage.
He had begun the practice as a child, when Rhaenyra complained of headaches. As he grew stronger, she learned she could demand more, her shoulders after a long day of lessons, her back after courtly obligations, her arms after the lists. Eventually, she grew thoroughly addicted to the indulgence.
"You've walked only a few steps," Baelon muttered, adopting a show of irritation as he wrapped his hands around her smooth calf. "And you already need a massage?"
Yet his fingers were already moving with practiced ease, pressing into the warm muscle beneath her pale skin.
He barely had time to settle into the rhythm before Alicent spoke, her voice drifting lightly from beside Viserys.
"When we reach the hunting camp, Baelon, would you rub my feet as well?" she asked, one hand resting protectively atop her swollen belly. "They've grown terribly puffy. Walking has become quite… difficult."
Rhaenyra's eyes snapped open.
Her entire leg tensed atop his thighs, taut as a bowstring, trembling with barely restrained fury. Baelon felt the muscles coil beneath his palms. She was a dragon-daughter, impulsive and proud, and Alicent's request struck her like a gauntlet thrown to the floor.
If she lashed out here, if she kicked Alicent in her condition, Helaena might never draw breath.
And though Baelon knew that such a tragedy might trigger some strange "achievement" in the unseen mechanics of his rebirth, he had no desire to see Helaena erased from the world. The same went for Aemond.
Aegon… well, losing him wouldn't have been catastrophic. But at the time, Baelon had been too young to intervene.
He tightened his grip discreetly, pinning Rhaenyra's leg in place.
The princess shot him a burning look but did not struggle. She was not stupid, only tempestuous, and her relationship with Alicent had not yet curdled into the bitter hatred that would one day set the realm aflame.
"The maester says swelling is normal during pregnancy," Baelon said gently. "I'll massage them for you tonight."
Alicent's smile softened. "Thank you."
Viserys watched the exchange with a pleased sigh, shoulders easing. To him, this moment, this delicate balance of his family, felt precious. Baelon, with his calm words and uncanny maturity, had become a thread binding his fractured household together.
But the warmth faded as swiftly as it came. Viserys' expression darkened, shadows creeping beneath his eyes as unspoken worries surfaced.
He had heard the whispers circulating through the court.
Precocious bastard. Dragon-touched whelp. Daemon's strange-born get.
His hand drifted to the dagger at his hip, the ancient Valyrian steel treasure passed from Aegon the Conqueror himself.
One day, Viserys thought grimly, I will cut out the tongues of every man who spreads such filth.
*
The Kingswood Hunting Camp
By the time the royal wheelhouse rumbled into the Kingswood clearing, the nobles of the crownlands had already gathered in droves. Bright banners lifted in the mild summer wind, crane and lion, stag and mermaid, while armored knights lined the path, eager to be seen.
As Viserys descended, the crowd broke into a roar.
"Long live Prince Aegon!" "Hail the great Prince Aegon!"
The cries, though fewer than those for the king, rang sharply through the camp.
Baelon turned his head instinctively.
Beside him, Rhaenyra's face hardened to stone.
Not good.
Some lords had already begun shifting their loyalties toward Alicent's son, seizing upon any excuse to court future favor. And Rhaenyra, named heir or not, could do little to stop them.
Viserys stepped down first, smiling as though the acclamations were meant for him alone. He raised his hands, regal and warm, letting the crowd bask in his presence.
"Welcome, my lords!" he called. "Tonight we feast, and on the morrow we hunt, to honor my son Prince Aegon on his second name day!"
Cheers rose like a tide.
Viserys possessed a gift rare among the Targaryens, a talent for easing tensions, soothing egos, charming great and small alike. Most of his kin lacked it. Daemon wielded fire, not diplomacy. Rhaenyra relied on force of personality, not patience. Even proud Princess Rhaenys, for all her wisdom, could not charm a hall like Viserys.
Baelon had spent six years studying this side of his uncle.
For Viserys was not weak, merely anchored to a single path, a single way of ruling. Mercy without teeth. Authority without the threat of fire.
But Targaryens also had dragons.
Dragons were fear, the sword. Mercy was politics, the leash. A true ruler needed both in equal measure.
More cheers followed, though now the shouts of "Aegon!" rolled darkly beneath the surface, like undertow beneath the crest of a wave.
Alicent descended next, leaning heavily on her handmaidens, unable to stand long in her condition. The sun caught the sheen of sweat on her brow, and she winced as her feet touched earth. The attendants hurried her toward a shaded pavilion.
The third to emerge should have been Rhaenyra.
Baelon coaxed, urged, pleaded with quiet words, and gentle hands.
But Rhaenyra refused to leave the wheelhouse, her pride wounded and temper simmering.
So Baelon stepped out alone.
The nobles quieted as he appeared.
Their reaction was not cold, but cautious, like men beholding a wild stallion that might either bow or bite. A six-year-old prince who rode a monstrous dragon? A child beloved of the king? A boy rumored to be Daemon reborn, if not something stranger?
They did not know whether to flatter him… or fear him.
Baelon felt their gazes like heat against his skin as he descended the steps. He squared his shoulders, spine straight, expression calm. Sand crunched beneath his boots. The scent of roasting meat, trampled grass, and horse sweat filled the air.
He walked forward into the waiting camp, toward the hunting grounds, toward the nobles who would one day decide the fate of the realm.
And so, watched by a field of uncertain eyes, Baelon Targaryen walked forward into the Kingswood.
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Next chapter- The Golden Hen
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