The royal pavilion stood at the heart of the kingswood encampment, its silken walls swelling faintly with every passing breeze. Within, the air swirled with perfume and conversation, soft laughter, rustling skirts, the clatter of jeweled belts as noble ladies moved like bright fish in a shallow pool.
Princess Rhaenyra drifted through the bustle with the ease of long habit, though her steps were filled with a certain tension this morning. At her side walked Baelon, Daemon's firstborn, her young cousin-brother, a child who drew whispers wherever he passed. Servants and knights alike parted for them, bowing their heads as if afraid to meet the boy's lavender gaze.
They paused just beyond a pillar carved with the three-headed dragon, half-hidden in its shade. Yet the noblewomen gathered nearby, bright in their velvets and pearls, noticed them at once. Conversations stuttered. Fans paused mid-flutter.
"Your Grace.""My prince."
They curtsied in a ripple of silks, dipping low before Rhaenyra and before Baelon, that strange, beloved son of the Red Keep whose smile charmed as quickly as his silences unsettled.
"At ease," Rhaenyra said with a gentle wave, her eyes steady, expression mild. "Pray continue."
Baelon stepped forward with unstudied sweetness, hands clasped behind his back. At only six, he still bore a cherub's softness, round cheeks, a cupid's bow mouth, violet eyes large and luminous beneath pale lashes. When he smiled up at the ladies, several of them softened instinctively.
"And what were you talking about?" he asked, voice light as drifting feathers.
With his cherubic face and soft voice, few could resist answering him.
Alicent stepped in quickly, clearly signaling the ladies with her eyes:
"Nothing much, these ladies from the coastal houses were just sharing news from home."
Most of the noblewomen understood their queen's silent cue and nodded in agreement.
But one lady did not take the hint.
She was old, her hair like dull pewter braided beneath a stiff wimple, her thin lips carved permanently downward. Wrinkles lined her face like the cracks of old stone. She looked upon Rhaenyra and Baelon with a mixture of irritation and superiority.
"We were discussing the Stepstones," she said sharply, her voice carrying in the hush. "For months the pirates have grown bolder. The Sea Snake's fleet is battered. It can hardly lift its head."
A few ladies shifted nervously. Rhaenyra felt Baelon tilt his head, listening.
"And now," the woman pressed on, heat rising in her cheeks, "most noble fleets lie at the bottom of the sea. Trade is strangled. At this rate, the accursed Triarchy will sail their ships straight into King's Landing."
Her tone edged toward panic, or accusation. And worse, it veered dangerously close to treason. Rhaenyra's spine stiffened. The war in the Stepstones had been born of Daemon's ambition and the Sea Snake's pride, not the crown's decree. Even King Viserys avoided speaking of it directly.
Still, this woman dared.
The ladies around her shifted away like petals curling from a flame.
"And what of the crown?" she demanded, glare sharpening. "Should we, your loyal vassals, bear every loss alone? Our ships are burned, our goods taken, our men slain. And the crown does… nothing."
Her gaze speared Rhaenyra.
"And tell me, Princess... Daemon Targaryen helped spark this pointless war. Has he faced censure? Or may a prince of the realm behave as he pleases, no matter the cost to those beneath him?"
She sniffed, voice dripping contempt.
"Or perhaps House Targaryen no longer cares for its lesser lords."
Silence crashed over the pavilion.
Alicent went pale. Rhaenyra's hands curled into fists, her muscles coiling like Syrax before a strike. Even the distant murmurs outside the tent seemed to fade.
But before any royal could speak, a soft voice broke the stillness.
"Forgive me…" Baelon stepped forward, bowing his head in polite inquiry. "Might I know your name, my lady? This is my first royal gathering, you see."
The ladies inhaled sharply. Even Rhaenyra glanced down at him in surprise. The boy's tone was gentle... almost shy.
The elderly woman stiffened. Her eyes, cold and gray as old slate, slid over him.
"And who might you be, child?"
And there it was, the deliberate insult, delivered with a thin smile and a raised chin.
She had bowed to him moments ago. She knew exactly who he was.
Alicent's gaze frosted over. Rhaenyra straightened, jaw tight, fingers twitching with the urge to drag the woman out by her hair.
The tent held its breath.
Baelon only smiled, small, calm and unblinking.
"I am Baelon Targaryen," he said softly. "Firstborn son of Prince Daemon, whom you just named the 'instigator' of your woes. And you are?"
The old woman pressed her lips together, then lifted her chin higher, as though daring them all to object.
"I am Lady Johanna of Stonehelm, wife to Lord Staunton. And I was invited to this hunt." She let her gaze flick disdainfully over Baelon's form. "Though clearly standards for attendance have fallen, else why admit the bastard whelp of Daemon and that lowborn woman he bedded?"
The horror that swept the tent was near tangible.
Someone gasped. Another whispered a shaky prayer. Even the guards along the walls went rigid.
Baelon did not flinch.
"Welcome, Lady Johanna of Stonehelm," he replied, voice still sweet. "And now… goodbye." and the last words with a tilt of his head.
For a heartbeat, confusion rippled through the tent. Surely he meant to leave? Surely he would simply walk away?
But Baelon turned, not toward the exit, but toward the Kingsguard stationed nearby.
"Ser Cantell."
Armor clinked as the white cloak stepped forward at once. "Your Grace."
Baelon's violet eyes gleamed, not with anger, but something colder.
"Lady Johanna has insulted the royal family, questioned royal authority, and shown contempt for the crown." His voice was soft. "As Prince of House Targaryen, I declare her guilty of treason."
A collective shudder passed through the gathering.
Treason. Spoken aloud. The word carried a weight from which there was no retreat.
Baelon's expression remained untroubled.
"Strip her," he said. "Parade her through the camp. Then execute her by the fire. Throw her corpse into the flames. and remember, her ugliness should not stain my eyes."
The tent erupted into silence, so deep, so total it strangled the air.
Lady Johanna's face blanched to corpse-white. Her mouth opened soundlessly before a strangled scream tore free.
"You can't!" she shrieked. "You have no right to judge a noble! No right!"
But no lord nor lady moved to her defense. No one wished to be named alongside her.
"Crack!"
Ser Cantell's gauntleted fist struck her jaw with brutal efficiency. A tooth skittered across the floor. Lady Johanna collapsed, wailing.
"By your command, my prince." Cantell seized her by the leg and dragged her across the carpets, smearing blood in a gruesome streak.
"Wait," Baelon said suddenly.
Cantell froze. Rhaenyra took a step forward, pulse quickening. Alicent covered her mouth.
Baelon crouched beside the trembling woman. All eyes strained, but his voice dipped to a whisper only Johanna could hear.
Whatever he said, it shattered something in her soul.
Her eyes widened, pupils blown with primal terror. She clawed at the ground as if the very earth sought to swallow her.
"No- NO! Please, Prince Baelon, have mercy! Please!" she wailed, voice hoarse with terror.
Cantell hauled her away before she could reach for the boy's boots.
Baelon straightened, dusting his palms lightly as if brushing away char from a hearth.
The people there did not breathe.
Even Rhaenyra watched him as though seeing him anew, awed, unsettled.
A whisper drifted through the tent.
"…Baelon…"
He turned to his sister at last. She stepped closer, her voice low, taut.
"What did you say to her? To make her panic so?"
Baelon tilted his head, thinking, then shrugged with offhand innocence.
"Oh, nothing of note," he said. "I merely told her that Tyraxes is already on his way to Stonehelm."
Rhaenyra stiffened. Several ladies clutched their skirts.
Baelon continued calmly, "He's been eating often of late. I thought a visit to Stonehelm would make a fine meal."
Everyone froze.
Cold sweat bloomed down more than one spine.
In that moment, every soul present understood a terrible truth:
Prince Baelon Targaryen was not just a sweet child.
He was Daemon's son .He had a dragon. And he smiled when he dealt out death.
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Next chapter- The Lion's Golden Tribute
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