Stonehelm was a coastal fortress that crouched against the sea like an aging sentinel, its stone walls scoured by salt wind and the endless crash of the Dornish Marches below. No fertile fields stretched around it, no broad herds grazed in the shadow of its towers. Its lands were stubborn, stony, and thin-fed, less lordship than fortress, carved into cliffs that had little patience for plows.
Thus, when young Prince Baelon Targaryen spoke lightly of "feeding" Tyraxes, only House Swann understood with dreadful clarity what such feeding meant.
"P-Prince… p-please, have a seat."
The noblewoman who addressed him was braver than most, though her trembling fingers betrayed her fear. She moved aside quickly, gesturing to the chair where Lady Johanna Swann had sat only moments before her execution.
Baelon thanked her with a courteous nod, settling into the seat as if nothing at all had happened. The boy moved with unhurried grace, silver-white hair falling like silk across his shoulders, his smile soft and warm, so very like King Viserys' gentlest smile.
Yet the nobles saw now what warmth could conceal.
Only minutes before, he had condemned Johanna to death with a voice cold as winter steel. Now he shone like a beam of morning sun.
Two faces, one childlike, one merciless, and both belonged wholly to him.
"This is the truth of Targaryens," the noblewoman thought, throat tightening. "There is no such thing as a normal one."
Baelon folded his hands neatly atop his knees, posture perfect, demeanor serene.
"The Crown has its own judgment," he said, voice smooth as soft velvet. "You must trust in His Grace. My father would never sacrifice the realm's noble houses merely to satisfy his own whims."
The tent fell into a hush. Even the wind seemed to draw back from his presence.
"House Velaryon and my father went to war against the Triarchy to protect every lord who keeps ships upon the sea," Baelon continued. "With the Sea Snake's fleet, and with Caraxes guarding the Stepstones, your trade is safer than it has been in years."
He paused, letting the words settle.
"As for the few raids that linger, those are but the Triarchy's dying throes. They cannot stir up any true storm. You agree, do you not?"
His tone was gentle. Almost coaxing. A prince born of silk and sun.
Yet their hearts hammered against their ribs, for they had seen what lay behind the silk.
The pavilion had not fallen into chaos only because Baelon had acted with lethal swiftness, striking before fear could spread, like a blade flickering through shadow. But now every gaze clung to him as if he were a dragon mid-coiling, his temper sleeping for the moment.
"Y-yes! Prince Baelon speaks true!"
A minor lord from the Crownlands rose, goblet sloshing in his shaking hand. "Come, raise your cups! A toast to the King! A toast to Prince Daemon! A toast to House Targaryen!"
The cry leapt like wildfire.
"To the King! To House Targaryen!"
"To the prince! To our true king!"
Wine sloshed, voices rose, and the nobles drank desperately—as if drowning their terror in Arbor red.
In their hearts, none felt true grievance. Lady Johanna Swann had courted death with open arms. To call a prince "bastard," to insult his father and mother before half the realm, before Daemon Targaryen's kin, of all people, was not boldness but madness.
Many thought privately, I'd have cut her down before the second insult.
And more muttered under their breath, "Had I a dragon, I'd not have waited even that long."
This was the age where bloodlines held the weight of the gods; to question a prince's birthright was to spit upon the very realm.
Treason, by any measure.
Across the tent, King Viserys watched his son with a quiet, blooming pride. His eyes softened with every heartbeat.
He saw nothing to reprimand. Only a son defending his blood.
He is but six, Viserys thought, warmth rising in his chest. Six, and already so fierce in his loyalty. This is not calculation. This is love. This is the fire of House Targaryen.
Just like Daemon in his youth.
Viserys' smile deepened.
"The seat of Stonehelm is now empty," the king said at last, turning to Otto Hightower with absent calm. "Leave it vacant for the moment. Send a royal official to oversee its rebuilding, one week from now should suffice."
"Yes, Your Grace." Otto bowed, but his eyes lingered on Baelon.
To many lords, especially those who despised Daemon, Baelon had always been "the whore's son." Whispered as the "whore-born prince," half noble, half tainted.
But Otto saw differently.
Chillingly differently.
Behind the boy's gentle face, he saw calculation, sharp, patient, deliberate. A refinement no six-year-old should possess. A mind that weighed consequences and wielded charm as deftly as a blade.
Otto Hightower had pledged his very life to placing Aegon on the throne. He would not allow this silver-haired prodigy, charming as summer and cold as wintertide, to endanger his grandson's ascent.
But Baelon was protected. Shielded by Viserys. By Daemon. By the lords who feared him.
Untouchable...
For now.
The feast resumed hesitantly, a strained attempt to reclaim mirth.
Jason Lannister strode forward through the throng, golden hair catching the torchlight like lion's mane. He bore something long and wrapped in richly embroidered cloth.
"Your Grace," Jason announced, dropping to one knee before Viserys. "I have heard from Prince Baelon of the Crown's financial strain. In loyalty to the Iron Throne, I offer a gift of thirty thousand gold dragons."
Murmurs rippled.
"And this spear," Jason continued, unwrapping the cloth to reveal a gleaming weapon, "forged under Casterly Rock in the Endless Halls. May it serve Your Grace in slaying the white hart. It would be the honor of House Lannister."
Viserys' face lit like dawn breaking across the sea.
"Your generosity honors me, Lord Jason," he said, admiring the spear's craftsmanship. "Tell me, have you met my heir, Princess Rhaenyra? You are of similar age. I imagine you might find pleasant company together."
Jason bowed again. "Not yet, Your Grace. I intend to seek her out after the hunt."
He passed the spear to a waiting squire before stepping aside, lion-proud and flushed with triumph.
Viserys drank deeply from his cup, savoring the sweetness of the Arbor vintage.
"A fine young man," he said contentedly. "I had heard him called arrogant and foolish… but clearly the rumors misled me. His bearing, and his house's strength, would suit Rhaenyra well."
Otto smiled with practiced ease.
"Yes, Your Grace. House Lannister is seldom without talent."
Their conversation broke as the master of the hunt rushed forward, cloak sweeping the ground.
"Your Grace!" he exclaimed. "We have found tracks of the white hart. My rangers pursue them now. By dawn, we expect its resting place to be known."
The tent exploded with excitement.
The white hart, the legendary symbol of kingship, whispered of in every corner of Westeros. If Viserys slew it, the omen would echo across the realm.
Baelon watched quietly as lords and ladies cheered, their spirits swelling with renewed pageantry. His own lips curled faintly, a smile small enough to hide his sharp eyes.
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Next chapter- The White Hart
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