Baelon had little difficulty guessing what weighed upon King Viserys's mind.
The comparison was simple enough.
More and more members of House Targaryen now possessed dragons, while Viserys himself remained the only one without such a bond.
As the years passed, the king had begun to feel… different.
Most of all, he felt weak.
Viserys Targaryen was, by every account, a gentle and benevolent ruler. Few could question his kindness. Yet decisiveness and strength of will had never been his greatest virtues.
At first he had not understood the reason.
But over time, as he watched his brother, Daemon, his nephew, Baelon, and even his own four children, the truth slowly revealed itself.
He began to understand what gave them their fearlessness.
What gave them the confidence to threaten others without hesitation.
Dragons.
Only dragons.
Great and huge beasts that bent the world to their riders' will.
Just as Baelon had foreseen, Viserys now desired a dragon because he had begun to sense the frailty of the monarchy under his rule.
Not that House Targaryen itself had grown weak.
Far from it.
The blood of the dragon still ruled the Seven Kingdoms with unquestioned might. No lord in the realm dared openly challenge their authority.
But the Iron Throne itself was another matter.
Whenever affairs of state arose, Viserys found himself bound to the will of the entire Small Council before any decision could be made.
In years past he had thought little of it. Pleasing everyone had always been his way.
Now he could no longer ignore it.
Viserys sat quietly for a time, his fingers resting upon the carved arm of the throne beside him. At last he nodded, resolve gathering in his tired eyes.
"Very well," he said.
His gaze lifted to Baelon.
"I shall deal with the Hightower family and the Faith first. After that…" He drew a slow breath. "After that, I will go with you to Dragonstone."
Baelon inclined his head in acknowledgement. He neither opposed the idea nor welcomed it.
For a Targaryen, claiming a dragon was not merely ambition.
It was duty... And it was destiny.
Viserys studied him for a moment before continuing, his voice softening.
"Do not concern yourself overly," the king said. "I will follow your advice. A physician from outside the Citadel will be summoned."
He shifted slightly in his seat, discomfort flashing across his face as his wounds tugged beneath the bandages.
"We shall see whether such a man can treat these injuries of mine."
Baelon gave a small nod.
At his urging, Viserys had gradually abandoned the treatment prescribed by Grand Maester Mellos of the Citadel. Instead, the king's attention had turned toward physicians who practiced within King's Landing itself.
After all, the common folk fell ill as well. They could not simply seek the aid of learned maesters within castle walls.
Among the city's healers were men who possessed genuine skill. Some were even former maesters expelled from the Citadel.
Such men had become Baelon's targets.
One in particular had drawn his attention.
The man's name was Hatty Snow.
A bastard born to a minor noble family in the North, Hatty had spent his earliest years as little more than a servant within his father's keep.
Yet unlike most northerners, who favored steel and snow over parchment, Hatty had loved books since childhood.
His father cared nothing for learning, and thus the boy had been left free to wander the family library as he pleased.
In time, Hatty traveled south and gained admittance to the Citadel.
Through relentless effort he earned a single link of a maester's chain.
Tin.
The metal that signified mastery of medicine, particularly the brutal art of surgery.
From apprentice he rose to assistant Maester.
For a time, it seemed he would become a full Maester.
Unfortunately, after forging his first link, the young scholar chose a path the Citadel deemed unacceptable.
He began to study astronomy.
Then mysticism.
Then magic.
Such subjects were strictly forbidden within the Citadel's halls.
In the end, Hatty Snow violated the order's most guarded taboos.
His chain was stripped from him.
His status revoked.
And he was cast out.
Homeless and disgraced, Hatty became what the smallfolk called a barefoot doctor.
He wandered southward.
To fund his travels, he remained for a time in King's Landing, the largest and richest city in the realm, treating the injuries and sicknesses of the common folk.
Fortunately for him, he possessed genuine talent.
And so he was eventually discovered by Baelon.
After testing the man's abilities personally, Baelon recommended him to King Viserys.
In truth, Hatty Snow proved far more capable than Grand Maester Mellos within the Red Keep.
At the very least, he understood herbs.
More importantly, he knew how they should be prepared.
As a wandering physician, Hatty had treated countless wounds among the smallfolk.
Many of his patients were soldiers or farmers. Men cut by blades or mangled by farm tools.
Their injuries, in truth, were not so different from the king's own.
Many had suffered from festering infections, the kind that stiffened muscles and brought slow, agonizing death.
Yet Hatty had cured them.
If he could save such men, then in theory he might save Viserys as well.
Still, the matter served as a warning to Baelon.
If he wished to prevent the Citadel from becoming another political weapon, he would one day have to deal with the order of maesters itself.
And with the Hightower family behind them.
Inside the Tower of the Hand, another man lay wounded.
Lord Otto Hightower.
The former Hand of the King lay pale upon his bed, his breathing shallow. Thick bandages wrapped tightly around his chest.
Beside him stood Grand Maester Mellos, his expression grim as he examined the injuries.
Since King Viserys had ordered physicians outside the Citadel to treat the king, Mellos could hardly remain idle within the Red Keep.
Thus he had been assigned to Otto.
The Grand Maester adjusted the wrappings with careful fingers. Otto winced faintly but said nothing, his jaw tightening against the pain.
In truth, Otto had proven unexpectedly useful.
When Viserys learned that the former Hand had been attacked by civilians within King's Landing, the king's temper finally ignited.
Viserys had risen from his seat so abruptly that the court fell silent.
His voice rang with fury.
"Summon the City Watch," he ordered.
His fingers clenched against the arm of the chair.
"I want a full investigation. Every man involved will be found."
At the same time, he issued a strict order to Grand Maester Mellos.
Otto Hightower must be saved, whatever the cost.
Until the former Hand's condition improved, Mellos was forbidden to leave the Tower of the Hand.
The order left the old maester thoroughly miserable.
"What kind of situation is this…?" Mellos muttered under his breath.
Clad in his grey maester's robes, he sank wearily into a chair beside the bed. His shoulders sagged with exhaustion.
He could not understand how he had ended up in such a wretched predicament.
Trying to save a man who was already halfway to the grave.
No one understood his own limits better than Mellos himself.
Though he bore the title of Grand Maester, medicine had never been his true specialty.
Treating King Viserys had already pushed the limits of his knowledge.
Now they expected him to save a dying man.
It was simply impossible.
"Oh? You seem rather relaxed, Grand Maester Mellos."
The calm voice sounded suddenly from behind him.
Mellos stiffened and quickly rose from his chair, turning toward the doorway.
"Prince Baelon?"
Standing there was the well known prince of House Targaryen.
Baelon stepped inside with unhurried ease, his expression composed.
"I came to see Ser Otto," he said quietly. His gaze shifted toward the bed. "Is he still alive?"
Without waiting for an answer, Baelon approached the bedside.
Otto Hightower lay pale and motionless beneath the blankets, his chest wrapped tightly in thick layers of bandages.
Baelon reached down and placed two fingers lightly against Otto's wrist.
For a moment he said nothing, his eyes narrowing slightly as he felt the faint pulse.
"His vital signs are extremely weak," Baelon said at last. "The two stab wounds in his chest are both fatal."
He released Otto's wrist and straightened slowly.
"Ser Otto has survived this long only because of a stubborn will to live… and a body that was reasonably healthy before the attack."
Mellos let out a weary sigh.
"Even so," he said, rubbing his brow with trembling fingers, "in his present condition he can hold on for only a few days more."
His gaze drifted back to the unconscious man.
"I have already done everything within my ability."
In truth, some of the treatments had been things he had hurriedly reviewed in old medical texts.
"The wound was cleansed with boiling wine," Mellos continued, gesturing weakly toward the bandages. "The blood was drained. Dead flesh was cut away."
He swallowed before continuing.
"An ointment made from mustard seeds, sesame seeds, and baker's yeast was applied to prevent infection. And of course he was given milk of the poppy to ease the pain and keep him asleep."
Mellos spread his hands helplessly.
"These methods can only treat external wounds. Injuries to the organs within the chest…" He shook his head slowly. "Those lie beyond my abilities."
"At this point," he finished quietly, "everything depends upon the judgment of the Seven."
Baelon listened in silence.
Then he clicked his tongue softly.
The sound carried a trace of unmistakable disdain.
With medical methods such as these, one would struggle to earn even a veterinarian's license in a more advanced age.
Truth be told, Otto Hightower was astonishingly fortunate.
To survive such treatment at all was little short of a miracle.
Many of these so called remedies resembled torture more than healing.
"Enough," Baelon said.
His voice was calm but firm.
"There is no need to continue treating Otto."
Mellos blinked in confusion.
"Prince Baelon?"
"You may also stop administering milk of the poppy," Baelon continued.
He looked down at Otto's pale face for a moment.
"Remain here until he wakes."
Baelon turned his gaze back toward the Grand Maester.
"When he regains consciousness, send someone to inform me."
"Once Otto awakens, your duty here will be finished."
For a moment Mellos could only stare, uncertain whether he had heard correctly.
Prince Baelon merely reached out and gave the old maester a reassuring pat on the shoulder.
"Take heart, Grand Maester."
Then he turned and walked toward the door.
Outside, several guards had already been stationed both inside the tower and at its entrance.
With everything arranged, Baelon departed from the Tower of the Hand.
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A/N: Advance chapters available on Patreon,
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