The Grand maester sat at the small table, a rolled parchment of Westeros spread before him.
Baelon watched the tip of his finger trace the borders of the Seven Kingdoms.
Steffon, his sworn shield, stood silently in the corner.
Resting within Baelon’s cradle lay the dragon egg.
“Which house rules the Reach, my prince?” Grand maester Mellos asked, his voice soft, patient.
“House Tyrell,” Baelon answered, his own voice a small echo in the quiet room.
The answer was etched into his memory, alongside the names of every other major house, every river, every mountain range.
Mellos hummed, a low, approving sound.
“And their seat?”
“Highgarden.” Baelon’s gaze drifted from the maester to the cradle.
The egg was a dull green, veined with gold, the scales interlocking like armor.
He had learned some time ago that the egg had come from Dreamfyre, the dragon Princess Rhaena had once ridden.
It was meant to hatch for him, to bond with him, to be his companion and mount.
But it remained cold, silent, stubbornly unhatched.
“Excellent, my prince.
And what of the Stormlands?” he said.
“House Baratheon, at Storm’s End.” Baelon recited the information.
Mellos continued his gentle inquisition, moving from region to region, from house to house.
Baelon answered each question flawlessly, his knowledge impeccable.
He knew the lineage of the Lannisters of Casterly Rock and all the major houses.
He knew the lineages of the great houses, the history of Aegon’s Conquest, the reigns of the dragon kings, and the wars that had shaped the realm.
Steffon, his sworn shield, shifted slightly in the corner, the soft creak of leather the only sound besides Mellos’s quiet voice and Baelon’s responses.
“Very good, my prince.
You have a keen mind, a true gift for recall.” Mellos smiled, a kind, gentle smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes.
“Perhaps one day, you will rule these lands with wisdom and justice, guided by the knowledge you accumulate now.”
When he had first awakened in this world, he had assumed Rhaenyra would one day inherit the Iron Throne.
That assumption had not survived his lessons.
Every genealogy.
Every succession.
Every dispute the maesters described reached the same conclusion.
When a trueborn son lived…
The realm chose him.
His birth alone may have changed history.
“Thank you, Maester,” Baelon murmured.
Mellos rolled up the parchment, securing it with a thin leather strap.
“That will be all for today, my prince.
Unless you have any questions for me?” Baelon shook his head.
He had already memorized and understood most of the things necessary.
“Then I shall take my leave.” Mellos bowed, a shallow, respectful dip of his head.
He gathered his things, a few quills, a small pot of ink, a heavy leather-bound book.
As he reached the door, he paused, looking back at Baelon, his gaze lingering for a moment. You are reading on novelping.com, the official source.
“Have a pleasant afternoon, my prince.”
“You too, Maester.”
The door clicked shut, leaving Baelon alone.
“Steffon,” Baelon said, his voice barely a whisper.
“My prince?” Steffon stepped forward, his boots making no sound on the thick rug.
“Do you think it will ever hatch?” Baelon didn’t look at his sworn shield.
His eyes were fixed on the egg, willing it to respond, to crack, to show him a glimpse of the life within.
Steffon was silent for a moment, choosing his words carefully.
“Dragons choose their own hour, my prince.
Some simply require more patience.”
“But I have waited so long,” Baelon said, his voice tight with a child’s impatience, a prince’s unspoken dread.
“You are a Targaryen, my prince,” Steffon said, his voice firm, unwavering.
“The blood of the dragon runs in your veins.
Your dragon will come to you when it is ready.
You must not doubt that.”
Baelon wanted to believe him.
He wanted to believe that the green egg, veined with gold, held a living, breathing dragon, destined to be his.
He wanted to soar above the Red Keep, the wind in his hair, the world spread out beneath him.
He picked up the egg, cradling it in his small hands.
It was heavier than it looked, a solid, immutable weight.
He closed his eyes, pressing the cool surface against his cheek, listening for a heartbeat, for a rustle, for any whisper of the magic that surely lay dormant within.
There was only silence.
“Perhaps… perhaps it just needs more warmth,” Baelon murmured, more to himself than to Steffon.
He climbed onto his bed, pulling the thick fur around him, and placed the egg carefully beside his pillow.
He lay there, curled around it.
.
.
The quiet did not last.
Suddenly the door swung open.
Silver hair, loose and tangled, framed a face that had not slept well.
Rhaenyra’s violet eyes found him first, then flicked to Steffon before settling back on Baelon.
She stepped inside, her skirts whispering against the stone floor.
“How is my brother?”
Baelon blinked at her.
“I am well.”
She exhaled as though she had been holding it since she left..
Then she crossed him in two strides, lifted him from his bed without effort, and settled into it herself, cradling him against her.
Salt and wind clung to her clothes—Dragonstone’s air still clinging to her skin.
Steffon glanced once at the princess.
Without a word, he bowed and quietly closed the door behind him.
For a moment, there was only silence.
Then:
“I dropped it in front of all of them.” Her voice was rough as gravel.
Baelon felt her chest rise and fall beneath him as she swallowed hard.
“Alicent.” The name came out like a blade pulled from its sheath.
“She knew before I did.
Sat with me every day—read with me, let me talk about Mother—and never said a word.” Her grip tightened just slightly around him.
“I flew to Dragonstone because it was the only place that still remembered me of Mother.”
A shaky breath escaped her lips.
“I sat on those walls for three days,” she whispered hoarsely.
“Watched the sea roll in like it always does…
and I couldn’t even name what I was feeling because there isn’t one.” Her voice cracked.
Tears carved pale tracks through the dust upon her cheeks; breath came ragged between parted lips.
Baelon shifted in her arms until he could press his small hand against her sleeve.
He did not speak.
There were no words he knew for this
Her fingers dug into the fabric at Baelon’s side.
“Nobody asked me.”
Her voice was barely above a whisper.
“He’s my father.
She was supposed to be my friend.”
A pause.
Then softer:
“And yet nobody asked me.”
A long silence settled between them.
Baelon reached up with both hands and gently touched her cheek.
“I’m glad you’re back.” His voice was small.
“I missed you.” Rhaenyra blinked.
Then suddenly she laughed.
It was quiet.
Wet with tears.” Oh?” She brushed a thumb across his cheek.
“Now my little brother worries about me?”
She pulled him a little closer.
“I’m sorry.” She rested her forehead lightly against his silver hair.
Baelon rested quietly against her shoulder.
—————— cosmic-phantom-site.vercel.app
I noticed that many of you are finding it difficult to get invested in the story because you don’t yet have a clear idea of where it’s heading.
So, I’ve decided to release up to Chapter 10 for all of you.
I’ll make sure to compensate you as I’m working on building a bigger advance buffer so there’s always plenty waiting for you.