The yard clanged with morning.
Baelon stood beside Steffon, his small boots rooted to the cobblestones, eyes tracing the controlled chaos of departure.
Trunks thudded against pack animals.
Servants wove between horses, making last-minute adjustments to saddles and baggage.
The air bit with leather and hay.
Rhaenyra emerged from the keep, her silver-gold hair gathered in a loose braid, her cloak pinned at the shoulder with a dragon’s head wrought in silver.
She moved with purpose, but her gaze found him at once.
She crouched before him, skirts pooling around her knees.
“Be good,” she said.
“And don’t let the maesters bore you.”
He nodded once.
Behind her, Ser Criston Cole sat quietly upon his horse, looking away as though deliberately granting the prince and princess a moment alone.
Rhaenyra straightened and swung into her saddle without another word.
The procession formed around her—Cole at her side, household guard falling in behind.
No fanfare.
No grand farewell.
The gates groaned open.
She rode through them without looking back.
Baelon remained until the iron teeth of the portcullis descended, swallowing the road beyond.
Only then did he turn away.
The streets of King’s Landing swallowed them whole.
Steffon carried him for a stretch when the press grew too thick, but Baelon wriggled free after a time.
He wanted to walk.
Wanted to feel the stones beneath him as they sloped toward the river.
The city lived in a way it never had from the battlements—louder, closer, thicker with smells layering one over another like sediment: baking bread from an open window; copper tang from a butcher’s stall; sweat and perfume and something sour beneath it all that might have been fear or just old wine.
And underneath everything—the sea.
A vast restlessness at the edge of his awareness.
They turned onto River Row and there it was: Blackwater Rush spreading wide before them like liquid metal under the pale morning sun.
Ships crowded the docks—merchants’ cogs fat with grain or wine; sleek Lysene trading galleys, and a great Velaryon dromond taking on barrels and crates bound for Dragonstone.
Their ship waited at the end of the quay, towering over the merchant cogs like a floating fortress.
Its black hull smelled of tar and salt, its masts disappearing so high into the sky that Baelon had to tilt his head to see the tops.
Sailors scrambled through the rigging with effortless confidence, calling to one another as ropes hissed through wooden pulleys.
The whole vessel groaned and creaked as though it were alive.
Upon the quarterdeck stood the captain, barking commands in a voice roughened by years of salt and wind.
Viserys lifted him onto his hip as they approached the gangplank.
The wood groaned under their weight.
Baelon’s fingers tightened on his father’s sleeve.”Father.” Viserys looked down.
“Yes?”
“That smell.”
The king inhaled deeply before answering.
“The sea.” Baelon considered this.
“Is it always this loud?” Viserys’ lips twitched “Always.” Viserys looked out across the water.
“You’ll grow accustomed to it.”
The deck shifted beneath his feet as soon as the mooring lines were cast off—not violently, but with a slow, insistent sway. The source of this chapter is g.com.
Ser Steffon remained close enough to catch him should he stumble, yet far enough away to grant him the dignity of walking on his own.
Baelon rested both hands upon the rail.
King’s Landing slowly unraveled behind them.
First disappeared the crowded docks.
Then the crooked rooftops.
Aegon’s High Hill lingered longest, the towers of the Red Keep catching the morning sun until even they became little more than pale shapes against the horizon.
At last, the city dissolved into mist.
Ahead stretched only the Narrow Sea.
Grey-green water stretched endlessly in every direction, rolling beneath a sky so vast it seemed to swallow the world.
The wind carried the sharp scent of salt.
Baelon breathed it in deeply.
Below deck, men rolled barrels from one hold to another, while above, sailors shouted orders over the creak of timbers and the snap of canvas.
His father stood near the prow.
There was something different about him here.
Without the Iron Throne beneath him or the Small Council around him, Viserys seemed…
lighter.
Not happier.
Simply less burdened.
Baelon’s gaze drifted farther along the deck.
Otto Hightower stood with his hands clasped behind his back, watching the sea in thoughtful silence.
Beside him stood Lady Alicent.
This was the first time Baelon had truly seen her up close.
She looked younger than he had imagined.
Her green gown stirred gently in the sea breeze, loose strands of auburn-brown hair escaping beneath her hood.
There was nothing ostentatious about her appearance.
She carried herself with a quiet grace that drew little attention to itself.
When she noticed Baelon watching, she smiled.
It was a gentle smile.
Not forced, Not practiced.
She crossed the deck at an unhurried pace.
“So this is Prince Baelon, I believe this is the first time we have properly met.” Her voice was soft.
She stopped a respectful distance away, as though uncertain whether he wished to be approached.
“May I?”
Baelon looked toward Steffon.
The Kingsguard gave the smallest nod.
Alicent crouched before him until they were almost eye to eye.
“I’ve heard a great deal about you.” She reached out slowly, giving him every opportunity to pull away before gently brushing a loose strand of silver hair from his forehead.”From Father?”
“From everyone.” She laughed softly.
“You’ve grown.” Baelon blinked.
“…Have I?”
The corners of her mouth lifted.
“I believe so.” She laughed quietly.
Baelon studied her in silence.
She spoke gently, smiled easily.
Nothing about her felt forced.She seemed…
Good.
Kind.
The sort of person one might trust.
Yet another thought quietly followed.
Otto Hightower was Hand of the King.
Now his daughter would become queen.
Perhaps those two facts had nothing to do with one another.
Perhaps they had everything to do with one another.
Baelon could not tell.
He looked from Alicent to Otto, who stood speaking calmly with the captain near the stern.
Otto Hightower did not strike him as a man who built his life upon coincidence.
Father trusted them both.
Baelon decided he would watch them instead.
Watching, he had learned, often revealed more than asking.
Dragonstone appeared slowly through the morning mist.
At first it was only a dark shape upon the horizon.
Then the shape grew.
And kept growing.
Baelon had seen the Red Keep from every angle imaginable, but this was something else entirely.
It did not look built.
Black cliffs rose straight from the sea, crowned by a fortress unlike anything Baelon had imagined.
It did not seem built so much as carved from the mountain itself.
Towers twisted toward the sky like great tongues of frozen flame.
Stone dragons crouched along the battlements, wings folded, jaws open as though they still watched the waters below.
Behind the castle loomed the Dragonmont, its broad, smoking peak sending thin streams of grey into the pale sky.
The smell reached them before the harbor did.
Salt, tar, and sulfur.
Baelon rested both hands upon the rail.
The castle seemed to swallow the island around it.
The Sea Dragon glided into the harbor, its sails lowered while oars dipped into the dark water with steady rhythm.
Waves broke against the black volcanic rocks below the walls, spraying white foam into the air.
Every map he had studied, every lesson the maesters had given him, had begun here.
Now, for the first time, he understood why.
🌌 Join The Cosmos Community!
The official Discord server is now live!
Become part of the community to:
💬 Discuss the latest chapters
📖 Share your theories and predictions
🎨 Share fan art and memes
📢 Receive release notifications and creator updates
🤝 Chat with fellow readers