The evening light filtering through the narrow window of Baelon’s chamber was fading, painting the restless sea in bruised shades of purple and grey.
Beyond the walls, the sounds of wedding preparations drifted through the castle: the shuffle of servants’ feet, hushed voices.
Baelon sat upon his bed.
His dragon egg rested beside him upon its carved stand.
He lifted it carefully into his lap.
Its shell remained cold.
Dark green, veined with silver.
Silent.
His eyes wandered to the window.
Then to the egg.
Then toward the unseen Dragonmont beyond the castle walls.
The dragonkeeper’s words returned to him: that Rhaenyra had chosen this egg.
She believed it belonged to him.
What if the egg just needed to be where it was supposed to be?
Not a sophisticated plan.
Barely a plan at all.
But he was three years old, and the egg had been cold his entire life.
No one had ever told him it was impossible.
As far as he knew…
No one had ever tried.
He slipped quietly from the bed and eased the door open a finger’s width.
Ser Steffon Darklyn stood exactly where he always stood.
White cloak.
Hands resting lightly upon the pommel of his sword.
Watching.
“Good night, Ser Steffon.”
“Good night, prince,” the knight glanced down.
“Do you never sleep?” Asked Baelon curiously, a pause stretched between them.
Steffon looked at him, a weary smile ghosted across Steffon’s face.
“Eventually.
My duty is to protect you.
I will sleep afterward.”
“When?”
“After my prince is safely asleep,” Baelon regarded him for a moment, his violet eyes unblinking in the dim light.
“Then…
good night, Ser Steffon.” The door clicked shut.
Back in the room, Baelon looked at the window, then at the door.
The window was not far from the ground, his room being in a lower tower.
The outer wall dropped just below the sill to a narrow passage between the castle’s inner and outer defenses.
He waited for some time, for the sun to set completely and the moon to rise up.
He counted slowly inside his head.
No footsteps.
No knock.
Only silence.
Then he moved.
Two thick wool blankets and a linen sheet.
He worked methodically, his small fingers fumbling with the heavy fabric.
He tied them together, one after the other, forming a crude rope.
He pulled at each knot with both hands, testing its strength.
They held.
He tied each knot three times.
Stablemasters had once shown him how saddles were fastened.
Surely this could not be so different.
Next came the egg.
He wrapped the linen sheet around his shoulders and knotted it across his chest, fashioning a crude sling.
The egg settled awkwardly against his back.
Heavy and cold.
Far heavier than he’d imagined.
He secured one end of the blanket rope around the heavy bedpost before dragging the other toward the window.
The drop wasn’t far.
He climbed carefully onto the sill.
His small hands gripped the rope.
Once, his foot slipped.
But the rope held.
So did the knots.
Slowly and Carefully…
He climbed down.
The narrow passage between Dragonstone’s inner and outer walls lay empty.
The stone beneath his bare feet was strangely warm.
He moved the way he had been moving through castle passages, one hand on the wall, reading the space by touch and sound as much as by sight to sneak past all the guards without being noticed.
He remembered the route.
The passages descended.
The walls changed.
The tunnel narrowed until Baelon had to trail one hand constantly along the wall to keep his balance.
The stone no longer felt like ordinary rock.
It was strangely smooth beneath his fingertips, almost glass-like in places.
Every few dozen steps, another passage branched away into darkness.
Some breathed warm air.
Others were cold enough to raise gooseflesh along his arms.
He hesitated at every fork.
The deeper he descended, the warmer the air became.
The scent changed.
Sea salt faded.
Sulfur grew stronger.
The tunnel curved sharply, then opened without warning.
Moonlight spilled through a crack high overhead, casting a pale pool of silver across the cavern floor.
Everything beyond it remained swallowed by darkness.
Baelon stopped.
He could no longer hear his own footsteps.
Something else filled the silence.
A slow and steady…
Breath.
He couldn’t tell where it came from.
Once.
Then again.
He stopped and listened.
The breathing continued.
Somewhere ahead.
He realized, he might have walked into a dragon’s nest.
He started to back up slowly.
He took one cautious step backward.
Another.
Suddenly the breathing stopped.
So did he.
Silence.
Complete Silence.
Warm air rolled across his face.
Not from ahead.
From above.
Baelon slowly lifted his head.
At first…
He saw nothing.
Only darkness.
Suddenly he froze.
Two amber lights opened in the darkness.
***
The great hall of Dragonstone was alight with candles, their flames flickering against the black stone walls.
Wedding preparations were in their final moments.
The septon stood ready.
The gathered household waited in respectful silence.
Alicent Hightower stood beside the altar, dressed in white and silver.
Viserys, in formal attire, looked toward the door, a faint frown creasing his brow.
“Ser Harrold.” Ser Harrold Westerling, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, stepped forward.
“Your Grace.”
“Where is my son?” The question fell into a room that had no answer for it.
“I will send for him immediately, Your Grace.”
Viserys gave a small nod.
Harrold turned without another word.
The corridor outside Baelon’s chamber lay silent.
Ser Steffon Darklyn still stood his watch.
Harrold stopped before him.
“The prince?” Steffon frowned slightly.
“He is still sleeping.”
Ser Harrold knocked the door : “My prince.
His Grace requests your presence, the wedding rituals are about to start.” Silence.
He knocked again.
“Prince Baelon?” Nothing.
A third knock.
Still nothing.
Only then did Harrold open the door.
The room was empty.
The bed stripped.
One end of a rope made of knotted blankets was tied to the bedpost, the other end hanging out the narrow window, swaying slightly in the sea breeze.
A silence settled, in which both men looked at the rope, then at each other.
Harrold looked toward Steffon.
“How long?”
“I spoke with him before he retired.” Steffon’s voice had tightened.
“He wished me good night.” Harrold looked once at the rope.
Once at the open window.
Then he turned.
“Seal every gate .
No ship leaves the harbor.
Search every tower.
Every cellar.
Every stable.”
Harrold strode back toward the great hall.
His pace remained measured.
Only those who knew him well would have noticed the urgency beneath it.
Viserys saw it immediately.
Something was wrong.
Harrold stopped beside him, lowering his voice.
“Your Grace, Prince Baelon was not in his chamber.” A pause.
“There was a rope made from his bedclothes hanging from the window.”
Viserys stared at him.
“What do you mean he is not in his chamber?
Find my son.” Viserys began, his voice a sharp intake of breath.
Viserys was already moving, striding toward the hall’s entrance.
The wedding vanished from his mind.
The hall erupted into motion.
Torches flared throughout Dragonstone.
Kingsguard scattered through the corridors.
Servants abandoned the feast before it had begun.
Dragonkeepers hurried toward the mountain paths.
Castle guards raced to seal the gates.
A warning bell rang once.
Then another.
Soon every bell in Dragonstone echoed across the island.
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