The great hall of Dragonstone was lit by a hundred candles, their flames steady in the still air.
Whatever excitement had filled the castle before the prince’s disappearance had faded.
The wedding took place a day later than planned, in a hall made quieter by relief and lingering unease.
Baelon sat beside Ser Steffon Darklyn, his small frame nearly swallowed by the formal black tunic someone had carefully dressed him in that morning.
The collar itched against his neck, but he endured it without complaint.
At the center of the hall, Viserys stood opposite Alicent Hightower.
His father’s hands were steady as he spoke his vows.
Baelon watched, Alicent never once looked toward the gathered lords.
Her eyes remained on Viserys throughout the ceremony.
Otto Hightower stood near the back of the hall, hands folded before him, watching in silence.
The vows ended.
The septon pronounced them husband and wife.
There were polite smiles.
A handful of restrained applause.
Then the hall slowly emptied, nobles drifting away in murmured conversation while servants quietly extinguished candles one by one.
The marriage was done.
The voyage back to King’s Landing passed beneath grey skies and steady winds, the court resumed its accustomed rhythm.
Days blurred into one another until Dragonstone disappeared behind the horizon.
Life resumed its familiar rhythm.
The months that followed were filled with celebration.
Bells rang throughout the city when Queen Alicent delivered a healthy son.
Feasts filled the Red Keep once more.
Wine flowed.
Lords toasted the strength of House Targaryen.
Servants hurried through corridors carrying swaddled bundles, flowers, and gifts from every corner of the realm.
Baelon met his younger brother a few days later.
Aegon was small and loud.
Red-faced whenever he cried, which seemed often enough.
Baelon stood beside the cradle watching the infant wave tiny fists at the air.
*I do not know what you will become, he thought.*
*Neither do i know whether the war I saw will one day involve you…
or spare you.*
Aegon yawned.
Baelon found himself smiling.
You are only a baby.
He rested a small hand against the edge of the cradle.
You are my brother.
Whatever happens…
I will try to be kind to you.
110 AC
By his fifth nameday, the training yard had become as familiar to Baelon as the library.
Lessons with the maesters filled his mornings.
The afternoons belonged to Ser Steffon.
What had begun as a way to ease the prince’s boredom soon became routine.
He grew quickly.
Faster than most boys.
At five, he already stood nearly three feet eight inches tall, all long limbs and silver-gold hair, lean rather than sturdy.
Ser Steffon still called him “little prince.” His movements were short, precise, calibrated for a child’s body.
Baelon held his practice sword, a blunted piece of oak.
He stepped forward.
Left foot.
Right.
Never crossing them.
Ser Steffon had corrected that mistake so many times his body now remembered before his mind did.
He paused, adjusting his grip, his gaze fixed on Steffon.
“Ser Steffon,” answered Steffon”Yes, my prince?”
“Are you holding back?” Steffon’s eyes, usually calm, narrowed.
Steffon answered without speaking.
His next strike came faster.
Baelon stumbled, his footwork failing.
He caught himself on one knee, the oak blade clattering against the dirt.
He pushed himself up, breath catching.
“Yes,” He rubbed dirt from one knee.
“I see.”
After the drill, Baelon walked to the rack of practice weapons at the yard’s edge.
He picked up a second blade, a twin to the one already in his hand.
He stood, considering them.
Their weight was different from each other, slightly “Can dual sword combat be used in war?” he asked Steffon.
Steffon paused.
A brief, genuine laugh escaped before Ser Steffon could stop it.
“How do you defend yourself, my prince?” he asked, a smile playing on his lips.
“Both hands are attacking.” “What if I do not need to defend?” Baelon countered, his violet eyes fixed on Steffon’s face.
“Everyone needs to defend,” Steffon replied, his tone patient.
“Battle is mud beneath your boots, men screaming in your ears, and someone trying very hard to put a spear through your chest….
both swords are a liability.
You would die.
Quickly.” Baelon listened, his attention absolute.
He took in every word, every nuance.
Then, without another question, he tried it anyway.
He did not believe Steffon was wrong.
But the two blades together felt right.
Not right for war as Steffon described it, perhaps.
But right for something he could not yet name.
He looked awkward from the first step.
The guard positions he had spent months learning did not apply.
The footwork was wrong.
He kept one hand too low and kept telegraphing the cut from the right.
He ran the attempt,
He failed.
Tried again.
Failed differently.
Tried once more.
Steffon watched him without intervening.
By the sixth attempt, Baelon lowered the blades, breathing hard.
“Footwork, my prince,” Steffon said, his voice calm.
“The rest will follow or it will not.” He did not say it would not.
Instead, he simply picked up his own blade and demonstrated the correct footwork for a single sword, leaving the question hanging in the morning air.
They walked back toward the castle, the training yard behind them.
Baelon still held both practice blades, one in each hand, feeling their weight.
He did not practice with them as they walked, simply carried them.
At the yard entrance, he handed them back to a waiting guard without being asked.
The following months settled into routine.
Sword, Lessons and Books.
Baelon practiced with a single blade whenever Ser Steffon watched.
When no one watched…
He always reached for two.
Late that year
The Red Keep marked another birth.
Fireworks, more vibrant than those for Aegon, exploded in the sky, celebrating a princess.
That afternoon, Baelon was led to the royal nursery.
He stood at the cradle, a small figure in formal clothes, performing the expected duty.
The nursemaid fussed behind him, her smile indulgent.
The infant lay wrapped in crimson-and-black swaddling cloths, her tiny face barely visible.
He looked down.
The infant, swaddled in fine linen, had a tiny, pink face.
Then, her eyes opened.
They were neither grey nor violet, but somewhere between.
They found him immediately.
Direct and unblinking.
Eventually, a gentle hand on his shoulder guided him away.
He went without protest.
At the door, he glanced back.
The grey-lilac eyes still watched.
That evening, fireworks exploded above the Blackwater, painting the night sky with crimson and gold.
The distant roar of the city crowd rose and fell with each new bloom of light.
Baelon sat by his window, watching.
Ser Steffon stood silently outside his door, a comforting presence.
Everyone said they were beautiful.
But he watched them without pleasure.
Rhaenyra would have come, he thought.
She would have slipped through the door without knocking, sat beside him on the window seat.
She would have said something dry about the noise or the expense.
They would have watched together.
That would have been enough.
She was not here.
He watched the fireworks alone until the last bright spark faded.
He closed the shutters, as the final burst faded.
His room became quiet again.
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