The morning light, thin and pale, barely kissed the corners of Baelon’s study.
Two small candles flickered on the table, their tiny flames dancing over the rolled parchment of a Valyrian text.
Grand Maester Mellos sat opposite him, spectacles perched on his nose, his voice a low, patient drone.
“Repeat after me, my prince,” Mellos said, his finger tapping a word on the parchment.
“Rytsas.”
“Rytsas,” Baelon repeated.
“Good.
‘Hello.’ A simple word, but one every prince should know.”
“*Kirimvose*.”
“Kirimvose.”
“Thank you.”
The maester moved to the next line.
“Kepa.”
“Father.”
“*Kepa*,” Baelon replied.
It was a slow, methodical process, building the language brick by brick.
For Baelon, it was less a lesson and more a reawakening.
Mellos, perhaps sensing this, adjusted the pace, moving to a longer phrase.
“Now a full sentence,” Mellos said.
“Nyke Baelon iksan.”
Baelon repeated it without hesitation.
“*Nyke Baelon iksan*.”
“Excellent, my prince.” Mellos smiled.
He seemed about to continue, but Baelon interrupted.
“What is ‘dragonrider’?” Baelon asked, his violet eyes fixed on the maester.
It wasn’t in the day’s lesson, but the question he simply wanted to know.
Mellos did not miss a beat.
“*Zaldrīzoti*,” he supplied.
“*Zaldrīzoti*,” Baelon said, tasting the word.
He repeated it, softer this time.
“*Zaldrīzoti*.” He filed it away.
Mellos nodded, then returned to the lesson plan.
“Now.
*Dracarys*—”
The study door opened, cutting off the maester’s instruction.
King Viserys stood in the doorway, his silhouette framed by the brighter light of the corridor.
Grand Maester Mellos rose instantly, bowing deeply.
“Your Grace.”
Viserys offered a tired smile.
“Maester.
You may take your leave.”
Mellos bowed once more, gathering his parchments with practiced efficiency.With a final, deferential nod to Baelon, he departed, closing the door softly behind him.
Viserys walked to the table and sat in the chair Mellos had vacated.
He looked at Baelon for a long moment, his expression unreadable.
“Your studies proceed well?” Viserys asked, his voice gentle.
“Yes, Father,” Baelon replied.
“And your brother Aegon?
Have you seen him this morning?”
“Not yet, Father.”
Viserys sighed, a faint sound.
“He will need guidance as he grows. This chapter is updated first at g.com.
You are the elder.
You are the heir.
An example must be set.”
Baelon acknowledged this with a simple nod, his face betraying no particular enthusiasm.
He had long since learned to carry the expectations of his station without complaint.
Viserys’s shoulders seemed to relax, just slightly.
The formal register of his voice softened, dropping by half a step.
He looked out the window, his gaze distant.
“It is difficult without her.” His gaze drifted toward the window.
“Your mother had a way of seeing what everyone else missed.
I have not found again.
Not in my council.
Not anywhere.” He turned back to Baelon, his eyes holding a deep melancholy.
“And Rhaenyra is also away.
Her realm tour has still not ended.
I dont know how your sister is, I miss her presence more than words can say.”
Baelon listened, offering no platitudes.
He simply remained present.
For his father, Baelon knew, that was enough.
“I miss them both,” Viserys admitted, his voice thick with unspoken grief.
“More than words can say.”
Viserys then reached into the sleeve of his tunic, pulling out a folded letter.
He smoothed the parchment on the table, though he did not open it fully.
“A letter from Vaemond Velaryon.
The Sea Snake’s brother.” He summarized the contents, his voice grim.
“Lord Corlys and your uncle Daemon are losing their war.
Badly, by all accounts.
Morale is collapsing.
This is a plea for aid.”
A silence settled between them, heavy and profound.
“Why not send troops?” Baelon asked, cutting directly to the heart of the matter.
Viserys looked at his son, a flicker of something unreadable in his violet eyes.
“Because it is a war started by two malcontents, unhappy with decisions I made.
If I send aid now, what does that say of the Crown?”
“You will also slowly learn the way of king as you grow”
Baelon met his father’s gaze, holding it for a beat.
“Perhaps that he is a good man who loves his brother.”
Viserys stared at his six-year-old son.
The king’s expression shifted, his brow furrowing as if grappling with a truth he had sought but not expected to find in such a small voice.
He rose from the chair, the parchment still clutched in his hand.
Viserys opened his mouth as though to speak.
Then thought better of it.
He simply turned and left the study, the door clicking shut behind him.
Baelon watched him go, making no further analysis.
The moment held itself, suspended in the quiet room.
Later that day, in Viserys’s chambers, the light was low, the air thick with the scent of beeswax and old parchment.
Alicent sat near the window, cradling Helaena.
Viserys was at his writing table, quill scratching across the paper, his brow furrowed.
He finished, then called out, “Ser Addam!”
The door opened, and Ser Addam, a young knight of the Kingsguard, appeared.
“Make haste to Dwarfstone,” Viserys commanded, handing him the sealed letter.
“Hand-deliver this to Prince Daemon yourself.”
Addam bowed, took the letter, and departed without a word.
From her chair, Alicent spoke, her voice soft.
“Dwarfstone”
Viserys, without looking up from the table, confirmed, “I am sending word to Daemon.
Aid is sailing to the Stepstones.”
A brief pause.
“Did he make call for help?” Alicent asked.
Viserys sealed another letter with hot wax, pressing his signet ring into it.
“He would sooner die.
But his king does not mean to allow that.” He finally turned to look at her, his expression weary.
“Do you not think my decision correct?”
Alicent looked down at Helaena, adjusting the swaddling cloth with careful hands.
The baby made a small, contented sound.
“It is no consequence to what I think,” Alicent said.
The room held the quiet statement.
Viserys looked at his wife for a moment, then turned back to his table, the candle burning, the letter already gone.
The next morning, Baelon found his father in the small godswood, a place of quiet solitude within the Red Keep.
The morning air carried the scent of damp earth and salt.
Viserys stood before the heart tree, hands clasped behind his back, his gaze fixed on the crimson leaves.
Baelon approached slowly, his soft leather boots making little sound on the mossy ground.
He stopped a respectful distance away, waiting.
Viserys turned then, a faint smile touching his lips when he saw his son.
“Good morning, Baelon.”
“Good morning, Father,” Baelon replied.
“You rise early,” Viserys observed, turning back to the tree.
“A trait I admire.”
“You sent aid ?” Baelon stated, not a question.
“I did,” Viserys confirmed, turning fully to face his son now.
“Your words, Baelon, reminded me of something I had forgotten.
*A king who loves his brother.*” He paused, his gaze thoughtful.
“It is a simple truth, often lost in the complexities of court and counsel.”
Baelon simply listened, his expression unwavering.
“Sometimes,” Viserys continued, looking out at the godswood, “the simplest truths are the hardest to accept, especially when they come from unexpected places.” He looked back at Baelon, a warmth in his eyes.
“You have a keen mind, my son.
Do not let the world dull it.”
Baelon smiled.
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