In the year 103 AC, Jaehaerys Targaryen, the Fourth King of the Iron Throne and the Old King himself, finally died.
His crown passed, by the will of the great lords of the Seven Kingdoms, to the eldest son of the previous heir, Baelon.
The new king was Viserys Targaryen, a soft-spoken man of gentle disposition.
Now the Fifth King of House Targaryen faced the same choice his great-grandfather once had.
… 111 AC.
Dawn light spilled across the Starry Sept in Oldtown.
“Great Father Above, open Your merciful heart and forgive this faithful child.
Absolve him of the sins that cling to his soul.” The High Septon closed the heavy volume of the Seven-Pointed Star, took the shallow bowl of pure morning dew from the waiting sister, and poured every drop over the head of the silver-and-gold-haired boy kneeling before him.
“I thank the Seven for Their blessing.” The boy’s voice held no joy.
It was the same low, flat tone he used every morning.
His name was Baelor Targaryen, firstborn son of Viserys Targaryen, Fifth King of the Seven Kingdoms and master of the Iron Throne.
He had entered the world the same hour his mother, Queen Aemma Arryn, died under the maester’s knives.
From that moment the infant prince sank into a half-dreaming, half-dead state that no remedy could break.
Desperate to save his long-awaited heir, Viserys summoned every maester in King’s Landing.
Nothing worked.
At last the High Septon himself arrived, performed a private rite, and declared the child cursed by the gods.
Only by leaving the capital and atoning in the Starry Sept of Oldtown might the prince ever wake.
Viserys did not believe a word of the pious nonsense.
Yet his son continued to fade.
Faced with the certainty of losing the boy, the king finally ordered the infant—still less than a moon old—sent south to Oldtown.
Under the rites of the Faith, Baelor opened his eyes.
Thereafter Viserys accepted the tale of divine curse.
He allowed the High Septon to name the child Baelor and left him in Oldtown to continue his penance.
Letters arrived from time to time, but the king never dared disturb the long atonement.
… After the morning rites, Baelor returned to his private chambers with the aid of Maester Orville.
“Maester Orville,” he said, turning his head slowly.
The black circles under his eyes could not hide the cold murder in them.
“Do you truly believe the gods cursed me?
That is why I woke?” Orville, raised to the rank of archmaester by Baelor’s own hand and bound to him by absolute loyalty, waited until they were clear of any Hightower ears.
Then he shook his head once.
Baelor’s lips curved.
“As I thought.
Everything that happened to me leads back to House Hightower.” The coincidences were too neat.
Three moons after the infant prince arrived in Oldtown, Otto Hightower’s daughter Alicent became queen.
Only after Alicent Hightower wore the crown did Baelor “awaken” through the mercy of the Seven.
And ever since, House Hightower had quietly intercepted every letter King Viserys sent from King’s Landing and answered them in Baelor’s name.
“Your Grace,” Orville said carefully, “your strength must come first.” “I know.” Returning to the capital in haste interested Baelor far less than the restless nights that plagued him.
For some time now strange fragments had haunted his sleep—wars, trade routes, and, most often, an impossibly vast dragon.
It breathed green fire, gorged on the corpses of its own kind, then turned and swallowed the dreamer whole.
Baelor pressed his fingers against his temple.
“Tell me how King’s Landing stands.” Though he spent his days in pious penance, the prince kept close watch on the capital, the great lords, and every war that stirred.
Orville considered, then listed the three matters that mattered most.
“First: war has broken out in the Stepstones.
Prince Daemon and the Velaryon fleet are locked in battle against the Triarchy.
“Second: Queen Alicent and Otto Hightower are gathering the great houses, pushing to name the king’s second son, Aegon Targaryen, as heir.” Baelor laughed outright.
“My father still draws breath and already they scramble to place their own blood on the throne.
They must be eager to die.” Orville’s hands tightened until the knuckles whitened.
He knew better than anyone that the frail-looking six-year-old before him was no “Sleeping Dragon,” as the whispers claimed.
This was the same boy who, one night, had driven a dagger through the throat of a Hightower who talked too much, then tossed the severed head into the woods beyond Oldtown.
“Third,” the maester finished, “the king will hold a royal hunt in seven days.” He bowed his head.
“That hunt may be the cleanest road for Your Grace to return to King’s Landing.” Baelor’s smile was thin.
“Then write two letters for me, Maester.
Tell my sister her dear brother misses her… and that she should come to Oldtown on dragonback.” “It will be done, my prince.” Orville rose and left the sept.
Only Baelor remained, kneeling before the carved faces of the Seven, while the great bronze bells tolled every quarter-hour—another thoughtful gift from Mond Hightower, current Lord of Oldtown, meant to help the prince keep the hours of his penance.
How considerate.
… When the morning rites ended, the sisters brought Baelor’s midday meal: a few slices of bread, one boiled egg, a handful of stewed greens, and half a smoked sausage.
Bland fare, yet better than the bread and vegetables of the first years.
He split the bread, layered the egg, greens, and sausage inside, and ate without hurry.
“Prince Baelor.” Mond Hightower’s voice drifted from the doorway, mild and warning at once.
“To take meat before the Seven is a grave disrespect.
It shortens what little life the gods still grant you.” Baelor swallowed, wiped his mouth, and looked up with eyes that shifted between light and shadow.
“Maester Orville examined me and judged that prolonged denial of flesh would hinder my penance.
He petitioned King’s Landing.
The king himself authorized a modest portion of meat.” A deliberate pause.
“Or does House Hightower believe a prince’s health ranks lower than his atonement before the Seven?” His tone turned almost regretful.
“If that is so, I shall write to my father in the capital and beg him to rescind the order that lets me eat meat.”