King’s Landing sprawled beneath them—the greatest city in Westeros and the beating heart of House Targaryen.
On the fifteenth of every month the poorest of the city still queued at the gates, hoping for the half-monthly dole of grain the king had ordered in the name of his firstborn’s long atonement.
A little food to keep the hunger at bay.
Syrax’s golden bulk cut across the sky above Flea Bottom, wings beating hard toward the Dragonpit.
“Princess’s dragon!
The princess is back!” The cry rose from the streets, but no one truly stirred.
Dragons over the capital were as ordinary as rain.
Rhaenyra glanced down at the small figure slumped against her.
“How are you holding up?” Baelor’s voice had grown thin and distant.
“Sister… can we sleep first and see Father later?” He did not deny that riding a dragon was a thrill.
He simply objected to being allowed three hours of rest and then forced to fly the length of the realm in a single day.
Rhaenyra’s tone softened with guilt.
“I wanted you home as fast as possible.
Once we’re inside the Red Keep, Hightowers and greens can all go hang.” Syrax rumbled in agreement and tilted her head.
Baelor shut his eyes.
“Fine.
You’re right.
Just land.” Rhaenyra gave a quiet snort and urged the dragon downward.
Minutes later Syrax settled at the mouth of the Dragonpit.
The Dragonkeepers—Valyrian-blooded men whose families had served the Targaryens for generations—drove her inside with practiced commands in High Valyrian.
Their only duties were the care and feeding of the beasts.
“Sheep enough for her,” Rhaenyra ordered.
“At once, Princess.” A royal carriage waited on the road beyond.
A white cloak stood beside it, expression carefully neutral.
Ser Erryk of the Kingsguard inclined his head.
“Princess.
Welcome home.
The king is… displeased that you left the city without a word.” His gaze shifted to the silver-and-gold-haired boy at her side—pale, exhausted, and barely upright.
Rhaenyra’s voice carried quiet pride.
“My brother.
Firstborn son of King Viserys the First.
Future heir to the Iron Throne.
Baelor Targaryen.” Erryk dismounted at once and dropped to one knee.
“Welcome home, my prince.
I am Ser Erryk of the Kingsguard.” Baelor managed a thin nod.
“Thank you, Ser Erryk.” They climbed into the carriage.
The wheels turned toward the Red Keep by way of the Street of the Silent Sisters.
As they passed through Flea Bottom, Rhaenyra used the time to sketch the shape and defenses of the castle for her brother.
Baelor listened in silence, matching every detail against the maps he had already burned into memory.
Once inside the Red Keep she tried to steer him toward fresh clothes and a moment’s rest before facing their father.
Baelor refused.
“We see him now.” “I expect he and the Small Council will be eager to look upon the king’s firstborn after six years.” His tone was mild.
Rhaenyra knew better.
The smile behind those words always hid a knife.
“All right.
Your way.” She took his hand and led him straight to the council chamber.
Inside, King Viserys—still in his thirties, still the picture of mild goodwill—moved among his lords with the easy grace that had made him famous.
The realm called him a rare thing among Targaryen kings: a man of genuine mercy.
Today that mercy was wearing thin.
Lord Corlys Velaryon, the Sea Snake, stood before the table, voice sharp with fury.
“Four ships taken.
The last one flew my banner.
The Stepstones have become a knife at the kingdom’s throat, and still you sit here debating court trifles!” Otto Hightower began the familiar placating cadence.
“Lord Corlys, if you have urgent—” Corlys cut him off.
“I want to know what becomes of my ships and my men.” “Simple enough,” Otto answered.
“The Crown will replace the vessels, compensate the crews, and pay the proper blood-price.” “I do not want blood-price!” Corlys turned on the king.
“I want the Stepstones taken by force and the Crabfeeder burned to ash.” Viserys’s reply was quiet and final.
“No king of the Iron Throne has ever made war on the Free Cities.
I will not be the first.” He hated war.
He hated the thought of needless blood on his reign.
From the shadow of the doorway Baelor’s voice drifted in, soft and almost conversational.
“Ambition and hunger do not vanish simply because a king prefers peace, Father.
They only grow sharper.” Rhaenyra glanced at him, startled.
“You side with the Sea Snake?” She shared their father’s distaste for open war.
War meant only graves and widows.
Baelor shook his head.
“I speak of the thing itself.
The Stepstones sit between Westeros and the Free Cities.
Whoever holds them holds the tolls of every ship that passes.
The wealth is not small.” Rhaenyra stared.
“You are six years old.
How do you see all that?” “Books.
Maps.
Read enough of both and you end up as clever as me.” He said it without irony.
Knowledge was the only armor that never failed.
Rhaenyra’s expression hardened.
“Our house already produced one bookish Dragonless—Vaegon.
I will not watch you become the second.” Vaegon, fourth son of the Old King, who had preferred the Citadel’s dust to dragons or sisters.
Baelor smiled.
“I only read to pass the hours.” “Then read less.
For your own good.” He knew better than to argue.
He nodded.
Inside the chamber the quarrel ended.
Corlys left in cold silence, defeated for the day.
Rhaenyra and Baelor stepped through the doors.
“Father.
I’m home.” Viserys’s brow was still dark with the earlier anger.
“My dear girl—do you have any idea how I fretted when you vanished without a word?
Return to your place as cupbearer.
We have the royal hunt to discuss.” Rhaenyra only smiled and stepped aside, guiding Baelor forward into the light.
Baelor looked up at the king.
His smile was thin, his voice drained of everything but exhaustion.
“Father… do you remember me?”