“Baelor?” Viserys rose so quickly the chair scraped behind him.
Surprise and raw delight warred across his face.
“You were in Oldtown—how are you here?” He crossed the chamber in long strides toward the son he had not seen in six years.
The rest of the Small Council stood as one.
“My prince.” Whatever the boy’s frailty, whatever years he had spent far from court, he remained the king’s firstborn.
While he lived, the Iron Throne’s succession began with him.
Baelor’s gaze traveled slowly from right to left, measuring every face, before it settled on Otto Hightower.
“Lord Otto.
I never properly thanked your house for the care it showed me in Oldtown.
Such meticulous attention.
I find it… memorable.” A thin smile.
“Given the chance, I shall return the favor in full.” Every man at the table heard the edge beneath the courtesy.
Eyes flicked toward Otto—some weighing whether the Hand possessed the nerve, others wondering whether he already had.
Rhaenyra spoke the words they had prepared together.
“Father, letters from the High Septon and several archmaesters report that Prince Baelor’s health is improving.
The only true obstacle is this: a prince is not a pet kept in a cage.
He needs open sky, the same as any dragon.
The royal hunt in five days seemed the cleanest chance.
So I flew to Oldtown and brought him home.” Viserys’s anger drained away, replaced by sheepish understanding.
“Ah.
Forgive me, daughter.
I mistook your kindness.” He sank to one knee so that his eyes were level with Baelor’s.
The resemblance to Aemma struck him like a blade—same silver-gold hair, same delicate bones, now sharpened by years of sickness.
“You have grown thin, my boy.” His voice roughened.
“Forgive me for six years of absence.
I never came to Oldtown because I feared my presence would interrupt your atonement and harm the little strength you still possessed.” Baelor shook his head with perfect, practiced gentleness.
“How could that be, Father?
Standing here with my sister is the greatest happiness I could ask.
Please do not blame me for leaving Oldtown without your leave.” Years of fencing with Mond Hightower had taught him exactly which words and which expression would plant guilt deepest in his father’s soft heart.
Even if Otto later exposed every lie Rhaenyra had woven, Viserys would never turn that anger on the boy himself.
The expected shame bloomed at once across the king’s face.
Both hands settled on Baelor’s narrow shoulders.
“You were born to soar, my child.
As your father I grant the request—on one condition.
You remain at my side.
No foolish risks.
Can you promise me that?” “Of course!” Baelor’s nod was bright, almost eager.
Viserys kissed his brow, then looked to Rhaenyra.
“Daughter, see your brother settled.” She inclined her head and led Baelor from the chamber.
The Red Keep was vast; rooms of suitable rank needed time to prepare.
Rhaenyra did not hesitate.
She took him straight to her own chambers.
“Rest here until your rooms are ready.” Baelor managed a vague wave and collapsed onto the soft bed.
Sleep claimed him before she had closed the door.
Rhaenyra brushed a kiss against his cheek and left him in peace.
The dream that rose was quiet for once.
He stood on the highest battlement of the Red Keep, looking out across the sprawl of King’s Landing.
No black dragon, no storm, no blood.
Only wind and open sky.
“Rare,” he murmured.
If every night were this calm, the bruises under his eyes might finally fade.
He might even look like a normal prince.
The thought was still forming when the familiar roar rolled across the dream.
The Cannibal drifted overhead, vast as half a castle, green eyes fixed on him in open challenge.
“Of course,” Baelor muttered.
“Couldn’t stay peaceful.” He turned away.
The dragon wheeled at once, placing itself deliberately in his line of sight, then closed the distance and breathed green fire.
Baelor did not flinch.
The flames washed over him, stinging like a thousand needles, yet never truly wounding.
Four years of these nights had taught both of them the rules.
When the boy merely shook the fire from his sleeves, the Cannibal ceased its display.
It settled beside him and spat something white and graceful onto the stone: a pure white hart, the forest’s king, said to appear only before those marked for true kingship.
Baelor frowned at the corpse.
“Why give me this?” The dragon was already gone, winging toward the distant Kingswood.
Baelor woke to evening light and the muted bustle of servants preparing something elaborate beyond the window.
The door opened.
Rhaenyra swept in with a train of maids.
“Up.
Father has ordered a family supper in your honor.” Baelor rubbed his eyes.
“Just find me something black.
No need for ceremony.” “Are you joking?
Alicent and her three children will be at the table.
You are my brother, the king’s firstborn, the only true heir.
You will look every inch of it and crush that bitch under your heel.” The old wound between the two women needed no further explanation.
Once they had been the closest of friends; now one was daughter and the other stepmother.
Maester Orville had told him enough.
Baelor met her gaze without fear.
“We share the same blood and the same fire, sister.
No one else matters.” Rhaenyra pinched his cheek—not in mockery, but with quiet expectation.
“Save those words for when you are older.” Soon enough the maids finished their work.
Side by side, brother and sister walked toward the hall.