“Good evening, Father.” Baelor stood with his hands folded behind his back, dressed in soft white that somehow made him look both delicate and quietly radiant.
Viserys rose at once and began to clap.
“Baelor, my boy—welcome home!” In that moment the king understood why so many lords prized a graceful, accomplished eldest son above all else.
At his right hand sat Queen Alicent in deep emerald green, every inch the proper consort.
She smiled the required smile.
“Welcome home, child.” Beside her, five-year-old Aegon tore into a chicken leg with single-minded hunger.
Three-year-old Helaena peered into a glass jar of crawling insects and paid the world no attention at all—until their parents spoke.
Then both children parroted the same polite welcome in small, dutiful voices.
Baelor marked every gesture.
He offered measured thanks to each in turn, then followed Rhaenyra to the seats at the king’s left.
The family supper began in a carefully cheerful atmosphere.
Viserys lifted his cup of wine first.
“My son, you have only just returned.
If anything is lacking, speak to your stepmother.” Alicent rose with practiced grace.
“I am Alicent Hightower.” Baelor’s answering smile was flawless.
“So you are Queen Alicent Hightower.
Even in Oldtown your name was spoken with reverence.
Meeting you at last, I find the reputation… well earned.” The words carried a polite edge that could not be challenged.
Alicent’s public smile never faltered, yet her fingers dug into one another beneath the table.
Rhaenyra hid her face behind a piece of bread and ham, shoulders shaking with silent laughter.
Only she knew how black her brother’s heart truly was—darker than black steel.
Alicent had not even bothered to learn what kind of creature she was smiling at.
Classic Hightower arrogance: lifting a stone only to drop it on one’s own foot.
Viserys noticed none of the undercurrents.
In his mind the simple gathering of family was enough to keep the dynasty forever secure.
“Baelor, this is your brother Aegon.
The girl is your sister Helaena.
And there is still a babe in the cradle—Aemond…” He spoke like a returning explorer laying out his most precious treasures for admiration.
Baelor listened with perfect patience, answering at the proper moments while his eyes moved between the two younger children.
One lived only for the next mouthful of meat.
The other clutched a jar of insects as though it contained the secrets of the world.
Then he glanced at Rhaenyra and himself.
The gap was almost insulting.
Did House Hightower simply breed stupidity?
The question settled coldly in his mind.
The supper prepared in Baelor’s honor lasted barely half an hour.
It ended when the king drank himself into pleasant incoherence.
Servants and Kingsguard carried him away.
Alicent’s only remaining duty was to play the devoted wife—draw the bath, prepare the sobering broth.
She paused at the door, still wearing the gentle stepmother’s face.
“Baelor, Rhaenyra—if either of you needs anything, send for me at once.” Baelor raised his glass in a small, smiling salute.
Rhaenyra did not even look up.
Watching Helaena play with bugs was preferable to looking at that woman.
When Alicent was gone, only the four children remained.
Baelor’s strength was already fading.
The Red Keep’s maesters had been clear: rest, and as little strain as possible.
“Sister, I’m tired.
I’ll sleep in your chambers.” Alicent had prepared a spacious, quiet room for him—hidden enough that no one would find it by accident.
Rhaenyra’s mouth curved.
“Not going to inspect the fine chambers our dear stepmother arranged?” “No hurry.
By the time of the royal hunt she won’t be smiling quite so freely.” Baelor already had the shape of a plan.
Whether the queen could endure it was another matter.
They were rising to leave when Aegon—having finished two chicken legs—sidled closer with the air of a boy committing a crime.
Baelor looked down.
“What is it?” Aegon’s purple eyes darted around the empty hall.
Only when he was certain his mother was gone did he relax.
“You’ve still got a chicken leg.
Can I have it?” “You may.
But the table is full of them.
Why take mine?” Aegon answered with perfect honesty.
“Mother says I’ll be king of the Seven Kingdoms one day.
I can’t get too fat.” Rhaenyra’s expression changed at once.
She had not expected the boy who once feared dragons to be taught such things in private.
“The king’s firstborn still lives, and that bitch already wants him dead?” Baelor’s face remained calm.
He simply handed over the leg.
“And what do you think of that?” What Alicent whispered mattered less than what the child himself believed.
Aegon shrugged.
“Nothing.
Father’s told me over and over—my brother is the heir.
I’m only a second son.
Besides, if I were heir I couldn’t eat what I like or play the games I want.
Boring.” At five years old the only future he wanted was one filled with food and freedom, not dusty lessons inside the Red Keep.
Baelor rested a hand on the boy’s head, voice quiet and brotherly.
“Good.
Remember what you said tonight.
Those words will keep you safe for the rest of your life.
And from tomorrow, your mother will stop forcing those lessons on you.
I give you my word.” Aegon’s face lit up.
He snatched the chicken leg and ran off, already certain the promise of the true heir was ironclad.
When the door closed, the two older siblings exchanged a long, shared look of pure disdain.
Was the child even a Targaryen?
He behaved more like the simple son of some country lord.
“Wise choice,” Rhaenyra murmured.
From the far side of the table Helaena rocked her glass jar and spoke in a soft, distant chant.
“The wise dragon has returned.
The black dragon has flown out of King’s Landing.”