“Helaena?” Baelor tested the name carefully.
The little girl turned, offered him a bright, vacant smile, then returned at once to the insects in her jar.
In her world that counted as a polite greeting.
He looked to Rhaenyra.
“Is she always…?” Rhaenyra hesitated.
“She is like that with everyone.
Don’t worry over it.” She had been about to add that the maesters suspected something amiss in the child’s mind, but the words felt unkind in the girl’s presence.
She let them die unspoken.
“It’s simply how she is.” Baelor accepted the explanation.
So long as the child did not interfere with his own designs, curiosity was a luxury he could ignore.
Only after they had left Helaena and returned to Rhaenyra’s chambers did his sister explain the rest.
Baelor listened, then stroked his chin with mock gravity.
“One glutton.
One half-wit.
Sister, do you suppose House Hightower carries a curse from the Seven?
How else do they keep producing such strange children?” Rhaenyra’s temper flared.
“You idiot.
The only thing we should be thinking about is making you healthy.” Alicent was still young and fertile.
Their father prized the growth of the bloodline.
More children would come.
Against that stood a frail firstborn son and a dragonrider daughter already hemmed in by Otto and half the Small Council.
Baelor’s voice stayed calm.
“I see it differently.
An old book in the Citadel taught me a simple truth: men fight hardest for whatever they lack most.
Otto moves so quickly against us because he fears the day we sit the throne and settle accounts with his house.” Six years in Oldtown had been spent on two things only—study, and the steady stream of court intelligence Maester Orville gathered for him.
The year Aegon was born, Otto had already whispered that a sickly firstborn could never rule and that the second son should be named heir instead.
Viserys had answered with the sharpest reprimand of his reign.
In the king’s heart the children of Aemma Arryn remained irreplaceable.
While Baelor lived, the succession began with him.
Rhaenyra nodded.
“You’re right.
That is why Father keeps me as cupbearer on the Small Council.
The post is more than ceremony—it lets me hear every word of governance.” The next four days Viserys confined Baelor inside the Red Keep.
The capital was dangerous; Ser Erryk of the Kingsguard was assigned as the prince’s personal shadow.
No excursions were permitted until the royal hunt.
Baelor spent the hours in the castle gardens with books of High Valyrian dragonlore.
Each afternoon Helaena appeared with her jar of insects, pretending to study the creatures while her eyes followed the pages in his hands.
Baelor was not petty.
When the child showed interest he read aloud and explained, turning the strange girl into an unlikely companion.
By the morning of the hunt a quiet, wordless friendship had formed between them.
… A royal carriage rolled toward the Kingswood under heavy guard.
Servants trailed behind.
Inside, King Viserys sat in the center, Baelor on his left, Alicent on his right.
Rhaenyra rode beside her brother, explaining the ancient customs of the royal hunt.
Aegon stared out the window in boredom.
Helaena played contentedly with her jars.
The infant Aemond slept in a nurse’s arms.
Viserys clapped Baelor’s shoulder, beaming.
“Is this not fine?
The whole family riding out together so the realm may celebrate the return of the king’s firstborn!” “Thank you, Father.” Baelor placed a hand over the king’s in quiet acknowledgment.
“It is no more than you deserve,” Viserys said.
“When we arrive, walk behind Alicent.” Baelor understood.
The king meant to show every lord of the Seven Kingdoms that the succession remained unbroken.
The journey lasted from dawn until midday.
When the carriage finally halted, the great lords of the realm were already waiting.
Viserys turned to his son.
“This is your first appearance before the nobility.
Stand tall.” “I will, Father.” Baelor had slept on the road; his eyes were clear.
Satisfied, Viserys stepped down first, Blackfyre at his hip.
The assembled lords erupted in loyal cheers.
Alicent followed, every inch the gracious queen.
“Come, children.” Baelor and Rhaenyra swallowed their disgust.
This was not the moment to show it.
Baelor descended third, directly behind the queen.
The applause swelled—then a single voice cut through it.
“Prince Aegon forever!” “Long live the king’s heir!” The cry was taken up at once by a carefully prepared cluster of lords.
Otto’s work, obvious and crude.
Viserys’s smile froze.
He memorized the face of the first man who had shouted, then forced himself to keep walking.
Alicent moved among the ladies with perfect composure.
Inside the carriage Rhaenyra had heard enough.
She half-rose to intervene, but Baelor gave a single small shake of his head.
Meeting her furious stare, he turned to Ser Erryk, who stood guard beside the door.
“Ser.
Announce the king’s firstborn—loudly—to every man present.” Erryk bowed and stepped forward, voice ringing across the clearing.
“Make way for Baelor Targaryen, firstborn son of Viserys the First, rightful heir to the Iron Throne!” The cheers died as though strangled.
Faces that a moment earlier had shouted for Aegon now wore the stunned, sick expression of men who had just found a dead rat in their breakfast.
Baelor ignored them.
He simply took Rhaenyra’s hand and followed their father toward the royal camp.