In the final days of the year 105 After Aegon’s Conquest, King’s Landing, Maegor’s Holdfast.
The roar of the great tourney celebrating the birth of the heir still drifted in waves through the window.
Sunlight slanted through the glass, cutting into the shadowed stone of the ancient castle.
Queen Aemma Arryn’s face still held the frozen mask of despair and terror, but no breath stirred her chest.
The tiny, blood-slick infant was washed clean by the maids, swaddled in soft cotton, and placed in Maester Mellos’s arms.
“Congratulations, Your Grace.”
Viserys turned, eyes bloodshot, grief carved so deep into his face he could not hide it.
“A boy?”
“A new heir, Your Grace.”
“Have you and the Queen chosen a name?”
Viserys’s hands tightened around Aemma’s lifeless fingers.
He looked at her face one last time, then back to the maester.
“Baelon.”
The name left his lips and his control shattered.
Tears spilled down his cheeks unchecked.
Mellos glanced down at the infant in his arms—Baelon Targaryen—and his expression flickered.
He drew the child closer, listening carefully until he was satisfied the breathing was steady, then his face smoothed once more.
At that same moment, in another world, a pitiful soul who had spent more than twenty years bedridden with severe muscular weakness—paralyzed, able only to pass the endless hours watching educational videos and old television shows—slipped into the newborn body on the continent of Westeros.
Consciousness drifted in darkness so complete it felt like drowning.
Baelon fought to open his eyes and failed.
Through the haze he heard a gentle voice.
“Rhaenyra, I won’t trust your brother to anyone else. From now on, you will look after him yourself.”
“He is your mother’s life continued. She fought to bring him into this world. Promise me you will take care of him.”
“Father, I swear it. I’ll stay with him day and night. I’ll love him the way I loved Mother.”
Something warm and heavy was laid carefully beside him.
A sharp crack split the air.
Then the same voice, bright with sudden joy: “Father—look! The dragon egg has hatched!”
Three years passed in the blink of an eye.
Baelon sat propped against the headboard, short silver-gold hair tousled, one small hand stroking the dragon he had named Ignir.
The creature’s scales were black as pitch, its six horns sharp and cruel.
Crimson membrane stretched between the bones of its wings, and its head was all wolf—long muzzle, intelligent eyes the color of fresh blood.
It was no longer a hatchling.
Ignir’s body already took up half the bed, roughly the size of a large hound.
The dragon lay sprawled beside him, tail flicking lazily, until its head snapped up.
Red eyes fixed on the door.
Baelon turned to look as well.
A girl stood there, watching him with open disapproval.
“Baelon, little brother… you let Ignir on the bed again.”
Baelon gave the dragon’s head a gentle pat.
Ignir hopped down at once and settled obediently on the floor beside the bed.
Only then did Baelon answer.
“You know I can’t get up, Rhaenyra. I can’t even leave this bed. Ignir is the only company I have.”
The Seven had played a vicious joke.
They had given him a second life, but they had dragged his old affliction along with his soul—severe muscular weakness that left his body frail and useless.
At three years old he was sharp as a blade, clever enough to remember events from his first year of life with perfect clarity, yet he still could not stand, still could not walk.
The smallfolk of King’s Landing whispered it in the alleys and taverns: the great King Viserys and Queen Aemma had not birthed a true dragon at all.
They had birthed a pitiful crawler.
That was why Viserys had never named him heir.
A king must sit the Iron Throne.
But he cannot only sit the Iron Throne.
Rhaenyra’s scolding faded.
Sorrow took its place.
She crossed the room, sat on the edge of the bed, and took his small, too-soft hand in hers.
“Don’t be sad, Baelon. You’re so clever. You remember things most children forget before they can even speak.” Her thumb brushed over his knuckles.
“I know you’ll stand soon. You’ll walk. I believe it.”
Baelon kept his face calm.
He had spent more than twenty years in a body that would not obey him; another three made little difference.
He had only mentioned it to pull her attention away from the scolding.
Seeing her anger gone, he changed the subject.
“Sister, I haven’t seen Father in a long time. Is he busy?”
Rhaenyra shook her head.
“He’s in his chambers again, playing with those little sculptures. I saw him this morning.”
“Do you want to go to him?”
Baelon nodded.
“I have some things I need to say.”
Rhaenyra turned toward the door and raised her voice.
“Ser Cole, would you take my brother to our father’s chambers?”
Ser Criston Cole had worn the white cloak for three years.
He stepped inside at once, moving toward the bed.
Ignir rose in a single fluid motion, wings half-spread, jaws parting.
A low, dangerous glow kindled in its throat.
Cole stopped dead.
He was no coward, but he had seen what Ignir’s fire could do to a sheep.
He had no desire to test it on himself.
Baelon spoke softly.
“Ignir. Be good. Stay here until I come back.”
The dragon closed its mouth, tilted its head, then slowly lowered itself to the floor again.
Only when he was certain the threat had passed did Cole step forward and lift the frail prince into his arms.
King Viserys sat before a detailed sculpture of the Valyrian Freehold, carefully adjusting the tiny model of Balerion the Black Dread.
A white-cloaked Kingsguard opened the door and bowed.
“Your Grace, Princess Rhaenyra and Prince Baelon have come.”
Viserys looked up, puzzled, but rose.
“Send them in.”
The doors swung wide.
Rhaenyra entered first.
Behind her, Cole carried Baelon.
A complicated look crossed Viserys’s face—grief, guilt, and something harder to name.
“Baelon. What brings you here today?”
“Father, I haven’t seen you in a long time. I missed you.”
Viserys’s smile was thin and strained.
He looked at the son who had cost him Aemma—the boy who carried every hope he had left.
“If you wished to see me, you only had to send word.”
He stepped forward, took Baelon from Cole’s arms, and settled him carefully on the edge of his own bed.
Baelon leaned back against his father’s chest.
“Father… I’ve been uneasy lately. Could you give me a guard of my own?”
Viserys went still.
“Uneasy? Since when? What makes you feel this way?”
“Someone may want to make sure I never stand again,” Baelon said quietly.
“It started after Aegon was born.”
Viserys’s eyes narrowed.
A dangerous light flickered behind them.
He did not scold the boy for imagining things.
He did not dismiss the words because of his age.
The suspicion was too precise, too well-reasoned.
His heart ached.
Such a clever child.
If only he had been given even a passably strong body…
After a long moment he asked, “Who would you have as your guard? One of the Kingsguard? Or a man from your uncle’s City Watch?”