Baelon and Rhaenyra had spent the entire morning wandering the streets of King’s Landing before they finally turned back toward the Red Keep.
They hadn’t even covered a third of the city.
The moment they returned, one thought dominated Baelon’s mind: the smallfolk of this era really worked themselves to the bone just to stay alive.
The living conditions, the food, the medical care… it was a miracle anyone survived at all.
Humans could endure anything.
There were no blessings they couldn’t waste and no miseries they couldn’t swallow.
At the same time, Baelon felt a sharp rush of gratitude that he had woken up inside a prince’s body.
If he had landed in a commoner’s life instead—even a healthy one—he would have ended it himself without a second thought.
That brown stew of gods-knew-what and the rock-hard, sour black bread?
That wasn’t food.
That was punishment.
So the second he was back in his rooms, Baelon shut the door, had a small folding table set across his lap, and started sketching plans for fixing King’s Landing—and maybe doing something about what these people actually put in their mouths.
It wasn’t pure kindness driving him.
This was groundwork.
When Rhaenyra took the throne, her own brother would live a hell of a lot better if the capital wasn’t a festering shitheap.
“A good life still takes real work,” he muttered.
“Gods, what a fucking joke. A cripple in another world and I’m still breaking my back like a damn ox.”
He grabbed a quill and began writing and drawing across the parchment.
“Grain yields and prices across the realm aren’t going to change overnight. If we want to raise the standard of living here, we start with jobs and cleaning up the filth.”
“King Jaehaerys built a drainage system, but it was half-assed and nobody’s maintained it since.”
“First step: clear out the existing pipes, widen and reinforce them where we can, and narrow the openings so trash doesn’t keep clogging everything.”
“Then set up collection points every few streets. Haul the waste outside the city walls and burn it in designated pits.”
He marked spot after spot on the detailed map.
“It improves the air, gives people work, and all it really costs is supervision. But we need honest men running it—no skimming, no padding the rolls. Quotas on spending and manpower. Otherwise the bastards below will rob us blind.”
He sighed.
“Hardest part is finding the right man to run it. Sister… you’re better off as the pretty figurehead.”
“Fuck it. I’ll draw up the plan. Father and Uncle Daemon can figure out the warm bodies.”
Cole sat stiff-backed in the chair nearby, watching Baelon wear himself out.
After a moment he spoke up.
“Your Grace, let me take charge of it. I can handle the work for you.”
Baelon looked up.
“Cole, the hands and feet of a true dragon don’t waste themselves on street sweeping and sewer digging. I need you for bigger things.”
Cole’s jaw tightened.
He stood without a word, displeasure clear on his face, and headed for the door.
Baelon hesitated, then called after him.
“Cole… I know you want to prove yourself. But this isn’t your moment. Trust me. There’s real work coming your way—the kind that actually matters.”
Cole paused.
The promise of power and the prince’s favor warred with his frustration.
In the end he gave a tight, unhappy smile.
“I understand, Your Grace. I’m your hands and feet.”
Baelon watched him go and let out a long breath.
“To make strong steel, the hammer has to be strong too.”
Later that evening, a servant appeared at his door with word that the king wanted him at dinner.
When Baelon arrived at the dining hall, Viserys, Daemon, Rhaenyra, and Alicent were already seated.
Viserys’s face lit with quiet pride the moment he saw his son.
“Baelon. That plan for the city—that was you, wasn’t it?”
Baelon settled into his seat and nodded.
“Father. I was wandering the streets today and the idea just… came to me.”
“It gives Rhaenyra real standing with the people while actually fixing the stink that clings to this city. A capital of the Seven Kingdoms shouldn’t smell like an open sewer.”
Viserys smiled, the lines around his eyes softening.
“Good lad. I read it through. Sharp thinking, and thorough. Who do you recommend to run it on the ground?”
Baelon didn’t hesitate.
“Rhaenyra as overall supervisor is enough. I don’t have names for the day-to-day work. But pick men with no real power of their own. She watches the ledgers herself.”
“Anyone handling coin should be comfortable enough already—no desperate men tempted to skim. Laborers should be the ones who need the work most.”
Viserys nodded and turned to his brother.
“Daemon. See it done. Use Baelon’s outline.”
Then he looked at his daughter.
“Rhaenyra. Lyman Beesbury will release the funds straight to you. Take this seriously. Every coin spent gets discussed with your brother first. Understood?”
Daemon and Rhaenyra both nodded.
And just like that, over one dinner, the great renovation of King’s Landing was set in motion.
To tell the truth, Rhaenyra wasn’t built for real rule.
Five years slipped by like seasons changing.
The renovation project was finally winding down. This chapter was taken from g.com without permission.
For those five years Baelon had barely had a moment to himself.
Rhaenyra showed up every single day with questions about this beam, that ditch, this budget line.
He answered every one, patient as he could manage.
She was his sister.
What else was he supposed to do?
With his planning and Daemon’s iron hand behind the scenes, Rhaenyra had thrown herself into the work.
Now the smallfolk of King’s Landing—and half the realm—called her the Realm’s Delight and looked at her like she walked on water.
Baelon had picked up his own quiet reputation too.
Criston Cole and a couple of the Gold Cloaks who had been there the night they framed Otto had done some careful talking in their cups.
The story spread: the crippled prince had outmaneuvered the old Hand and sent him packing.
People started calling him the Wise Crippled Prince.
An eight-year-old boy who couldn’t walk but still played the game better than most grown men.
What actually made Baelon happiest, though, had nothing to do with politics.
Ignir had grown.
In five years the black dragon had multiplied in size until—tail aside—he was the size of a big destrier.
Proof that a dragon allowed to fly and hunt grew faster and stronger than one kept caged.
The moment Ignir had been moved out of the Red Keep’s rooms, Baelon had given him his freedom.
Fly when you want.
Just don’t eat the smallfolk’s sheep or set fire to anything that breathes.
And Ignir—this dragon who by all rights shouldn’t even exist—had turned out frighteningly clever.
Five years and not one incident.
Two years ago the dragonkeepers had weighed him and confirmed he was already more than twenty times Baelon’s weight.
That was the day Baelon stopped listening to his father and sister’s objections.
He had himself strapped into the saddle and took to the sky.
Strapped down tight, the ride wasn’t exactly comfortable.
But the wind in his face and the world dropping away beneath him… it was the freest he’d ever felt.
The lords and smallfolk of the Seven Kingdoms saw it too.
This boy who had never taken a step on his own two feet was riding a dragon.
And for the first time, they looked at him with real respect.
Because a cripple who could still command the sky was something else entirely.