“I, Jaehaerys of House Targaryen…”
Baelon dropped to one knee almost by instinct.
The instant his knee touched the cold stone floor, a chill seemed to pierce straight into his bones.
“King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm…”
The nobles and courtiers gathered in the hall began to realize what was happening.
Whispers spread through the crowd like a rising tide.
At first, they were restrained and tentative.
Soon, however, they merged into a vast sea of murmuring voices, instantly shattering the solemn atmosphere of the funeral.
Uneasy glances were exchanged.
Eyes darted between the king, Baelon kneeling before him, and Rhaenys standing to one side with a face gone deathly pale.
Boremund’s knuckles turned white.
His hand clenched tightly around the hilt of his sword, his gaze fixed upon Jaehaerys.
Ser Ryam silently took a step forward.
The seven knights of the Kingsguard straightened like pillars of stone before Jaehaerys, hands resting upon their sword hilts as their eyes swept across the crowd below.
Jaehaerys tightened his grip on Blackfyre.
He drew a deep breath.
Strangely, even amid the noise filling the hall, the sound was perfectly clear.
“Baelon Targaryen.”
The king’s voice rang out, drowning every whisper and forcing the hall back into silence.
“I hereby name you Prince of Dragonstone and appoint you my designated heir.”
The air seemed to freeze.
Rhaenys swayed almost imperceptibly.
She had been clutching the hand of her younger cousin Viserys, but now she tore her fingers away as though burned by flame.
Something hot surged into her eyes.
Yet before the tears could fall, they were scorched away by the inferno of rage that suddenly erupted within her chest.
A rage fierce enough to burn everything to ash.
“You have stolen the birthright of the son in my womb!”
Rhaenys’s voice ripped through the silence of the hall.
She stepped forward sharply and raised one arm, her trembling finger pointing directly at Jaehaerys.
Her voice rose with the extremity of her fury, yet every word remained perfectly clear.
Each syllable was like a shard of ice forced through clenched teeth.
“Grandfather!”
Disbelief and fury filled her cry.
“Have you forgotten that I am Aemon’s only child?
I should be my father’s sole heir!”
Jaehaerys slowly turned his gaze toward her.
Blackfyre gleamed coldly beneath the light.
Yet the king’s eyes were colder than the blade.
He stared mercilessly at the granddaughter who shared his blood.
Then at the slight swell of her belly.
For the briefest instant, something complicated flashed through the old man’s eyes.
It vanished beneath unwavering resolve.
“This is my decree.
It is the conclusion reached after discussion between myself and the great officers of the realm—”
“Do those great officers you speak of include me, Your Grace?”
A voice trembling with restrained fury cut him off.
Corlys stepped forward.
The face weathered by countless years of sea winds had turned crimson.
Veins pulsed visibly at his temples as he breathed in short, rapid bursts, his chest rising and falling violently.
He was furious.
Utterly furious.
Those violet eyes, usually calm and gleaming with the shrewd intelligence of a seasoned navigator, now burned with naked rage.
Jaehaerys met his gaze.
For a moment, the king said nothing.
“This is my decision, Lord Corlys.
I will not change it.”
Corlys gave a short, contemptuous laugh.
“Then, Your Grace, I suggest you find another man to serve as Admiral of the Realm and Master of Ships.”
He did not look at the king again.
Instead, he turned toward his wife.
Rhaenys was staring at him.
The tears had finally broken through the barrier of her fury and now slid silently down her cheeks.
Corlys reached out and took her arm.
His touch gave her strength.
Rhaenys raised her chin once more and wiped the tears from the corners of her eyes.
Together, husband and wife turned away.
Their footsteps echoed through the silence.
Every eye followed them.
As they passed Baelon, who remained kneeling on one knee with his head lowered, someone muttered a single word.
The voice was low.
But in the absolute silence of the hall, it was perfectly audible.
“Thief.”
Baelon did not turn around.
Jocelyn, her face hidden beneath a black veil, had remained silent from beginning to end.
Every expression was concealed by the dark fabric.
Her gaze rested upon Baelon.
Deep.
Unreadable.
Then she simply turned and followed her daughter.
Boremund released a heavy snort filled with barely restrained anger.
He glared fiercely at Jaehaerys before turning and striding after his sister.
Queen Alysanne stood beside the king.
She stared at her husband in shock.
Disbelief, bitter disappointment, and profound pain filled her eyes.
“Your Grace, what a ruler cannot do without is a clever mind and an honest heart—not the cock between his legs.”
Her voice was low.
Jaehaerys continued staring forward.
He gave no response.
I have helped you rule this kingdom for more than forty years.
Alysanne stared at Jaehaerys’s profile.
Her heart turned cold.
Together, we healed the wounds of the realm.
Together, we won the love of the people.
After everything I have done, after all the blood and effort I have poured into this kingdom, is it still not enough to prove something to you?
That a woman—your own granddaughter—may possess the ability to rule?
Or at the very least, the right to try?
“If Your Grace truly believes women incapable of ruling, then clearly you have no need of me either.”
With those words, Alysanne made her declaration.
She refused the ladies who moved forward to support her.
Alone, the Good Queen walked toward Maegor’s Holdfast.
Night had fallen deep over King’s Landing.
Brother, you certainly left me with a difficult problem.
For the newly named Prince of Dragonstone to visit a brothel on the very night of his brother’s funeral would be scandalous beyond belief.
Baelon could already imagine the stories that would spread through court.
But a promise was a promise.
Baelon had spent the entire latter half of the day receiving nobles.
Lords from the Crownlands who had hurried to King’s Landing.
Half had come to express their grief over Prince Aemon’s death.
The other half had quite obviously come to swear fealty to the new Prince of Dragonstone—and to test the winds surrounding their new heir.
Baelon had forced himself to endure.
He wore the proper expression.
Dignified.
Grieving.
Majestic enough for his new station.
He maintained it until the final flattering lord had finally departed.
Only late in the night did Baelon manage to slip away from the Red Keep, escaping its layers of guards and countless watching eyes like a thief.
At least, in the eyes of my niece and her husband, I already am one.
Baelon pulled on a black cloak.
Once again, it was the dead of night.
Once again, he walked along that street filled with the mingled stench of dung, sewage, and cheap perfume.
Once again, he stood before the brothel marked by the sign of the Blue Pearl.
But this time, Ser Ryam would not be waiting outside.
Aemon would not be walking beside him.
This time…
Baelon was alone.
Solanna wore an expression of profound sorrow as she dabbed at the corners of her eyes with a handkerchief.
“My lord, I am deeply sorry for your brother’s passing.
But this child…”
Her eyes carefully studied Baelon.
Baelon unconsciously ground his teeth.
The muscles along his jaw tightened.
He stared coldly at the woman putting on this pathetic performance.
His patience had already been stretched to its limit.
“How many Gold Dragons do you want?
Name your price.”
The grief vanished from Solanna’s face like smoke scattered by the wind.
She gave Baelon a flirtatious look.
In its place appeared the calculating shrewdness of a merchant.
She spoke slowly.
“Let us be frank with one another, Prince Baelon.
Dragonseed commands a higher price.”
Baelon’s hand drifted toward Dark Sister at his waist.
Solanna did not miss the movement.
She immediately began speaking faster, the words pouring from her mouth as though she intended to smother any refusal before it could be voiced.
“My prince, I ask for very little.
I only wish to secure a peaceful future for my family.
I have a useless nephew—strong as an ox and utterly loyal to you and the Iron Throne.
If he could be given a position in the City Watch, perhaps even…”
She paused.
“Command of one of the city gates…”
Solanna carefully watched Baelon’s expression.
When he did not immediately refuse, a meaningful smile curled across her lips.
“You understand, of course.
We poor whores have difficult lives.
Having someone above willing to make things…
convenient for us can make all the difference.
In a city like King’s Landing, people like us live much easier lives when someone powerful is willing to look after us.”
Her eyes remained fixed upon Baelon.
She refused to miss even the slightest change in his face.
Greed and hunger for power almost overflowed from those eyes.
“My prince, if you simply nod your head, not only will I keep my mouth shut forever…”
Solanna smiled.
“I can also tell you a much greater secret.”
Baelon gently stroked Daeron’s head.
He carefully pulled the swaddling cloth tighter around the infant and prepared to leave.
A chestnut-haired girl stepped into his path.
Her fingers nervously twisted the fabric of her skirt.
“My lord…
are you taking Daeron away?”
Baelon remembered her.
The girl named Cissy.
When he had accompanied Aemon here for the first time to confirm the child’s existence, she had been the one who guided them.
Baelon nodded.
Cissy seemed relieved.
And yet…
There was also a trace of reluctance in her eyes.
She held something in her hands.
It was a crudely made cloth doll.
Its shape only barely resembled a dragon.
Blue and green threads had been stitched together in crooked, uneven lines.
The needlework was childish.
Ugly, even.
Cissy held it out toward Baelon.
There was a pleading look in her eyes.
“My lord…
his mother…”
Her voice trembled.
” Jaenara made this for him before she died.
She spent so long sewing it…”
“Please.”
“Please take it with you.”
“It is the only thing his mother left for him…”
Baelon accepted the little dragon.