105 AC
King’s Landing
Two years had passed since the death of the “Old King” Jaehaerys I and the ascension of Viserys Targaryen as Viserys I, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, and Defender of the Realm.
The new king was gentle and generous by nature, earning the affection of nobles and commoners alike throughout King’s Landing.
Since his ascension, the Red Keep had been filled with feasting and merriment.
Viserys I and Queen Aemma Arryn were particularly fond of hosting banquets and tournaments.
In just two short years, dozens of grand and extravagant feasts had been held within the Red Keep.
The royal couple generously rewarded those who pleased them with gold, court positions, and honors, displaying a degree of generosity that left a deep impression on all.
Queen Aemma was mild-tempered and loved ballads.
To win her favor, new songs praising the Targaryens and their dragons appeared one after another, while laughter and music constantly filled the Red Keep.
Yet none of those celebrations could compare in scale to today’s tournament.
Hundreds of lords from across the realm and knights from every corner of the land had been invited.
The sheer scale of the gathering and the number of attendees made it grand enough to rival the king’s coronation.
Countless knights eager to distinguish themselves at the tournament swarmed into King’s Landing like wasps.
They had begun arriving in endless waves months before the Queen’s announced due date.
And every knight brought three or four hedge knights, several craftsmen, a host of merchants, and more camp followers, prostitutes, and thieves than anyone could count.
They all came with the same hope.
They dreamed of making a name for themselves on the day of the Queen’s delivery, at the tournament celebrating the birth of Viserys Targaryen I’s son and heir.
The inns and taverns of King’s Landing were packed beyond capacity.
Prostitutes were earning more coin than they knew what to do with, but the accompanying disorder was just as overwhelming.
Armed brawls, rape, robbery, tavern riots…
something seemed to happen almost every day.
That changed when Daemon Targaryen, the King’s own younger brother, swept back into King’s Landing and assumed command of the City Watch.
The guards had previously been poorly armed and dressed in a mismatched assortment of clothing.
Daemon supplied them with proper equipment.
Daggers, short swords, clubs, black chainmail, and bright golden cloaks.
With his extraordinary skill at arms and personal charisma, he quickly won the loyalty of the men of the City Watch.
Finally, Daemon delivered the words that set everything in motion.
“My brother’s city has become a den of vice and rampant crime. No longer!”
Thus began King’s Landing’s first great campaign to make the capital a civilized city, with an immediate and ruthless crackdown on crime and disorder.
Daemon personally led the patrols.
Columns of well-equipped guards roamed King’s Landing like wild dogs slipped from their chains, beating down any criminals they caught.
Pickpockets?
Chop off their hands!
Rapists?
Castrate them!
Armed street brawls?
Those actually made Daemon laugh.
Clad in full armor and leading from the front, he threw himself into the fighting and personally killed several men with Dark Sister during street clashes.
The atmosphere in King’s Landing changed almost overnight, and public order improved dramatically.
And so, with Daemon occasionally taking to the streets himself and the newly minted Gold Cloaks carrying out their relentless crackdown, the days swiftly passed until the Queen’s due date and the day of the tournament arrived.
Viserys wore a crown set with seven gemstones of different colors as he rose before the crowds that had journeyed from across the realm.
“On this great day, Queen Aemma has gone into labor!”
“May the Seven watch over every warrior!”
With that, Viserys sat back down.
Amid the deafening cheers, he clenched his fists and prayed that the Seven would protect his Queen and his son.
Yes, his son.
Aemma had not yet given birth, but Viserys was utterly convinced that she would bear him a son.
The heir he had dreamed of and sought for so long would surely be born before today’s tournament came to an end.
Then the entire realm would rejoice, and every dragon would roar in unison.
All would celebrate the birth of Viserys I’s son, Prince Baelon Targaryen, who would one day rule the vast Seven Kingdoms and defend all of Westeros.
Before long, noble knights began jousting within the lists, while beyond the barriers, crowds of King’s Landing residents pressed together to watch the spectacle.
Vendors with crates hanging from their necks squeezed through the throng, hawking grilled fish and cured meat.
Pickpockets watched eagerly for opportunities, while prostitutes and male prostitutes continued plying their charms.
Lances splintered with explosive cracks.
Knights screamed as they were hurled from their saddles, and warhorses shrieked amid the bloody spectacle.
The violence stirred the crowd into wave after wave of cheers.
None of it held Viserys’s attention.
He watched the jousts distractedly, waiting anxiously for good news from the birthing chamber.
It was not long before his Hand of the King, Otto Hightower, arrived bearing grim news.
“The Queen’s labor has gone badly…”
Viserys’s heart lurched.
He immediately rose and hurried toward the birthing chamber.
Queen Aemma lay on the birthing bed, her silver hair in disarray and her limbs hanging limp, as though all life had already left her body.
Viserys’s thoughts descended into chaos.
He had no idea what to do.
How could this have happened?!
Grand Maester Mellos’s voice seemed to drift toward him from far away, barely registering in his mind.
“We must cut the child from her womb…”
“What?”
Viserys seemed not to have heard him and asked again.
Grand Maester Mellos had seen many women suffer difficult births, along with the desperate families gathered around them.
He knew the naturally indecisive king had heard him perfectly well.
But time was running out.
Every moment of delay increased the risk that the child would suffocate in its mother’s womb.
There was no time for the king to hesitate.
“Your Grace, when a birth goes wrong, the father must make a terrible choice,” he said plainly.
“Sacrifice one, or lose them both?”
Viserys stared at his unconscious wife.
Aemma had married him when she was young, and the two had always shared a loving marriage.
More than that, in her efforts to give him an heir, Aemma had endured pregnancy after pregnancy and miscarriage after miscarriage.
In only two and a half years, she had conceived five times, suffering terribly each time.
His gaze fell to Aemma’s heavily swollen belly.
Her life was plainly nearing its end.
But there was still a child inside her…
Viserys lowered his head, his voice choking.
“Can you save the child?”
At those words, Mellos understood the king’s choice.
“We must act now. Otherwise, we can only leave the rest to fate.”
Whether the child survived would depend upon the will of the Seven.
Mellos could only do everything within his power.
Viserys nodded heavily and dragged himself to the head of the bed.
He gently clasped his wife’s hand, and the Queen’s signet ring bearing the three-headed dragon pressed into his palm.
Maester Mellos began preparing the knife for the operation.
The gleaming blade was held over the dancing flames until it glowed red.
Whether from cruelty or mercy, the gods allowed Queen Aemma to awaken at that moment from the torment tearing through her body.
Still dazed, she looked toward her husband.
“What’s wrong, Viserys?”
Viserys forced a smile and did his best to reassure her.
“I love you.”
Aemma was drenched in sweat, her lips utterly bloodless.
She could already sense the Stranger drawing near.
A gentle smile touched her lips, and with the last of her strength, she squeezed her husband’s hand in return.
She still had so much she wanted to say.
Mother, have mercy.
Stranger, show compassion.
Please grant her this final little bit of time, enough to bid her loved ones a proper farewell.
She wanted to tell Viserys that she was sorry.
In the end, she had failed her husband.
She had not been able to give him a son.
She wanted to stroke Rhaenyra’s hair.
She was sorry she could not stay to watch her grow up.
No matter what happened, her mother would always love her.
And then there was the poor child in her womb.
She was sorry.
Before he had even entered this world, he would have to leave it with her…
“Ah!” Aemma suddenly cried out.
Several hands seized her ankles and dragged her down from the pillows.
A group of midwives crowded around the bed, pinning down her arms and legs.
The shock tore Aemma from her daze.
How dare they handle a Queen so roughly, and right in front of the king!
Yet her king, her husband, said nothing to rebuke them or defend her dignity.
The pain had not robbed Aemma of her wits.
A terrible suspicion formed in her mind, and she stared at her husband in disbelief.
“Viserys?”
“They’re going to take the child out…” Viserys whispered.
The Maester lifted her clothes, and a gleaming blade slowly drew closer.
“No, no!” Aemma struggled desperately, thrashing like a fish on a butcher’s block.
All she could do now was beg, hoping somehow to move her husband’s heart.
“Viserys, please!”
“Please!”
“Don’t be afraid. Don’t be afraid…” Viserys murmured, his large hand gripping hers tightly.
For ten months she had carried this child, stroking her belly countless times and waiting for his birth with all the love of a mother.
Then the blade cut into her belly.
“Viserys, kill me!”
“Please!”
Tears streamed down Aemma’s face as she begged again and again.
Viserys buried his face against their clasped hands, refusing to look.
“Viserys!”
Die.
Die.
Die!
The unbearable pain, the humiliation of being cut open like livestock, the agony of her husband’s betrayal.
Aemma could not stop herself from hating the lump of flesh inside her womb.
Why are you still moving?
Please, stop moving.
Baelon, please.
Just die.
For your mother’s sake, please die!
If you die, my suffering will end!
The agony shattered what remained of Aemma’s reason.
She thrashed wildly and screamed, “Gods, look at what they’re doing! Save me!”
The gods did not answer.
Only Aemma’s screams and curses filled the chamber.
“Die! Die! No, no, no!”
“Mother, Mother, save me!”
“Mother… Mama…”
It hurts…
…
Queen Aemma’s eyes remained wide with fury, her face frozen in a twisted grimace.
Then she fell silent and stopped struggling.
The midwives released her and stepped back from the bed, breathing as quietly as they could.
They lowered their heads, none daring to look at the woman lying there.
“Congratulations, Your Grace,” Maester Mellos said, holding the child.
Viserys lifted his head with tears in his eyes, the thick smell of blood filling his nostrils.
His eyes were red.
“Is it a boy?”
Was this the heir worth what he had done?
Mellos nodded.
“The new heir, Your Grace.”
The corners of Viserys’s mouth instinctively lifted.
Before the smile could fully form, more tears spilled down his cheeks.
“Have you and the Queen chosen a name?” Maester Mellos asked, proceeding methodically through the usual formalities.
Viserys gave the name he and his wife had agreed upon long ago.
“Baelon.”
With trembling hands, he took the swaddled child.
“Baelon Targaryen.”
Named in honor of his father, Baelon “the Brave.”
Viserys gazed down at the crying infant wrapped in cloth.
At last, Aemma had given him the Prince of his dreams.
There would be no more endless pregnancies and miscarriages.
His nose stung.
He buried his face in the child’s swaddling and wept, soaking the white cloth with his tears.
…
Baelon struggled to open his eyes and found himself staring at a blurry world of black and white.
What was going on?
Hadn’t he been run over by a truck?
He had died with a strangely relieved smile on his face.
After all, he lived on the twenty-second floor.
If that damned truck had somehow managed to drive all the way up to the twenty-second floor just to flatten him like a speed bump, what else was he supposed to do but accept his fate?
So this was…
reincarnation?
No judgment, no afterlife, no waiting around, just straight into another life?
An orphan from birth and raised on a steady diet of books and films, Baelon flailed his tiny arms and promptly began wailing at the top of his lungs.
A baby’s first cry announced his arrival into the world.
Better to cry on his own than wait for some midwife to smack him while his family looked on in worry.
The choice was obvious.
The next moment, something warm pressed against his belly, and a voice sounded beside his ear.
Viserys murmured softly, recounting the prophetic dream he had once seen.
“Baelon, my son.”
“You were born wearing Aegon the Conqueror’s Iron Crown.”
“Amid thunderous hoofbeats, splintering shields, and the clash of swords and spears… I placed you upon the Iron Throne.”
Baelon: ?
English?
He had been sent abroad?!
And that prophecy…
wait.
Wasn’t this House of the Dragon?!
Good gods, was this even Earth anymore?
Had he actually transmigrated into Baelon, the unfortunate Heir for a Day from House of the Dragon?!
Baelon’s hands stopped pushing against Viserys.
Then where was the woman who had given birth to him?