White waves crashed against the shore as the wind howled.
A massive funeral pyre had been raised on the cold, rocky beach.
A figure wrapped from head to toe in silk, like a mummy, lay motionless atop the stacked firewood.
Feeling movement in his arms, Viserys drew his cloak tighter around the swaddled bundle, keeping the sea wind from reaching the still-fragile Baelon.
The sea breeze was bitterly cold, heavy with the briny scent of the ocean and the thick, choking fragrance of the spices that clung to Queen Aemma’s body.
Viserys held his son and stared blankly at his sleeping wife.
His grieving daughter stood beside him, while behind them gathered nobles wearing all manner of expressions.
Everyone stood in solemn silence, mourning the Queen.
The air was deathly still, weighed down by grief.
After a time, Daemon broke the silence.
“It is time.” He stepped forward, urging the young Rhaenyra on.
Rhaenyra fought back her grief and called loudly, “Syrax!”
The next instant, a turbulent gale swept across the shore.
The great yellow dragon descended from the clouds, beating its wings and stirring fierce winds that tore apart the heavy cloud cover.
In an instant, brilliant daylight poured through the opening above, a dazzling shaft of light falling diagonally across the funeral pyre.
The dragon folded its wings and landed lightly.
Syrax stood beside Queen Aemma’s pyre, waiting for Rhaenyra’s command.
Baelon looked at the creature that seemed to have stepped straight out of a fantasy tale.
Magnificent.
Powerful.
Its dragonfire could reduce everything within sight to flames.
After looking for a moment, he withdrew his gaze and quietly turned his attention to the pyre.
Rhaenyra looked back at her brother by blood, still wrapped in swaddling clothes and utterly unaware of what was happening, then turned toward her father.
Viserys stared blankly at his wife, unable to bring himself to give the order to burn her body.
His eyes were red, his face filled with grief.
He had completely lost the will to decide.
Rhaenyra drew a deep breath.
No matter how reluctant she was to let go, her tear-choked voice still rang out clearly.
“Dracarys!”
At the command, Syrax opened her enormous jaws and unleashed a brilliant torrent of dragonfire.
The instant the flames touched the wood, they spread across the entire seven-tiered funeral pyre.
The fire roared beneath the sea wind, burning fiercely without fading.
In the end, Queen Aemma’s soul passed into the Stranger’s realm, while her body became a handful of black ash and was buried on Dragonstone.
For several days after the funeral, Rhaenyra remained lost in the grief of losing her mother and barely spoke to anyone.
Only her close friend Alicent Hightower, who had also suffered the loss of her mother, stayed beside her and offered comfort.
Viserys, however, could not allow himself to remain consumed by grief.
The Queen’s funeral was over, but the realm still had to be governed.
He forced himself to recover and hurriedly summoned all the lords.
He had already lost Aemma.
How could he risk losing his heir as well?!
Baelon, his son!
His first son!
The natural continuation of his lawful authority!
Viserys did not wear his usual golden crown set with seven gemstones of different colors.
Instead, he donned the ruby-studded Valyrian steel crown that had belonged to Aegon the Conqueror.
In his hand he held Blackfyre, the sword of Aegon the Conqueror and a symbol of Targaryen royal authority.
Hundreds of lords from across the Seven Kingdoms filled the hall.
Viserys placed Baelon upon the Iron Throne, just as he had seen in his dream.
Baelon was drenched in sweat.
Down, velvet, leather, armor.
Layer after layer had been wrapped tightly around him, while even his arms and legs had been bound in leather so securely that he could barely move.
He looked like a round little ball.
He lay quietly upon the Iron Throne, as motionless as a puppet.
The throne beneath him had been forged from more than a thousand swords.
Its blades were sharp, its sword points gleaming menacingly.
Those blades had no eyes!
What if one of them gave him a nice dose of tetanus?!
If anyone asked him, Aegon the Conqueror could have done a much better job building his throne.
What decent throne had this many swords sticking out of it?
Viserys’s booming voice rang through the hall as he addressed them all.
“This is Prince Baelon Targaryen, my heir. Today, I formally invest him as Prince of Dragonstone!”
“You shall swear upon your honor to be true and loyal to him, and defend his rights with your words and with your hands!”
None of the lords defied Viserys’s command.
In Westeros, there was nothing unusual about granting titles to infants.
As Viserys’s first son, Baelon was naturally and rightfully first in line to the Iron Throne.
So long as he survived to adulthood, the Iron Throne would inevitably be his.
And so, lords great and small from every corner of the realm, grown men tall and strong, came forward one after another and knelt before the infant lying upon the throne.
This time, Baelon could not even turn his head.
He could only stare wide-eyed at the ceiling while listening to one lord after another swear their oaths beside him.
[Congratulations on obtaining the Epic-tier title: “Prince of Dragonstone.” Charisma +4]
Baelon: …
His damned Charisma!
It would have been much better if he could transfer those points to Strength or Constitution.
Having countless men bow before him and swear allegiance ought to have been exhilarating, if the circumstances had not been so absurd.
Baelon could not muster the slightest excitement.
At least the lords kneeling before him and swearing fealty had more freedom than he did right now.
At first, Baelon tried to memorize the names and voices of the various lords.
It was the only thing he could do.
Boremund Baratheon of Storm’s End left the strongest impression on him.
His voice was astonishingly loud.
It echoed throughout the entire throne room and left Baelon’s ears ringing.
A voice like that would certainly be useful for shouting orders across a battlefield.
Ellard Stark of Winterfell spoke in a calm, steady voice that sounded entirely unremarkable.
Grover Tully of Riverrun, on the other hand, sounded weak and listless, as though he barely had the strength to speak.
Then the hall abruptly fell silent for several seconds, stirring Baelon’s curiosity.
A few moments later, a familiar voice spoke and swore allegiance to him.
Daemon Targaryen, his uncle.
Among the crowd, Daemon watched expressionlessly as Baelon was invested as Prince of Dragonstone and named first in line to the Iron Throne.
Before Baelon’s birth, Daemon had been first in line.
No matter how much the Small Council or Viserys disliked him, they had been unable to cast him aside!
Blood bound him firmly to Viserys!
But now the Iron Throne had moved far beyond his reach!
All because of that foolish child, round as a ball and unable even to sit properly upon the Iron Throne!
Daemon stared at Viserys’s haggard, drawn face.
But Viserys did not look at him.
His eyes remained fixed on the swaddled infant, as though he were ready at any moment to reach out and protect the child himself.
After several seconds, Daemon was the first to step forward and casually lower himself onto one knee.
Who could defy the king’s command?
Who would dare defy the king’s command?
“The king has commanded it. All shall obey.”
He lifted his eyes toward Viserys and swore allegiance to Prince Baelon.
After what felt like an eternity, the oaths finally ended, and Baelon, the ceremonial little ball, was at last released from duty and returned to his own cradle.
…
Elsewhere, Viserys breathed a sigh of relief as though a great burden had finally been lifted from his shoulders.
He stopped bothering to wash his hair or dress formally and instead shut himself away in his chambers, working by hand on a stone carving of Balerion the “Black Dread.”
Balerion had once been his dragon, the oldest and largest dragon House Targaryen had possessed since settling on Dragonstone.
Although the Small Council wanted him to take a new queen as quickly as possible, the matter no longer seemed especially important.
After all, he now had a legitimate heir.
Baelon was healthy, the Seven Kingdoms were at peace, and what true crisis remained anywhere in Westeros?
The only urgent matter was ensuring that Baelon grew up healthy.
Perhaps repairing relations with House Velaryon could also be counted as important.
The “Lord of the Tides” Corlys Velaryon and his wife, Rhaenys Targaryen, wanted House Targaryen and House Velaryon, the two great houses descended from ancient Valyria, to unite through marriage.
House Targaryen commanded the dragons that ruled the skies, while House Velaryon commanded the fleets that sailed the seas.
If the two joined together, royal power would only grow stronger.
Not a single person in the Seven Kingdoms would dare say “no” to a united Targaryen and Velaryon house.
Moreover, Corlys Velaryon placed no demands on the timing of either the wedding or any future pregnancy.
His terms were remarkably flexible.
Rhaenys remained composed.
“Laena is only twelve this year. There is no need to rush the wedding.”
Corlys agreed with his wife and took it upon himself to ease Viserys’s concerns.
“Laena will not bear children for the first few years.”
“The difference in age is no obstacle either.”
Then he offered a somewhat inappropriate example.
“Maegor was ten years younger than his wife, Ceryse Hightower.”
Viserys remained hesitant and decided to privately consult each member of the Small Council for advice.
As expected, every councilor believed he should marry Laena.
“Marrying Laena Velaryon would be an important step toward mending the rift between your houses,” Grand Maester Meros reasoned.
Only Otto Hightower, the Hand of the King, truly shared his grief and seemed able to understand how he felt.
“Your Grace, I understand how you feel. I too have lost my wife.”
Finally, Viserys went to seek the counsel of the Master of Laws, Lyonel Strong.
As for his brother, Daemon Targaryen, the family member who ought to have been at his and Rhaenyra’s side, he had practically taken up residence on the Street of Silk and was nowhere to be seen from morning to night.
With an odd mixture of forgiveness and pity, Viserys chose to overlook it.
Daemon was merely mourning his own defeat, which was understandable enough.
Viserys had an heir now.
Daemon would never sit the Iron Throne.
Lyonel offered an impartial assessment.
“Laena Velaryon is the eldest daughter of the wealthiest house in the realm. She carries both Velaryon and Targaryen blood.”
Viserys revealed his true concerns to the Master of Laws he had personally elevated.
“Ever since I ascended the Iron Throne, Corlys Velaryon has watched me closely.”
House Velaryon had simply grown too powerful!
“Besides, she is only twelve.” Viserys had yet to emerge from the grief of Aemma’s death, and he could not bring himself to marry a girl almost the same age as his daughter Rhaenyra.
“I never said I intended to marry again. What if I refuse Corlys Velaryon?”
The realm might indeed have a new queen one day, but certainly not next year, nor the year after.
To remarry with such indecent haste would be an insult to Aemma.
Lyonel answered calmly, “I fear Lord Corlys would be furious. Only a direct connection to the Iron Throne will satisfy him.”
Then he changed direction.
“But Your Grace, now that you have an heir, you have another choice.”
“Arrange a marriage between Prince Baelon and Laena. The Targaryens and Velaryons would still mend their relationship.”
Viserys’s furrowed brow slowly eased.
“Baelon?”
Of course!
He had an heir now.
If Laena married Viserys himself, House Velaryon would gain no more than a Queen.
But if she married Baelon, their first child would one day inherit the Iron Throne.
Viserys considered the idea for a moment, though hesitation remained in his voice.
“Would Corlys agree?”
Lyonel replied, “He may well welcome the match.”
Out of loyalty and goodwill, he offered his advice sincerely.
“In truth, the only matter you need concern yourself with is Prince Baelon’s growth.”
“I heard the Prince was somewhat frail at birth?”
Every plan and effort King Viserys had made to ensure the continuation of the Iron Throne and the Targaryen dynasty depended upon one thing.
The survival of his son, Prince Baelon.
In some ways, the prospect of Prince Baelon one day ruling the Seven Kingdoms mattered even more than the actual reign of his father, King Viserys, in the present.
Viserys smiled.
“Baelon is perfectly healthy. You should see how strongly he kicks!”
“His fists are strong too. He even pulled a brooch right off my shoulder!”