Baelon learned of his new title while still seated at Rhaenyra's bedside, cooling her brow with a damp cloth as she drifted in and out of waking.
Harwin Strong's madness had come far too close to success. Had he not paced the corridor in anxious circles, had Baelon not passed by in that same heartbeat, Rhaenyra might never have risen from this bed at all.
So when the messenger announced that the decree came from King Viserys himself, Baelon understood at once whose hand had steered it.
Otto Hightower.
Viserys loved too fiercely, wavered too readily; even if he wished to distance Baelon for Rhaenyra's sake, he would have waited, pondered, prayed for guidance. Otto, however, struck the moment the opening appeared.
"What?" Rhaenyra's voice tore from her throat as she pushed herself upright, her limbs shaking, skin slick with cold sweat. "My father is sending Baelon away from King's Landing? Now?"
"Yes, Princess," Ser Criston Cole answered, falling to one knee. "The proclamation was spoken by His Grace before the full small council. All ministers bear witness."
He hesitated, bitterness sharpening his words. "Lord Lyonel Strong yielded every coin, every field and holding of House Strong to plead for Harwin's life... His Grace relented, Harwin is to be gelded, branded, and sent to the Wall."
Criston lowered his head. "And as your sworn shield, Princess, I have been ordered to escort him north. My punishment for failing to protect you."
He accepted his sentence without argument... the dangers of the kingsroad, the cold that ruled beyond the Neck, none of it daunted him.
But to Rhaenyra, the taste of betrayal was unmistakable.
Her world shrank to this chamber, this bed, and the two people she trusted more than any other. And now-
One would be banished to the edge of the world. The other cast out of King's Landing entirely.
"So it is true," she whispered, trembling. "He means to take my birthright. He means to clear the way for Aegon."
Her shrewdness failed her, all she felt was the old, aching fear of a girl desperate not to be left alone. She clung to the few allies she had left.
"Easy, Rhaenyra," Baelon murmured, taking her trembling hand. "Ser Criston will return. He's not gone forever."
He sat beside her, steady as a hearthstone.
"And Harrenhal is close enough. Closer than the map makes it seem. If I take my dragon, I can fly to King's Landing faster than you can finish a cup of wine."
A faint smile ghosted across his lips.
"They say Harrenhal is magnificent, grand as the Red Keep, perhaps grander. This isn't exile. It's a gift. And I need lands of my own."
Compared to her panic, Baelon was composed, and clear-eyed.
And truthfully, it was an opportunity.
He was six. Barely rooted in this court of silk and secrets. If someone could slip poison to the heir of the Iron Throne without a whisper of suspicion… what chance would he have? What use were wings of fire if the rider was felled before he could call his dragon?
Until his body grew, until he built a power base of his own, King's Landing remained a gilded cage.
Harrenhal offered air. Wealth. People. Power.
Soil rich enough to grow something dangerous.
"My father is far too stingy," Rhaenyra muttered at last, her breath evening. "Only a lordship? He should at least have named you a prince."
Baelon laughed softly.
"I'm six. And my father is a prince. That's quite enough."
When she finally slipped into restful sleep, Baelon gestured for Criston to withdraw, then rose to seek out Viserys.
He had a king to "thank."
Viserys received him with a warmth laced through with guilt, heavy in every softened line of his face.
"Ser Cantell will go with you as your sworn shield," the king said. "And fifty gold cloaks besides, Daemon's men. Loyal. Trustworthy."
He ruffled Baelon's pale-gold hair with a tenderness that bordered on sorrow.
"You will not go undefended. And… the crown remains your right. Always. You are family."
Baelon bowed, sincere in his gratitude. He had expected to go alone.
Viserys hesitated, then went on:
"The crown you found… keep it. It is yours. And the white hart as well, your prize alone."
"As for the kingswood… I ask only that your dragon hunt nearer Harrenhal. I felt how the forest had thinned after the royal hunt."
He exhaled, weary. "And for three years, Harrenhal shall owe no taxes. A gift, from uncle to nephew."
His voice gentled further.
"I trust you understand what this… what all of this… means."
Baelon bowed deeply.
"Thank you, Your Grace."
The words wounded Viserys deeper than any blade.
"None of that," he said, almost pleading. "You are family, not a subject. Call me 'uncle.' As you always have."
"Yes, Uncle."
Six years had forged a bond thicker than politics. Baelon knew it. And Viserys knew it too.
And as the king looked upon him, small, brilliant, and incandescent, he could not keep the thought from his heart:
If only you had been mine…
"Go to Harrenhal," Viserys murmured. "Do not run wild. And visit often."
He reached for his wine, throat tight.
"Jason Lannister donated thirty thousand gold dragons to the crown. I have given you half. Spend freely, Baelon. Deny yourself nothing."
He paused, rubbing at his brow.
"And… go to Alicent. She will be furious with me."
Baelon bowed once more and withdrew, Ser Cantell trailing behind.
Alicent began to sob the moment he stepped through her door.
To Viserys, this had been politics. To Rhaenyra, fear. But to Alicent-
It was loss.
Baelon was her only confidant in the Red Keep. Her solace. Her child in all but blood.
And now the realm was tearing him away.
How could any mother, true or not- accept it?
She wept openly, head bowed, shoulders shaking.
Baelon crossed the chamber in silence…
…and folded her gently into his arms.
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A/N- If you're liking how the story starts, trust me, the best parts are only beginning. Baelon's journey gets far wilder in the next arc.
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