To soothe Alicent's breaking heart, Baelon remained at her side until dusk. They dined together in quiet companionship, speaking little, yet needing no words. Afterward they wandered through the gardens behind the Red Keep as the setting sun spilled molten gold across the ramparts.
Only when true night settled did Alicent finally release him, reluctant as a mother bird urging a fledgling from the nest. She sent him off with trembling hands, her smile thin and fragile as blown glass.
Moments after Baelon departed, a thin, stooped man limped into her chambers. One leg dragged behind him, twisted by birth or cruelty; his narrow face was lined and shadowed.
"Your Grace," he murmured, bowing with difficulty. "I have learned the truth. The proposal to expel Prince Baelon… it was raised by Lord Otto during the small council."
"Father…" Alicent sat as still as carved stone.
Not surprised. Not even angry, not yet.
Of course it had been him. In all the Red Keep, no one feared Baelon's rise more than Otto Hightower.
"You may go," she said softly. "I will have gold dragons sent to you. Lie low in King's Landing. The future of House Strong lies in your hands, Larys."
"As you command, Your Grace."
Larys Strong bowed again, the motion grotesque with his crooked stance. The last untainted heir of Harrenhal shuffled from the room, leaving a trail of silence behind him.
When the door closed, Alicent stared into the darkness.
"I kept your commands. I became queen. I bore a child with dragon's blood for House Hightower."
Her voice cracked, quiet, cold and trembling.
"Is that still not enough for your ambition… Father?"
"No one- no one- hurts my child."
The whisper lingered like a drawn blade.
*
The Next Morning
Baelon slept late for once. When he woke, Rhaenyra herself dressed him, her hands gentle but trembling.
"Look at me," Baelon teased lightly. "The future queen of the Seven Kingdoms, putting clothes on me. I must be the most honored man alive."
Rhaenyra's sorrow cracked into a wet laugh.
"Oh, shut up. I've been dressing you since you could barely walk. I'm practically your nursemaid."
She flicked his forehead with a soft, pale finger.
"Make sure you visit," she whispered. "If you need anything, anything at all, send word. I won't allow anyone at Harrenhal to mistreat you."
Baelon patted her head as if she were the child between them.
"I have Tyraxes. No one will trouble me while he's near. And Alicent's nearly due, you know I'll be back soon."
Rhaenyra managed a smile, though her eyes remained red.
They shared a final breakfast with Viserys and Alicent, two stony-faced women, one miserable king, and Baelon, trying valiantly to pretend nothing was amiss.
In the end, Viserys surrendered halfway through the meal, appetite lost.
Soon after, Baelon mounted his white hart. A custom-built saddle and a small wooden ladder let him climb up on his own now.
Two carriages followed, one heavy with Viserys's gold, the other laden with Alicent's gifts, clothes, spices, foodstuffs, even several casks of summerwine.
Thirty hardened soldiers, handpicked and well-armed, formed his escort.
Viserys watched Baelon's silhouette shrink into the dawn and turned away first, a king bowed beneath a crown too heavy for his heart.
But Rhaenyra and Alicent remained rooted to the stones, staring long after Baelon had vanished.
"Who did this?" Rhaenyra whispered at last.
"The Hand of the King," Alicent replied.
"That boy is my kin."
"And he is my son."
Their eyes met, fire against iron.
"I swear he will pay for this." Rhaenyra spun away, fury storming around her like a cloak.
*
Beyond the City Gates
The moment Baelon passed beyond the Red Keep's walls, the people of King's Landing surged around him.
"THE DAWN PRINCE!"
"THE WHITE HART'S CHOSEN!"
Voices rose like a living tide. Mothers lifted their children to see him. Men touched their brows. Women tossed flowers.
High atop the stag, Baelon smiled and waved, calm, radiant, untouchable.
With thirty loyal blades at his back, he was perfectly safe.
Flea Bottom
In a forgotten, crumbling hovel deep within Flea Bottom, a silver-haired woman reclined upon a battered chaise, candlelight gathering around her like a dim, flickering cloak.
A hulking armored man knelt before her.
"Lady Mysaria," he whispered. "The prince has left the city, bound for Harrenhal. Shall we… act?"
"No." Her voice was soft, but sharp enough to cut glass. "Keep your distance. Do not approach him unless danger finds him first. If anyone threatens him… you strike before they draw breath. Do you understand?"
The man bowed deeper.
"As you command."
Mysaria's violet eyes glimmered with something fierce, tenderness buried beneath layers of old scar tissue.
When Daemon had left for the Stepstones, he had cast aside the Gold Cloaks and vanished from her life. She returned to King's Landing with nothing but coin and her unborn child.
The brothels, the taverns, the gambling pits, every shadowed corner of the capital now bent to her will. She had built a whisper-network that reached even the Red Keep.
And through it, she had watched Baelon grow. Every step. Every fever. Every triumph.
All of him, hers, though only from afar.
"My lady," the armored man ventured, "why not reveal yourself? The prince commands a great castle now. A little land and coin from him would lift you from this… place."
Mysaria smiled, a brittle, broken thing.
"I want no treasure. No titles. I want only to live quietly in the same world as my son."
"He is the Dawn Prince, pure dragon's blood. And I…"Her voice faltered. "I am but a whore. What claim could I ever lay upon him?"
"Go," she said. "Leave me."
He obeyed.
When the door shut, her mask shattered.
Grief darkened, twisted, molten rage rising to consume her.
"Daemon…"Her whisper shook like a thing alive.
"You will pay. I swear it. You will pay for all of it."
---
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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