Baelon had won the Stepstones at last, and with victory came certainty.
The islands would not remain a lawless no-man's-land as they had in his past life, this time, he meant to draw them fully beneath the Iron Throne's rule.
The rocks themselves were barren, scarcely a field fit to plough, scarcely a forest worth felling, but their worth lay not in what the soil could yield. Their value was position. Whoever held the islands ...held the throat of the Narrow Sea. A levy on every ship that passed through, that bottle-necked strait could fill a kingdom's coffers for generations.
"When we return," Baelon murmured to himself as he stood on Bloodstone's red shore, "I will petition my uncle to carve these islands into a separate territory and place it under my keeping. Once the ink is dry, Bloodstone will become my shipyard, my harbor, my gateway to the world."
Why had Harrenhal grown fat with wealth? Fertile soil, yes, but above all it commanded the crossroads of the continent.
Every caravan, every wagon, every merchant traveling between the kingdoms had to pass beneath its looming towers.
The Stepstones were the same, only their roads were made of water. Every ship between Westeros and Essos must pass this narrow strait. And at the center of those shifting tides rested Bloodstone.
Gold lay here for the taking. Baelon had no intention of letting anyone else touch it.
And it was not only wealth. The Stepstones were a prize of immense strategic weight. Tyrosh crouched to the north, Lys to the south, and Myr beyond them both. From these rocks a single fleet could threaten two of the Three Daughters. A dragon could threaten all three.
He glanced over his shoulder, where Tyraxes slept coiled atop the cliffs, wings drawn tight beneath the morning sun. In a few years, once the dragon had grown into his full wingspan, Baelon suspected he could take him out at dawn, rain fire upon Tyrosh, circle back across the glittering sea, and return before midday. The thought was almost casual. Almost amusing.
There would be no nonsense titles this time. No King of the Stepstones. No King of the Narrow Sea. Baelon knew his uncle did not care for such playacting, but Otto Hightower would lunge at any pretext that let him slide a knife into the royal balance. Baelon meant to give the man no opening.
Still, some symbols had their uses.
The tension between Daemon and Viserys had grown like a bruise beneath the skin of the realm. The smallest misstep could turn it to rot. Baelon intended to let events unfold as the story once had. A crown of the Stepstones, offered humbly, placed upon the king's head. A gesture of submission, of brotherhood. A balm to old wounds.
And indeed the days that followed mirrored his expectations. Daemon had not been the one to cleave Craghas Drahar's head from his shoulders, yet the sight of him astride Caraxes won the hearts of every soldier who fought upon these beaches. The Blood Wyrm tore screaming arcs of fire through triarchy lines, red wings beating against the storm of arrows. Men spoke of him with reverence, their voices thick with awe.
So when the "envoy" Baelon had arranged stepped forward with a battered crown fashioned from beast-teeth and salt-stained metal, the warriors of House Velaryon and the sellswords alike lifted their voices in fierce acclaim. Daemon Targaryen, King of the Stepstones, King of the Narrow Sea.
Daemon accepted the crown with a crooked smile, though a faint shadow crossed his eyes. He knew well the title was hollow. No men to swear fealty. No harvests to feed them. No gold to pay them. It was a kingdom without blood or bone.
Soon enough, at Baelon's urging, most of the host chose to return to King's Landing or to their homes. They were weary, longing for their families and hearths. Those who rejected peace, who clung to the sword with white-knuckled hunger, were instead gathered beneath Baelon's own banner. A few hundred blades. Enough for the seed of something more. He named them the Bloodflame Company and sent them toward Tyrosh under the guise of a free company.
Whispers reached them that Tyrosh's newly appointed admiral had failed in his bid to become Archon. The throne had slipped through his fingers. A new Archon had risen, a man of deep local influence, not the shallow upstart Equis had been.
It mattered little to Baelon. Whoever wore the Archon's mantle meant nothing so long as they obeyed. If they would not submit, he would replace them.
The Tyroshi fleet sailed under his hidden command now. Its crimson sails cut northward across the open sea, bearing Baelon back toward King's Landing.
Far ahead, the city waited.
Viserys had been informed of his nephew's imminent return for days, and word had reached Rhaenyra as well.
The king chose to welcome the new prince and the Lord of Crab Bay in person, standing tall in the broad courtyard of the Red Keep as the fleet's foremost vessel glided into Blackwater Bay.
When Baelon finally crossed the bridge and passed beneath the shadow of the keep's walls, he spotted them immediately. Viserys stood in the center, his cloak stirring faintly in the wind. Rhaenyra and Alicent flanked him, their faces bright with anticipation.
Baelon broke into a light trot, exhaustion forgotten. "Uncle," he called, grinning, "Rhaenyra! Alicent too!"
Viserys's expression warmed at once. The king stepped forward with open arms, the stiffness of rule falling from his shoulders. He reached Baelon first, resting both hands on the boy's small shoulders.
"Come here. Let me look at you properly." His voice softened. "Taller, though thinner. You have done well."
The pride in his eyes was unmistakable. Viserys was a gentle king, yet the expansion of the realm stirred a joy in him few things could match.
"At the council," Viserys said as he brushed a strand of windblown silver hair from Baelon's brow, "I raised you to the rank of prince. Harrenhal has been made a Lordship and granted as your personal dominion. Crab Bay as well. They are yours to govern. Build your watchposts and collect your tolls as you see fit."
Baelon bowed his head slightly, his voice steady. "Thank you, Uncle."
Alicent stepped forward next. She moved with quiet urgency, her hands already lifting to check whether Baelon had eaten enough, whether he bore any wounds, whether his nights had been cold or restless.
Baelon answered her gently, letting her fuss over him. Her fingers trembled once at his wrist before she stilled them, though the relief in her eyes could not be hidden.
Rhaenyra lingered a short distance away.
Her hands were clasped at her front, nails pressed lightly against her gloves. She did not rush to him as she wished to. By custom, Baelon would spend the night in the Red Keep. She would have her time with him later.
Viserys's anger at her abandoned royal progress still hung in the air like smoke. She understood that now was not the moment to draw her father's eye.
Yet when Baelon glanced her way, she offered him a small smile, soft and sincere. He returned it with a brief nod.
Behind them all stood Otto Hightower, his posture rigid beneath the green of his cloak. His eyes flicked between Baelon, Daemon, and Viserys with slow calculation. Seeing his two greatest adversaries return to the capital together set a cold weight in his stomach. His jaw tensed before he mastered himself, though the unease did not leave him.
Once Baelon stepped aside, Viserys finally faced his brother.
"My brother," he said quietly. "It has been too long."
Daemon's gaze held the same strain. The two men stood before each other, shoulders squared yet uncertain, as if unsure whether to embrace or retreat.
"It has," Daemon replied after a long, taut pause.
Viserys's eyes drifted upward, narrowing slightly. "I see a crown on your head. Tell me. Have you made yourself a king as well, or did you simply find a crown carved with your name, as Baelon did?"
The jab struck. Daemon's lips pressed together in a thin line. He stepped forward with measured resolve, dropped to one knee, and removed the crown from his head. The metal glinted faintly in the courtyard light.
"In my eyes," Daemon said, lifting his face to his brother, "there is only one true king in this world. And that is you."
There was no great audience to witness it. Only the royal family, the small council, a few guards, and Laenor Velaryon standing at the edge of the courtyard. The silence lay heavy across them all.
Then Baelon began to clap, small hands striking together with sharp enthusiasm.
The soldiers hesitated a breath before following suit in scattered applause. The sound grew slowly, uneven but sincere.
And just as the tale had once been told, Daemon's humble offering healed what had been broken. The bond between the brothers, shattered once, found its shape again.
A strange thing, brotherhood.
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A/N: If you think you know what comes next… you don't.The answers are already waiting ahead.
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