Night pressed softly against the tall windows of Baelon's chamber within the hightower, the murmur of Oldtown far below fading into a distant hush.
Beside his bed, a narrow desk stood crowded with quills and scraps of parchment, yet all of it faded from his mind as he drew out the precious book he had stolen away from the Citadel.
By the desk, beneath the muted glow of an oil lamp, Baelon eased the heavy cover open. Excitement coursed through him so forcefully that his fingers trembled as they brushed the first lines.
He leaned closer, breath tight in his chest, violet eyes darting across the page.
'This is it,' he screamed silently. 'Real magic.'
Time slipped away without notice. The lamp burned low, shadows lengthened across the stone floor, and still he devoured page after page.
He should have been in bed hours ago, drifting toward dreams; yet no drowsiness found him. Every passage he read fed his mind like kindling to a hungry flame.
At last, with a sharp thump, he snapped the book closed and exhaled. He had not read every chapter, but he understood the basics.
The foundations of pyromancy: its cautions, its principles, its dangers, had taken root in him. And above all, he knew the first step.
He pushed himself from the chair, crossing to his bedside lamp with quick, eager strides. Taking a small candle from the table, he lit its wick with the lamp's flame, shielding the newborn flicker with his hand as he carried it across the room.
The floor was cold beneath his feet as he settled onto a woven mat, placing the candle before him on a small wooden stand.
He folded his legs beneath him and straightened his back. Closing his eyes, he summoned the words he had read only moments before.
To embark upon the path of pyromancy, one must first still the flame within. Let breath rise and fall until it forms an unbroken tide. Only a calm mind may sense true flame, and only calmness may spare you when that flame grows greedy.
Baelon inhaled slowly. The room fell silent, save for the faint crackle of the tiny flame before him.
Then, he began to meditate, as the book had taught.
He breathed in with his nose, holding his breath for several seconds before gently exhaling through his mouth. Baelon paused his breathing as he left his lungs empty, before once again breathing through his nose.
Again and again, he repeated the steps. His mind soon faded into a sense of calm.
Submerged in darkness and silence, he tried to sense the flame before him. Still, the sensation seemed to elude him.
Time stretched on with little progress to be made, and with a reluctant huff, Baelon got up as he put out the candle.
'This book isn't a fake, right?' A small doubt gnawed at his waning concentration, buffered by fatigue and doubt alike.
But what else could he do?
He could only continue practicing this in coming days, after all it was his only real chance in getting some power to protect himself.
With fatigue apparent in his gaze, he stumbled into bed as he soon found himself succumbing to the feeling of slumber.
Despite this, a nagging feeling gnawed at him.
"Have I…" He gave a comfortable stretch as he wriggled into a more comfortable position in bed. "…forgotten anything?"
Nevertheless, the question was soon tossed aside as he fell asleep.
***
A hush clung to the throne room like a shroud, broken only by the faint scrape of steel-shod boots on polished stone and the brittle crackle of braziers struggling against the morning chill.
The vast hall felt colder than any winter gust, its high windows filtering in a pale, sickly light that sank over the gathered nobles.
Still, to Baelon, none of that mattered.
Dreams. Dreams. And more dreams.
Since he had first awakened to them, he and Helaena had been offered no mercy, forced night after night to witness cruelties and monstrosities no child should ever know.
Once, he would have feared sleep. Now he simply endured it, resigned to these visions, numb to their horrors.
Despite this, as he turned his head, he trembled. He suddenly realised what he had forgotten earlier.
Several paces away stood a silver-haired girl who frowned fiercely at him. She was around age nine, slender and pale as moonlight, her hair loosely braided down her back with small beads woven among the strands.
Today, she wore a pale blue gown embroidered with tiny moths, a high collar framing her round face. Her violet eyes, usually glassy or unfocused, stared at him intently.
She… was clearly annoyed.
Baelon winced and hurried toward her. Before leaving that day, he had told her that she needn't fear about separation, after all, they had their shared dreams. No matter where they were, they could never truly be separated.
"Sorry," he whispered. "I got… caught up. Lost track of time."
Helaena sniffed and turned her head away. He was just about to try apologising again when she suddenly lifted three fingers.
"Three," she said curtly. "Because you weren't here, I had to see three dream sequences alone. You promised me before you left that we would see each other every night, in every dream."
Baelon's shoulders sagged. "Were they…" He swallowed. "…bad?"
"No. Without you sharing them, they come broken. Messy." Helaena puffed her cheeks, then reluctantly shook her head. "I could barely understand any of it."
Relief washed over him so fast it made him weak. "Good. That's good."
A soft silence fell between them. At least until the world in front of them intruded again.
At the centre of the courtyard, Ser Vaemond Velaryon stood trembling with fury. Rage distorted his features as he faced their half-sister Rhaenyra, who stood beside her sons.
"Driftmark cannot pass to a bastard!" Vaemond roared, voice ringing against the stone walls. "My lord brother is dying, and yet you expect us to believe these boys are Laenor's spawn? All three of them? Do you take us for fools?"
His words rippled through the gathered knights and retainers, eliciting a wave of murmurs and confusion. Rhaenyra's jaw tightened, but she did not step back.
Like her, her sons did not move; instead, they simply hovered behind her, looking confused and lost at whom they assumed to be their uncle.
Vaemond did not cease his words as he jabbed a trembling finger at them. "No silver hair. No Valyrian eyes. Brown-haired, Strong cubs, every one, born of adultery and lies! Driftmark is my right. My blood. Not theirs."
The whispering crowd fell into silence, hearing this. While many may have shared similar thoughts, they had neither the audacity nor the drive to voice them.
Watching from the side, Helaena tugged slightly on Baelon's sleeve.
"Will you be coming back soon?" She murmured.
"Why?" He asked, tearing his gaze from Vaemond's accusations.
"Father said we'll visit Rhaenyra on Dragonstone. As a family." She tilted her head. "Isn't it obvious you'd need to return before then?"
Baelon hummed, eyes drifting back to the spectacle. "I've done everything I needed to do here. I'll be back very soon."
Helaena's lips twitched upward.
"But…" She whispered, glancing toward the chaos. "Do you think what they're saying is true?"
The courtyard was filled with barbed threats thrown back and forth between both sides as tension only grew higher. Guards reached for their blades as retainers backed away from the scene.
"I don't know…" Baelon shook his head, eying his nephews at the forefront of the scene, their brown hair particularly piercing to his eyes. "But as long as the realm deems them bastards. Then, bastards they will be."
He remembered the rumours he had heard in the Red Keep that year when his nephew Jacaerys was born. They were exactly like this, but just not confined to a dream.
An uneasy shiver ran up Baelon's spine as he recalled the details of all his dreams over the years.
So many pieces scattered and threads left hanging, what would come of it? Would these events together be what pushed Helaena to jump then?
Before Baelon could continue his musings, a new movement cut across the corner of his vision.
Daemon.
His uncle strode through the crowd, sword already half-drawn, death written across his face.
Vaemond barely had time to register him.
Baelon's breath hitched. His pupils shrank. Instinctively, he pulled Helaena close, wrapping his arms around her and pressing her head into his chest.
Even though she may not be frightened by what was to take place, Baelon did not wish to dirt her eyes.
She squirmed. "What are you—?"
He didn't loosen his grip.
His eyes remained wide open as he stared at the scene before him. He shouldn't have looked, but a morbid curiosity held him in a tight grip.
Soon, metal flashed as Daemon's sword sang.
Vaemond's words choked into a wet gasp as his head parted from his shoulders. His body crumpled, collapsing onto the stones with a dull thud. Blood spilt in a widening pool, thick and dark as wine.
Then, someone screamed. Then, another. And then… another.
Panic surged through the courtyard like wildfire.
Hearing the raucous chaos, Helaena sensibly stopped fidgeting as she remained in Baelon's embrace.
In the middle of that chaos, blades were drawn, people fleeing, shouts echoing, yet their two small figures remained untouched.
The world around them broke open, yet they stood alone in it, unseen, unheard, and clinging to one another… just like they always had.