The morning sun poured through the high arched windows of the chamber. The space overlooked the pale harbour of Oldtown, bustling with grand silhouettes of ships and shifting figures of merchants.
Baelon sat midway down the polished oak table, surrounded by his maternal family, who had housed him these past three years.
At the head sat Lord Hobert Hightower, his grand-uncle; he was a broad man of dignified bearing, with a trimmed reddish-grey beard. Beside him sat Lady Lynesse, his wife, a woman with warm eyes, wrapped in a gown of pale green.
Their son, Ormund Hightower, sat to Baelon's left. To his right, almost directly across from Hobert, were Ser Otto Hightower, Baelon's grandfather, and Otto's son Ser Gwayne, dressed in the muted green and white of Oldtown's guard.
The family ate with measured formality: no raised voices, no idle chatter. Simply questions and answers shared between family.
Hobert cleared his throat, lowering his cup of spiced tea.
"Baelon," he began, his tone mild, "your time is almost over. I trust you have gained something of worth during your stay with us?"
Baelon looked up from the bread he had been quietly tearing.
"Yes," he replied. "More than I expected, truthfully. The knowledge in the Citadel… it's immeasurable in both quantity and quality."
A faint, derisive breath escaped Otto. The old man didn't look up from slicing his trout. "If only your elder brother thought the same."
The words dropped like a stone in still water. Even the clink of cutlery paused.
Baelon's jaw tensed. He wasn't a fool. He knew exactly what his grandfather was thinking.
Otto believed that only a strong, learned heir could counter Rhaenyra's claim.
And, Aegon, drunk and volatile, was far from the ideal. Still, Baelon swallowed his retort and lowered his gaze, forcing himself to continue eating.
Ormund said nothing. Gwayne, usually light-spoken, stared fixedly at his plate as though the next slice of bread might save him from the conversation.
At last, Lynesse broke the silence with gentle tact. "And how is sweet Helaena? Has she written to you recently? How is she doing?"
Baelon nodded.
"She has." A small smile tugged his lips. "She's been speaking to Dreamfyre often. I don't think it will be long before she claims her."
A soft murmur moved around the table.
Even Otto's expression eased. Among the Hightowers, Helaena was a favourite, a whimsical, gentle child unaffected by the brashness of Aegon or the intensity of Aemond.
Her sweetness softened even the sternest of hearts.
Conversation settled into small, comfortable exchanges. Plates were cleared and replaced, cups refilled with watered wine. One by one, the family finished their meal and pushed back from the table.
As a servant removed the last of the dishes, Hobert turned to Baelon.
"Word has come from His Majesty. You are to return to King's Landing." He folded his hands. "A carriage is already on its way."
Baelon's brows lifted. He hadn't expected it this soon.
Hobert continued, his voice softening. "If ever you find yourself in need of a place to rest, or to think, know that Oldtown is yours as much as the capital is. You are welcome here, Baelon."
Baelon rose with the others, offering a polite bow of his head.
"Thank you for your hospitality, my lord. I am grateful."
But gratitude soured almost instantly as his thoughts turned inward. He knew Hobert cared for him, along with Lynesse. Even the calculating Otto held affection for him.
But this affection was marred by calculation. Whilst they loved him as family, they also saw him as a contingency to Aegon.
A quiet, competent shadow. A piece to be played during the dance. Either as a blade wielded by his brother, should he claim a dragon, or a tool for a marriage alliance if not.
And, for him, who only wished to escape these chains that bound him…. this affection was almost poison.
He could not and would not let them entertain the notion of casting him into the storm that was to come.
Especially when all his dreams seemed to scream at him, telling him that the realm would soon be engulfed in the mires of war.
Baelon glanced around the hall, the warm stone, the gentle light, the familiar faces, yet he felt no sense of belonging.
'I won't let myself be dragged into the heart of the storm,' he vowed. 'Not me. And not Helaena.'
***
Behind the Hightower stretched a broad training yard, walled and largely empty except for scattered dummies and sandbags.
The morning sun gleamed off the pale stone of the tower as a light breeze carried the scent of sea salt and iron from the distant harbour. Today, however, it was far from empty.
Clang!
The sharp clash of steel rang through the courtyard as Baelon raised his smaller, lighter blade to parry Ser Torgon Harlyn's powerful swings.
Each strike jolted his arms, forcing him to pivot on the balls of his feet, dust puffing from the soft earth.
Ser Harlyn stepped back, allowing Baelon a brief respite whose chest heaved, breaths both sharp and uneven. His shoulders trembled, but he kept his eyes on Harlyn, refusing to back down.
"You've done well, young prince," the knight said, lowering his sword in a practised flourish. "Your technique would put any standard knight to shame."
"B-but..." Baelon managed between pants, gripping his hilt with both hands. "...that clearly isn't enough to beat you, is it?"
Ser Harlyn laughed, swinging his long blade in a broad, almost ceremonial arc, letting the flat of the steel trace the air. "Right you are. I may not be much more skilled than you are now, but I am stronger and have more experience. Talent alone cannot bridge that gap."
Baelon felt a spark of pride at his words, but smothered it instantly.
He had yet to land a true victory, so what did this praise even amount to?
"Come!" Baelon shouted, steadier now, chest rising and falling in a measured rhythm.
Unconsciously, he began the breathing exercises from the pyromancy tome, the same pattern he had practised yesterday evening.
With his breath following the peculiar rhythm, Baelon's eyes brightened as his stamina was consumed at a slower pace than before.
He lunged forward, shorter blade darting. Unfortunately, Harlyn met it with a simple parry.
Baelon didn't falter; he followed with a flurry of strikes, each one aimed to exploit his dexterity and newfound stamina.
Slowly, Harlyn's expression shifted; now he was taking him seriously.
Clash!
Another of Baelon's blows was parried, but—
Momentum carried Baelon to a bold move: he released his grip for an instant, flipping his sword into a reverse hold.
The smaller blade skimmed across Harlyn's. Baelon's heart leapt; he had caught the knight off guard.
Time seemed to stretch. A triumphant smile tugged at Baelon's lips. He had done it, if only once. After three gruelling years, even one small success like this felt monumental to him.
Ser Harlyn was, after all, an experienced knight, rumoured to have even won a tourney in his youth held in King's Landing.
However, Baelon's joys were swiftly cut short.
Thump!
A sharp force slammed into his chest, hurling him backwards. Dust and grit stung his eyes as he hit the ground, gasping for breath.
"Damn it! You cheated! What in the Seven Hells was that?" He wheezed.
"What do you mean, Your Highness?" Harlyn shrugged casually. "That was a kick. Nothing more."
"I know it was a kick, but we were sparring with swords! Why use anything else?"
"Come now," the knight said, rolling his eyes, "you're too clever to believe that nonsense. This is to be expected. Stop grumbling, you were bested, child."
Baelon clicked his tongue in frustration, rubbing his sore chest.
He was close…
Yet Harlyn knelt beside him, tone shifting to praise. "Though I must ask, where did that move come from?"
"Just a moment of inspiration," Baelon murmured a reply casually.
His thoughts, however, revealed a completely different truth.
'Who would have expected watching that Braavosi water dancer teach in my dreams would help me like this?' Baelon tilted his head, but he wasn't too surprised.
His rapid growth in swordsmanship, though partly explained by talent, was also due to the various battles he witnessed in his dreams.
Though he was a bit curious why a water dancer was in what seemed to be the Red Keep, it didn't seem too important.
For all he knew, this could be a scene centuries into the future or a reality that was never to be. Maybe even both.
Clap! Clap!
A sudden burst of applause drew both their attentions.
Baelon remained sitting on the dirt, as Ser Harlyn got up, bowing to the newcomer. "Lord Ormund!"
"Uncle." Baelon similarly greeted, his remarks far more casual.
Ormund acknowledged the knights with a short nod as he stepped inside. When he reached Baelon, he ruffled the boy's hair with a fondness that slipped past his usual sternness, then extended an arm.
"Come now. The carriage waits."
Baelon clasped the offered arm and pulled himself upright. Before following, he turned toward Harlyn, who stood a respectful distance away, helm tucked beneath his arm.
"Thank you, Ser Harlyn." Baelon tipped his head in a small bow. "Your guidance these past years has meant more to me than you know."
The reaction was immediate: Harlyn straightened, visibly unsettled, a flush rising under his beard. "Your Highness, don't. That is my duty. There's no need for you to bow to me."
Baelon's smile came soft. "Even so, my gratitude remains."
He fell in step behind Ormund as they left the open field, pondering his gains during his time away from King's Landing.
He had learned so much in recent years: scraps of lore and history of the known world.
Ranging from tales of the Valyrian Freehold to notes about the myriad ancient Kingdoms that graced Essos in days past.
He also gleamed some information on magic and even a tome archiving real spells, though its veracity remained to be seen.
His swordsmanship, too, was finally acceptable. No longer was it the clumsy flailing of a bookish boy but the steady form of someone who could at least defend himself.
Piece by piece, he had begun shaping an escape from the storm he and Helaena foresaw. A path away from the fire and blood to come.
And yet… the thought of leaving weighed heavily.
Would he really abandon all this? His kin, his home, everything he loved, because of a vision that might not even come to pass?
He wiped a sheen of sweat from his brow as he followed behind Ormund.
"Uncle," Baelon called.
Ormund slowed. "Yes?"
Baelon picked his words with care. "What would you do… if you knew someone you cared for might die in the future? But if you tried to stop it… you might make everything worse?"
Ormund stopped fully this time and looked over his shoulder, studying the boy with a faint spark of curiosity. Then he resumed walking, answering only once his thoughts had settled.
"Sometimes," he said, "knowledge of what may come is more burden than blessing. The future is no straight path. It's a web. Change one thread and the whole thing trembles."
Baelon frowned. "So… you'd do nothing?"
"No." Ormund shook his head. "You act when action has purpose. Not when you're clawing at shadows in fear. Protect who you can. Prepare yourself. But don't let dread drive your hand. Panic ruins more than prophecy ever has."
"Patience…?" Baelon echoed.
"Patience," Ormund confirmed. "It is the strongest virtue of our house. Observe. Steady yourself. Use the moment when it comes… if it comes. In your little scenario, I would test whether the future can even be changed. If it can, then good. If it cannot…" His tone hardened, but not unkindly. "…then there is little I can say. After all, I have neither the experience nor the knowledge to help you find an answer."
"But why do you ask?" Ormund turned to Baelon. "Did you read something in the citadel to prompt such a question?"
"Something like that," Baelon mumbled.
Then, silence took them for a moment. Baelon stared at the ground on which he walked, absorbing each word.
'He's right…Whether the future was fixed or already shifting, preparation mattered more than fear.'
Some of the visions he remembered might never happen. Others might twist into something unrecognisable.
But he could still prepare.
He would prepare.