In the Queens chamber, Alicent sat behind her daughter on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping slightly beneath their weight.
Helaena sat cross-legged before her, spine straight, hands folded neatly in her lap as her mother drew a comb through her pale, silvery hair.
"You know," Alicent said, amusement in her voice, "I don't think I've ever seen you this excited to meet either your father or me."
Helaena only hummed in reply.
Mmm-mnn, mmm-hm-mm.
Soon, the hum evolved into a tune with neither melody nor patter, coming to her without thought as her bare feet beat against the quilt.
"There," Alicent murmured a moment later.
She reached forward, passing a small mirror into Helaena's hands, its frame delicate and dark, chased with filigree, the glass catching the morning light.
It was one of Viserys' gifts from Myr, fine enough that the reflection, though not perfect, was clearer than any polished metal.
Helaena lifted it eagerly. Her hair fell in soft waves down her shoulders, neatly combed and pinned with a small pearl clasp.
The strands shimmered in the light like threads of pale gold. She smiled at the sight, legs swinging freely off the bedside as if they had minds of their own.
"Pretty?" Alicent asked, one brow arched.
"Yes!" Helaena nodded with quick, earnest enthusiasm. "Thank you, Mother."
She twisted around, wrapping her arms around Alicent's waist and pressing a kiss against her cheek.
Alicent laughed softly, eyes crinkling with fondness as she helped Helaena down from the bed.
"Go on, then. You may greet your dear brother."
The words hadn't even fully left her mouth before Helaena darted for the door. She heard her mother call after her: "Don't slip, Helaena!"
Though it reached her as a faint echo as she flew down the corridor.
The halls of the Red Keep were alive with morning bustle: servants carrying baskets of cloth, pages running letters between chambers, guards standing stiff at their posts.
Yet every time Helaena passed, the atmosphere warmed. Some of the older servants she knew only by face softened as she hurried by, offering gentle greetings:
"Good morning, Princess!"
"Careful now, my lady!"
Helaena only smiled, offering shy, hurried waves as she ran.
At last, she reached the throne room, pushing the heavy door open with both hands. The vast chamber stretched before her, torchlight catching on red stone and gold inlay. Her father sat upon the Iron Throne, and unlike most days, today he looked almost boyishly pleased. His smile was easy, relaxed even.
Only one man stood beside him: Lyonel Strong, hands folded behind his back in his usual composed manner.
"Father! Lord Lyonel!" Helaena greeted with a graceful curtsy.
Viserys' smile widened. Lyonel dipped his head with a kindly look.
"When will Baelon be back?" She asked, unable to keep the eagerness from her tone.
"You haven't seen him in three years, and yet you seem to care more for him than for your own father." Viserys pretended to scowl, narrowing his eyes in exaggerated offence. "It's like you two had never been separated."
Helaena placed her hands behind her back as she whispered in reply. "Perhaps." A twinkle of mischief in her eyes.
Viserys chuckled, leaning back into the throne's cruel metal.
"You and your secrets…"
Before he could say more, the heavy doors swung open once again. A herald stepped forward, staff striking the stone with a sharp thok that echoed through the hall.
"His Highness, Prince Baelon of House Targaryen!" Proclaimed the herald.
Helaena's eyes grew bright at those words, as she stared eagerly at the door she had passed through moments earlier.
There. She finally got to see that intimately familiar face in person for the first time in years.
"Brother!" She shouted gleefully, charging at the familiar figure who had just stepped into the hall.
***
"Brother!"
The announcement barely left the servant's lips before a small force barrelled into him. Baelon almost felt himself lifted off his feet as a pair of arms wrapped around him.
"Helaena?" He called softly, looking down at a pair of wide violet eyes staring up at him. She giggled, the sound like wind chimes in spring, and buried her face into his chest.
Looking up, he saw both his father and his hand staring at him with amusement.
Baelon chuckled, though he kept his tone low. "Calm down, we can talk later." He patted her back gently, trying to steady her excitement.
Reluctantly, Helaena loosened her grip and sidled closer, intertwining her small hand with his.
Behind them, Viserys Targaryen sat perched on the throne, his expression a mix of curiosity and fondness. Beside him, Lyonel Strong stood stiffly as ever.
Baelon bent his head respectfully.
"Greetings, Father," he said with a bow. "I hope you and everyone else have been well."
Viserys laughed softly. "By everyone, surely you aren't referring to anyone other than Helaena?"
Baelon's lips twitched into a wry smile, and he made no answer.
"Regardless," Viserys continued, "I trust you have been treated well and that your time has been spent wisely."
"Yes, Father," Baelon replied earnestly. "The Hightowers have been… exemplary hosts. I could not have hoped for better."
"And what have you learned there?" Viserys asked, his eyes bright. "Whilst Lord Hobert wrote me of your progress, I would rather hear it from you directly. You are a prince, and a prince ought to know the realms and their workings, not just books."
Baelon inclined his head. "I understand, Your Grace. How would you have me tested?"
Viserys merely gestured to Lyonel, who stepped forward with quiet authority.
"Very well," Lyonel said, clearing his throat. "Tell me, young prince, what do you know of the Triarchy?"
Baelon's eyelids twitched as he heard the question. It felt like he stood before a pair of maesters trying to beat some knowledge into him rather than a king and his hand.
Still, he straightened up as he began his answer.
"The Triarchy refers to an alliance of three city-states: Tyrosh, Lys and Myr…" Baelon went on explaining his understanding of the Triarchy.
"Very well," Lyonel nodded, then shifted topics. "Moving on to the realm, which of the Seven Kingdoms do you consider the most unstable, and why?"
"Dorne," Baelon replied without hesitation, "for their long-standing reluctance to embrace the Iron Throne, and perhaps the Riverlands could contend due to the long-standing animosity between House Bracken and House Blackwood."
Lyonel studied him for a moment before nodding. Stepping backwards, he gestured to Viserys on the throne.
"Very well done, Baelon." Viserys clapped. ""Unda ñuhon jurnegon rūsī ānogra, yn… gaomagon vys hen tāoba rūsī ūndegon iā dārilaros se perzys? Bantis ēdruta hen dārilaro ēdruta pryjagon sȳndorots tolie hen Hōntes?" (But… did any of the books you read mention a dream of a prince who would face the darkness in the far North?)"
The latter part of his words was spoken in High Valyrian.
Baelon's mind raced as he heard the words. He could not understand what his father meant.
Ice and Fire? A prince fighting darkness?
These…don't seem like something he would have been expected to read?
However, his eyes lit up as he remembered something he came across when he was researching Asshai.
"Ñuhor ēdruta vēttan jorrāelza mōris se ēdruta, yn kesrio vēttan syt iā Azor Ahai nādrēptot. Māzī jēdar Asshai se vēttan ēdruta iā morghūlī jevi hēnkirī mōris se vāedar ābrarūnā iā rōva rūklon… (I do not recall mention of any prince specifically, but what you refer to may be the prophecy of Azor Ahai. The maesters preserve some Asshai texts describing a hero who wields a flaming sword against a great darkness...)"
Viserys repeated the name slowly, almost tasting it: "Azor Ahai…"
His brow furrowed, his expression cycling through confusion, worry, and something like relief.
"Very well…" After a few moments, the king finally turned his gaze to Lyonel, then back to Baelon. "Would you be interested in attending Small Council? It would be helpful to have another royal presence, especially with Rhaenyra no longer here."
Facing both his father's request and hopeful gaze, Baelon's thoughts stagnated as a steady chill crawled up his spine.
He felt not an ounce of joy at his father's words. Baelon knew that whilst his half-sister Rhaenyra mainly remained at Dragonstone, she was still the heir, so to have him attend the small council in her place…
Baelon shivered at the thought.
It was basically painting a large target on his back.
Knowing this, Baelon bowed his head politely. "Your Grace, I am honoured, but I am too young to bear such responsibility. I think it would be best to leave it be."
Following his words, he felt a comforting squeeze on his hand. Turning, he saw a smiling Helaena nodding at him, helping him calm down.
As the thick silence stretched on, Viserys exhaled, giving Baelon one more look. A gaze filled with relief, conflict and even expectation.
"Very well. Baelon, you have been gone for too long; you should take this time to roam the city." Viserys waved to them, indicating for them to leave. "Remember that we are to visit your sister Rhaenyra in the coming weeks, so make the most of this to explore and readjust to King's Landing."
Baelon smiled, bowing to his father before pulling Helaena to leave.
Whilst the process had its turns, he was glad he was back. Looking at the person by his side, he was filled with a familiar sense of comfort. 'I'm finally back home… but how long will I stay this time?'
***
Silence pooled in the throne room like stagnant water after Baelon and Helaena departed. Viserys remained slouched on the cruel tangle of steel beneath him, its jagged blades catching the torchlight like hungry teeth.
His gaze, both hollow and unfocused, remained fixed on the great doors through which his children had only moments before departed.
"What do you think, Lyonel?" Viserys asked at last. He didn't look at the Lord Hand beside him. "Tell me… do you believe I erred, naming Rhaenyra my heir all those years ago?"
Lyonel Strong stood below him, hands clasped behind his back. He pursed his lips, deliberating his words with visible tension. "Your Grace, I… do not believe I hold the right to answer such a question."
"Stop," Viserys muttered, a brittle groan escaping him. "Seven hells, Lyonel, enough with these niceties. You've served me longer than any of them. Is it so hard to simply speak when I ask you to?"
A sigh slipped from Lyonel as he heard his king's words. He bowed his head before replying. "While I cannot claim certainty, Your Grace… yes. I believe Prince Baelon would have been the best suited for the crown."
Viserys went still, hearing it.
Yet Lyonel continued. "He is a true Targaryen prince. He possesses neither Princess Rhaenyra's stubborn pride, nor Prince Aegon's appetite for lust, nor Prince Aemond's… volatility." Lyonel's eyes softened. "Prince Baelon is well learned, well mannered, and his conduct has shown him to be capable, thoughtful, and steady."
A tremor coursed through Viserys's hands. He exhaled shakily. "So what would you have me do, then? March into the hall and declare him my heir? Would that save everyone from what is to come…?"
"Impossible," Lyonel replied, his words sharp. "It is far too late, Your Grace."
Viserys looked at him at last, the desperation dripping from his gaze. Lyonel pressed on before the king could interrupt again.
"To name him heir now would shatter the realm. Even to consider him would ignite every faction in this court. The princess's allies would see another Aegon, a usurper in waiting. The Queen's faction would see him as a threat to Prince Aegon, one that could unravel every scheme they have built over a decade. And the neutral lords…" Lyonel shook his head. "They would despise the notion of a third claimant. It would fracture loyalties beyond repair, dragging the realm toward a longer, bloodier war."
At that, Viserys gave a harsh grunt. His fingers clenched around the arm of the throne. A sliver of metal dug into his palm, then another—until thin beads of blood welled and ran between his fingers.
"Your Grace?" Lyonel stepped forward, eyes widening as he noticed the crimson droplets pattering softly against the steel below. "You are bleeding."
Viserys barely heard him. His eyes were distant, clouded. "Is it truly impossible… to avoid war?" he murmured. "Gods… I named him Baelon myself. My father's name. My firstborn's. And he has lived up to every hope I placed in him. Studious and polite. Calm and composed…."
His voice cracked.
"You saw his eyes, Lyonel," Viserys whispered. "When I suggested a place on the small council, the boy looked horrified. Like you, he understood well the repercussions. But I… just could not help making that request…."
He swallowed.
"Of all my children, he and sweet Helaena trouble me the least. And somehow… that frightens me more than all the rest. They want no part in these storms, but they will be swept into them regardless. And as their father, there is nothing… nothing I can do."
He leaned forward, blood pattering faster now onto the throne's iron. "Unless… unless perhaps I could…"
His voice broke off into a low mutter, half-prayer, half-mad thought, as the crimson pooled beneath his trembling hand.
Lyonel Strong remained at his side, silent as stone, his ever-loyal sentinel watching him bleed upon the throne that had consumed so much more than flesh from his king.