Again, Baelon found himself standing beside Helaena in an unfamiliar chamber, and he barely managed to stifle a groan. 'What a surprise? Another dream. When will these days end…'
A cold draft brushed his neck, carrying with it the sour tang of old incense and something far worse, causing him to shiver.
"Where in the seven hells are we this time?" He muttered, running his hand through his hair.
Only when his eyes settled on the carved beams overhead, gilded, though dulled with age, did recognition finally strike.
"Wait…" Baelon whispered. "Is this… the Red Keep?"
The room answered not with words, but with the slow, rattling gasp of a dying man.
Baelon's gaze snapped to the bed, pupils dilating as he recognised the figure piled atop it.
The figure lay propped against a mound of pillows, though it hardly mattered; half his body seemed swallowed by the mattress.
A golden mask covered the ruin of one side of his face, but the other half remained bare. Pale, tight, and sunken. That face belonged to no healthy man.
Every laboured rise of the man's chest was a trembling, desperate thing, forcing Baelon to look away as he began to take in the rest of the room.
Its appearance. It's stench. It's sickly, rotting stench. A mix of rot, sweat and bitter decay,
Yet despite the mask, despite the stench, despite the ruin of his body…
Baelon knew. In his very marrow, he knew who that was.
It was his father.
A biased father. A weak father. But a father who loved him all the same. Who held him as a babe, who kissed his brow, who patted his shoulder after childhood quarrels, who defended him and Helaena amid their squabbles with their siblings.
"F-father?" Helaena, beside him, tremored, her violet eyes turning glassy.
Meanwhile, Baelon remained rooted. He had known this day would come. His dreams had whispered it.
But knowing and seeing were not the same.
Not even close.
He swallowed hard as another rattling attempt at breath shuddered through his father's chest, followed by a choking cough.
The cough, wet and thick, as if some stubborn fluid was drowning Viserys from within.
"Father…" Baelon stepped forward, almost on instinct. He reached out, wanting… needing to touch the corpse of a man he called father.
But his fingers passed through.
Through flesh, through bone, through the very air where his father lay.
He froze; his hand suspended in nothing. Then, with a tight jaw, he brought it back to his side and closed his eyes.
His visions were often merciless, but this… this felt like cruelty.
A faint noise stirred the air behind them.
Soft steps and the rustle of a gown.
Baelon opened his eyes and turned. Standing in the doorway was his mother, Alicent.
She wore her familiar green, yet on her now it seemed less like a queen's colour and more like mourning cloth.
Her face, once bright, was dulled, battered by the passage of time. New lines marked her brow, her mouth. Her shoulders sagged beneath invisible weights.
She stared at the bed.
Stared at the man she had married. The man she had borne children for.
Amid her piercing gaze, Viserys' chest rose once more, though barely.
And then fell again.
However, this time, it did not rise.
Silence spread through the chamber like frost.
Alicent's lips parted. For a heartbeat, she looked simply… stricken. Lost. The raw conflict in her eyes warred with something colder, something calculating, something terrifyingly familiar to Baelon.
Her jaw trembled as she bit her lower lip hard enough to whiten it.
Then, slowly, she turned away from the corpse.
No words were spoken. No cries were wept.
Baelon felt Helaena's hand brush his arm. She did not speak, but her wide violet eyes held his… filled with confusion, sorrow, and the faintest understanding of what would follow.
They exchanged a single, heavy glance. Then they followed their mother out of the room.
At the chamber doors, Alicent paused only long enough to face the two gold cloaks standing guard.
"No one enters," she ordered, slightly trembling. "No one sees him. Not until I return."
The guards straightened, fists tightening around their spears. They did not question her. They simply bowed and sealed themselves before the door that held the corpse of the king.
Alicent turned and hurried down the corridor, skirts brushing stone. With Baelon and Helaena following in her wake like pale shadows.
They trailed her through hall after hall until she reached a smaller council chamber, where Otto Hightower stood with Larys Strong and Ser Cristan Cole.
Aegon was there too, sleep-rumpled, irritated, visibly hungover. He rubbed at his eyes as if doing so would whisk away the cold chamber hall.
Alicent halted at the entrance of the room, chest heaving, her movements attracting the attention of the other in the room.
"Alicent?" Otto raised a brow. "Did you not go check up on His Majesty? Why have you—?"
"The king… is dead." Alicent cut through her father's words.
For a moment, her words hung heavy in the air. Aegon stared blankly, first at her, then at his grandfather and then the floor.
Otto, on the other hand, let out a measured exhale equal parts relief and exhaustion.
Larys Strong merely smiled faintly, and Ser Cole pressed his lips into a thin line.
Aegon was the first to speak, though his words slurred into a mumble. "Then… Rhaenyra—"
"No," Otto cut in sharply. "Your sister will not sit on the Iron Throne. She is ill-fit."
Aegon looked at him with a tired, disapproving glance.
"If Rhaenyra is to succeed her father, what is to happen to you? Your siblings?" Otto looked at him sharply.
"Siblings? One is half-blind, the other a child in all but years. The only two normal ones among have long since left…" Aegon groaned, spinning complaints with his tongue, but he ultimately refused to dispute his grandfather's claims.
"We cannot announce his death," Otto continued. "Not yet, at least. The court must be secured, the city… controlled"
"We should crown Aegon at once," Larys added smoothly. "Before word leaks. Before Dragonstone acts."
Aegon recoiled slightly. "Crown me? I don't want—"
"It is not a matter of want," Otto said coldly. "It is a duty."
"I should be able to delay the septons from handling His Majesty's body," Alicent spoke up for the first time following her initial announcement. "However, I do not know how long I can hold out."
Ser Cristan Cole added. "Then, we must move quickly and control Rhaenyra's supporters still in court. Word cannot spread. Not yet."
"What about those two?" Larys asked, eyes gleaming.
A heavy silence followed.
"I will… speak to them later," Alicent said. "They may spurn the realm, but let them not spurn their mother."
Baelon and Helaena watched on, motionless, as their own family, their own blood, ignored their dead father. Instead, spinning webs of schemes and betrayals.
Helaena's complexion lost what little colour it had left.
"Is that really Mother?" she whispered, voice paper-thin. "Is that truly… her?"
Baelon clenched his jaw, teeth grinding. He wanted to answer. He wanted to lie. But nothing came.
Mother favoured Aegon and Helaena, yes, but she had loved him too.
She wrote to him every week at Oldtown, asking about his studies, his health, asking whether he was lonely, and whether he wanted to come home.
And now she stood before them, plotting in shadows over their father's still-warm corpse.
Even Baelon felt something inside him twist. How much worse must it feel for Helaena?
The group before them began to move, huddling together as they whispered hurried schemes, and Baelon and Helaena followed behind.
Through the winding corridors, they tended towards the throne room, their every step echoing with treachery.
Baelon heard snippets of their words from behind them.
"The dragonkeepers must be contained."
"Secure the treasury."
"Control the Kingsguard."
"No ravens may the city."
Helaena, beside him, slowed when the towering doors of the throne room loomed ahead, and her breath hitched.
There it stood.
The Iron Throne.
Jagged. Misshapen. Ugly. A monument of melted blades that had carved their father more times than anyone could count.
She stared at it, her eyes wide, shining with something between terror and revulsion.
"Why…?" She whispered. "Why do they do this?"
Baelon glanced at her, but she seemed not to see him.
Her breaths turned sharp, panicked, each one shorter than the last. "Why must we suffer for their actions?! Their crimes!"
"Helaena?" Baelon stepped forward, reaching for her shoulders. "What's happening? Look at me. Are you—"
Her knees buckled as she fell to the floor.
Then she screamed.
"I… I will die!" Her voice turned manic. "Father will too! All of us! One by one… gone!"
Her chest heaved as she stumbled back, fingers clawing at her hair, digging into her scalp, yet she seemed numb to the pain.
"Fire and blood…" She gasped, almost choking on the words. "Fire and blood will drown us all! Dragons screaming, children burning, brothers turning against brothers!" Her voice rose to a shrill wail. "…and the realm will weep until its rivers turn red!"
"For what?!" Helaena cried out. A heartbreaking cry, her voice cracking into a howl. "For that?" Her trembling finger shot toward the Iron Throne. "For an ugly pile of blades?! For a seat that cuts its own king?!"
Tears streamed down her cheeks, hot and unchecked.
"They have everything… everything." Her words descended into a trembling whisper, laced with disbelief. "Power, gold, safety, family. Yet they claw after more, like hungry wolves to a rotting corpse. They tear the realm apart for a chair that should have been melted into nothing…"
Her breaths came too fast now, bordering on collapse.
"My mother…" She pressed a hand over her mouth as another sob ripped free. "She loved me. She held me. She swore to protect us. And still…still she chooses this. This throne. This war. This doom."
Baelon knelt down, hugging her head against his chest, stroking her back. He knew no words could help her.
"It was always us," She whispered against his chest. "All the deaths I saw… all the screams… all the flames… they come because of us. Because of our name."
She took a breath as she looked up at her brother, holding her as she spoke. "Because our family would rather burn the world than let go."
"Fire and blood," she breathed. "And we will be the first to burn."
As her words fell, the world around them began to twist and churn. Scenes fading, voices quieting, until their world turned to stillness.
***
Baelon paced the length of his chamber as if the rushes beneath his feet were a bed of hot coals.
"Damn it! Damn it! Seven bloody hells, damn it all!" Baelon hissed as he gnawed at his fingernails, shoulders drawn tight like a dragonbone bow.
Then—
His steps halted. His gaze flicked toward the bed.
Helaena lay sprawled across the sheets, still caught in the throes of unconsciousness. Her breathing shallow, her lashes damp.
Baelon paused, jaw tightening, then forced himself to resume pacing. Anything to keep his thoughts from crashing down.
He stopped at the wall and drove both fists into the stone. A sharp bite of pain flared through his fists. It helped. A little. But it did not solve the source of his troubles…
He had woken from that dream. Another vision, another nightmare of the future. Like before. Like always.
Except this time, he woke up alone.
He cast another look at the bed. Helaena did not stir.
Turning to the windows on the wall, he saw the world outside still drowned in darkness. The sun had yet to climb over the horizon.
"What do I do?" He muttered to no one. "Fall asleep again? Go after her in a dream? Comfort her there?"
He ground his teeth, jaw trembling at the thought.
Helaena's mind was fragile after what she'd seen. If he joined her dreams now, she wouldn't face mere fragments of dreams.
No, she would face lucid visions, all of which she would be conscious in and remember.
Just like what had caused her to be like this.
Baelon could not bear to drag her through more suffering.
Not tonight. Not after that.
"Right… right…" He pushed himself off the wall and resumed pacing. "Stay awake. For an entire night. Not ideal. Tomorrow's Baelon will curse me to the Stranger… but it's doable."
He stopped again, exhaling a weary sigh, and moved toward the bed with a quieter step.
Helaena looked even smaller in sleep.
Her skin had gone pale as fresh milk, her hair clinging in damp strands to her temples as if sweat had formed a second layer over her. Her nightgown was twisted, and her face remained marred by a frown.
He sank onto the mattress beside her, careful not to wake her, and studied her face with an ache gnawing at his chest.
"What am I to do?" He whispered. "I can keep you safe for one night, but what of after that? "
He brushed her hair back from her forehead with a hand. His thumb traced gentle circles along her temple, and her tight frown gradually loosening into something softer, less pained.
"I fear…" His voice cracked. "I fear you won't be able to control yourself when you wake."
Baelon stared down at her, heart thudding against his ribs. He dared not imagine how she would act upon waking, knowing how she was in that dream.
Even less, could he imagine her reaction should she see their father or mother.
"There is… a way," he muttered. "Not a perfect one. But enough to give you hope when dawn comes. Hope that our desperate actions can spark some change."
He lifted his head, eyes narrowing.
Yes. There was a path.
Something he had planned to do much later on, after all, why the rush?
He could have slowly practised magic, developed his sword skills, and added to his knowledge of the greater world.
But now…?
'What is the point in waiting if one of us is already on the verge of giving up?' His gaze drifted toward the window.
Outside, the moon hung high above the battlements. Cold and judging.
Its pale light spilt through the room like the gaze of the Stranger, watching him with hollow curiosity, eager to see which folly he would choose.
Baelon's heart climbed into his throat, pounding hard enough to hurt as he gazed outside.
Until his breathing steadied. His shoulders lowered. A strange, resigned calm settled over him.
He remembered her words from that day in the carriage.
Preparation and patience build the bridge, but to cross it, one can only rely on fire and blood.
"So is this what you meant?" Baelon chuckled as he shook his head.
"The Seven be damned, sweet sister," he murmured. "It looks like my preparation has come to an end. Now I can only rely on fire and blood…"
He rose from the bed, casting one last lingering look at her sleeping form.
"Oh, the things I do for you…" A rueful smile flickered across his lips. "Well. At least it's clear who the older sibling is after this."
As for the fact that he was born after her, he would take it to his grave. After all, he had explicitly told both his parents not to tell Helaena of it.
He snorted softly. "Who cares for details?"
He bent down, pulling the blankets snugly over her shoulders, making sure not a hint of draft could reach her.
Then Baelon turned away, heading to the door which soon creaked open under his hand, spilling a faint sliver across the gloom of his chamber.
And with a final glance back, he slipped into the hall, leaving Helaena in peaceful sleep. A peace he hoped to let her keep.