Baelon fought to keep his face from scrunching as he was led deeper into the Red Keep, his composure held by little more than sheer will as that vile stench clung to him.
'Gods…was it always this bad?' He wondered, his expression tightening ever so slightly as he drew a breath through his nose, only to regret it instantly the very next moment.
For a moment, he half believed his younger self had simply gone nose-blind to it. Likely an act of self-preservation.
Now?
Now he swore he could taste it.
The sweat. The shit. The piss. All of it was baked into the very stones of the city, rising to greet him the moment he had passed through its gates alongside Helaena.
A blessing, truly.
At the very least, their dragons had been spared.
The three great beasts rested outside the city, far from the suffocating press of King's Landing and its…atmosphere.
'Hold on…' Baelon's eyes held a peculiar look in them as he pondered.
The book he had recovered from Sallosh, Dragon's Anatomy, had described how a dragon's sense of smell was not quite like that of men.
It was their tongue that gathered scent, drawing in the air to be tasted rather than how other creatures smelled.
So…
If dragons within the Dragonpit failed to grow as they should, perhaps it was not simply due to being confined.
Perhaps…they just strongly detest the city's odour, so much so that it physically harms them.
And, as Baelon honestly recalled what horrors his nose was just exposed to, the more the explanation made sense.
Still, it was rather ill-fitting to wonder about such interesting ideas at a moment like this, thus he pushed the notion aside.
They moved through the Red Keep at a steady pace, their footsteps echoing against the wide halls as they passed beneath high archways and along familiar corridors.
At their head walked Ser Criston Cole.
The man had met them at the gates without fanfare, his posture rigid, his expression as composed as ever. He offered no idle words, only a respectful nod before turning to lead them inward.
Baelon studied his back for a moment.
The man seemed unchanged for the most part.
Or at least—
So it seemed. But his silhouette seemed to be ever overlapping with the fool that paraded Meleys' head through the streets of the capital.
Nevertheless, as they pressed deeper into the Keep, something else began to settle in.
Something subtle.
At first glance, little had changed with the daunting structure holding onto its grandeur and solemnity.
But Baelon had spent years refurbishing the prince's estate in Tolos, steeping it in his own tastes, which unsurprisingly aligned with a more Valyrian taste.
His eye had grown…particular.
And now, he saw it.
A quiet change.
Where once the halls had carried the Targaryen legacy and art, they had now changed much.
Banners.
Sigils.
The seven-pointed star repeated again and again, woven into fine cloth, etched into newly placed adornments, draped across walls that had once borne different symbols.
The Faith.
It had begun to permeate even the walls of the Keep.
Baelon slowed slightly, exchanging a brief, questioning glance with Helaena as she walked beside him.
As their eyes met, Helaena raised a brow, her expression thoughtful. She turned her head once more, scanning the corridor as if piecing it together.
Then, slowly, she looked back at him.
Her lips parted.
A single word, mouthed silently.
Mother.
Baelon stilled for half a step.
Ah.
Of course.
In the years they had been gone, while their father withered beneath illness, the reins of the kingdom had not simply been left unattended.
No. They had been curtly delivered to their mother.
And it seemed she had not merely ruled in their fathers' stead; instead, she seemed to have been getting rather carried away.
The Red Keep, once a seat of Targaryen power, now bore the imprint of her will, her faith, her beliefs, pressed into its very halls.
Nevertheless, it did not take long for them to arrive before a grand set of doors, an imposing pair at that, their dark wood reinforced with iron bands that seemed to drink in the light from the nearby sconces.
Now, beyond them lay the Great Hall.
Baelon licked his dry lips, tension settling into his chest as he slowed.
Ser Criston had remained silent for most of the walk, offering nothing, no hint, no warning of what awaited them beyond.
And now, with only a pair of Kingsguard flanking the entrance, that silence weighed heavier than ever.
The two white-cloaked knights stood still, eerily so. As Ser Criston approached, one of them shifted slightly, his head inclining in acknowledgement.
A brief exchange followed.
Ser Criston spoke first before the guard responded with a curt nod, stepping aside as his counterpart did the same. Whatever had been said, it was enough.
The path was clear, yet Baelon frowned faintly.
What exactly awaited them beyond these doors?
His father?
It would make sense…and yet—
It didn't.
Viserys was meant to be bedridden. Weak. Barely holding onto lucidity, from what little word had reached them over the years.
So then—
His mother?
But if that were the case, why the Kingsguard? Should they not be attending the King himself?
"Your Highnesses, please."
Ser Criston turned back to them, inclining his body slightly as he gestured toward the doors. The faint scrape of metal echoed as his armour shifted with the movement.
Baelon exhaled slowly, his gaze flickering between the knight… and the doors.
Each step forward felt heavier than the last.
Closer. And then, closer.
Yet with each step grew his urge to turn back.
To leave.
To walk away as he had done years ago.
His feet nearly betrayed him, slowing, threatening to root him in place.
Was it fear?
No.
He had faced worse. Far worse.
This was something else.
Guilt.
It rose within him as a sudden, suffocating tide that threatened to pull him under.
Guilt for running.
For the reckless escape.
For leaving nothing behind but a letter.
For the silence that had followed, years of it.
For…everything.
It coiled around him, whispering. Goading him. Tempting him.
Why bother?
His father likely lived. More than lived, if he was behind these doors.
So why return now?
Why step back into the very mess he had fled?
Was that not the point of it all?
To escape this place?
To leave its politics, its suffocating expectations behind?
Baelon's jaw tightened as the thoughts clashed within him, pulling in opposite directions.
Then—
A hand found his.
A small, yet frighteningly warm hand,
Before he could react, he was pulled forward.
His eyes widened slightly as he glanced sideways, finding Helaena already moving, dragging him along with a strength that seemed entirely at odds with her delicate frame.
'Gods…what is this?' He thought. 'Aren't princesses meant to be frail?'
The irony was not lost on him.
If anything, the term Princess suited the current him far more.
He was the one faltering.
The one hesitating.
The one being dragged along, like some delicate maiden.
Baelon visibly shuddered as an image struck him, himself draped in silks and some ridiculous gown with a tiara fixed upon his head.
Absolutely not.
That thought was cast aside with extreme prejudice.
Soon, the great doors were pulled open with a heavy groan from the hinges, as the hall beyond revealed itself whilst Baelon and Helaena stepped through.
As the doors were pulled close behind them, Baelon found himself taking in the Great Hall with curious eyes.
It was colder than he remembered. Not in temperature alone, though that too lingered in the air. But it was something else, something deeper.
It was empty.
Entirely empty.
No courtiers. No guards inside. No murmured voices. No rustling clothes.
Just silence. A thick, oppressive silence.
At the heart of it all stood the Iron Throne, as grim as ever. Yet, the twisted seat proved to be as charismatic as it always was.
Any gaze drawn toward it felt… caught as though the throne itself demanded both attention and submission.
And upon it sat its supposed master.
Their father, mounted upon that beast of a throne, bore down on them with his gaze, one half of his face hidden behind a golden mask.
The half they could see only revealed a shadow of the face they held dear in their memories.
"Your Grace…" Baelon asked hesitantly, the words feeling strange on his tongue.
"Hmph!" Viserys snorted, the sound sharp despite the weakness beneath it. "Not even a father? You've done all that, and still have the gall to remain so distant from me."
Baelon wisely remained silent, hearing that.
Whilst his father seemed angry, it was not hard for Baelon to detect the unspoken joy in his words.
"You both know full well what you did," Viserys continued, his voice rising, trembling now. Whether from rage or something far more fragile, Baelon could not tell. "You are royalty! And yet you simply…eloped! What in the Seven possessed you two? Do you have even the faintest idea of the dangers of the world beyond these walls?"
Elope.
Baelon felt it bite.
Beside him, Helaena stilled, and together they lowered their heads, like chastised children dragged before their father once more.
Baelon almost spoke and very almost denied it outright.
There had been nothing romantic in their leaving.
Nothing of the sort.
But…
A boy and a girl, running away together.
He grimaced faintly. 'Gods. It did sound like that.'
Baelon bemoaned inwardly that their names would forever be stained. Baelon shivered; he could already imagine how there would be fools in the streets romanticising the ordeal.
"Worse yet," Viserys pressed on, his teeth gritting audibly now, "you took three dragons with you. Three! Why in the Seven Hells was Silverwing willing to follow you in your ignorant folly?"
"She eloped?" Baelon muttered, the words slipping out before he could stop them.
Viserys' gaze snapped toward him.
Baelon straightened immediately.
"With Vermithor, of course," he added, puffing his chest ever so slightly, as though that clarified everything.
It did not.
At least, not judging by the utterly unimpressed look Helaena shot him from the side.
"Silence, you absolute fool!" Viserys barked, pushing himself up from the throne, his cane striking against the stone as he steadied himself.
Baelon and Helaena both tensed, half a step forward…
Only to freeze as their father's glare cut through them.
Not here. Not now.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
The sound echoed through the empty hall as Viserys descended the steps, each one slow, as the weight of his body leaned heavily upon the cane.
He passed the looming blades of the throne as they dwelled in their eternal slumber.
"If anyone else were king," he said, voice quieter now, but no less heavy, "you would have been hanged for treason the moment you set foot back into King's Landing."
"And yet, here we stand," Baelon replied as he lifted his gaze.
As Viserys approached, the distance between them shrank, and with it, the illusion held by time.
Baelon could see it.
His father looked older than he remembered. His body assaulted by time, his gaze clouded with fatigue.
The golden mask covered much, but not enough. It was painfully inadequate as Baelon could see in clarity how his father's illness ate away at his face.
As it drew skin tight over bone, whilst faint lesions could be seen poking out from behind the mask.
And yet, his eyes remained sharp, burning with life, even now.
"Aye…" Viserys admitted, stopping before them at last. "Here you are."
For a moment, there was nothing.
Silence pressed in around them once more, drowning them in its boundless embrace.
Then, it was broken.
"Welcome home, you hapless fools."
Baelon barely had time to react before he was pulled forward, caught in an embrace that was far stronger than it had any right to be.
It was not the same as before.
There was less warmth in it, less ease. His father's body far weaker now.
But it was real, that at least, held true.
And Baelon returned the gesture without hesitation, his arms tightening as he held onto him.
"Thank you…Father."