That night, Baelon did not sleep well.
It was not for any unspeakable reason. He was only ten years of age, far too young in both body and mind for such matters. The cause of his restlessness was far more mundane.
Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen was an abysmal bedfellow when drunk.
She tossed beneath the coverlets as though beset by fever, kicking the blankets loose, turning again and again, sometimes murmuring half-formed thoughts that made little sense even to herself. More than once, her heel struck Baelon's shin beneath the sheets, jolting him awake just as sleep threatened to claim him. By the time dawn crept through the shutters, he had surrendered all hope of proper rest.
When at last she stirred in earnest, sunlight spilled across her face in a pale gold wash.
"Morning, Baelon," Rhaenyra murmured.
Her voice was thick with sleep, softened by wine and exhaustion. Her silver-gold hair lay loose across the pillow and spilled over her shoulders in careless waves, unbound and unguarded. She wore only a thin nightgown, close-fitting and simple, the sort she favored in private, and there was an effortless allure to her even in such a state, unadorned and unarmored by courtly masks.
Baelon sat upright at the edge of the bed, dark shadows faint beneath his eyes.
"It is not morning at all," he replied sharply. "It is already well past the morning bells."
Rhaenyra blinked, squinting toward the window as if the sun itself had offended her. She groaned softly and let her head fall back against the pillow.
From that day forward, Baelon swore a solemn oath to himself that a drunken Rhaenyra would never again be allowed to share his bed.
He meant it.
The Seven themselves could not have swayed him.
"Mmm. My head is splitting," Rhaenyra muttered, lifting one hand only to let it fall limply to her side. "It feels as though someone struck me with a mace."
She tried to push herself upright, but the motion sent a sharp throb through her skull. With a small, pained sound, she gave up and buried her face in the pillow instead, clutching it as though it alone could shield her from the ache.
"That is the price of drowning yourself in wine," Baelon said, his tone curt but not unkind. He rose and crossed the chamber, tugging the cord near the door. "Bring warm milk."
A servant arrived promptly, head bowed, carrying a cup already prepared.
Rhaenyra accepted it with both hands, sitting up just enough to drink. She drained it in one long pull, milk clinging briefly to her upper lip before she wiped it away with the back of her hand.
"Heh. You truly are the best of them," she said, smiling foolishly at him.
Baelon stared at her.
Her eyes were unfocused, her expression oddly vacant, as though some inner guard had been lowered entirely. He had seen Rhaenyra reckless, proud, sharp-tongued, even cruel. He had rarely seen her like this.
"Did you strike your head last night?" he asked. "You look empty."
She laughed softly. "Empty? No. I think I have never felt so… unburdened."
She sank back against the pillows, staring at the carved canopy above.
"No council chambers. No whispering lords. No father reminding me of marriages and duties. No Alicent and her kin watching my every step as though I were already their enemy."
Her voice grew quieter.
"This is the soundest sleep I have had in years."
She lay still for a time, then spoke again, slower now, each word measured.
"After Harwin drugged my food, I dismissed half the servants. I replaced them with my own people. Those I trusted."
Her fingers curled slightly into the linen.
"But gold is a patient poison. Lord Otto understood that well. One by one, they slipped from my grasp. A kind word here. A purse there. And suddenly, I was alone again."
She turned her head toward Baelon.
"Tell me truly," she said. "Am I unfit to rule?"
Baelon did not answer at once.
"Alicent looks upon me as though I were already her foe," Rhaenyra continued. "Uncle Daemon believes you are better suited to the throne than I. So does Lord Corlys."
Her voice wavered, just barely.
"And my father. Even he. In his dreams, he calls you his heir. I have seen it. His dragon dreams do not lie."
Tears welled in her eyes, spilling free and soaking into the pillow.
"So what am I, Baelon?" she whispered. "A failure? Or merely a fool too proud to see the truth?"
She was exhausted. Years of unrelenting pressure had worn her thin, ground her nerves raw. She felt it in herself, the slow change. Short temper. Sudden despair. A sharpness she did not recognize.
If it went on, she feared she might one day look into a mirror and see a stranger.
"You think too much," Baelon said quietly.
He moved closer, his voice lower, gentler than before.
"Uncle named you heir with his own voice before the court. No matter how many press him to choose Aegon instead, he does not waver. That alone should tell you how dearly he loves you."
It was more honesty than he usually allowed himself.
Rhaenyra gave a humorless laugh.
"There it is again," she said. "Always the same answer. You circle the truth, never touching it."
"If I pressed you further, you would swear I would make a fine queen and pledge yourself to me."
She turned her face toward him, eyes suddenly sharp.
"That would be a lie. Do not take me for a fool."
The clarity in her gaze startled him.
"Answer me," she said, sitting up abruptly, clutching the blankets to her chest. "Do you truly wish to see me upon the Iron Throne?"
Baelon opened his mouth.
He could lie.
He could speak the words she wanted, the words that would steady her heart. She would believe him. She always had.
But when he saw her eyes, swollen and red, when he saw the desperation beneath her pride, his lips pressed together.
He said nothing.
He was no virtuous man. He knew this of himself. He would grasp power by any means if the path demanded it.
But he could not bring himself to treat Rhaenyra as an enemy.
If he wished, a single cup of poison would suffice. Viserys. Rhaenyra. Alicent and her children. All gone. The throne would fall into his hands without bloodshed or banners.
Yet the thought left him hollow.
"So even you believe I cannot rule," Rhaenyra said softly.
She lay back down, turning her face away.
"When Aegon comes of age, you will stand with him instead."
Her voice was muffled by the pillow.
"Do you wish to be king?"
"What?" Baelon asked.
She rolled over, eyes blazing despite her tears.
"I asked whether you wish to be king."
She sat upright again, her hands clenched.
"Marry me," she said. "You will be my consort. The realm will see you as my equal. I will rule, and you will rule beside me."
It was the greatest sincerity she could offer.
Perhaps she could not be queen alone. But the throne could not be yielded to children born of Hightower ambition.
Baelon remained still.
"You are not sober," he said at last. "Rest."
The rejection was unmistakable.
"Why?" she asked weakly.
"You are my uncle's chosen heir," he replied. "Only he may grant the crown. You cannot trade what was never yours to give."
He met her gaze.
"I do desire the throne. But you cannot offer it. He believes in you."
Her lips trembled.
"An heir with nothing," she said faintly.
Without Baelon, she had no true allies left. And she could not bring herself to oppose him.
She had carried him to King's Landing herself the day he was born. She had raised him. Comforted him. Loved him.
If he stood against her, it would shatter her.
Baelon watched her in silence.
Someone had guided her toward Harrenhal. He was certain of it. Otherwise, she would never have seen so clearly, nor despaired so deeply.
He exhaled slowly.
Then he stepped forward and took her hand.
"I will not support Aegon," he said. "Nor will I see House Targaryen destroy itself."
He sat beside her and gently drew her head onto his lap, stroking her hair as she had done for him when he was small.
"I stand only for myself."
Rhaenyra's breathing slowly steadied.
For the first time that morning, the despair in her eyes eased, if only a little.
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