"Deep down," Rhaenyra asked quietly, "do you truly believe I cannot become a capable queen?"
Her voice was steadier now. The storm had passed, leaving behind a fragile calm.
She lay half-reclined upon the bed, her head resting against Baelon's thigh. His fingers moved slowly through her hair, separating pale strands with practiced care. The rhythm was gentle, unhurried, and for a woman suffering the remnants of a night of wine, it was as soothing as any maester's draught.
Baelon did not answer at once.
At last, he spoke.
"If I were to declare my full support for you," he said, his tone even, "the first thing you would do upon taking the Iron Throne would be to have Alicent executed."
His fingers did not pause.
"And Aegon. Helaena. and Aemond."
Rhaenyra's lashes fluttered, but she did not deny it.
"I do not wish to see our house drown itself in blood," Baelon continued. "Yet the path before us allows little choice."
He shifted slightly, easing her weight more comfortably against him.
"Alicent is convinced of one thing above all else. That the moment I ascend the throne, I will have her and her children put to the sword. Because she believes this with her whole heart, she moves relentlessly to weaken me and any who stand near me."
His voice hardened, just a fraction.
"Yesterday, she persuaded my father to recall Lord Otto Hightower to King's Landing and restore him as Hand of the King."
Rhaenyra inhaled sharply.
"And my father agreed."
For a moment, only the crackle of the hearth filled the chamber.
Rhaenyra stretched languidly, one arm lifting above her head as though she were waking from a pleasant dream rather than confronting the slow collapse of her position. Here, in Harrenhal, with Baelon beside her, the weight of the court seemed distant, almost unreal.
She felt safe.
"So," Baelon said softly, "whose counsel did you follow when you chose to come here?"
There was a pause.
Then she answered.
"Larys."
She did not look at him as she spoke.
"He is one of the last men in the Red Keep who still listens to me."
Without hesitation, she told him everything.
After her bitter argument with King Viserys, it had been Larys Strong who approached her in quiet confidence. He spoke gently, never pressing, yet each word slid neatly into place. He urged her to consider whether Baelon's betrothal to Laena Velaryon truly served her interests. He suggested that she ask Baelon himself whether he would abandon that match and bind himself instead to her.
More than that, he laid bare the political landscape.
Some parts were exaggerated. Others were not.
By the time Larys finished speaking, the truth stood naked before her. Her support was thin. Her enemies many. Her claim fragile.
That was why she had come to Harrenhal already grasping for certainty. Why she had tried, from the very beginning, to bind Baelon to her side at any cost, even offering him the Iron Throne itself.
"Larys," Baelon murmured when she finished.
His fingers stilled.
"So it was him. I had nearly forgotten."
His expression darkened.
Baelon had never held a high opinion of the Lord of Harrenhal's second son. The man called Clubfoot had always lingered in shadows, smiling as though he knew secrets better left buried.
In the original story, Larys Strong would one day sit as Lord of Harrenhal.
Now, Baelon occupied that seat.
They were bound to stand opposed.
And more troubling still was the question that gnawed at him.
If Larys was truly aligned with the Hightowers, why draw closer to Rhaenyra now?
There was a knife hidden in this kindness. Baelon was certain of it.
"Remain here for the time being," he said at last. "In a few days, I will return with you to King's Landing and give you my open support."
Rhaenyra lifted her head slightly, surprise flickering across her face.
"Otto will not be able to stir much trouble," Baelon added calmly.
He finished arranging her hair and gave her shoulder a light tap, a wordless signal that the conversation was done.
In his mind, the path ahead was already clear.
Otto Hightower had to die.
How, when, and by whose hand remained undecided. But the end was inevitable.
As Rhaenyra lay there, her head still against Baelon's lap, something caught her eye.
His gaze, which had been distant a moment before, had changed.
Gold.
Not the soft lilac of Valyrian eyes, but a brilliant, molten gold, burning like fire trapped behind flesh.
Her breath caught.
For an instant, her body refused to move. Her blood ran cold, heart hammering painfully against her ribs.
"What is it?" Baelon asked, sensing her sudden tension and lowering his head toward her.
The golden light faded.
The moment passed.
Rhaenyra swallowed.
"Just now," she said, her voice unsteady, "your eyes changed. They turned gold."
She hesitated, then whispered, "It felt like looking into Tyraxes's eyes."
Baelon frowned faintly and touched his eyelids with two fingers.
"I felt nothing," he said. "I was only thinking."
"I am certain," Rhaenyra insisted.
For a long moment, Baelon said nothing. Then he turned his gaze toward the distant shimmer of the Gods Eye beyond the towers of Harrenhal. A faint smile touched the corner of his mouth.
"It is nothing," he said. "Do not trouble yourself with it."
Three Days Later, King's Landing
Dick Waters stood atop the walls of the Dragon Gate, hands clasped behind his back, surveying the road beyond.
His armor was newly polished. His cloak newly dyed.
His post was newly earned.
Promoted by Otto Hightower himself, Dick felt nothing but loyalty toward the man who had raised him from obscurity. He was of low birth, a bastard sired by a minor Crownlands knight, one among many such unwanted sons.
But he had been fortunate.
When Otto Hightower had been dismissed and sent away from court, Dick had followed him without hesitation. He had served as a squire, then as a guard, and now, with Otto restored to power, Dick rose with him.
The former captain of the Dragon Gate, a man known to favor Prince Baelon, now rotted in the dungeons on charges of neglect.
Tap. Tap.
Dick frowned as he felt the stone beneath his boots tremble.
A distant sound followed.
Hooves.
Hundreds of them.
The noise grew rapidly, rolling toward the city like thunder. Dick moved to the parapet and peered down the road.
A cavalry host charged toward the gate.
Several hundred riders, perfectly ordered, armor gleaming, crimson cloaks streaming behind them like tongues of flame.
Only one man in the Seven Kingdoms commanded such a host.
"Prince Baelon," Dick murmured.
His mouth went dry.
By law, no force of such size could be admitted into the city. Yet who did not know Baelon's name?
The Tyroshi Day of Blood still haunted the realm.
Singers had already set it to verse.
Bloodfire and dragon-roar, the screams of men.Fallen towers, widowed cries, the dead in red-soaked streets. Ah, it is you, dread demon-dragon. Ah, it is you, the bloodflame that devours all.
Each time Dick heard that song, fear twisted in his gut.
He was Otto's man.
Baelon was Otto's enemy.
If I follow the law, he told himself, surely the prince will not dare to move against me.
Drawing in a breath, he shouted down from the wall.
"Halt! I am Dick Waters, captain of the Dragon Gate. By decree of His Grace King Viserys, your host must encamp beyond the walls."
The cavalry slowed.
From the front rode a knight bearing a black heart upon his breastplate.
Ser Brayden.
"Insolent cur," Brandon roared. "This is the host of Prince Baelon of Harrenhal. Open the gate at once."
Dick forced his voice to remain steady.
"I am sorry, Ser Brayden. I act under the law. The city has ample protection. The prince may enter with a proper escort only."
It was a refusal.
A deliberate one.
Brayden stared at him for a long moment, then gave a cold smile.
"So be it," he said. "You have chosen your own death."
He turned his horse and rode back.
Dick exhaled, his legs trembling.
Perhaps the Blackheart Knight was not so fearsome after all.
But then the sky screamed.
ROOOAAAR.
The sound shattered the air.
Dick looked up.
A vast shadow fell over the wall.
A blood-red dragon plunged from the clouds, talons outstretched, eyes burning like molten gold.
BOOM.
The Gate vanished beneath fire and stone.
---------
A/N: If you think you know what comes next… you don't. The answers are already waiting ahead.
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