Seeing that even his own mother would not come to his rescue, Aegon squeezed his eyes shut. His small hands curled atop the desk, fingers whitening as despair crept openly across his face. He did not cry. Crying, he had learned, only made things worse.
"Cousin Aegon," Baelon said lightly.
The boy stiffened at once.
Baelon stood beside the table, a slim ruler resting across his palm. He did not raise it yet. He did not need to. His presence alone was enough to tighten the air in the room.
"You would do well to finish memorizing this page of High Valyrian vocabulary," Baelon continued, his tone patient, almost indulgent. "Otherwise, that tender little backside of yours is about to suffer."
Baelon smiled as he spoke. He believed it to be gentle. Encouraging, even.
To Aegon, it looked like the grin of some wicked thing crawling up from the Seven Hells.
Aegon swallowed hard. His lashes fluttered, then lifted. He glanced at the page again, the Valyrian characters blurring before his eyes. They might as well have been scratches made by claws. His shoulders slumped as if the weight of the letters themselves were pressing him down.
"I… I remember them," he said weakly. "I just need a moment."
Baelon tilted his head. The ruler tapped softly against his fingers. Tap. Tap.
"A moment was what you had ten minutes ago," he replied. "And ten minutes before that."
Aegon flinched at the sound of the ruler against wood when Baelon set it down on the table, slow and deliberate. The boy's lips trembled, though he clenched them tight in a futile attempt to hold himself together.
Across the room, Aemond watched in silence.
His chin was lifted, his back straight, his single visible eye bright with something close to reverence. Where Aegon saw only fear, Aemond saw authority. Control. Strength.
Powerful himself. Powerful dragon. A temperament that suited Aemond perfectly.
He watched the way Baelon stood, relaxed yet unyielding, how even his smallest movements commanded attention. How the room seemed to bend subtly around him.
To be honest, Aemond even wished Baelon were his true elder brother.
Helaena sat at the far end of the table, hands folded neatly in her lap. Her eyes drifted over the Valyrian page before her, but she was not truly reading. The words swam and rearranged themselves, slipping through her mind like water through open fingers.
What if I cannot learn this either?
Her breath caught at the thought. She pressed her fingertips together beneath the table, nails biting faintly into skin, grounding herself in the sensation.
Baelon's gaze shifted at last.
"Helaena."
She startled, lifting her head too quickly. "Yes?" she asked, voice thin.
Baelon studied her for a moment, then nodded once. "Continue."
She nodded back at once, dropping her eyes to the page. Her lips moved silently, tracing the shapes of the words without sound.
Baelon turned back to Aegon.
"Well?" he asked.
Aegon's shoulders sagged. Slowly, with all the resignation of a child surrendering to fate, he turned in his chair and leaned forward, bracing himself against the table's edge. His face burned with humiliation.
Baelon picked up the ruler.
The crack of wood against flesh was sharp, clean. Aegon gasped, biting down hard on his sleeve to muffle the sound. His eyes squeezed shut again, tears finally spilling free despite his efforts.
Baelon struck only twice.
When it was done, he set the ruler aside and rested a hand briefly on Aegon's shoulder. Not unkindly. Not gently either.
"Learn," he said. "You will thank me one day."
Aegon nodded, choking back a sob.
And so, just like that, the childhood of the three young Targaryens officially began at Harrenhal.
Elsewhere, in the streets of King's Landing, Otto Hightower walked beneath a blazing sky, red cloaks fanning out around him as the City Watch cleared a path through the crowd.
Newly appointed as the official in charge of the capital's so-called rectification, Otto moved with purpose. This was his first day in the post.
He needed results.
At his command, soldiers surged forward, ropes and tools in hand. An illegal structure in the southeast quarter was pulled down piece by piece, timbers cracking as they fell.
"Seven save us," whispered one onlooker, clutching her shawl. "That was Old Watt's house, was it not?"
"He broke his leg poaching," another murmured. "Been laid up for weeks. Did you see him come out?"
Otto heard the murmurs. He saw the pointing fingers. His mouth tightened.
Ordinarily, he would not have spared such chatter a thought. He was the Hand of the King. The smallfolk were beneath his notice.
But when the guards beside him failed to act, his patience snapped.
"What is this?" Otto barked, turning sharply on his escort. "Is this how the City Watch protects me? Allowing vermin to gawk and whisper?"
The officer beside him did not flinch. He stood straight, helm tucked beneath one arm, expression cool.
"What if there are assassins among them?" Otto pressed. "Men with crossbows hiding in plain sight?"
"Please rest assured, Lord Otto," the officer replied evenly. "By Lord Jason Lannister's orders, should assassins appear, we will use our own bodies to shield you."
He paused, then added, his jaw tightening, "But understand this. We are the Dawn Iron Guard, sworn to Prince Baelon."
Otto's eyes narrowed.
"As the prince himself said," the officer continued, "our swords are drawn to protect, not to bully the weak."
A ripple of agreement passed through the nearby guards. Subtle shifts of stance. Hands resting more firmly on spear shafts.
"We may once have been scum," the officer went on. "Rabble. Trash."
His gaze flicked briefly to the watching crowd, then back to Otto.
"But now, we are Dawn Iron Guards. Bathed in the glory of the Dawn Prince."
His brows drew together. "So please show us the respect we are due."
Silence followed.
Since the City Watch had come under Baelon's command, everything had changed. Pay had improved. Arms and armor were issued freely. Serve three full years, and a man kept his gear.
As an officer, he himself wore full plate fit for a knight, and rode a fine warhorse besides.
More than that, under Baelon's leadership, the Watch was no longer despised. The people no longer spat when they passed.
They nodded. They smiled.
It felt like rising from slavery into freedom. Like leaping from commoner to noble.
And he would not surrender that for Otto Hightower's pride.
"You," Otto snapped, pointing at him, fury flaring in his eyes.
Then he noticed the ring of red cloaks surrounding him. So close. So many.
For his protection.
He swallowed the rest of his words and turned away.
The truth was plain. King's Landing already belonged to Baelon.
Whatever madness had seized King Viserys, handing the City Watch to a man with such prestige in the capital had shifted the balance of power beyond recall.
If Baelon wished to rebel, the city had no force capable of stopping him.
Harrenhal lay close. Reinforcements could arrive faster than from many Crownlands lords.
"…Forget it," Otto said at last, waving a hand sharply. "Next house."
He was not afraid of assassination.
If he died under City Watch protection, none of these guards would escape blame. Baelon would drown in accusations of lax discipline and incompetent command.
Otto already had his next move prepared.
Strip Baelon of the Watch. Use that well-armed force to topple Rhaenyra. Place his beloved grandson Aegon upon the Iron Throne.
Raise House Hightower into the second dragon house of the realm.
By then, Otto Hightower would be admired. Revered.
His name remembered.
What he did not know was that as he dreamed of overthrowing Baelon and Rhaenyra, of lifting his house to the pinnacle of the Seven Kingdoms, the officer beside him had already met the eyes of a beggar lingering in a distant alley.
The officer shook his head, slow and nearly imperceptible.
The beggar gave no sign in return.
Like any other vagrant, he slumped against the wall, staring blankly at the sky.
Only after Otto's party vanished did he rise, shambling away on a crooked path through Flea Bottom.
Left turn. Right turn. Winding streets.
At last, an unremarkable dwelling.
Inside, he bowed low.
"Lady Mysaria," he said softly. "We tested the contact method Prince Baelon taught us. It works well. From now on, we will make contact every half month to assess whether assassination is feasible."
Mysaria reclined in white silk, one leg crossed lazily over the other. She did not rise. She did not smile.
"No need to rush," she said. "This was only a trial."
Her fingers drummed once against the armrest.
"Baelon still needs Otto to clean the city. For now, he has value."
She looked up at last, eyes sharp.
"So let him live."
"When he finishes scrubbing King's Landing," she added softly, "then he can die."
"And he will take all the blame with him."
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A/N: If you think you know what comes next… you don't. The answers are already waiting ahead.
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