At first light the next morning, Viserys sent his messengers north, accompanied by a small detachment of troops. Their destination was Winterfell. He commanded them to seek out Lord Cregan Stark and demand a full accounting of the disturbances in the North and along the Wall.
He trusted his dragon dreams. They had never deceived him.
Something was wrong in the North. Of that, he was certain.
Yet dragon dreams spoke in riddles, not truths laid bare. From the scattered images that lingered in his mind, Viserys could discern only two meanings.
The first was the more obvious. The enormous direwolf that had filled his vision could represent House Stark itself. No other house in the North bore the direwolf as its sigil. The smaller wolves, dead or dying beneath its shadow, might symbolize Stark cadet branches or sworn houses loyal to the crown. Karstark, perhaps. Or the Stark bloodlines of White Harbor and the Barrowlands.
If that was the meaning, then the dream warned of rebellion. The North rising as one, marching south toward the Iron Throne.
Viserys found little sense in that interpretation. Since his coronation, the great lords of the Seven Kingdoms had bent the knee without exception. The North had known peace, and House Targaryen's strength now exceeded even that of his grandsire, Jaehaerys the Conciliator.
If the Starks were foolish enough to march, Baelor's fleet at Crab Bay would slow them, as would the two thousand men garrisoned at Harrenhal. At Viserys's word, five dragons could be unleashed to break any host that dared defy him.
Tyraxes. Caraxes. Syrax. Meleys. Seasmoke.
Was House Stark truly mad enough to trade its ancient lordship for death beneath dragonfire?
The second meaning sat heavier in his thoughts.
The enemy was not the North.
It was beyond it.
The Wall.
If the great direwolf represented a threat north of the Wall, then the smaller dead wolves were not rebels but victims. House Stark and its sworn branches already savaged, already bleeding.
That was why Viserys had sent word to Winterfell. He needed the truth of the Wall, and he needed it swiftly. If danger had risen there, time would be his greatest enemy.
A raven's flight was slow. A round journey slower still.
So Viserys resolved to send a dragonrider.
In his dream, he remembered blood-red fire spilling across white snow. He remembered iron and ice. And above it all, a crown that gleamed as though forged from flame itself.
He sat in silence for a long while, fingers steepled beneath his chin, eyes unfocused.
At last, he spoke.
"Send riders to Harrenhal," Viserys said quietly. "Summon Prince Baelon."
The lord in attendance straightened at once. "Your Grace?"
"Tell him I require him to ride north as my envoy. He is to go to Winterfell, speak with Lord Stark, and determine the state of the Wall."
Viserys shifted in his chair, the leather creaking beneath his weight. His hand rose to his brow, rubbing at the dull ache there.
"Tell him to make haste. He need bring no soldiers. I have already dispatched a force by sea to the North. Upon arrival, it will fall under his command."
The decision settled over him like a cloak.
In the end, Viserys chose Baelon.
This was not a mission for House Velaryon. To send them would be to admit weakness, and the realm was already restless enough. Rhaenyra was unthinkable. He would not risk his named heir, not for dreams and shadows. Aegon and Aemond were still children, all sharp edges and untempered fire.
That left Baelon.
Or Daemon.
Daemon was fearless, yes, but his temper was a blade forever half-drawn. The North required careful words and steady hands. With Daemon and the Starks together, steel would sing before sense prevailed.
So dream or no dream, Baelon was the only choice.
"A crown," Viserys murmured to himself, voice barely more than breath. His fingers pressed harder against his brow. "Will the dream come true?"
In his youth, he had laughed at prophecy. After his first true dream, he had never mocked such things again.
On the day Baelon was born, Viserys had placed the infant upon the Iron Throne. For a heartbeat, the world had stilled. The sight had matched his dream so perfectly that his breath had caught in his chest. For that one fragile moment, he had considered naming the child his heir.
Only thoughts of Rhaenyra, and of Daemon, had stayed his hand.
"Rhaenyra," he whispered. Then, more softly, "Baelon."
The king in him knew the truth. Baelon would be a flawless successor. Brilliant. Fearless. Precise. At six years old, the boy had led a daring raid on Tyrosh. At six, Viserys himself had been trembling over lessons and ink-stained fingers in the Red Keep.
Yet the father in him could not bring himself to wound Rhaenyra.
Even now, as doubt gnawed at him. Even now, when he feared she might not be fit to rule.
When Baelon received Viserys's letter, he was at Harrenhal overseeing Aegon's studies.
The boy was already infamous among the Targaryens for his temperament, and today he was being punished for refusing his lessons.
"No lessons," Baelon said sharply, folding the letter and setting it aside, "and you struck the tutor who was teaching you High Valyrian."
He stepped closer, towering over the child. His expression was controlled, but his eyes were cold.
"Your courage grows by the day," he went on. "Hold the squat."
Aegon was already crouched at a perfect angle, thighs parallel to the floor. His arms were raised straight before him, each small hand gripping an iron bucket filled with water.
"I was wrong," Aegon blurted, his voice thin with strain. "I was wrong."
The buckets were small, but Aegon was only six. His arms shook violently, muscles quivering as water sloshed dangerously close to the rim. Sweat ran down his temples. He dared not lower his arms. He had tried once before.
He remembered the price.
Aemond stood a short distance away, back straight, watching with an intensity far beyond his years. Helaena hovered beside him, fingers knotted in her skirts, eyes flicking nervously between her brothers.
Baelon watched Aegon for a long moment. Then he opened the letter and read it through, his expression changing only slightly as his eyes moved across the page.
When he finished, he nodded once.
"Tell the king I depart at once," he said.
The messenger bowed deeply, relief clear in his posture. Assignments to Harrenhal were prized among the king's men. Prince Baelon was generous, and rare among great lords in that he spared thought for common soldiers.
"Stay the night," Baelon added, already turning away. "Take an officer's meal from the kitchens. Rest well, then ride at dawn. If anyone questions you, say it was my order."
The messenger bowed again, gratitude plain on his face, and withdrew.
Baelon slipped the letter into his belt pouch, then turned back to the yard.
Aegon's arms were trembling harder now. One knee wobbled.
"Hold," Baelon said calmly.
Tears welled in Aegon's eyes, but he clenched his jaw and stayed in place.
Only then did Baelon nod, satisfied.
"Good," he said. "You may set them down."
Aegon collapsed to the ground at once, gasping, arms falling limp at his sides. Helaena rushed to him, kneeling to help steady the buckets as Aemond watched in silence.
Baelon turned away, already calling for his captains, his mind shifting to maps and supplies and the long road north.
Harrenhal's towers loomed above him as he walked, black stone swallowing the light.
Winterfell awaited. And beyond it, the Wall.
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Send the stones this way. Okay???