Baelon turned back to the children assembled before him.
"While I am gone," he said evenly, "your education will be overseen by father and Laenor."
Aemond straightened at once. Helaena clasped her fingers together, eyes lowered. Aegon shifted his weight, already uneasy.
Baelon's gaze lingered on them in turn, measured and assessing.
"Remember," he continued, his voice calm but firm, "I may return at any time to inspect your lessons."
"I will not disappoint you, cousin," Aemond said immediately.
The boy stepped forward half a pace, pale hair neatly bound at the nape of his neck, his lone eye bright with eagerness. His hands clenched briefly at his sides as he spoke, unable to fully contain his excitement.
"I will study harder than any of them," Aemond went on. "You promised that if I place first in the year end examinations, you would allow me to train in swordsmanship under Ser Brayden."
Baelon's mouth curved faintly.
Since arriving at Harrenhal, Aemond's fascination with Ser Brayden had bordered on obsession. The boy followed the knight whenever he could, watching every sparring session with fierce concentration, memorizing footwork and blade angles as if they were sacred texts.
"Agreed," Baelon said after a moment. He inclined his head once. "If you rank first at year's end, Brayden will instruct you personally. Blade to blade. Hand to hand."
Aemond exhaled sharply through his nose, the tension in his shoulders easing. He bowed deeply, pride shining through his disciplined posture.
Of the three children, Aemond worried Baelon the least. His ambition gave him direction, and his bitterness, though sharp, could be honed into resolve.
The other two were more troublesome.
"Helaena," Baelon said, his tone softening.
He stepped closer and rested his hand lightly atop her head. She flinched almost imperceptibly, then stilled, as though reminding herself to remain present. Her silver gold hair was fine beneath his fingers, warm from the hearth.
"Your task is simple," he said gently. "Each day, you will speak with either a servant or a soldier for at least ten minutes. It does not matter about what. You need only speak. Do you understand?"
Helaena's lashes fluttered. She hesitated, lips parting without sound, then nodded.
"I understand," she murmured.
Her voice was barely above a whisper, but she met his eyes when she spoke, and that alone was progress.
Baelon withdrew his hand slowly.
In time, even this small routine would help draw her out of her shell. She did not lack intelligence. She lacked anchors to the world around her.
"And as for you," Baelon said, turning.
Aegon had already begun to tremble.
The boy's shoulders hunched as Baelon's gaze settled on him. His fingers twitched at his sides, and he swallowed hard, as if bracing for a blow.
"From today onward," Baelon said, "my father, Prince Daemon, will tutor you privately."
Aegon's breath caught.
"I suggest," Baelon added coolly, "that you make every effort not to anger him. His temper has been… unreliable of late."
Aegon nodded too quickly, eyes darting.
"I understand," he said, his voice thin. "I truly do."
The words sounded rehearsed, as if he had practiced them in anticipation of this moment.
Since the onset of his condition, Daemon's moods had grown increasingly erratic. On some days he was eerily silent. On others, he sought violence with alarming enthusiasm. If no suitable target presented itself, he took to the skies, dragonfire raining down upon unfortunate merchant vessels crossing the Narrow Sea.
Braavosi and Lyseni ships suffered the most. Their envoys had lodged repeated protests with the Iron Throne, only to be placated and dismissed by King Viserys with empty assurances.
Compared to Daemon, Baelon's discipline almost felt merciful.
At least Baelon punished with purpose.
Daemon struck first.
"Enough," Baelon said at last. "Today's punishment ends here."
Aegon sagged in visible relief.
"And remember," Baelon continued, his voice sharpening slightly, "no more striking your tutors."
Aegon nodded again, more slowly this time.
With matters settled, Baelon turned away. He summoned Tyraxes with a sharp whistle, then made his way toward Dragonmont.
Sheepstealer and Grey Ghost answered his call soon after, rising from their lairs in clouds of ash and smoke.
Viserys's letter weighed heavily in Baelon's thoughts.
The dream was unlike anything Baelon remembered from the story he knew. No such vision had ever appeared in the original course of events.
Which meant the future was no longer a fixed path.
It was uncharted ground.
Better, then, to prepare for the worst.
Sheepstealer was fully grown, scarred and powerful, his strength beyond question. Grey Ghost was smaller and reclusive, but a dragon was a dragon, no matter how elusive.
And beyond them, Baelon still possessed two thousand fully armed Bloodflame soldiers within his space. If calamity struck, they would be more than sufficient to carve a path to safety.
Surely, no matter how dire the North became, it would not involve Others or giants.
Surely.
Tyraxes leapt skyward.
Sheepstealer took position behind and to the left. Grey Ghost slipped into place on the right, almost vanishing against the clouds.
This formation was Baelon's own design, shaped by memories from a former life.
Grey Ghost served as scout, swift and difficult to track. His role was to observe, report, and disengage at the first sign of danger.
Sheepstealer excelled at pressure and disruption, harrying enemies and limiting their movement.
Tyraxes was the hammer. The final blow.
In ideal conditions, even Vhagar could be brought low by such coordination.
Perhaps not slain outright, but wounded severely enough to force retreat.
Three against one seemed unfair only to those who had never faced Vhagar.
She was larger than most castles, her scales harder than stone. A living fortress of flame and fury.
Though Baelon's dragon host had begun to take shape, the presence within his mind remained silent.
Perhaps the formation was incomplete.
In his vision of a true dragon host, five dragons were required.
Tyraxes as the warrior.
Caraxes as ranged fire support.
Meleys as the assassin.
Vhagar as the shield.
For now, Sheepstealer would serve as support.
Such a formation demanded riders. Only with minds guiding them could strategy truly take form. In that case, Syrax or Seasmoke would fit well.
And in time, when Sunfyre and Moondancer matured, they too could join.
Lost in thought, Baelon rode north.
They crossed the Neck, followed the Kingsroad, and at last, Winterfell rose before them.
Three roars split the sky.
Not all of them dignified.
The people of Winterfell looked up in awe and terror as the shadows passed overhead.
"Dragons," someone cried. "Dragons have come."
The older Northmen trembled, memories stirring of fire and conquest long past.
The younger ones stood frozen, blood pounding in their ears.
In the North, the presence of an apex predator pressed down upon the soul itself.
Baelon straightened in the saddle.
His voice carried, cold and clear.
"Cregan Stark," he called. "Come out and see me."
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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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Send the stones this way. Okay???