Chapter Text
Chapter Two
The Children Left Behind
The Red Keep only mourned for fourteen days.
Black banners hung from the towers. Septons murmured prayers in candlelit corners. Courtiers softened their voices when Prince Aemon passed, and servants stepped quickly from his path, as though grief were a sickness one might catch by standing too near.
Princess Jocelyn Baratheon was gone and yet life did not stop. At least not in King’s Landing. Not for grief. Not even for love.
Ships still entered the harbor. Petitioners still gathered beneath the king’s windows. Bakers still rose before dawn. City guards still dragged drunkards from alleys. Lords still argued over taxes, roads, marriages, and insults older than their grandfathers.
The realm continued.
That, Baelor thought, was one of its cruelties. A world should have stopped when a woman died bringing a child into it. But sadly worlds never did. They only made room for the grave and marched onward.
-
Baelor lay in his cradle beneath embroidered blankets, trapped inside a body that understood nothing of dignity. He could not sit. Could not speak. Could not hold his own head. Could not even command his face to show the disdain he felt when the wet nurse cooed over him.
“Such a solemn little prince,” she said, brushing a knuckle over his cheek.
Baelor stared at her, causing her to laugh. .
“Look at him. As if he understands every word.”
I do, Baelor thought grimly. Unfortunately, his only answer was a small hiccup. The wet nurse melted.
“Oh, precious thing.”
Baelor closed his eyes.
Death had been easier.
—
Prince Aemon came every evening. That was the first thing Baelor learned about his new father. Grief had not made him careless only wounded.
He came after council. After training. After long hours spent answering men who wanted decisions from a prince whose wife had not yet gone cold in the ground.
He stood beside the cradle. He looked down and he stayed. Only for a small amount of time as he always seemed to leave too soon.
This evening was no different. Aemon entered quietly, as though afraid to wake the dead.His silver hair was tied back simply. His face was clean-shaven, his clothes immaculate, his posture perfect. Only his eyes betrayed him.He looked like a man walking through smoke.
The nurse curtsied and withdrew. Aemon then stood alone with his son. For a long moment he said nothing. Baelor watched him.
In another life, Baelor had known many fathers. Lords who loved sons too little. Lords who loved sons too much. Lords who mistook sons for legacy, weapons, mirrors, or debts owed by the gods.
Aemon looked at Baelor as none of them had. As if Baelor were both blessing and wound. As if he couldn’t figure out if he was the cause of joy or the reason for sorrow. The prince then reached down. His fingers hovered above Baelor’s brow and stopped. His hand trembled. He quickly withdrew his hand clasping them together to keep them from shaking.
“I am trying,” Aemon whispered almost more to himself then to his silent son laying before him. Baelor stilled and Aemon closed his eyes.
“I do not know how to do this without her.”
The words hung between them. Quiet. Ugly. True. Then Aemon turned and left. The door closed softly. Silence rang loudly throughout the room.
Baelor stared after him, fury rising helplessly in his tiny chest. Not at Aemon but at himself. At fate. At the Fourteen Flames. At all the gods men invented to explain pain. He had been sent back with knowledge of wars, deaths, betrayals, and dragons falling from the sky. And yet the first tragedy of this life was one he could not prevent. His mother was dead. His father was broken and Baelor could do nothing but lie in silk and remember.
—
Rhaenys came in the morning. Bursting into the room with the authority of a tiny queen. She did not knock. Baelor had learned that she rarely did.
His sister entered with her dark hair unbound and wild around her shoulders, carrying a wooden dragon in one hand and a book in the other.
She dragged a chair beside his cradle with great effort, climbed into it, and looked down at him gravely.
“I have brought you things.” Baelor blinked at her words.
“This is a dragon,” she said, lifting the toy. “It is not as pretty as Meleys, but Grandmother says babies should not be given anything sharp.” She paused there then continued.
“I asked.” Baelor blinked again.
Rhaenys seemed to take this as encouragement.
“And this is a book. I cannot read all of it yet, but I know some words.”
She opened the book upside down. Baelor stared humor dancing in his thoughts. Rhaenys frowned at the page. Then turned it around.
“I knew that.” She muttered quietly.
Of course you did, he thought.
She began to read haltingly, stumbling over words and inventing others when they proved too difficult. The story concerned a knight, a dragon, three princesses, and a curse that appeared to change details every time Rhaenys lost her place.
Baelor listened. Not because the story was good because it really was not. But because her voice grew steadier as she read. Because she forgot to be angry for a little while. Because every few lines she would glance down to see if he was still awake, and when his eyes remained open she smiled. It was small. But it was real. When she finished, she shut the book with satisfaction.
“There. You are less ignorant now.”
Baelor blinked at her words. Rhaenys leaned closer.
“You blink when you agree.”
No, I do not. She nodded solemnly almost as if she heard his thoughts.
“You do.”
Baelor shut his eyes causing Rhaenys to laugh. The sound was bright enough to hurt.
—
The matter of succession arose three days later.
It did not wait for mourning. Such matters rarely did.
King Jaehaerys sat at the head of the council table, hands folded before him, his face stern beneath his silver beard. Beside him sat Prince Aemon, pale but composed. Prince Baelon occupied the chair across from his brother, restless as ever, one hand drumming softly against the table until Aemon shot him a look.
Baelon stopped. For nearly half a minute. Then continued almost as a challenge.
Queen Alysanne had not been expected to attend.She came anyway. No man present dared suggest she leave.
Grand Maester Elysar cleared his throat.
“Your Grace, the birth of Prince Baelor has altered the line of succession.”
Jaehaerys’s eyes narrowed.
“The boy is scarcely a fortnight old.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“And yet already men have begun counting crowns above his cradle.”
No one answered.
Lord Beesbury, Master of Coin, shifted in his seat.
“The realm takes comfort in certainty.”
“The realm takes comfort in gossip,” Baelon muttered.
Alysanne’s mouth twitched.
Aemon did not smile.
Grand Maester Elysar continued carefully. “Before the prince’s birth, the succession after Prince Aemon remained a matter some might debate.”
“My daughter was my heir after me,” Aemon said quietly.
The room cooled.
“Yes, my prince,” Elysar said. “Princess Rhaenys’s claim was known and respected.”
“Was?”
The old maester lowered his head. “Is. Forgive me.”
Aemon leaned back, but his expression remained hard. Jaehaerys watched him closely. Good, the king thought. Grief had not stripped all the steel from him.
Lord Beesbury spoke next, more cautious now. “Prince Baelor’s birth secures Prince Aemon’s line in a manner many lords will find reassuring.”
“Because he is male,” Alysanne said.
Beesbury hesitated.
“Because he is a son of the heir.”
“That is not what you meant.”
“No, Your Grace.”
“Say what you mean in this room, my lord. We have all lived too long for pretty lies.”
Beesbury flushed.
“Because he is male.”
Aemon’s jaw tightened. Baelon looked toward his brother, then toward the queen.
“Rhaenys will not thank any of us for this conversation.”
“No,” Alysanne agreed. “She will not.”
For a moment, silence settled over the chamber. The queen’s gaze moved from face to face. Old men, lords, and councilors. Men who had spent their lives speaking of daughters as bargaining pieces and sons as futures. Alysanne had spent her life among such men. She had grown very tired of them.
“Tell me, Lord Beesbury,” she said. “Had Jocelyn delivered twins—a son and a daughter—which child would you place before the other?”
The old lord blinked.
“The son, Your Grace.”
“Though they shared the same parents?”
“Yes.”
“Though the daughter emerged first?”
A slight hesitation.
“Yes.”
Alysanne nodded slowly.
“As expected.”
No one rushed to defend him. Even Lord Beesbury looked uncomfortable. Prince Aemon sat very still. The queen turned toward her eldest son.
“You know what they will say.”
It was not a question and Aemon’s expression hardened.
“Yes.”
“They will say your line is secure now.”
His jaw tightened at her words.
“Yes.”
“They will say Princess Rhaenys matters less.”
The room seemed to grow colder. Aemon’s answer came immediately.
“They will be wrong.”
The words rang through the chamber. Not shouted. Not angry. Simply true. Jaehaerys felt a flicker of pride. There was his son. There was the Prince of Dragonstone. Not broken. Not defeated. Merely wounded. Prince Baelon smiled faintly. His brother knew how to command the room.
“Gods help the first lord foolish enough to say otherwise in front of Rhaenys.” He said speaking of his daughter.
That earned a few reluctant chuckles. Even Aemon’s mouth twitched.
“Or if they had said so in front of Jocelyn,” Baelon added quietly.
The smile vanished. A shadow passed over the room. Jocelyn. Always Jocelyn. Her absence sat among them like another councillor. The empty chair no one could stop seeing. Jaehaerys broke the silence.
“The realm’s customs are not changed by one council meeting.”
“No,” Alysanne agreed.
“But neither are they improved by pretending they do not exist.”
The king sighed. His wife had a gift for finding uncomfortable truths and setting them directly in front of people. One of the reasons he loved her. One of the reasons she exhausted him.
“The matter remains simple,” he said at last. “Aemon is my heir.”
Aemon inclined his head.
“Baelor follows him.”
Another nod.
“Then Rhaenys.”
This time Aemon looked directly at his father. The king met his gaze. Neither looked away. Good. Let the realm remember. Let the lords remember. Let every maester and septon from Dorne to the Wall remember. Princess Rhaenys remained of the blood of the dragon. Nothing about her mother’s death or her brother’s birth changed that.
Lord Beesbury shifted uneasily.
“As Your Grace says.”
“As I say,” Jaehaerys replied.
The old lord immediately fell silent. Alysanne hid another smile. She oh so loved her king at times. The king might complain about his age, but there were moments when the Old King reminded everyone precisely why he sat the Iron Throne.
Prince Baelon stretched in his chair.
“Then the matter is settled?”
“No,” said Alysanne.
Baelon groaned.
The queen ignored him.
“The succession is settled.”
“Ah.”
“The future marriages of children who are scarcely old enough to read are not.”
Baelon brightened.
“There. See? We are making progress.”
Grand Maester Elysar rubbed his temples.
“Your Grace, no one suggested immediate arrangements.”
“Lord Beesbury suggested them quickly enough.”
The Master of Coin found the table suddenly fascinating. Aemon folded his hands.
“My son will not be promised in infancy.”
Alysanne looked pleased. Jaehaerys looked resigned. Baelon laughed outright.
“You have inherited Mother’s stubbornness.”
“Only Mother’s?”
“Unfortunately not.”
For the first time since entering the council chamber, Aemon laughed. Briefly. Softly. But genuinely. The room froze. It had been weeks since anyone had heard the sound. Alysanne’s eyes immediately filled with tears. She looked away before her son could notice. Jaehaerys did notice. So did Baelon. No one spoke of it. Some things were too fragile. The king rose. The meeting was over.
“The succession stands secure.”
His voice carried through the chamber.
“Aemon. Baelor. Rhaenys. Then Baelon and his sons.”
The councillors bowed their heads. The future of the realm. Set down in a single sentence. Or so they believed. Jaehaerys looked toward the windows overlooking King’s Landing. Toward the Dragonpit beyond. Toward the great black dragon that had risen when the child was born. The future rarely remained as orderly as men imagined. He had lived too long not to know that.
“Let us hope,” the king said quietly, “that the gods are content with this arrangement.”
No one answered. Outside, beyond the walls of the Red Keep, a dragon roared.
—
Gael waited outside. Princess Gael Targaryen sat upon a window ledge swinging her legs while holding a book she clearly had not been reading. Alysanne stopped as she noticed her youngest child.
“You have been waiting.”
Gael brightened.
“Yes.”
The queen glanced at the book. It was upside down. She raised a brow and Gael quickly corrected it. Alysanne laughed despite herself. The sound felt strange. Rare like something forgotten.
“May we visit Baelor?”
The question surprised her.
“You saw him yesterday.”
“He is still a baby.”
Alysanne considered this.
“I suppose that is true.”
Gael slipped her hand into her mother’s.
“ Aemon still looks sad.”
The queen’s smile faded.
“Yes.”
“Will he stop?”
Children asked impossible questions so easily. Alysanne squeezed her daughter’s hand.
“Not soon.” She sighed.
Gael thought about that. Then nodded as if she understood.
“Then we should make him smile.”
The queen kissed the top of her head.
“Perhaps we should.”
—
The nursery had become Rhaenys’s territory. Everyone understood this except Rhaenys herself. The princess sat beside the cradle reading another story when Alysanne and Gael entered.
“You’re back.” She exclaimed excited to see her aunt and grandmother.
Gael climbed into a chair beside Rhaeny's own chair
“I brought a ribbon.”
Rhaenys frowned.
“For a baby?”
“It is a very nice ribbon.”
This logic seemed irrefutable. Gael leaned over the cradle.
“Hello, Baelor.”
Baelor blinked causing Gael to gasp.
“He knows me.”
“He blinks at everyone,” Rhaenys said.
“He likes me more.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
The argument continued for several minutes. Baelor listened amused at their antics. In another life he had attended councils deciding the fate of kingdoms. This was somehow more entertaining.
—
Princess Daella arrived later. Nervously, as she seemed to do everything. She hovered near the doorway for almost a minute before entering. Rhaenys noticed immediately.
“You can come in.” She said waving to her other aunt eagerly. Daella looked startled almost like she wished she didn’t get noticed.
“Oh.”
She approached slowly. Like Baelor might explode. The young princess sat beside the cradle and stared down uncertainly. For a long moment she said nothing. Then she finally spoke.
“I am sorry about your mother.”
The room grew quiet. Daella’s cheeks reddened.
“I know babies probably do not understand.”
But Baelor did perfectly. Daella twisted her hands together.
“I just thought someone should say it.”
Rhaenys looked away quickly. Alysanne watched silently. And Baelor discovered something important. History remembered Daella as timid with no mention of her being kind. Yet kindness seemed to define her.
—
Saera arrived like a storm. The door burst open startling all who were inside. The nursery immediately became louder. Princess Saera Targaryen swept into the room wearing a grin that promised trouble. She ignored every chair. Every custom. Every expectation. She went straight to the cradle. .
“This is him?”
Rhaenys glared.
“Yes.”
Saera leaned down staring harder. Baelor stared back. Her grin widened. Mischief danced in her eyes.
“Oh.”
“Oh what?” asked Rhaenys straightening in her seat ready to defend her baby brother if need be.
“He looks like he’s judging me.”
Because he was. Saera laughed.
“I like this one.”
Alysanne entered behind her daughter. Already exasperated at her daughter.
“That is rarely a reassuring statement.” The queen intoned.
Saera placed a hand over her heart.
“You wound me, Mother.”
“I raised you.”
“Fair.”
Saera winked at Baelor.
“Do try not to become boring, little prince.”
Then she was gone. Leaving chaos in her wake. As usual.
—
Princess Viserra proved entirely different. Where Saera crashed into rooms, Viserra drifted through them. Graceful. Beautiful. Already aware of the effect she had upon people. She approached the cradle and looked down thoughtfully.
“Well.”
Rhaenys folded her arms. She was getting frustrated with some of her aunts.
“What?”
“You have certainly complicated matters.”
Baelor suspected that was the truest thing anyone had said all week. Viserra lifted him expertly. The nurse looked horrified. Alysanne looked resigned. Neither intervened. Viserra smiled down at him.
“Remember this, little prince.”
Her voice lowered.
“Being wanted and being loved are not always the same thing.”
Baelor froze. The words struck harder than they should have. Viserra kissed his brow. Then gently laid him back down in his cradle. She departed before anyone could ask what she meant.
—
Prince Vaegon arrived because Alysanne made him. There was no other explanation. The archmaester-in-all-but-name entered looking deeply inconvenienced. Rhaenys immediately narrowed her eyes.
“You don’t want to be here.”
“Correct.”
The honesty startled everyone. Vaegon peered into the cradle. Silence followed. A very long silence. Then he finally spoke.
“He appears functional.”
Rhaenys gasped. Gael giggled and queen Alysanne pinched the bridge of her nose.
“Vaegon.”
“What?”
“He is a baby.”
“Yes.”
“That is all you have to say?”
The prince considered. Then looked down again.
“Do not die.”
The room went silent causing Vaegon to frown
“What?” Nothing about him seemed to understand why people were staring.
“That is the primary goal of infancy.”
Rhaenys burst out laughing. Gael followed. Even Alysanne smiled. Vaegon looked satisfied. Baelor decided he might be his favorite uncle.
—
Prince Baelon arrived that evening. With him came Viserys and Daemon. The room grew brighter immediately. Baelon possessed that effect. He entered laughing at something Daemon had said. Viserys looked embarrassed. Daemon looked pleased.
Then Baelon saw the cradle. The laughter faded. Not entirely. Just enough. For a moment he looked very tired. Very old and very much a widower. Baelor saw it, the shadow of Alyssa. Then it passed. Baelon crossed the room.
“There he is.”
Without hesitation he picked Baelor up. No fear. No uncertainty. Only confidence. The easy confidence of a father. Viserys approached first.
“He is smaller than I imagined.”
“You said that before,” Rhaenys informed him from her perch in the chair next to the cradle. She already had a stack of books and toys near her as if she planned to move into the room.
“It remains true.”
Daemon pushed forward.
“He looks angry.”
Everyone groaned. Daemon ignored them. Baelor stared back. Neither blinked. The contest continued until Viserys offered a wooden knight.
“He can have this.”
Daemon looked horrified.
“He cannot hold it.”
“He can later.”
“He will drool on it.”
“It is mine.”
“Then why give it away?”
Viserys looked confused.
“Because he is family.”
The room fell quiet. Baelon rested a hand atop his eldest son’s head. A look of pride crossed his face. Then Daemon frowned. He hadn’t brought a gift but he didn’t want Baelor to think less of him because of it. After a moment he removed a small dagger from his belt.
“No,” Baelon said immediately.
“It is a gift.”
“No.”
“It is dull.”
“No.”
Daemon sighed dramatically. Baelor suspected this would become a lifelong habit. Daemon would always try to give him things he shouldn’t have.
—
Aemon watched from the doorway. No one noticed at first. Not until Baelon turned. The brothers looked at one another. For a moment neither spoke. Then Baelon crossed the room. Carefully and quietly with confidence and conviction. He placed Baelor into Aemon’s arms and Aemon froze. The nursery held its breath.
Baelon said only “He’s yours.”
No judgment and no pressure, just truth. Aemon looked down. Baelor looked up and suddenly all the distance between them felt very small.
“There you are,” Aemon whispered. His voice broke.
But he did not let go. Not this time.
—
That night Aemon returned alone. He carried Baelor to the window overlooking King’s Landing. The city glittered beneath moonlight. Far away, the Dragonpit loomed against the darkness.
“Your mother hated this city at first.”
Aemon smiled faintly.
“Too loud.”
A pause.
“Too crowded.”
Another.
“Too full of men convinced their opinions mattered.”
The smile lingered. Then faded.
“I loved her.”
The words came quietly. Without shame. Without hesitation.
“More than dragons.” He whispered.
His gaze drifted toward the city.
“More than crowns.”
Then down toward Baelor.
“And every time I look at you, I remember that she is gone.”
The silence that followed was heavy, painful, and true. Aemon swallowed.
“But when I do not look at you…”
His voice softened.
“I remember that she left part of herself behind.”
Baelor reached. A clumsy infant gesture. Aemon caught his hand and held it. And for the first time since his rebirth, Baelor felt something heal. Not completely. Not yet. But enough. A beginning.
—
Before dawn he dreamed.
A spear, golden, bright and whole. A red dragon soaring above it. Then storm clouds. Suddenly a crossbow bolt flew through the air. Blood appeared. The spear cracked then dragon screamed and the world became ash.
Baelor woke up with a start. His eyes opening and a tiny gasp had him hiccuping quietly. Aemon slept beside the cradle. One hand still resting against the wood the other wrapped around a sleeping Rhaenys in his lap. He was alive. It was still years away from Tarth and from breath but the dream remained. The warning remained. The future was waiting.
—
Morning brought sunlight and Balerion. The roar shook the Red Keep. Children froze and looked to the sky. Guards shouted trying to keep the peace and calm. Across the city, the Black Dread rose from the Dragonpit. Ancient wings blotted out the sky. He flew directly toward the castle. Not circling, not wandering, but flying with a purpose. The yard fell silent. Aemon held Baelor close. Rhaenys clung to his sleeve. Viserys stared in awe and Daemon stepped forward instead of back. Of course he did. Daemon would always go towards danger instead of shying away from it.
Then Balerion descended. He was massive and terrible looking but so unearthly beautiful at the same time. The dragon settled upon a distant wall. Stone cracked beneath his claws crumbling and falling to the ground as if it were dust falling from a ledge.
His great head lowered.
One vast black eye fixed upon Baelor and the world disappeared. The castle, the city, the people, all of it gone. Only dragon and prince remained.
Heat filled Baelor’s vision. He saw ash, Valyria, and fire. In the warmth he also felt a single word reverberated through his mind. Not spoken but known.
Wait.
Then it was over.
Balerion blinked, roared once and then turned away. The Black Dread returned to the Dragonpit and the silence he left behind felt almost sacred.
Jaehaerys watched the empty sky.
Aemon held his son tighter.
No one understood what they had witnessed.
Except perhaps Baelor. But even he was no longer certain. The Fourteen Flames had not given him answers. Only warnings and choices.
And as he looked around at the family gathered beside him—Aemon, Rhaenys, Baelon, Viserys, Daemon, Gael, Alysanne, Jaehaerys—Baelor understood what truly mattered.
It was not crowns, not prophecy, not dragons, but people. The people he intended to save. No matter what history demanded.