At some point in time, Maester Orwylle suggested that bloodletting was an effective way to deal with the prince's . . . health issues. Baelor was sharply against it though Orwylle pointed out that people in Essos do it all the time and most turn out just fine and far healthier with the disease that affected the loins first. He pointed out that Myna also allowed him to attach some sort of leeches, that the lady herself had delivered from her home, on her in order to such the blood. Baelor didn't want to hear a word after that.

What Baelor feared most is what he read in the books that he sneaked out the library when the Septa wasn't looking or when she was too busy with his two girls to notice. That the thing spreading across his loins is slowly entering his brain, causing him to forget anything and everything; how, because of this disease that he brought onto himself, is causing him to see or hear things that aren't there. Why else would he hear Alyssa cry out how much he disappointed her in a dark and empty hallway in the middle of the night when she was in her bed sleeping?

There's a Septa – Mordane is her name, or at least what Baelor remembers her to be. She helped his mother in the few moons following his birth in the Sept; they prayed together for both her children health. She was appointed the two girls now; though she's older than most, she's still good at what she's doing. And Alicent wanted her to take over her granddaughters for the fact that she is old and Baelor's lingering gazes wouldn't look her way for a long time.

Genna was spending her morning with her father – he'd help her outside in the flourishing gardens of the Keep, drinking tea and remembering a life they once had but could never hold on. Baelor rested inside his chambers with the three of his children around. A half drank tea rested on the cupboard by the bed where Baelor laid across; there was a throbbing headache in his skull, a cold towel across his closed eyes as if that might help.

Rhaella woke up with a belly ache that morning – she shyly begged the guard outside her bedroom to either call for her mother or take her to her parents' bedroom. Once she arrived, she curled by her mother's side before puking everything she ate the night before across the bed. Alyssa was still doing relatively fine at this time though she wasn't as cheerful as every day before. Baelor believed it might just be a normal belly ache that he too gets time to time.

Rhaella pulled herself atop the bed where Baelor rested. She pushed herself across it on her knees until she reached her father's side; there Baelor pulled a hand where he had it sprawled across his forehead to place it onto the younger of the twins. Tiny hands reached forward and gently tugged the towel off the side of his face until she could see the lilac eyes staring back at her, "what is it, sweetling?"

"My tummy hurts," she mumbled back to him as she tucked herself into his left shoulder, fingers curled into fists and resting against her lips.

"I know," he mumbles back with a small sigh leaving him, his fingers wrapping around the towel and placing it on the bedside table next to the undrunk tea.

He curled to the side to look at Rhaella – sickly and pale like she was once a few moons ago when she wanted nothing but to be close to her mother. He gently tapped her nose with his pointer, earning a smile from her; still sick but a smile nonetheless.

"Avy jorrāelan. Sīr sīr olvie," he whispered to her and the princess smile at her father again. Like Baelor beforehand, the younger of the twins is far more invested in learning High Valyrian. Alyssa tries to learn and understand but she's more interested in only those words that she could command a dragon. (I love you. So so much.)

"Avy jorrāelan bisa olvie," Rhaella whispers back in a tired voice and extends her arms to the side – her left one rests on the bed and her right one over Baelor, fingers fully extended too. (I love you this much)

"Mērī bisa olvie?" Baelor jokes back until Rhaella scrunches her nose up at him, "Avy jorrāelan hen kesīr se ry se ñuhoso naejot essos. Se tolī." (Only this much? I love you from here and all the way to Essos. And more)

Rhaella lays on her back now and rests cold hands over her aching tummy as she looks up at Baelor who's still smiling at her, "Konīr's tolī? Toliot essos?" (There's more? Over Essos?)

"Nyke ȳdra daor gīmigon," he whispers back and presses his warm cheek against the pillow below, "Nyke kostagon gūrogon ao rūsīr Moonfyre toliot se tegon se īlon kostagon ūndegon skoros's va se tolie paktot." (I don't know. I can take you with Moonfyre over the land and we can see what's on the other side)

"Moonfyre!" Alyssa shrieks and launches herself off the carpeted floor by the fireplace and onto the bed, her knees digging in the blankets that were tossed across, "can we, father? Can we go with Moonfyre?"

"Not while you're sick, sweetling," he smiled up at her and offered his hand so she can squeeze herself closer, plopping atop of him and he tried to shield Rhaella so her sister doesn't kick her on accident.

"But I'm not sick," Alyssa pouted, sticking her lower lip out like a hurt puppy, "Rhae is. There's a difference, father."

"Really? All this time I believed you two were one person," Baelor replied and his eldest let out a whine as she pressed her cheek against his chest,

"fatheeeerrrr."

"I'm sorry, sweetling, it was a cruel jest," he replied in a mutter against the top of her head, pressing a kiss there.

There was a knock on the doors before two women walked inside after Baelor called them in – one younger, somewhere along the prince's age while the other one was much older. Septa Mordane was the first to speak after they both bowed, "my prince, I would like to take the princess for a prayer in the Sept. The Queen will be there shortly as well."

An idea sparked inside his mind then. He shakes his head lightly and pulls himself in a sitting position, careful not to drop Alyssa off, "no need. I can take them myself."

Even if she were surprised, Mordane didn't show it; she's seen far too many things in the years she spent in court, "very well then, my prince. And Ellyn is here to feed the princess Visenya."

Baelor's eyes lingered on the girl a moment too long and she kept her eyes low, trained on the foot of the bed. His lips curled in an almost cruel smile as Alyssa pulled herself onto the floor, "it's nice to meet you, Ellyn. Visenya is in the crib."

"Thank – thank you, my prince," she replied nervously, tugging onto the sleeves on the dress she wore.

If Mordane didn't clear her throat, Baelor would've probably stayed while Visenya was being fed. But he pulled Rhaella onto his hip and offered Alyssa his hand as he pulled them out of the bedroom and towards the Sept and his mother.

Within the gossips of the Realm, Baelor Targaryen remained a saint. With all the sheep clothing he carefully wrapped around himself, the world seemed not to notice the wolf lurking underneath. Though, his mother started to notice it more often. But those thoughts were always brushed away, pushed somewhere in the deep part of her brain. How could she not? When her son helped Rhaella kneel on the soft dark red pillow in front of the statue of the Mother, before mirroring his work with Alyssa as well.

For the good graces of his mother, Baelor kneeled between his daughters, acting blissfully unaware of the Queen's presence as he muttered a silent prayer, letting the girls take over – how lovely did their father teach them the words. Rhaella smiled when the pillow next to her dipped, looking at the red Hightower hair by her side, the quiet words leaving her grandmother's lips, excited fingers reaching out to hold her hand. Alicent smiled and pressed a kiss atop her head before taking her small hands into hers, clasping them in a hold.

Once they finished, Baelor pulled himself off his knees, helping his girls as well before turning to his mother with a gentle smile, tugging on his lips, "I was not expecting you here."

"I always come here in the mor, Baelor, I thought you knew by now," Alicent replied in almost a whisper as if not to disturb the statues while Alyssa buried herself in the dark green dress of her grandmother, the Queen's hand gently brushing the curls to the side.

"I must have forgotten," her son lied, a sweet smile still on his lips as he watched Rhaella step closer to the statue of the Mother, "how is father?"

Alicent pursed her lips in a line, watching the bright lilac eyes of Alyssa staring at the ceiling, "not so well. I fear for the worst."

Baelor reached his hand out, Rhaella wrapping her arms around his leg, "I am sure he shall get better; he always does. He survived the redspots against all odds."

Alyssa buried her head further in Alicent's dress, her forehead pressed against her clothed thigh. The Queen sighed, "yes but . . . the Maesters cannot tell why he is sick. And if they cannot do so, they cannot treat him."

Rhaella buried her head in her father's thigh and as Baelor brought his palm to cares her hair, the sudden realization of some warmness came to his senses. Crouching down, he placed hands on both her cheeks, then forehead before whispering, "Rhaella? Sweetling. Are you alright?"

The girl shook her head, bringing her hand to her eyes, "my belly hurts."

Just before he could even continue to ask any further, his mother's shriek echoed through the great Sept. He's never heard a scream like this; she didn't scream this loudly and helplessly when she was giving birth to his siblings nor when she watched men get killed at Tourneys his father organised. His eyes looked up to see his mother on her knees, his daughter Alyssa in her lap, drips of blood falling from her lips until they stained the green dress of her grandmother.

It was not until the hour of ghosts rolled around, that Maester Orwylle could even pin point the sudden sickness of the princesses. Genna – the same yellow dress she wore the day before, hair placed down in its curls, tears streaming down her cheeks – knelt between the two beds, each of her hand on one of her children. He's not sure if she had a blink of sleep within her; she was found in the gardens with Tyland, talking about her home and people there by Aemond. She knew something was wrong, otherwise it wouldn't be him seeking out for her. It seemed like blood disappeared from her face when she whispered to him, "which one?" Because, truth be told, she wasn't sure which would hurt more – her girls or Baelor being hurt.

Baelor stood by the doors of the chambers, his thumb's nail caught in between his teeth; nail and skin picked apart, as the elder Maester stopped by his side to whisper, "I assume it is the butterfly fever, my prince."

He looked at the Maester – the mirror of his wife: same clothes as the day before, hair dishevelled, eyes sunken and red from crying – with the biggest eyes, shaking his head, "no. My daughters shall not die."

"My prince," Maester Orwylle sighed, hands clasped together on the front of his outfit, "the butterfly fever is –"

"- deadly, yes, I am aware of it, Maester," Baelor spoke, rather to loudly, which made Genna choke out a sob, "but I am also aware there is a chance to treat it. So, treat it."

Orwylle looked at the lady of House Lannister broken on the floor before back at Baelor who watched the scene in front of him, whispering, "my prince, the treatment is still much experiment. We do not know for certain if the treatment will work. And the Hand assigned every Maester in the chambers of the King. Even I must return to assist his Grace and – "

" – and you shall let my daughters die?" Baelor looked at Orwylle in disbelief, "for the sake of the man whose days are counted, who rests on his death bed? You shall treat that for the lives of two little girls?"

"My prince, it is the decision of the Hand, it is not I who –"

Without allowing the Maester to finish his speech, Baelor's frustration boiled over. His fingers gripped the cold knob of the door, twisting it violently as he flung the doors wide open, his boots echoing across the hall. The Council Chambers stood ahead, the sounds of Moonfyre's roar heared faintly through the walls of the Keep. His father would tell tales of how your dragon feels everything you do – Dreamfyre would feel the pain Helaena felt when she gave birth to her twins, Sunfyre would feel anger whenever Aegon was mistreated by his grandsire, Vhagar felt the sharp pain whenever Aemond was cut in the yard by Ser Criston, Tessarion felt emptiness when Daeron was far away in Oldtown. And, so, Moonfyre roared outside; anger for Baelor, grief and sadness for the girls.

Baelor's eyes fell on Otto, standing at the far edge of the grand table, his expression frozen in place when the doors flung open. The moment Otto's sharp eyes met Baelor's; he could no longer hold his tongue, "you shall not let my daughters die for the sake of my father!"

Tyland, who had been quietly sitting behind the table, snapped his head around in alarm. His eyes widened, "are the girls alright? Genna?"

Tyland moved as if to approach Baelor, but his legs seemed to falter under the weight of the tension in the room. Still, Baelor pressed forward, his fists clenched at his sides. Just as he neared his grandsire, Ser Criston's hand grabbed Baelor's arm, halting him with surprising force. 

"My daughters are dying!" Baelor shouted, his voice raw, "I shall not have you take their lives for the sake of my father! Do you hear me!? They need a Maester! Allow Orwylle to leave father's chambers!"

Tyland's expression grew more frantic, his hands reaching for something—anything. He began muttering under his breath, almost too softly for anyone to hear. His fingers twitched, and in a blur of motion, he rushed toward the door, leaving the Council Chambers with hurry.

Otto's voice sliced through the tension like a knife, calm but biting, "perhaps my prince should calm down," he suggested coolly, "drink some tea."

Baelor's anger flared, his muscles tensing with the urge to lash out. He was testing him now; it's your fault, Baelor. You are doing this to your father. His voice, however, remained steady, even if his eyes burned with defiance, "send the Maesters back!"

Otto's gaze lingered on Baelor, unflinching, "it should be considered treason to not allow the King to be treated."

Baelor's jaw clenched tight, the bitterness of Otto's words stinging more than he was willing to admit, "and it should be considered treason to not allow the King's granddaughters to be treated," Baelor countered sharply, "a life of two young girls over the man that is rotting in his chambers? Send the Maesters!"

Suddenly, a voice cut through the exchange—Aemond's.

"Baelor!" his brother called from the doorway. 

Baelor quickly turned his head and by the look on his face, he knew. Releasing Criston's arms he held in a grip, he ran out of the room, pushed pass Aemond and up the stairs to the chambers. Entering, he still saw Genna on the floor, sobbing.

Without a second of thinking, Baelor quickly reached his wife's side, kneeling down and pulling her in his arms. Genna turned her head to sob in his shoulder as Baelor rubbed her back, "it's alright, they will make it."

Tyland walked in. For a moment Genna believed Baelor cared for her in this moment or even wanted to just show her an ounce of decency, but once again she was wrong. At her father's voice, she peeled herself from her husband as he reached her side, pulling her in a hug, letting her sob into his shoulder.

Small fingers grazed Baelor's shoulder. In an instinct, he pulled himself next to Alyssa's bed, his hand reaching for her warm and damp cheek, whispering, "hi there, pretty girl."

"Am I dying?" Alyssa whispered with her dry lips.

His gaze softened, pulling himself closer on his knees, "no, of course not, do not speak such nonsense."

"I feel weird, kepa," she whispered back, leaning into her father's touch.

"Because you are sick, byka hūra," Baelor smiled gently, trying to calm her, "but soon you will get better. You and your sister. Soon, you shall be able to come with me on Moonfyre." (little moon)

"Promise?" she crooked out.

Baelor nodded, biting his tongue to prevent the tears from falling, "I swear on everything that is important to me, byka hūra."

Alyssa nodded slightly, "I'm sleepy."

"Rest, sweetling," Baelor whispered to her, pressing a kiss against her warm forehead, "I shall see you when you wake up, hm?"

A sudden, quiet grunt from Genna awoke Baelor from almost a dream like state. Turning his head, he saw her hold onto her belly, her father holding her head close to his neck. Baelor's brows furrowed, "what is it?"

Genna let out a shaky breath, "my stomach hurts."

Baelor bit the inside of his cheek before standing up, motioning to Tyland before reaching his arms to Genna's, "help me get her to bed."

As the two helped Genna up, she choked through tears, shaking her head, "n – no. Do not – no, I cannot leave them here."

"Genna," Baelor spoke, stricter this time, "you are feeling sick. You must go to the chambers and rest while I get Maester Orwylle back."

Genna shook her head again, refusing to leave the room. She was only calmed down by Tyland who pressed his hand on her red, damp cheek, "Genna. Listen to Baelor, you are not well."

"My children are not well," she shakily left out, "I can wait, I do not know how long I have left with them."

"You have forever with them," Baelor replied, tugging his wife along, "I swear, Genna, the girls shall not die."

By the hour of the wolf, when the dark of the night seemed to press in on the walls of the Red Keep, Baelor sat slumped against the cold stone wall outside his chambers. His legs were splayed out in front of him, and his head tilted back, eyes closing for a moment, if only to escape the weight of the world pressing down on his chest. The cries of his wife pierced the stillness of the night from within their chambers. The sound was raw, each sob an agony that seemed to reverberate throughout the Keep. Tyland's voice, low and soothing, could just barely be heard through the thick walls, a desperate attempt to comfort her, but it was no use.

Baelor's cheek was suddenly grazed by the cold surface of a glass bottle, and he jolted upright, his eyes narrowing in surprise. Aegon stood over him, a mischievous glint in his eyes as he extended the bottle toward his twin.

"What is that?" Baelor squinted at the bottle, his voice thick with suspicion.

"Hippocras," came Aegon's lazy reply as he plopped down next to Baelor with a tired grunt. He twisted the cap and took a long, slow gulp before handing the bottle over, "thought you might need it."

Baelor cocked an eyebrow, looking at the bottle with something akin to amusement mixed with disbelief, "stealing drinks from our father?" he asked, taking in the sight of his twin with a mix of judgment and curiosity.

Aegon shrugged, his expression casual, though the bitterness in his tone was evident. He nudged the bottle closer to Baelor's chest, "it's not like he'll need it. He's practically a corpse already."

Baelor chuckled darkly, twisting the bottle open, "do not mourn the living yet, brother," he said with a grin, "perhaps the old bat survives it."

Aegon's lips twitched into a smirk, but his words carried a sharper edge, "words like these can cost you your tongue. Or your head."

"Preferably the tongue," Baelor quipped with a smile before taking a deep swallow of the hippocras. The sweetness of the liquid burned down his throat, but it was a welcome distraction. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before returning his gaze to his brother, "how did you know where I was?"

Aegon leaned back against the wall with a yawn, stretching his legs out, "had a feeling you'd be kissing up to the Lannisters," he muttered, eyes narrowing, "when I heard the screams of your lady wife, I assumed you'd be nearby. You know... for Tyland's eyes."

Baelor's lips pressed into a thin line, his gaze hardening, "Seven forbid I care for my wife," he retorted, though the words came out sharper than intended.

He took another long swig of the hippocras before leaning back, staring at the ceiling, his voice dropping to a whisper, "I might lose everyone tonight."

"Everyone?" Aegon echoed, his tone laced with confusion and concern.

"Except for Visenya," Baelor muttered, his voice distant as his eyes drifted to the floor, "Orwylle doesn't know if the girls will survive the night. Genna's in agony, feeling pains in her stomach. If they don't stop, she could lose the child—and if the pains keep up, she might die in the process."

Baelor's lips pressed together, his hands shaking slightly as they clenched at his sides, "then the only family I have left is Visenya. And Orwylle says she's frail, sickly—Seven Hells, she might not survive either."

Aegon fell silent for a long moment, his eyes lost in thought as he stared at the bottle in his hands. He took another long swig, his eyes never leaving Baelor's face.

"Helaena would believe this to be your own doing," he muttered, almost absentmindedly, "she'd say you've done something terrible to deserve this."

Baelor snorted, a bitter laugh escaping him, "you've become wise. Before being named King?"

"Helaena's words, not mine," Aegon replied flatly, before draining the last of the hippocras in one go.

Baelor clenched his jaw, his voice low as the reality of his situation sank in, "whatever I've done in life should not justify the deaths of my daughters," he said, his words heavy with grief, "if the gods wish to plague me for whatever crimes I've committed, they should plague me, not them."

Aegon looked at him for a moment before mimicking his earlier mocking tone, "you've become wise. Before being named Prince Regent?"

Baelor didn't reply immediately. His gaze was far away, unfocused. He stared straight ahead, the weight of his brother's words—and his own regrets—settling over him like a cold, suffocating fog. When he finally spoke, it was in a whisper so quiet Aegon could barely hear him, "I know I've done awful things, things that can't be justified. But... but I care for them, you know? They're my children. My flesh and blood. And all I can do is watch them die in front of my eyes."

Aegon remained silent for a moment, his face softening. The flickering light of a nearby torch caught his features, revealing something far darker in his expression, "we should've run away when we had the chance," he said quietly, "now we're trapped here... like rats."

Baelor shook his head, a quiet defiance flashing in his eyes, "no, I would never run away," he replied firmly, though his voice held a tinge of sadness, "you know I would never do that."

Aegon looked away, his expression bitter and empty, "you're like a dog, Baelor."

Baelor's head snapped around, startled by the words. He met Aegon's eyes, confusion written on his face, "what?"

Aegon's lips twitched into a half-smile, though it lacked any humour, "like a dog," he repeated, "you bite for reasons that even you don't understand. Why do you do it?"

Baelor stared at his brother, unsure whether Aegon's words were the ramblings of a drunken man or something deeper. He pushed Aegon's head back with the palm of his hand, a gesture of mild annoyance, "you're drunk, brother," Baelor said, though there was no malice in his tone.

Aegon let out a dry laugh, "perhaps just a glass or two," he replied with a shrug, "or... maybe a bottle or three. But that's beside the point."

Aegon rose to his feet unsteadily, swaying slightly as he steadied himself. He placed the bottle by Baelor's side before glancing back down the hall.

"Get off the leash, Baelor," he said, his voice oddly somber, "it might do you some good."

Baelor watched his twin sway down the hallway, a sinking feeling in his chest. He glanced at the bottle that had once been in his father's hands—the same hippocras his father drank, if not for his sickness, caused by his own flesh and blood. Baelor's fingers curled around the glass, a surge of anger rising in him. With a sudden, violent motion, he threw the bottle against the wall, sending shards of glass scattering across the floor.

The doors to the chambers creaked open, and Genna stepped out, her face pale and her eyes red from crying. She stumbled slightly, looking at the shattered glass with wide, bambi-like eyes.

"What happened?" she whispered, her voice hoarse from exhaustion and grief.

Baelor's throat tightened as he saw her approach the shards of glass, her fingers trembling as she tried to gather the pieces carefully. His hand shot out, grabbing her wrist with surprising gentleness as he pulled her away from the broken bottle.

"What are you doing?" he asked, his voice strained but soft.

Tears streamed down Genna's face as she looked up at him, her voice cracking with emotion.

"The children might step on it," she whispered, her voice barely audible, "I don't want them to get hurt, Baelor."

Baelor's heart shattered at the sight of her—broken, worn down, utterly exhausted. There was nothing left for him to do but wrap his arms around her, pulling her close in an attempt to comfort her. His cheek pressed against her temple as he whispered, "they won't get hurt, Genna. I swear."

Genna's sobs shook through her as her fingers dug into the back of his doublet, clinging to him as if he were the only thing holding her together.

"If they die," she gasped between sobs, her voice barely more than a whisper, "I'll die. I won't survive without them."

Baelor's breath caught in his throat, but he pulled back just enough to lift her face in his hands, his thumbs brushing over her tear-streaked cheeks. His voice was a hushed promise.

"Do not say that," he whispered, pressing his forehead to hers, "they will live."

Genna nodded shakily, but before she could speak, Baelor pulled away, his face softening with the weight of his words.

"Does your stomach still hurt?" he asked, his voice gentle.

"No," Genna whispered, shaking her head, "no, I don't think so."

Baelor closed his eyes briefly, a quiet prayer in his heart as he looked down at her, pressing his forehead against hers again.

"We'll get through this, Genna," he promised, his voice low and filled with a quiet intensity. "I swear to the Seven, to everything I have ever considered sacred. Rhaella and Alyssa shall be fine."

And though his words were meant to reassure her, Baelor himself could not shake the feeling that he was powerless to stop the impending tragedy that loomed over them.