Baelor's fingers tapped against the worn wooden table, the sound echoing in the tense silence of the Green Council. His twin sat at the head, fingers wrapped around the Conqueror's crown—turning it over, weighing it, as if he had earned the right to hold it at all. Baelor clenched his jaw. It looked ridiculous in Aegon's hands. It would have looked better on his.

"Aemond will go to House Baratheon," Otto's voice finally cut through the quiet, "Daeron is already in Oldtown. We cannot send Aegon anywhere just yet. Baelor can go up North with his dragon."

Baelor scoffed, flicking his gaze up from where his fingers toyed with a loose stone on the table, "you want me to go speak to Cregan Stark? Did his father not already swear his loyalty to Rhaenyra?"

"Rickon Stark, yes," Otto corrected without missing a beat, "Cregan, not yet. Offer him something he cannot refuse."

Baelor exhaled sharply through his nose, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. Offer him something? What exactly did he have to bargain with? His undying loyalty to a cause that had already cast him aside? His grandsire's favour—oh wait, that belonged to Aegon now, didn't it?

"So, let me understand this," he said, leaning back in his chair, arms crossing over his chest, "Aemond gets Baratheon, and I get Stark? Might as well send Aegon – he's already on his side."

"Aegon is not going anywhere," Otto said flatly, which made Baelor bit back a roll of his eyes.

"Afraid of the Northmen, brother?" Aemond's voice hummed with amusement, his fingers drumming against the table in an easy rhythm. His single eye watched his older brother, waiting for the cord to snap.

Baelor did roll his eyes this time, "then you go."

"Why should I?" Aemond countered back, tilting his head, "you have a dragon just as I do. Or is Vhagar too frightening for you?"

Baelor scoffed, sarcasm dripping from his tongue like honey, "oh yes, that's it, Aemond. I'm terrified of your oversized, rotting lizard—"

"Enough," Otto cut in sharply, a warning glance flicking between them before settling back on Baelor, "you will go North."

Baelor tensed, the dismissal burning under his skin. Just like that—like it was nothing. Like he was nothing. Once, Otto had valued him. Once, Baelor had been the one he spoke to first, the one he looked to with expectation. Now, it was all about Aegon.

Baelor's fingers drummed against the table, his frustration seeping through his tone, "I must remain here. The Grand Maester says my lady wife's last moons of pregnancy have been difficult."

Aemond hummed again, mock sympathy dripping from his voice, "as if you care about that."

Baelor's eyes snapped to him, his lips parting to spit something sharp, but Otto's voice rang out once more, "it is settled."

The words echoed in his head, cold and final, like a cell door slamming shut. Baelor's lips pressed into a thin line. He didn't look at Otto. He didn't look at Aegon or Aemond either. He only stared at the stone in his palm, fingers tightening around it as his pulse throbbed in his throat. This was it. He was being sent away like some spare piece on a board, while Aegon sat his stolen throne and Aemond played war.

Baelor exhaled sharply through his nose, his fingers tapping against the table again; the same way Aegon's did. Because for all their differences, for all their rivalry, for all the years spent competing for their grandsire's favour—at the end of it all, they were still two sides of the same coin. Only one of them had been given the chance to rule. And it hadn't been him.

Baelor didn't leave for Winterfell just yet. He paced up and down his chambers, a letter between his fingers: Rhaenyra was crowned Queen on Dragonstone after losing her daughter. Not a daughter, a creature was what was written on the paper – no heart, only a hole, dragon scales and dragon tail. He stared through a window while his mother sat in the armchair, nails digging within her skin, "the whore did not die in birth."

Baelor scoffed, exhaling through his nose. His voice was quiet, unreadable, before he dropped the letter onto the desk, "the Seven did not grant us that wish, no."

Alicent watched him carefully, "we must protect our own, Baelor. There is no time for childish resentment."

Baelor let out a dry laugh, shaking his head as his fingers brushed the desk's edge, "I play no games, mother. I know what must be done."

Alicent studied him, fingers tapping along the armchair, "and you have proven that."

They both knew what she meant. Baelor had let Aegon take the throne. He hadn't stood in his way, hadn't fought him for it. He hadn't harmed him, hadn't let him run. It was as much of a choice as it was a surrendering.

Baelor turned his head slightly, his voice biting, "better to have a cunt on the Throne than let Rhaenyra have it."

His fingers curled around something on the desk—a white hairbrush with golden edges, roses painted along its back – Aemond's wedding gift to Genna. Before he could think twice, Baelor threw it through the open balcony doors, watching as it disappeared into the yard below. Alicent didn't flinch, but her lips pressed into a thin line as she ran a slow hand over her brow, where a headache was started to appear.

Baelor breathed heavily through his nose, his pulse thrumming in his throat. He turned back to her, irritation creeping into his voice, "why send Aemond to Baratheon? That deal is already sealed. We could have sent Helaena, and she would have returned victorious."

Alicent met his gaze without hesitation, her fingers smoothing the fabric of her sleeves, calm as ever, "because Aemond wanted to go. And he is useful where his wishes align with our own."

Baelor exhaled sharply, fingers twitching at his sides. Alicent tilted her head slightly, watching him. "But you," she continued, "are not a sword to be sent where you wish: you are a piece on this board, Baelor. And I intend to place you well."

His stomach twisted. He knew better than to take it as a kindness.

"Do not look so wounded," Alicent murmured, "do you think I do not see you? That I do not know you? I have watched you all your life. I know what it is to live in the shadow of another, to choke on it. I will not let you be swallowed whole."

Baelor clenched his jaw, fists curling, his nails pressing into his palm. She thought she was doing him a kindness. She thought she was protecting him, when all he could see was the fact of it: he had spent his entire life in someone's shadow; Aegon, Aemond, Daeron.

He thinks she might pity him, then. It's why she says things she doesn't mean. Baelor bits his tongue and closes his fingers in a fist, "all my life I have lived in someone's shadow. Might as well continue that."

Genna hums a tired Rhaella to her sleep – a mop of curls lays aside her aching stomach, tiny fingers wrapped around the edge of her nightgown. It was a gift from her father on her wedding night. Something to remind her of home, he'd say.

Baelor paces up and down the chambers once more. Visenya sleeps in his arms, his fingers clinging onto the back of her nightgown like he was clinging onto reality, scared he'll lose himself if he lets go of his children. Genna wants to ask him when he's to leave. Before she even has the chance, her husband speaks, "I have to leave soon."

She nods though she's not watching him – she's looking down where Rhaella sleeps, where Alyssa lays her head against her twin's shoulder, drops of drool rolling from the side of her mouth, "to the North?"

He hates the thought of it, "yes."

"Helaena says she's scared," Genna whispers in the dead of the night, fingers clinging onto her children, "that rats are everywhere. I don't know if she means it any other way or not."

Baelor tilts his head and stops at the foot of the bed, "the rats?"

She's scared too, she wants to say but instead whispers, "do you trust everyone in the Keep?"

He doesn't hesitate with his answer, "no."

Genna looks up at him – there's a scar of the cut on his cheek, his eyes and soul are tired, she can tell. They're both scared, "do you trust Rolan?"

Once more, Baelor doesn't hesitate with his answer, "with my life."

"Then place him in front of the children's chambers," she whispers and she pleads, "it would – it would keep at peace at night. To know they guarded by someone you trust."

"They would be fools to come after the children," he whispers back though he is equally afraid for the worst to happen, "but if it calms you, I shall speak to Rolan. See if he can do that."

She truly is grateful when she whispers it, "thank you."

Baelor nods and slowly strides to the crib. Genna insisted on keeping Visenya close to her until she can stay in the chambers with her sisters. He gently places his youngest in the crib, "do stay away from Helaena for some time."

"Why?" she asks – as confused as she is angry.

Like a silent plea, prayer or something worse and sinister, he whispers while his bleeding fingers achingly reach for Visenya's cheek, "because the rats come play out at night."

Before she can a chance to ask what he means, what he asks her to do, it was almost like he snapped out of whatever state he was in. He straightens himself from where he was leaning over the crib and walked to the bed. He reached out for Rhaella that was tugged close to her mother's belly and pulled her in his arms. She laid her head against his shoulder, drops of drool meeting his doublet. His free arm reached out again and swooped Alyssa from the bed and she instantly pushed her arms around her father's neck, "I'll be back soon."

He was lying and Genna knew.

A storm was charging over King's Landing. It flushed over Old Town first. On nights like these, Baelor watches the rain and the hail and hopes Daeron doesn't feel scared. He thinks he, himself, should feel scared. Moonfyre echoes his rider's thoughts when he pushes his head out of his home. His snout nudges Baelor and brings him from his thoughts. It was too stormy to fly. Maybe it was a sign from the Seven to not continue his plan but Baelor was always too blind for obvious things.

"īlon sōvegon arlī, issa valonqar," Baelor whispers with a smile, aching fingers sliding across his dragon's scales. (We fly again, my boy)

Sometimes he thinks Moonfyre, alongside his girls, is the only constant thing in his life. His mind changes every day, he doesn't feel alright for most of his life, everything and everyone around him are changing. Except for Moonfyre. He's as loyal and present as he can be. He's grateful for it.

"You're a fool to leave," came the voice and for a moment he thought it was in his head again.

But she was there, Myna. She stood at the entrance of the Dragonpit, the light casting long shadows across her face. Her hair was neat, braided tightly despite the late hour. She was not dressed for sleep, nor for comfort; instead, she wore a dark green gown, plain but deliberate. His mother's influence.

Baelor clenched his jaw, his nails digging into his palms, "I must go to the North. I assume brother dearest told you as much."

Myna tilted her head slightly, "but you're not going to the North."

Baelor didn't answer. She smiled, knowing she was right, taking a step forward again, "you'll go to the Baratheons instead. To spite Aemond. Because you're afraid."

Moonfyre's head shifted, turning toward her. His great golden eyes narrowed, a slow, warning growl vibrating through his chest and Baelor let him. For a moment, he considered it. He could say nothing, could let his dragon do what dragons did, and she would be nothing more than blood and silk. It would be easier.

"lykirī, Moonfyre," he murmured instead.

Myna did not move, did not waver. She only smiled. She was different from Genna in this light, "what are you afraid of?"

Baelor exhaled slowly. The war? No. War was blood and steel and dragons screaming in the sky. He had been raised for that. But the thought of losing his girls—of hearing their names whispered in the halls like ghosts, of seeing their bodies laid out before him, small and broken – that, he could not face. But he would not admit it.

"Why should I be afraid?" he said instead, tilting his head, "are you planning to strangle me in my sleep?"

Myna laughed, quiet and amused, "not yet. I do enjoy seeing you suffer still."

Her gaze flickered over him, sharp with amusement, "I must admit—it was rather entertaining to watch you struggle during Aegon's coronation."

Baelor inhaled slowly through his nose. Moonfyre shifted again, lowering his great head toward her. But Myna did not flinch. Because she had already decided she had nothing to lose.

"You are a fool, Baelor," she said simply.

He raised a brow, fingers still pressed against his dragon.

"I mean it," her tone was light, "you have a chance to secure the North. To have the Starks and every name beneath them at your feet. And yet, you would waste it all on a house that is already yours."

Baelor scoffed, "why do you suddenly care so much for Aemond?"

Myna shrugged, "perhaps I care for you."

Baelor let out a sharp laugh, shaking his head, "I highly doubt that. You admitted you want to see me suffer."

She did not deny it. Instead, she smiled again and turned away, her fingers folding neatly around her wrist, "perhaps. Which is why I wish you to go to the North, not to the Baratheon's."

Baelor frowned slightly. It was a moment too late when he realized. A low, distant roar cracked through the night. Not Moonfyre's, but something deeper, older. The sky shifted, and Baelor turned just in time to see a great shadow descend from the storm clouds.

Vhagar.

His breath left him in a sharp exhale, his nails digging into his palms as he turned back to Myna, "you tricked me."

Myna looked at him, her expression unreadable but smiling, "Well: I did say I wished to see you suffer."

A pause. Then, softer, "and I remain loyal to Aemond."

Baelor felt something deep and ugly turn inside of him. His hands shook slightly at his sides. He's fucking laughing at me, Baelor thinks of Aemond in the sky.

But then again – if Baelor would've left the pit instead of Aemon, Lucerys Velaryon would've still be alive.