He was a dog, Baelor concluded—a beast bound by invisible chains, forever circling back to his master, unable to escape the leash that his grandfather had wrapped too tightly around his neck. He was like a hound that would always return to its cage, no matter how far it ran. But this, this was different. He loved Genna—loved her like a rotten dog starved for affection, seeking her touch. It was a perversion, he knew that. To love a woman like her, a Lannister—so pure, so warm—was to disgrace himself.

He had sworn, years ago, that he would never allow himself to love. It was a weakness, a sin that made men lesser, stripped them of their dignity and strength. Love was not sacred or holy, as the Septons preached. No, love, to Baelor, was a wound—a rotting carcass of something long past its prime, buried deep within the earth, and yet still clinging to life with a hunger he couldn't understand. It was a curse, one that twisted inside him, gnawing at his soul like the hunger of a dog that had tasted blood and could never let it go. But Genna, she was his temptation, his sin incarnate. To love her, to admit it even to himself, would be to dishonour the very gods who watched over him. Yet, here he was, a dog at her feet, unable to turn away.

He clenched his jaw, his fingers twitching as the soft scent of lavender oil filled the air. Genna stood behind him, her touch gentle as she applied the oil to his back, her hands gliding over the scarred skin. She always tried to soothe him. He hadn't expected it, this tenderness, this soft touch that made his heart twist in ways he couldn't understand. He had sworn to never be weak, to never allow himself to be vulnerable, but here she was and he found himself almost wanting.

He didn't understand it, but he couldn't ignore it anymore. She wasn't just the Lannister woman he had married for political gain—she was something more, something crucial to his survival.

"I've heard whispers," Baelor said abruptly, his voice low and taut, "about my sister. She's coming back."

Genna's hands faltered for a split second, her fingers stilling as she rubbed the oil over his back, but she didn't let it show. She was used to his mood swings, the nature of his thoughts, "I haven't heard anything about it," she replied quietly, keeping her voice neutral as she continued her task.

Baelor scoffed bitterly, his voice growing more dangerous with every word, "she's returning to claim what she thinks is her birthright, for whatever fucking reason. She's even petitioning to name Jacaerys as her heir. Bastards, all of them. For the life of me, I cannot understand why the gods allow this."

He paused, his fingers tightening into fists at his sides, "and yet they'll let her do it. No questions asked."

He leaned forward, his brow furrowing as he rubbed his hands together, trying to steady his breath, "Vaemond won't allow it, and I can't say I blame him. But she's coming here, to this very place, to defend her claim."

Genna said nothing for a moment. She had learned to hold her tongue on such matters, especially when it came to Baelor's family. His words carried frustration, an anger that never quite found a place to land. She silently placed the glass vial of lavender oil back into its cabinet, careful not to disturb the silence.

Baelor's eyes flicked over to her, "areyou going to stay silent on this too? You always have an opinion, Genna. Don't pretend you don't."

She could feel the sting in his words, though she remained calm, nodding as she finished tidying the cabinet, "I don't have an opinion on it, Baelor. You know I don't like to speak on such matters."

Her voice was soft, almost apologetic, but Baelor was having none of it. He stood up from the chair suddenly, the movement quick, and he walked to the bed where he began pulling on his doublet with a scowl.

"Are we truly to allow bastards to rise this high?" he muttered, his voice filled with disdain, "bastards with no claim, no right. And then my sister, of all people, thinking she's entitled to the Throne. As if it belongs to her."

Genna, still standing near the window, didn't respond. She had lived with Baelor's anger for so long now, it no longer surprised her. But his words, always so bitter, cut deeper every time. She knew what he had done, what he had really done to his family.

Baelor's voice grew louder, almost frantic, "she wants to place Jacaerys on the Throne after herself, and then have her bastard inherit the Lordship of the Tides. Does she really think she can steal that from my brother? From the rightful heirs?"

Her fingers curled slightly in front of her, instinctively protecting the babe. A thought—unspoken, dangerous—flashed through her mind, but she didn't let it reach her lips. She had long ago learned that there was no place for truth between her and Baelor.

The tension between them thickened, but she maintained her composure, "I'm sure the Queen and the Hand will make the right decision when the time comes."

Baelor's gaze softened briefly, his eyes flicking to the closed door, "I hope so. Father is too sick to be of any help. Grandsire and mother... I suppose they'll have to cover for him."

At that moment, the sound of small feet pattering down the hallway interrupted them, followed by the laughter of two young girls. Alyssa's voice could be heard before the door even opened, "Syrax laid eggs!"

Baelor's expression softened at the sound of his daughters' voices, but only for a brief moment. The door swung open, and two small figures rushed inside. Alyssa, with her lilac eyes wide and sparkling with excitement, flung herself at Baelor's leg, her hands clinging to him as she looked up at him with that familiar, innocent gaze.

"Syrax laid eggs!" she repeated, bouncing on her feet, "can we have one, Kepa? Can we? We could be like you or uncle Aemond!"

Baelor barely stifled a sigh, but the way his daughter gazed up at him—so full of hope—stirred something in him. He reached out, brushing strands of her hair from her forehead

"I'm sure we'll figure something out," he replied, "Rhaenyra will be here soon, and you can ask her then."

Alyssa nodded eagerly, Rhaella toddled over and pulled at her mother's dress, her own eyes wide and expectant. Baelor glanced toward the door, his mind already elsewhere, but for a fleeting moment, his gaze softened as he looked down at his daughters.

For all his plans, his schemes, they were still his daughters, and for just a moment, he wished he could protect them from the world he had created—a world that was beginning to consume him. As the door closed behind them and the soft sound of their giggles faded, Baelor was left alone again with his thoughts—and the growing weight of the future that he could no longer control.

Baelor had always struggled to understand the hearts of his daughters, their desires, their dreams, and what drove them to seek out dragons and power. If he had truly understood them, he would never have suggested they go to Rhaenyra in the hopes of receiving dragon eggs. But on that cold spring morning, Alyssa, in all her enthusiasm, seemed to embody everything Baelor had failed to understand about their ambitions.

She was the first to greet Rhaenyra and her family in the yard of the Red Keep, her yellow dress fluttering as she skipped towards them, her small feet barely touching the stone beneath her. Her smile was wide, eyes sparkling with excitement as she called out, "hello!"

Rhaenyra returned the smile, the warmth of her expression not lost on the girl as she stepped down from the carriage, "hello, Alyssa."

"I heard Syrax laid eggs!" Alyssa exclaimed, her hands clasped tightly behind her back as she rocked back and forth on her heels.

Behind Rhaenyra, Daemon scoffed softly, a sound that Alyssa didn't catch. Even if she had, the meaning would have been lost on her. It was a moment, dismissed just as quickly as it had come, as Baelor walked out the Red Keep, looking at the courtyard with a purpose. His eyes quickly landed on Alyssa.

"Alyssa!" Baelor's voice rang out, his tone calling her attention.

Alyssa turned at the sound of his voice, her face lighting up with a wide grin, "I'm sorry, kepa is seeking for me!" she announced brightly before turning and running back toward the stairs. She launched into Baelor's legs as she reached the top, nearly tripping over her own feet in the rush.

Baelor placed a gentle hand on her head, brushing the stray strands of hair away from her forehead with the care of a father, "go inside and find your mother."

"But—" Alyssa started to protest, her excitement dimming slightly.

"No buts, Alyssa," Baelor stopped him, his voice hardening, "now."

With a pout that was only for a moment, Alyssa pulled herself from his leg and turned to race back inside the Keep, her small feet crashing against the stone steps. Baelor watched her go, his expression hardening briefly before he turned his gaze back to Rhaenyra, who had been standing nearby, observing the moment with her hand resting gently on her baby bump.

"Rhaenyra," Baelor said with no true emotion — at least not one a brother would carry for his sister.

"Baelor," Rhaenyra replied, standing straighter, her own hands moving to rest more protectively over her swelling belly.

Baelor's eyes flicked briefly to his nephews standing behind Rhaenyra, but he didn't acknowledge them. He nodded curtly before turning his back to them as he made his way back into the halls of the Red Keep.

The family followed in silence, their footsteps echoing through the halls as they trailed behind Baelor. None of them noticed the figure lingering in the shadows, just beyond the threshold of the hallway.

Myna stood near the doorway, her grip firm around the book in her hands. Her gaze traced the sharp lines of Baelor's shoulders, the tension in his posture, the barely restrained storm beneath his otherwise controlled movements. She did not move immediately. Instead, she let the silence settle, let him walk just far enough ahead that her presence remained unnoticed. Then she stepped forward, the soft rustle of her skirts barely audible against the cold stone floors. She was not simply watching Baelor — she was following him.

Baelor found himself once more in his father's chambers, the reek of sickness thick in the air. Viserys, in his usual half-awareness, did not acknowledge him for who he truly was, instead mistaking him for Aegon once more. A mistake he made so often it hardly even registered anymore. Baelor no longer corrected him. Why should he? His father would only forget moments later, falling into the depths of his own decaying mind.

Staying true to his plan, Baelor moved, easing Viserys upright as the king let out feeble groans and the occasional strangled cough. There was something to envy in him—this pathetic, rotting man. To exist in a state where the mind wandered somewhere else, somewhere better, while the body wasted away. To be so close to death and yet so blissfully unaware.

From beneath his doublet, Baelor took a small brown package, slipping out the deep red seeds hidden inside. He had read enough to know that a single seed could kill a man right away. But death would not come for Viserys so quickly. No, Baelor would let him rot, let him weaken and twist around like a dying beast, slowly torn apart by the claws of something stronger.

Grinding the seeds beneath cup, he mixed the powder into the tea left cooling at the bedside. Then he lifted the cup to Viserys' lips. His words came out murmured, tilting the cup just enough for the king to swallow a few mouthfuls, "drink, father."

Viserys groaned and coughed against the liquid, a wet sound that might have disturbed a man. But Baelor only set the cup back in its place, just as the chamber doors eased open and Rhaenyra stepped inside.

"Mandia," he greeted dryly, his voice lacking any warmth (sister).

"Valonqar," she returned, her gaze flickering from him to their father, something unreadable passing through her expression (brother).

"Who is it? Aegon?" Viserys rasped, his eyes remaining shut as his head lolled to the side.

Baelor's lips twitched, but he said nothing at first, instead glancing toward Rhaenyra, wondering if she'd heard. If she had, she gave no sign. Finally, he spoke, "Rhaenyra, father."

The king stirred, his brows furrowing together weakly. Then, with a croaking breath, he exhaled, "Rhaenyra... my only child."

Baelor let out a sharp breath through his nose, something bitter twisting in his chest. Would anyone ever truly question his actions? Would they mourn Viserys when his slow, agonizing end finally reached his death? When Baelor had made certain his father was nothing more than a memory? Would they cry for a man who had let Lucerys maim Aemond with no consequence? Would they weep for the king who turned a blind eye to Aegon's struggles? Would they mourn the father who dismissed Helaena without a second thought? Would they grieve for the man who exiled Daeron to Oldtown like he was some unwanted burden? Would they pity the fool who had left Baelor to drown in his own resentment, invisible in his twin's shadow, second even to his sister?

No. Baelor knew the truth. The only one who would truly be mourned was the golden heir, the cherished daughter, the perfect Rhaenyra. She who could do no wrong. She who was always beloved, always adored. Their father had never mistaken her for someone else. Never once looked past her to another child, the way he so often did with Baelor.

Rhaenyra moved to sit beside their father, her presence soft, as if she belonged there. And perhaps she did. If Baelor had ever allowed himself to believe in childhood dreams, in bonds that should have existed between them, he might have imagined a version of Rhaenyra that would have defended him. A sister who would have said; No, Baelor is also here. You have more than one son.

But she did not. She never had.

The chamber doors opened again, and Baelor turned just in time to see Daemon enter. The two silver-haired boys trailed behind him in the arms of Rhaenyra's ladies in waiting.

Baelor exhaled through his nose, stepping away from the bed. He picked up three wooden dragons from a nearby chair and crossed the room, offering them to Rhaenyra.

"My lady wife thought it would be a kind gesture to offer your sons a gift. And for your unborn child as well," he said, voice distant, "she was feeling unwell when she last visited father with the girls, so she left them here."

Rhaenyra hesitated before taking them, running her fingers over the painted carvings, "thank you."

"It was not my idea," he said quickly, unwilling to accept any gratitude.

Rhaenyra's lips twitched in something like amusement, "then thank Lady Genna for me."

"I will," he replied, his hands now empty, resting before him as though he had already dismissed himself from the conversation.

"The girls painted them," he added after a beat and now there was a smile attached to his face.

Daemon, who had remained silent up until now, finally let out a scoff, "it is the closest they will come to having a dragon, no?"

"If you wish to mock someone, mock me," he said, straightening his back, "do not mock my daughters for something they cannot control."

"They could always steal an egg," Daemon mused, fingers idly tapping against the cup of poisoned tea. His voice was edged with something too sharp to be casual, "like father, like daughter, isn't that right?"

Baelor clenched his teeth, his knuckles whitening at his sides, "hold your tongue."

"Aegon," Viserys wheezed, barely coherent, "hold your temper."

The words were like a slap. This time, Rhaenyra heard. So did Daemon. Baelor felt the weight of their silence, their knowledge of what had just happened. He bit his tongue, forcing his anger down, and looked away from his uncle.

"Apologies," he muttered.

Daemon was staring at the cup. A little too long, a little too hard. Baelor could feel the wheels turning in his head. Sensed the calculation behind his uncle's silence. He did not falter.

"It is herbs," he said smoothly, "Maester Orwylle sent them. Dornish Maesters claim they aid with his condition."

The tension was finally interrupted when the doors burst open again, a child's laughter filling the room.

Alyssa beamed at the family, her curls spilling loose from their braids, her yellow dress shifting as she hurried forward. She carried a book beneath her arm, grinning up at the people, "oh! Hello!"

Rhaenyra smiled, warm, kind, like a mother. Like their father had never been to him, "hello."

Baelor exhaled slowly. Alyssa scrambled onto the bed beside Rhaenyra, dropping the book at the edge of the sheets. Her words were proud when she spoke, "I came to read to Grandsire. I always do in the mor!"

Baelor sighed, rubbing his temple, and he felt the headache throbbing there slowly, "Aly—"

His daughter frowned before her eyes landed on the wooden dragons in Rhaenyra's lap. She smiled widely; showing the gap between her front teeth, "do you like my present?"

Rhaenyra looked down at the toys before back at her niece, "very much."

"It was my idea!" Alyssa explained enthusiastically, leaning her palms over the blankets that covered Viserys' legs, "mine is the blue one because Moonfyre is blue and Moonfyre is my favourite dragon! And – and the green one is Rhaella's. She doesn't like dragons that much; she says they are kind of scary but she really likes Vhagar. And the black one is from both of us. Our Septa taught us of grandsire's dragon Balerion. I do not know who will get the toys but I do hope they like them!"

Rhaenyra smiled at the girl babbling and – if she was in better conditions with Baelor – she would go and touch her cheek, thank her in that way. But she wasn't on good terms with her brother, therefore she couldn't possibly do so to her niece. Instead, she smiled, "thank you, Alyssa. I think my children will love it."

"It is . . ." Viserys breathed out shallowly, "it brings me great joy to see you all together again. Rhaenyra, your mother is missing this, go get her."

Before Rhaenyra could speak, Baelor was quick to stop her, "he lost senses of time moons ago. He gets confused sometimes."

Baelor stopped Rhaenyra again as he moved pass the two and around the bed, "come on, Alyssa, let us find your mother."

"But –"

"Alyssa, no," Baelor replied sternly this time, offering his hand to his daughter while grabbing the book, "you will return later."

Alyssa pouted before she turned to Viserys, pressing a wet and quick kiss on the rotting flesh of his cheek before pulling herself off the bed, grabbing her father's hand as he pulled her gently towards the room's doors. Before she could disappear behind the doors, Alyssa turned to the family one more with a bright smile, waving, "goodbye! I will see you later!"

Myna moved carefully, silently, her steps quiet as she made her way through the dimly lit corridors of the Keep. She knew where to find him. She always did.

Larys Strong preferred the shadows, lurking in places where he could watch unnoticed, hear whispers, and turn them into weapons. Myna had learned, over time, that he did not simply find information—he created it, turned it to his will.

She stepped into the chamber, the door clicking shut behind her. He did not look up at first, his fingers tapping idly against the arm of his chair, his head tilted ever so slightly as though listening to something only he could hear.

"You have been watching him," Myna said, her voice smooth, steady. She did not need to name who.

Larys finally lifted his gaze, a small, knowing smile curling at the edges of his lips, "and you have been watching me."

She didn't deny it. The firelight flickered between them. Myna stepped further into the room, her fingers ghosting over the spines of old books stacked atop his desk. There was something about Larys that unsettled people, but Myna didn't fear him. Maybe she should've had.

"You make a habit of observing my good brother," she continued, tilting her head slightly, "why?"

Larys leaned forward, folding his hands before him, "why do you?"

Myna narrowed her gaze, fingers tightening ever so slightly against the book she had been tracing, "Baelor does not concern you."

A soft chuckle left Larys' lips, almost amused, almost pitying, "oh, but he does. He concerns us all, whether you wish to see it or not."

Myna stepped closer, her dress whispering against the stone floor, "you believe he is dangerous."

Larys did not answer immediately. Instead, he studied her, his gaze lingering, as if attempting to peel back the layers like an orange. Then he speaks again, "I believe he wishes to be."

Myna held his gaze, unflinching, "and if he does?"

Larys tilted his head, his smile deepening as he exhaled slowly, "then he is a man worth watching."

Myna let the silence stretch between them. Then, finally, she turned, moving toward the door.

Just as her fingers brushed the handle, Larys spoke again, "you are worth watching too, Lady Myna."

She didn't pause, didn't offer him the satisfaction of a reaction. But as she slipped into the hallway, she could still feel the weight of his gaze on her back.