Baelor had always been able to sleep through the night as if there were no worries pressing upon him, but this night was different. His body twisted and turned, as if the weight of his past and future pressed down on him. After hours of failed attempts to find comfort, he finally pushed himself out of bed and made his way to the wide balcony. The chill in the air washed over him like an ocean breeze, a contrast to the heat within him. He slumped onto the dark green couch, the cold moving into his bones, but he welcomed it. It was the only thing that felt real.

Without turning around, he sighed, "Genna, go back to bed."

"I cannot find sleep," she replied softly, moving around the furniture, settling at the edge of the couch, her hand resting lightly on her growing belly.

Baelor's voice broke the silence again, filled with a tenderness that was both familiar and strange, "you're more important than I am, Genna. You cannot afford to get sick."

Genna opened her mouth to protest, but he silenced her with a soft kiss pressed to the top of her forehead, just under her hairline. The touch felt like a punch to her gut. She wanted to pull away, but she didn't. He moved back inside, grabbing the dark green blanket off the edge of the bed where he kicked it and returned to the balcony. He draped the blanket over her form before sitting back down.

He moved away, sitting back down at the edge of the couch. His gaze stayed on the night that stretched before them, King's Landing asleep, "why can't you sleep?"

Her fingers twisted nervously at the edge of the blanket, her gaze drifting to the chipped nails she had been avoiding, "the babe kicks too much tonight. He knows when you are restless."

Baelor tilted his head, his eyes studying her as though trying to see through her, "does the babe's mother also know when her husband is restless? Or is it just the babe?"

Genna finally looked up at him, her expression confused, brows furrowed, "what do you mean?"

A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, but it didn't reach his eyes. Often, she noticed it, "why are you so distant? You act like you don't want me near you."

Genna frowned, the unease in her chest growing, "you've never been like this before."

Baelor's expression flickered, as if he didn't quite understand the question, as if the bare existence of her words hurt him, "is it so wrong to care for you, Genna?"

Before she could answer, he moved closer, kneeling in front of her, his fingers gently grazing the nightgown that covered her belly. His gaze softened for a moment, but his eyes were still too bright, too wide, as though they were seeing something far beyond the present.

"Baelor, what's happening?" she whispered, her voice thick with the confusion and worry she couldn't hide.

He shook his head, his voice low but filled with an unsettling excitement, "I have figured it out, you know? There's a way forward, a way for us to... thrive. To be free of everything that's pushed us down."

His hands moved frantically, as if rehearsing something, some hidden prayer, "you, me, the children. We'll be glorious, Genna."

Her chest tightened; the warmth that had once comforted her now replaced by a cold knot of fear. She tried to pull away, but he was too close, his presence too overwhelming. His fingers brushed over her belly again, and she placed her hands over his, trying to stop them, "I don't understand, Baelor. What are you talking about?"

His smile widened, but it felt wrong, like it didn't belong on his face. He leaned in, his lips brushing against her ear, "I've taken care of it. The one who would hurt our children... I've handled it."

Genna's pulse quickened, her breath shallow. Her voice was a whisper, barely audible, but it shook with fear, "Baelor... what did you do?"

He pulled back, standing quickly, his body full with an energy that seemed to hum in the air, "nothing. Absolutely nothing... yet. But it will be done, Genna. We're close. The Seven will grant us what we deserve."

Her heart raced in her chest as she stood slowly, her hands trembling at her sides, "you're not making sense. You're scaring me."

Baelor's eyes darted around, almost wild, as if something unseen moved in the air around them. His breath came faster, "do you think I'm mad? I'm not mad. I'm... I'm seeing clearly. All of this... it was supposed to happen like this. You don't understand, but you will."

He began pacing back and forth, his hands moving in the air as if he were speaking to an invisible audience. Because, in a way, he always thought he performed for the Gods above, "do you know what they call it? The fever. The butterflies. It's a disease... from Essos. From Naath. But do you think anyone here understands it? Do you think anyone knows? I had to take matters into my own hands."

"Baelor, stop," Genna cried, her voice shaking as she tried to reach him, "you're not well. Please, just let me get someone—"

"No!" his voice cut through the night, harsh and sharp, startling her. His eyes locked onto hers, and for the first time, they seemed to focus on her, but there was no warmth there, only a dark, distant energy, "I don't need a Maester. I don't need anyone! What I need is for you to listen. To understand."

Genna's chest tightened, the weight of his words pressing against her like a knife was pressed against her skin. She stepped back, feeling the cold air against her skin, as if trying to distance herself from the man before her.

"What have you done?" she whispered, the words trembling in her throat.

Baelor approached her, his hands shaking as they cupped her cheeks. He pressed his forehead to hers, his breath hot and uneven, "Genna. I swear to you; I shall not hurt you. Not anymore. If I did, I do apologize. But no more, alright? Glory is to come for us – to us."

She moved, her hands pushing against his chest as she backed away. Her vision blurred with the tears she couldn't control. She begged, voice a frantic whisper, "Baelor, please. You're not well. You need help."

But Baelor's eyes—wild, distant, fevered—looked into hers, and the smile that crossed his lips was one of something unrecognizable, "glory, Genna. Glory awaits. And I've already begun to shape it for us."

With that, he turned and disappeared into the chambers, leaving Genna trembling, her heart hammering in her chest as she stared into the darkness, afraid of the man her husband had become. Of the man he always was.

The dining hall buzzed with life when Genna entered, the soft murmur of conversation blending with the clinking of silverware. Alyssa moved around the table, quick and happy, placing a lily from the garden in front of each family member. Rhaella sat between her grandfather and great grandfather, babbling nonsense, but both men seemed interested by her chatter, nodding along with gentle smiles. Alicent expressed her gratefulness with each flower Alyssa handed her, planting kisses on her cheeks. Helaena was busy with the twins, the younger children wriggling in her arms as she hummed softly to them. Aegon, on the other hand, was drowning himself in cup after cup, his attention elsewhere, his mind lost in whatever haze the drink provided.

Baelor sat at the far end of the table, his plate untouched, his gaze fixed on the eggs in front of him. Myna, seated beside him, twirled the edge of her dress between her fingers, a distracted, looking anywhere but the table. Aemond mirrored his elder brother's discontent. The contrast was clear: the joy that surrounded them couldn't reach the space Baelor placed between them.

Genna greeted her family as she made her way to an empty seat beside her husband, her movements slower than usual, her body heavy. The twins immediately rushed to her side, smothering her with wet and messy kisses, their tiny hands holding any skin they could reach. She returned their gestures with a soft smile, but her eyes stayed in their state of tiredness.

Tyland leaned forward from the far side of the table, his brow furrowing with concern as he noticed just how pale his only daughter looked, "you look like you saw a ghost. Are you alright?"

Genna offered him a forced smile, "I'm fine, thank you, father. Just couldn't find sleep last night, that's all."

"Should I send the Maester to your chambers later?" Alicent's voice was soft, but her concern was clear as she leaned in, her hands pressing gently against the table's edge.

Genna shook her head with a polite smile, though her fingers gripped the edge of the table for support, "no need, your Grace. I think once I get my rest, I'll be fine."

Aemond, suddenly, shoved his chair back with a force that caused it to tilt dangerously, making Myna flinch in her own seat. The sound of wood scraping against the floor filled the room, cutting through the talk. Without a word, Aemond stormed away from the table, his footsteps heavy and quick, echoing through the hall. Alicent called after him in vain, but he didn't slow.

As Myna shifted to stand, clearly ready to follow her husband, Genna reached out gently, stopping her with a quiet offer, "I can go check on him. You stay and eat."

Myna nodded, her gaze downcast, her hands tight around the fork, too lost in her thoughts to look up at Genna. Genna's heart ached for the girl—she could feel the pain from her though at the time she couldn't know why—but she gave a soft, comforting smile and excused herself, moving towards the exit.

The moment that she reached the doors, Alicent's words echoed in the back of her mind, how she should stay away from Aemond. It made her come to a sudden stop but it was too late to do something else but go forward with what she started. Her thumb rubbed against the part of her belly where the babe liked to kick as if to calm herself as she walked.

She reached the edge of the Godswood to find Aemond standing with his back to her, his shoulders tense, his hands clenched behind his back. She hesitated for a moment, unsure if she should approach, but then she spoke softly, her voice gentle, "are you alright?"

Aemond stiffened, his breath catching as he turned to face her, fingers twitching at his wrist—adjusting, fidgeting, but never quite steady. His voice came out as a whisper, "not truly, no."

Genna took a step forward when she asked, "why? What happened?"

His eye burned with something she couldn't name—grief, yes, but there was something else there. When his words left him, it felt like a sword was pressed against his chest, the tip of it grazing the skin there, "she lost the babe."

Genna's breath hitched, sorrow settling deep in her bones. She reached out, her fingers ghosting over the sleeve of his doublet right by his wrists. For a moment, she wanted to hold him there, to show some compassion, to let him know he's not alone. But the words of her mother-in-law echoed in the back of her brain. So, her hand fell back by her side, "oh, Aemond. I'm so sorry."

He didn't speak, only watched her, eye searching—searching for something he could not name, something he wasn't sure he had the right to take. There was a moment where he wanted to step forward, to beg her to take his wrist and hold her fingers at his pulse point to feel alive. But—Aemond Targaryen—had been the dutiful son. He wasn't Aegon. He wasn't Baelor. And he wasn't Daeron. He had followed every rule designed by Court, by his mother, his House, his family.

But even the most dutiful of them all snap.

Whatever invisible string that pulled him towards Genna Lannister snapped and he stepped closer to her, arms wrapping around her in the moment of desperation and grief he felt. His forehead pressed against her shoulder, his breathing against her neck. He held her in the way as though she was the only person keeping him from loosing himself, fingers grasping the fabric of her yellow dress as if she might slip away from him at any second.

And Genna didn't move away. Her hands found their place against his back, drawing circles across the black doublet. She didn't say anything—she wasn't sure he wanted her to say anything or if he just wanted someone to hold him in this state he found himself in. Because she knows the feeling of not having anyone to hold her when she feels like this.

Aemond shifted as he pulled back just enough to look at her. His gaze flickered over her face, lingering on her lips before trailing to her eyes—something unspoken tightening in his expression.

"Thank you," he murmured, his voice quieter than before, but heavier somehow.

When his fingers brushed against her hip, the thought of Baelor crept inside the back of his mind again. He lingered there like a ghost but Aemond didn't—couldn't pull away yet. Not fully, at least. Genna hesitated only a moment before she reached up, brushing her fingers along the pale Targaryen skin of his face. She pressed a kiss against his scarred cheek. She did that whenever her girls felt sad. She wasn't sure if it was the right thing to do at this moment.

Aemond stilled beneath her touch, his eye fluttering closed for the briefest moment, as if savouring the sensation; as if he knew this will never happen again. When he opened it again, he looked at her with something dangerously close to longing, his hand lifting ever so slightly before falling away.

Genna stepped back before the moment could break, offering him the ghost of a smile. She didn't linger, though she felt the weight of his gaze following her as she left, the air between them thick with things unsaid.

Inside, the atmosphere had turned into something heavy, suffocating. The usual warmth of the dining hall had been stripped away, leaving behind only strained politeness and the weight of something unspoken. The fire crackled softly in the fireplace, casting shadows against the stone walls, but the heat did little to thaw the icy tension that held the room.

Myna had already broken the news. It lingered in the air, clinging to the corners of the chamber like the ivy grows upon the walls of the Keep. Alicent sat there with her hands folded in her lap, her eyes showing sympathy. She murmured her condolences in a voice as soft as silk, but it was clear that her words did little to ease the tension.

Baelor remained utterly still, his fork against the plate and food he never touched. His gaze wasn't fixed on anything in particular—hovering just above his meal, unfocused, as if he wasn't truly seeing what lays before him. The candlelight cast sharp angles against his face, deepening the hollows beneath his eyes.

Otto sat at the head of the table, his posture rigid, his eyes sharp and unreadable. He said nothing, but his irritation was plain enough—though it was not directed at the loss itself, but at Baelor's silence. The quiet, the stillness, the avoidance. The absence of reaction.

Tyland showed no sign of grief. The girl had meant nothing to him, he couldn't care less for her fate. He merely continued eating, unaffected, as if the conversation around him had nothing to do with him.

Aegon, slouched and half-lost in his own mind, tipped his goblet lazily against his lips. He drank deeply, eyes glazed, his mind already far removed from the grief circling the table. His fingers tapped idly against the wooden surface, restless, careless; not a bone in his body cared about what happened or will happen with Myna.

Helaena hummed softly, her fingers tracing patterns against the tablecloth. Her gaze flitted toward the candle's flame, lost in some distant place, disconnected from the suffocating grief and discomfort surrounding them. If she had registered the tension, she gave no sign.

Across the room, Genna returned to Myna's side, lowering herself gracefully into the seat beside her. She reached out, fingers curling around the girl's arm in a gesture of quiet comfort. Her words came out as a murmur, her voice like always filled with warmth the Targaryen and Hightower family could never show, "I am truly sorry, Myna."

Myna's gaze lifted, her lips pressing into a tight, measured line. There was grief there, but contained—controlled, "thank you, my lady."

The scrape of wood against stone shattered the quietness.

Baelor pushed back from the table abruptly, the sharp screech of his chair cutting through the quiet like a blade—just like Aemond's did moments ago. Alicent's gaze flicked toward him in an instant, sharp with warning. His expression was carefully blank, his lips tugged into something resembling a smile, though it held no warmth. No feeling at all.

His voice came out as hollow, no emotion behind, "if you'll excuse me."

No one stopped him.

He turned on his heel and walked from the hall. The moment he stepped out of the dining hall, his mask cracked, his breath coming faster, his movements sharper. His boots echoed against the stone floors. The air in the Keep felt heavy, pressing in on him like a stone was pressed against his chest.

He wasn't sure if it was the cold or the guilt that made him shiver. Beneath that there was the foolish hope—the thought that if he kept walking, if he made it to that door, maybe he could escape it. Maybe he wouldn't have to return.

But hope, as he had long since learned, was a cruel and dangerous thing.

Baelor's breath hitched. There—a whisper.

At first, it was so faint that he thought it was the wind that came through the cold corridors of the Keep. But then he heard it again—closer this time. His footsteps stopped.

"Baelor."

A voice — soft. Pained. Familiar.

He turned sharply, his pulse hammering. The corridor stretched behind him, but he wasn't alone. He couldn't be. Why would there be a voice if he was alone? And then, just beyond the torches' reach, the shadows stirred. He knew this hallway. He had walked it a hundred times. But the shape standing just at the edge of darkness didn't belong here.

A figure. Small. Twisted. Half-buried in the gloom, but unmistakable. Its armour covered in blood and broken, as if crushed beneath the weight of something. A dragon, maybe? There was a dragon on it; the sigil of House Targaryen.

A hand reached out toward him—fingers curled in agony, caked in ash and blood. The stench of burning flesh filled his nose, almost chocking him. Baelor's stomach lurched. His body screamed at him to run, but his feet wouldn't move. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't think. The figure shifted, dragging itself forward with slow, jerking movements. His heart pounded against his ribs as the glow of the torchlight illuminated its face.

When he looked at the shadow, he saw himself — burned. Broken. Eyes hollowed with death.

A choked gasp tore from Baelor's throat, and suddenly the vision shattered.

The hallway was empty. The torches flickered as they always had, their light warm and steady. The air smelled only of stone and dust.

Baelor swallowed hard, his hands shaking as he forced himself to move: not real. Not real.

But the smell of blood, dust and death never left. He felt it clinging onto his skin and into his bones until he reached the doors. Without hesitation, without knocking, he pushed it open.

The chamber was dimly lit, the glow of a single candle casting soft light against the walls. The scent of parchment, ink, and something faintly herbal filled the air.

Baelor didn't wait. He stepped inside, his breath uneven, his composure slipping further with every passing second.

His words came out raw, something dangerously close to an emotion Baelor never showed — pure panic, "I need help."