Despite the lack of true marriage between them, Baelor remained in Genna's chambers. He could have requested separate chambers—there were more than enough rooms within Maegor's Holdfast—but the fear of whispers echoing through the corridors of the Red Keep made him stay. To move away from her, from the idea of their perfect marriage, would only invite rumours. And rumours, in court, were more dangerous than truth.

The night stretched into early morning before Genna finally fell asleep from exhaustion, her body curled (as much as the growing belly allowed her) on the large bed as though making herself small could undo the past and the sins she must have committed for the Gods to punish her this way. Her tears had dried into cold streaks against the silk pillow, her lips aching and bloody from where she dug her teeth into the skin. When Baelor entered, he moved like a ghost through the chamber—silent, deliberate, denying any warmth from himself. The dark green doublet embroidered with three-headed dragons was carelessly tossed onto the armchair beside the fireplace, boots dropped at the bedside with muted thuds. He settled at the edge of the mattress, back to Genna, hands clasped together so tightly his knuckles turned white.

She watched him through the darkness, the pretending she was asleep long gone, the flickering candlelight throwing long shadows across his spine. Without thinking, her fingers hesitated over the edges of an old scar that stretched from his left shoulder down to the last rib on his right side—a violent red mark, jagged and angry, as though his body still remembered the wound. She traced it gently, her touch barely there, yet Baelor's entire body tensed. A choked breath escaped him, one he hadn't realized he was holding. He closed his eyes, head bowing forward, and for a moment, she thought he despised the feel of her fingers against his skin. She withdrew her hand, guilt twisting in her chest.

Then he turned, swiftly, his face pale, red eyes locking onto hers, "I did not hate it," he whispered.

Genna held his gaze for a moment before he dropped it again, his attention shifting downward—to her belly. His expression softened, though the grief never left his face. He hesitated before reaching out, his fingers pausing just shy of her rounded stomach, as though afraid to touch. When the babe shifted, pressing against his palm even through the thin Dornish nightgown (a gift to Genna by Aemond and Myna), his lips twitched. It was not quite a smile, but something close.

Baelor exhaled shakily and lowered himself further, resting his head near her belly. His fingers spread gently over the fabric, rubbing soothing circles, as if trying to communicate with the babe, "hello there," he murmured, voice tender, reverent. "I see you are awake."

Genna should have reached out, should have let her fingers weave through his dark hair, but she remained still. She watched him instead—watched how his jaw tightened, how his lashes were damp, how his breathing hitched each time the child moved. He spoke again, quieter this time, more to himself than to her.

"I do wish for you to be a son," he admitted, pressing his lips lightly against the curve of her belly, "but your sisters would love you dearly no matter who you are. Rhaella wants a sister. She even named you. Rhaenys."

He let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head, "she loves the tales of the Conquerors. Since you already have a sister Visenya, she thought it fitting."

"Alyssa, though," Baelor continued, "she wants a brother. Someone to train with. She says Rhaella is too quiet for such things. She wishes to name you Aegon. I told her that was silly, that I already have a twin named Aegon. She tried to convince me otherwise—said it would be like the Conquerors again."

He huffed softly, as if amused by the thought, "Visenya and Aegon. And all we would need is Rhaenys."

For a brief moment, something like peace settled over him. Then, as quickly as it came, it slipped away.

He pulled himself back up the bed, facing Genna once more, "mother is in the Sept. Praying for the girls' safety."

Genna nodded faintly, her voice barely above a whisper, "I shall thank her for it in the mor."

Baelor pressed his lips together, his jaw tightening. He hesitated before asking, "did they see butterflies today?"

She blinked at the unexpected question, "in the Godswood. This morning."

Baelor hummed, "before or after my brother took Alyssa on dragonback?"

A chill ran down her spine at the shift in his tone, "before."

The silence that followed was thick, suffocating. It felt like a hand was holding and squeezing her neck but when she reached out to remove it, there was nothing there. Baelor's expression remained unreadable, yet Genna knew—knew the storm within him, knew the darkness that festered behind his ribs like rot. There was something broken inside him, something twisted and jagged, and no matter how hard she had once tried, she could not help him. Once, she had hoped she might find the source of it and carve it out, free him from whatever sickness clung to his soul. But those were the dreams of a girl. And girls, when forced into marriages they did not choose, learned quickly that dreams did not belong to them.

Morning light bled through the cracks in the heavy curtains, golden and green, yet Baelor remained in shadow. He had let Genna sleep, though she had barely rested—twisting, turning, caught in the grips of dreams she'd never speak of. Silent, he had left her there, walking through the Red Keep.

When he reached the doors to his daughters' chambers, he stopped. The scent of fresh lemons lingered in the air. His jaw clenched, fingers flexing at his sides. That smell. It followed him like a dog follows its owner, twisting in his gut like something rotten.

He didn't enter. Instead, he stepped to the side, down the dim hallway, pressing his palm to the concealed entrance of a passage he knew too well.

And the scent grew stronger.

Baelor shoved open the doors to the chambers with more force than he intended. The impact sent a vase of fresh flowers crashing to the floor, glass shattering, petals scattering like broken promises. Myna jolted at the sound, turning from her seat near the vanity. Her hair spilled over one shoulder, a picture of startled innocence. But her eyes—Baelor had learned long ago—were anything but.

She stood up quickly, closing the space between them, voice hushed, "what are you doing here?"

His fingers wrapped around her throat before she could take another breath. Myna gasped, nails biting into his skin as she clawed at his grip. Her back slammed into the stone wall, breath coming in stutters.

He leaned in, his voice a whisper, slow and quiet, "if you dare lay a finger on my daughters—if you even breathe their air—I swear to the Seven, the Old Gods, or whatever wretched thing you hold dear, I will mount your head on a spike for all the Keep to see."

Her nails dug deeper into his wrist, panic flooding her blue eyes. Her lips parted, a desperate plea shaping on her tongue, knowing he will never listen, "pl—please—"

"You know what I am capable of, Myna," Baelor pressed, his grip tightening, his voice sharp enough to cut. His eyes darkened, a red haze creeping in—the same shade as Moonfyre's burning gaze, "do not test me."

Her body fell when he finally released her, air rushing back into her lungs. She dropped to her knees, coughing violently, fingers trembling as they traced the reddened imprint on her throat.

Baelor crouched beside her, the way a lion might look at its wounded prey. He nudged her side with his knee, his voice disturbingly casual, "one of the servants will bring you moon tea later."

Myna stilled. She lifted her head, blinking up at him, "what?"

Baelor smiled—cold, cruel. Almost amused, "you didn't think I would allow your bastard to enter this world, did you? You must think me a fool."

Myna inhaled sharply, shifting back until her spine met the edge of the bed. Her hands twitched as though she wanted to wrap them over her stomach, but she stopped herself. A beat passed. Then, her lips curved—not in fear, but something far more dangerous.

"You always assume the worst of me, Baelor," she murmured, voice hoarse from his grip but still laced with that soft, honey like poison, "would you truly have me believe you fear a child? Or is it something else?"

He tilted his head, amusement flickering behind his eyes, "try me, Myna."

She smiled fully then, slow and knowing, "you think you have me cornered, but you forget—I know you."

She traced a finger along her bruised throat as though savouring the ache, "I know the way your mind twists. You can justify killing me, erasing me, but deep down, we both know I will always be a stain you cannot scrub clean."

Baelor's smirk faltered. But she wasn't done, "it matters not if you place my head on the spikes. It matters not if you sent me back to wherever I came from. Because I will always be somewhere in your mind."

Her voice dipped lower, "you think yourself a true Targaryen, but you are more Hightower than you care to admit."

Her lashes fluttered as she glanced toward the shattered vase on the floor, "breaking things when anger takes hold—how very much like your grandfather."

His fist clenched at his side. He thinks he might break her — fingers twisting her hair, dragging her to the open balcony doors and flinging her off and onto the yard below. Maybe Aemond will see her fall; maybe he'll try to save her or let her die in his arms. It didn't matter anymore.

Myna exhaled softly, gaze flickering toward the passageway behind him, "you should be careful, Baelor. Rage makes men reckless. And reckless men tend to meet unfortunate ends."

Baelor moved so quickly she barely had time to react. One hand slammed against the bed beside her head, the other grasping her jaw, tilting her face toward his. The flicker of confidence in her eyes broke, but she did not look away.

"How much involvement did you have in my daughters' sickness?" he asked, voice quiet but edged with something cutting.

Myna blinked, the shift in topic catching her off guard. But only for a moment. Then, she sighed, shaking her head with a sorrowful smile, "ah. That is what this is about."

"Answer me."

"I had nothing to do with it," she murmured, her fingers brushing over the back of his hand, a ghost of a touch, "I have done many awful things, Baelor, but harming a child? That is beneath even me."

Baelor did not move. He watched her, searching, waiting for the moment her mask slipped. Myna tilted her head, voice dripping with quiet amusement, "I would never hurt your children, Baelor."

She leaned in slightly, her breath warm against his cheek, "can you say the same about yourself?"

His grip on her jaw tightened briefly before he shoved himself back, standing to his full height.

Myna exhaled a quiet chuckle, rubbing her throat, "you suspect Otto. That your grandsire had something to do with it. You do not want to believe it; thinking he would never hurt you over the secrets you share. Or Daemon. Perhaps even Rhaenyra."

She sighed dramatically, pressing a hand to her chest, a small laugh leaving her lips, "I am flattered you think me capable of their level of intrigue, truly."

Baelor's eyes darkened, "you swearing means nothing to me."

"Then why ask at all?" Myna mused back, "you are not looking for answers, Baelor. You are looking for someone to blame. And instead of admitting you truly are just as awful as the rumours say, you wish to plant that on anyone but yourself."

A voice echoed from the hall beyond the chamber. Aemond.

Baelor exhaled, stepping back. His gaze lingered on her for a heartbeat longer before he turned, slipping into the secret passage like a ghost. Myna remained seated, her fingers grazing the fresh bruise at her throat, lips parting in a slow, satisfied smile.

Baelor stepped into the hallway; the heavy doors creaking shut behind him. The morning light cut through the high windows, too bright, too sharp, stabbing at his eyes. He exhaled, pressing his fingers to his temple as a pain throbbed behind his skull. The scent of lemons still clung to his skin, sickly sweet, like rot masked with perfume. He rubbed his eyelids as if trying to get rid of the ache inside him, as if he'll ever be clean.

He paused.

A shadow flickered at the edge of his vision. A figure. Tall, standing just beyond the torches. His breath hitched—but when he turned, there was nothing. His throat worked, swallowing down the panic creeping up his spine.

A voice. Faint. A whisper curling around his ear like damp breath. He thinks it's his father. Maybe he got better over the night. Maybe he dragged himself from his bed and back inside the Throne room.

"You will never be rid of me, Baelor."

He turned quickly, his hand flying to the hilt of his dagger, but the corridor was empty. Just stone and silence. His heartbeat pounded in his ears, feverish like. He needed to leave. He needed to mount Moonfyre and get away. Maybe he's as much of a coward like Aegon is, maybe they both want to run away like a couple of rats.

Forcing his feet forward, he made his way back toward the chambers. Near the door, he spotted Rolan, standing with arms crossed, his expression tired. Baelor steadied his breathing, rolling his shoulders back.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, his voice hoarse, almost cracking.

Rolan tilted his head toward the doors, voice sarcastic, "guarding your children. Obviously. I had the privilege of taking over from Cole."

Baelor snickered, one hand resting on the doorknob, "he went sniffing around my mother again?"

Rolan smirked, "he is her Grace's sworn protector."

Baelor let out another dry chuckle before pushing open the door, "sworn protector, yes."

The warmth of the chamber enveloped him, but it did little to shake the chill in his bones. Rhaella lay on her side, Alyssa curled behind her, her face buried in the brown tangle of her twin's hair. His lips twitched into a small smile. Alyssa must've woken up in the night and crawl into Rhaella's bed. At least here, they were untouched by the filth and rot outside.

Baelor crossed the room in slow steps, careful not to wake them. He sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. His fingers stroked Alyssa's back, coaxing her from the depths of sleep.

She stirred, little hands clenching the sheets before blinking up at him with sleepy eyes. Baelor leaned forward, pressing a kiss to her temple—her skin wasn't as warm as before.

He whispered, "how do you feel, pretty girl?"

Alyssa let out a soft murmur, squeezing her eyes shut against the morning light, "better."

Baelor's fingers traced soothing circles over her back, "does your tummy still hurt?"

Alyssa's eyes cracked open, and she shook her head. Baelor smiled, "good. I'm glad."

"Can we go on Moonfyre now?" she asked eagerly, her small fingers reaching for his arm, almost dragging herself up.

Baelor bit back a chuckle, gently coaxing her back down, "not yet, little dragon."

Alyssa pouted, "but you promised!"

"Not right in the mor, sweet girl," he soothed, covering her hand in his much larger one, "later. When you fully recover."

Just as Alyssa opened her mouth to protest, Rhaella stirred beside her. She turned over, eyes still heavy with sleep. A quiet groan escaped her lips, "where is mother?"

"Asleep, pretty girl," Baelor whispered, brushing a stray curl from her forehead, "are you feeling better?"

"I want mother," Rhaella mumbled but leaned into his touch nevertheless.

"I know," Baelor murmured, "but she was up all night and deserves some rest, alright? When she wakes, we'll go see her."

The sound of footsteps clicking against the floor made him tense. His grip on the sheets tightened for a second before he turned, his mind sluggish to process the sight before him. Helaena stood in the doorway, a gentle smile on her lips, a pair of delicate bellflowers cradled in between her fingers. She stepped inside, oblivious to the tension within Baelor's body.

"Are they awake?" she asked softly.

Baelor exhaled, nodding. He stood, allowing his sister closer. At the sight of their aunt, the girls' faces lit up. Rhaella pushed herself upright while Alyssa stretched out her hands toward the flowers. Helaena offered them both their gifts, "these are from Jaehaera and Aemond this mor."

Baelor scoffed, shaking his head, "is everyone doting over Aemond recently?"

Helaena gave him a look with her brows furrowed, "lēkia." (brother)

"What?" Baelor shrugged, arms crossing over his chest, like a child, "all I did was ask."

Helaena settled beside Rhaella, stroking her niece's hair, "Aemond is being kind to you and the girls."

"I never asked him to be," Baelor muttered, sitting on the opposite bed as Alyssa climbed into his lap.

Helaena sighed, her fingers threading through Rhaella's curls, "people do not have to be asked to be kind, Baelor. Some simply are."

Baelor's fingers tapped against Alyssa's ribs, "like Genna, you mean?"

Helaena nodded, "like Genna. She is sweet. And she listens when I talk about bugs, even though I know she hates them."

Baelor's gaze darkened slightly, "she is many things."

Helaena's fingers slowed over Rhaella's hair. Her voice dropped to a near whisper but not looking anywhere but the floor below, almost like she was in a trans, "there is a beast under the mask."

Baelor blinked, a flicker of something—pain? Confusion? —flashing across his face, "you speak in riddles again, Hel."

She looked up at him, expression far away, "do I?"

Baelor frowned and Alyssa moved her head, pressing it further into his chest, "you do it more often lately."

"Perhaps," she murmured.

Something shifted in the corner of his vision. A shadow, twisted and gnarled, curling against the wall. Baelor's breath hitched. The shape moved. Slithered almost, like a snake. The edges of his sight blurred, and suddenly, the room was too hot, the air too thick.

Then the doors swung open and the snake left his vision when Genna's voice rang through the room. Bright, happy, relieved all together inside her body, "thank the Seven."

The girls jumped from the bed, crashing into their mother's arms. Genna clutched them tightly, her fingers trembling as she smoothed down their hair.

"Are you better?" she asked breathlessly.

Alyssa grinned, dimples showing on each of her chubby cheeks, "perfect! My tummy doesn't hurt anymore, and Kepa promised to take us on Moonfyre!"

Genna smiled, running her fingers over Alyssa's cheek, grounding herself in the warmth of her daughter as if to tell herself that she is not a ghost. She is fine. She is well. She might be crying, she's not even sure anymore. She's holding them in her hands again and she doesn't care for anything else.

Helaena rose from the bed, pressing a soft kiss to Genna's hair, letting them have their moment, "I will see you later."

Genna nodded, smiling up at her sister-in-law, "I will come later."

Helaena left as she always did—quietly, slipping into the halls like mist. Baelor barely noticed. His head throbbed, his vision swimming at the edges.

Alyssa tugged on his sleeve, "Moonfyre?"

Baelor cupped her cheek and promised, "later."

She huffed, crossing her arms, like Baelor did a few moments ago, "I am not sick."

Baelor chuckled, warm fingers caressing her cold cheek, "you are."

"Am not!" she pouted, crossing her arms across her chest, making Baelor chuckle,

"you are," her father responded, "in the afternoon, alright? Get back in bed, please."

Though stubbornly and with the extra amount of padding her feet across the floor, Alyssa pulled herself in the messed-up bed with the promise of her father taking her on dragon back in the afternoon. Rhaella didn't need to be told what to do, already following her sister in the bed – although there was one free, she still slid under the covers next to her twin. Genna's hands cupped underneath her belly, making Alyssa perk her head up, "is it a boy?"

"We will have to wait until the birth, sweetling," Genna responded softly with a smile.

Alyssa pouted again, crossing her arms over her chest, puffing, "you never tell me anything."

"Alyssa," Baelor warned.

"Kepa," she returned the same attitude.

To not rise any fight so quickly after the night of almost losing them, Genna pulled herself off the edge of the bed, moving to the opposite bed, pressing her lips on each of their foreheads, "sleep now, girls. I know you had very little sleep over the night. We will come back later."

Baelor stared at them, willing the sickness in his blood to stay hidden, to stay buried. The shadows in the corners of the room twisted. And this time, they did not vanish.

Within the busy life of the Red Keep, the chambers of the Queen Alicent were always quiet The thick stone walls, the heavy curtains, and the crackling fire all seemed to trap sound, leaving only the gentle crack of burning fire. Shadows danced along the towering portraits of kings and queens long gone, their painted eyes following every movement within the room.

Genna Lannister sat in an armchair with more pillows she could count by Alicent's request. A footstool had been placed before her, though she had yet to make use of it. Her hands idly rested against the bump, tracing circles over the fabric of her gown where the babe likes to kick. She had spent enough time in these chambers to know that despite their look, they often felt much smaller when one stayed in them too long.

Alyssa, her ever-demanding daughter, had finally had her wish granted—Baelor had taken her on Moonfyre. Rhaella, in her usual quiet nature, had chosen a different path for the day, trailing (like a little duck) after her grandfather, Lord Tyland, as she excitedly dragged him to the Godswood to show him something of great importance (or so she had insisted). And so, for now, Genna remained in the company of the Queen, Princess Helaena, and her youngest daughter, Visenya, who giggled sweetly in Alicent's arms each time her grandmother bopped her tiny nose.

Helaena sat cross-legged before the fireplace, her soft lavender-coloured skirts pooling around her as she looked at the small wooden box before her. Her collection of insects wriggled inside—beetles, centipedes, even a large millipede that moved in perfect waves along her pale fingers. She held it up to the firelight, watching the shine of its black carapace as it crawled along her wrist.

"They are like brother," she murmured, half to herself, half to no one because she was used to no one listening to her.

Genna blinked at her, hearing her. Because she always did. Her lips curl in a smile, dimples deepening, "did you just call your brother a bug?"

"Mhm," Helaena tilted her head with a hum, still staring at the creature in her hand, "they do not bite nor sting. They only look terrifying. But in reality, they are not."

Genna exhaled a quiet chuckle, shaking her head. Helaena's riddles were as strange as ever. But the Princess turned her bright, dreamy eyes toward her then, offering out her hand, like Alyssa when she excitedly offers her mother her toy to hold while she does other things, "would you like to hold it?"

The Lady Lannister tensed, curling her fingers into the armrest. She loathed bugs—all small creatures that moved unpredictably. But Helaena had a way of looking at her in a way that made it difficult to refuse. And so, swallowing down her nervousness, Genna extended her hand. She forced herself to remain still, watching as it moved up the back of her hand, its body rippling in motion.

"How are you feeling, Genna? With the pregnancy?" Alicent's voice pulled her attention away from the bug, her tone warm with concern. She gently brushed a hand over Visenya's belly, the babe squirming in her grasp.

Helaena, sensing Genna's relief, plucked the millipede off her hand, returning it to its box. Genna shot her a grateful glance before adjusting herself against the cushions.

"Better than I expected," she admitted, "though I felt something strange last night, like a sharp pulling in my belly. The Maester assured me it was nothing, likely stress."

Alicent's frown was there right away, "I can have someone fetch him again, just to be sure."

"No need, Your Grace," Genna shook her head with a polite smile, "if it happens again, I will call for him. But I do not wish to make a fuss over nothing."

Alicent didn't look convinced, but she let the matter rest, turning her attention back to the babe in her arms. Visenya gurgled happily, reaching for the Queen's necklace with tiny, grasping fingers. Alicent chuckled, brushing a strand of auburn hair behind her ear.

"She is the sweetest babe," she murmured, pressing a gentle kiss to her granddaughter's temple.

Genna smiled, watching the scene with the feeling of warmth, happiness and proudness, "she is far calmer than the twins were—especially Alyssa."

Alicent let out a knowing laugh, "Alyssa was a reckless babe. I still remember how she tugged my hair the first time I held her."

"She still does," Genna sighed, though there was no real exasperation in her voice, "I am trying to break the habit."

"Enjoy it while it lasts, Genna," Alicent murmured, her voice suddenly quieter, distant. Her eyes were fixed on Visenya, but her mind was elsewhere—perhaps in the past, in the years when her own children had been small enough to cradle.

Silence settled over the room. The fire crackled, the shadows shifting with every flicker of light. Helaena, ever lost in her own world, ran her fingers idly over the wooden box, watching as her insects moved within it.

Breaking the quiet, Genna finally spoke, a small smile playing on her lips, "Alyssa is convinced she will be getting a brother this time."

Alicent's expression changed. Her lips pressed together in a way that made the fine lines of her face more pronounced, "if the Seven are merciful," she whispered.

Genna tensed. She knew what it meant; how everyone waited for the boy to wail out of her. Baelor, especially. How he craved to have a male heir of his own in the way Aegon has Jaehaerys or in the way Viserys has his sons. He'd be much better of a father to his own that Viserys ever was.

The Queen turned to her then, regarding her with something softer, though no less weighted, "I do adore the girls, Genna—do not misunderstand me. But the Realm needs male heirs, for as one day, Baelor may sit on the Iron Throne."

Genna inhaled, her fingers tightening against the fabric of her gown, "I am aware, Your Grace."

There was a quiet shift of movement. Helaena's fingers trailed absently along the edges of her wooden box; her gaze fixed downward. Her voice, when it came, was no louder than the whisper of the fire, "blood is too thick, too river-like."

Genna's breath caught. Her eyes moved to the princess, to the way she remained so eerily still, as if she hadn't spoken at all. Alicent, as always, did not seem to acknowledge Helaena's riddles. But Genna did. She always did.

And she stored the words away, tucking them into the quiet corners of her mind, never leaving, never forgetting—blood is too thick, too river-like.