King Viserys I Targaryen is dead.

His body is locked inside his chambers by Alicent and Criston who discovered him. The last people his rotting eye saw was Helaena, Genna and the children. They often went to his chambers early in the nights so the children could say their good nights. Alyssa would often read him stories of the Conquerors. Viserys often mistaken her for Rhaenyra.

While the Blacks already returned to Dragonstone, the Greens remained seated within Alicent's chambers; thinking, pondering. They had to play this correctly if they wanted to see themselves succeed. Ser Criston was the first one to find out of the King's passing, the key within his fingers turning quickly in the frame before he rushed to tell the Queen. Baelor was the next one to know the news. He found it out from Criston, having to swear to him to not tell a soul about it. Genna and Heleana or Myna still don't know it. Aemond does, when he sits by the fireplace, chin in his hand. Otto walks up and down the dimly lit chambers, thinking, planning. Baelor stands in the middle of the chambers, unaware of his surroundings. It felt strange – it wouldn't be the first time he killed a man, it would, however, be the first time he killed a man by poison. Strangely enough, he felt worse for the man he killed before than he felt for killing his own father.

What is to come felt strange to him. He wondered what it was like for Viserys – if he died peacefully, if he choked on the last drop of poison Baelor gave him within his tea. If he died thinking broken family bonds were now stronger. If he died wondering if making Rhaenyra his heir was a bad decision. If he died knowing that he even had other children besides Rhaenyra.

"... to find him," Baelor heard his grandsire when he brought himself from his thoughts. He's talking about Aegon who somehow figured their father was dead and is now one foot on a ship to Essos if they don't find him.

When Aemond suggested he goes with Criston to find his brother, his grandsire shot him down, "let Baelor get him."

When he looked at Otto, he knew what he meant: you said you wanted him dead? This is your chance. Baelor nodded, looking at his mother in one of the armchairs, "I can do it."

When he took a few steps back and nudged his head to the doors for Ser Criston to follow, his mother called out; voice strangled from the prayers she spoke for the past day, "Baelor."

He turned his head to look at his mother. She didn't say a word; she didn't have to do so for him to understand – do not do anything you or us will regret. Baelor nodded his head and disappeared in the long a dim corridor.

Baelor adjusted the hat on his head, his fingers twisting the worn fabric as he walked through the dimly lit streets, his boots splashing in the filth of the city. Ser Criston trailed beside him.

"I do hope he's on a ship to Essos already," Baelor mused, voice light, twisting his ring as they moved through the narrow alleys, "it would save us some trouble."

Criston chuckled, stepping over the corpse of a man who had been dead for far too long, "do you not wish to see him on the Throne? Rather see your sister?"

Baelor scoffed, rolling his eyes, "oh, absolutely. I dream of nothing more than seeing a Dragonstone whore on my brother's Throne. Have I not made that obvious through the years?"

Criston snorted, shaking his head as they reached the whorehouse. Baelor's fingers rapped against the old, beaten door, his gaze flickering around the street as he waited.

The Madame opened the door, her eyes softening when she saw him, "prince Baelor. Not in the mood for one of the girls?"

Baelor offered her a lazy smirk, tilting his head, "not today, no. I'm a very busy man, you see."

He twisted the ring on his finger, matching the golden dragon and lion he shared with Genna and showed it to the woman as if that would've changed anything, "my brother?"

"Was not here today."

Baelor clicked his tongue, barely biting back a sigh. That would have been too easy. When Criston opened his mouth to press for more, Baelor nudged his shoulder, already turning on his heel. The Madame called after him—something about hoping to see him return soon—but Baelor was already out of earshot, making his way toward the Sept of Baelor, his pace steady. Criston was close behind, his fingers suddenly tugging at the back of Baelor's hat, keeping his hair tucked under.

"What?" Criston asked, "you think your brother suddenly became devoted to the Faith?"

Baelor scoffed, "Aegon? Devoted? That's a good one, Ser Criston. Tell me another."

Criston exhaled sharply, but Baelor continued, "no. But our mother is. Aegon was always weak, that much you and I know. Where else would he hide other than the one place he never sought comfort in? The only place that connects him to our mother without her actual presence?"

Criston fell silent for a moment, his fingers still gripping the back of Baelor's hat. The Kingsguard mutters then, shaking his head, "your mind does wonders."

Baelor smirked, adjusting the hat Criston kept tugging at, "and I'm the weak brother? Please, give me some credit, Ser Criston."

The Sept was eerily silent. The only sounds were the soft crackling of candle flames and the distant wail of the wind slipping through the stone archways. The air smelled of melted wax and old prayers, of the kind that never left this place. Baelor moved like a ghost, his boots sliding across the cold floor, careful not to make a sound. He did not know why he did this—there was no one to disturb but a drunk and crying fool hiding beneath the altar.

He stopped before the candles, his eyes tracing the flickering flames. Baelor had prayed once. Not in years, not in any way that mattered, but still, the habit lingered. It was instinct, a reflex he had never fully shaken. He had prayed without realizing it when Genna was locked inside the birthing chambers, her screams sharp enough to make his bones ache. His fingers twitched at his sides, his lips moving in a desperate whisper to the Mother. He stood outside the door, as his own mother had once done, hands clasped, teeth clenched. But Baelor was no Alicent Hightower.

A sound—a soft tap against his boot. Baelor exhaled sharply, closing his eyes as he muttered in High Valyrian, "ao should emagon dakogon faster." (You should run faster.)

From beneath the altar, a slurred and pitiful voice replied, "nyke emagon nykeā lōgor ready. Ivestragī issa jikagon." (I have a ship ready. Let me go.)

Baelor didn't move. Criston had not yet entered the Sept, but Aegon was already begging. How pathetic. He sighed, "nyke daor holding ao arlī, lēkia." (I'm not holding you back, brother.)

Silence. And then, softly, "ao jāhor daor ivestragī issa jikagon either." (You will not let me go either.)

Baelor shook his head, his lilac eyes still closed, "I will not let you go, no."

A shuffle of movement, then Aegon pulled himself from under the table, his hair a mess, sticking to his clammy forehead with sweat and to his cheeks with tears. His eyes were glassy, unfocused, "I have no desire to rule."

Baelor looked down at him, at the wreck of a man who was supposed to be their father's heir, "we both know that. Yet you are the elder."

Before Aegon could reply, Baelor reached down, fingers curling around the heavy cloak that rested over his brother's shoulders. He yanked him to his feet, forcing him to stand. Aegon swayed unsteadily, and Baelor held him firm, his grip tightening.

"And yet you are the King," his voice was quiet but firm, "our father is dead. You are his firstborn son, and you will sit the Iron Throne. Do you know what our whore of a half-sister will do? She will take what rightfully belongs to you. And do you truly believe she will let any of us live? Helaena? Your children?"

Aegon's drunken haze seemed to disappear for a moment, fear slipping into his features, "she would not—"

"She will," Baelor's voice was sharper now, "simply by living and breathing, you are a threat. Do you not see? You are a man grown, Aegon. How can you be so blind?"

The doors of the Sept groaned open. The moment was breaking, slipping through his fingers. Aegon's hands shot forward, gripping Baelor's face, his thumbs pressing into his brother's cheeks. His breath reeked of wine.

"We can leave," his voice was desperate now, "we can take our wives, our children, and go. Somewhere in Essos, the Free Cities—wherever you'd want. You can be free, Baelor. No more councils, no more fucking plots, no more—no one will care that you're as mad as a fucking dog."

Baelor stilled. For a single moment, the world did not move. His breath was slow. His pulse heavy in his ears. His own twin, in all his drunken stupor, had seen through him. Was it that obvious? If Aegon could see the mad edges of his mind, the slipping mask, then who else had noticed? His brother's hands trembled against his skin, his eyes pleading. Baelor did not know what he was pleading for. To let him go? To come with him? To admit that he was broken beyond repair?

A voice cut through the air, "princes."

Baelor's expression darkened in an instant. He shoved Aegon back, the force sending him staggering. Aegon's lips curled into something between a smirk and a grimace, "so the whispers are true, then? As mad as any Targaryen?"

Baelor did not respond. For a moment, he imagined it. His fingers curling around his dagger, pressing it against his brother's throat. A quick slice, hot blood spilling over his hands. Criston would not stop him. He would not tell. He had made his preferences clear—he did not want Aegon on the throne. Or perhaps he could let Aegon get on his ship, let him believe he had slipped away unnoticed. But that left too much to chance. Aegon could still be found, still be used against them. He could strangle him. With his own hands. Squeeze the breath from his lungs. No blade, no trace. He could push him down the stairs outside the Sept. Make it look like an accident.

The thoughts came easily. Too easily. But he did nothing. He only watched as Criston caught Aegon before he could flee, gripping him tightly, dragging him away from Baelor's reach. And Baelor let him.

Because, in the end, Baelor Targaryen was no conqueror, no warrior. At his very core, he was still the same weak worm of a boy he had always been.

Genna Lannister grew restless over the years. She spends them hungry, fingers aching for a future she could never hold, a future she never had. She sits behind the desk in her chambers, hand grazing the aching and cramping belly, her other one gripping the pen. The paper in front of her became stained with drops of black ink, mixing with the tears. Tyland left for Casterly Rock a few days prior: he said his brother had some issues with some of the smallfolk there. Genna bit back a choke when he hugged her, murmured against the top of her head that he will return soon.

Dear father,

I hope Casterly Rock brings you peace that I cannot grasp in King's Landing. I beg of you that you allow me to visit home, if only for a few days. I wish to see home again, to show my girls where I grew up. I must get from here before I lose my mind and do something irrational. I fear I might see mother soon.

She fears sending the letter—fears the thought of someone finding it, reading it, and calling her mad. Her hand stills, ink pooling on the paper as she stares at the wall ahead. She bites down on her lower lip, hard enough to draw blood, as another wave of pain washes over her. Then, a move beneath her ribs—a small kick. They're still here. Still alive. The thought calms her, if only for a moment.

She prays for a boy. A son to cry out at birth, a son to finally end this cycle. If she gives the realm a boy, maybe Baelor will no longer look at her with that gaze, expecting a male heir for himself. Perhaps he will stop speaking of more children. Four should be enough. She clings to that hope, desperate as it is.

The doors crack open and Alicent walks in with Helaena trailing behind her like a lost duckling: dressed in the darkest shade of green, hair pinned up in those old Valyrian styles Genna tries to follow when doing her own girls' hair, fingers twisting the old golden ring that always reminds her of the youth that slipped away from her grasp. Genna slides the paper away from the edge of the desk, afraid Alicent will read. The queen stops by the foot of the wooden desk, eyes falling on the letter but back at Genna, "the king is dead."

There was no sorrow there, no pain or grief for a man she called her husband for all these years. Because Viserys Targaryen was the king of the realm above the duty of marriage or fatherhood. More so now: when the Iron Throne is left alone with no one to sit upon. Her fingers reach out for the Star of the Seven around her throat, mumbling a prayer for the late man. While doing so, Alicent moved to the tall wardrobe, cracking it open until she found the dress – deep in the back as if to hide it away from the world.

"Baelor found Aegon," Alicent continues, "we must get ready. Helaena is already dressed, let us help you."

Genna looks up; away from Helaena and to Alicent who is placing the green dress on the bed, "ready for what?"

"The coronation," her mother-in-law responds as if it was the clearest thing she ever said.

Genna bites her tongue to keep from saying it aloud – they're crowning Aegon, not Rhaenyra. They're usurping the rightful heir, the one Viserys himself named before his death. But she doesn't protest. Instead, she allows the women to help her to her feet and guide her to the centre of the chamber.

They dress her in a dark green gown with long sleeves, its fabric embroidered with dragons and lions intertwined. As they pull it over her shoulders, she listens to Alicent's voice, speaking of Aegon's coronation before the masses. Of Viserys' final wish, whispered on his deathbed, that his firstborn son should succeed him. Of the Conqueror's crown, soon to rest upon Aegon's head, upon Helaena's.

Genna wonders, as the dress settles over her, if she will ever see Casterly Rock again. If her girls will walk the halls of her childhood home, look upon its golden cliffs and endless seas. If her father conspired in this, if he will stand beside her as they witness the usurpation of the Iron Throne.

The streets of King's Landing were alive with noise, the air thick with the scent of sweat, smoke, and the salt of the Blackwater. The city had woken before the sun to see history being made once more, to watch a crown be placed upon a new king's head.

The carriage carrying Baelor and Genna followed closely behind the one carrying Alicent, Aegon, and Helaena. Though the wooden walls muffled much of the outside noise, the occasional yell broke through the barrier—calls of Long live king Aegon! Once in a while, there was a loud scream of Long live queen Rhaenyra that Baelor refused to acknowledge.

Genna sat stiffly, her back straight, hands folded in her lap, though every now and then, her fingers ghosted over the curve of her belly. The babe moved beneath her skin, a small movement that made her bite the inside of her cheek. She shouldn't be here. She should be resting. But that was not a choice she had any saying in.

Baelor, beside her, was deathly silent. His hand rested on his knee, fingers tapping out a rhythm. His other hand twisted his ring round and round, a nervous tick he likely didn't even notice. He hadn't looked at her once since they had stepped inside the carriage.

"You're quiet," she murmured, breaking the silence.

Baelor scoffed lightly, not turning from the window, "would you rather I sing?"

Genna exhaled a slow breath, rolling her wedding ring between her fingers like Baelor had a moment ago, "you've barely spoken all morning."

He let out a small breath, "I have little to say."

She could tell he was biting back words. He had grown good at that, silencing himself, holding his tongue when he wished to let it loose.

"You do not have to pretend," she said softly, turning her gaze toward him, pleading for the boy she saw a few nights ago, "not with me."

Baelor's fingers held his ring. He looked away from the window then, his dark eyes looking towards her. Whatever look he had on his face was a look she spent years trying to read but with no luck.

"Do you think I want this?" he asked, his voice quiet, "do you think I asked for this day to come?"

Genna held his gaze, even as she felt her heartbeat painfully in her chest, "no."

His throat bobbed as he swallowed, and he turned back toward the window, exhaling harshly through his nose. The carriage rocked slightly as it made its way through the streets. Genna watched him for a moment longer before turning her gaze to the window on her side. The city looked the same as it always had—filthy, loud, full of life and suffering all at once. But there was a charge in the air today.

"You should not be here," Baelor muttered after a long silence.

Genna blinked, turning back to him, "I had no choice."

"You could say you felt sick. No one would have questioned it."

Genna shook her head, fingers holding her bump, "And risk being accused of disloyalty? No, I am exactly where I am expected to be."

Baelor made a low, frustrated sound in his throat. His fingers twitched involuntarily, and before he could stop himself, Genna reached for his hand, pressing her fingers lightly over his knuckles. His breath hitched slightly, his body going still. She didn't look at him, only ran her thumb over his skin in slow strokes.

"It will be alright," she whispered.

Baelor let out a short, bitter laugh, "do not toy with me."

Genna exhaled, tightening her grip slightly, "then I shall say this instead—whatever happens today, we will survive it."

Baelor was quiet for a long moment. Then, so softly she almost did not hear it, he whispered, "I do not know if I want to."

Her chest ached at the confession, but she said nothing. Instead, she held his hand just a little tighter.

The carriage came to a slow stop, and the sound of the crowd outside echoed in the carriage. Baelor inhaled and pulled his hand from hers. Whatever moment had existed between them was gone in an instant, replaced by duty, by expectation. The door swung open, and the blinding light of day flooded in.

It should have been him, Baelor thought where he stood at the side, watching Ser Criston yell out Aegon's name and place the crown on his head. It should have been Genna, he thought when his mother placed the crown on Helaena's head and called her the Queen. It should have been them hearing the crowd cheer their names and wish them success and happiness. But instead, Baelor stood by the side, watching Aegon looking at him. He bit his tongue and bowed his head to the King of the Seven Kingdoms.