The hallway outside their chambers was dimly lit, the torches burning low, as if the Keep itself was tired from the events of the past day. Baelor's boots clicked against the stone floor as though he couldn't decide whether to rush forward or turn back. His fingers were in his mouth again, tearing the soft skin around his nails until he tasted blood. Otto tried to break this old habit of his before—at a point Viserys as well. But they had failed, just like they failed at everything else concerning Baelor.

He hadn't slept. Maybe he closed his eyes for a few fleeting moments during the night, fingers clinging onto Genna's arms like he would be taken away if he loosened his grip.

He knows it not to be true—Rhaenys, her disoriented face, the whispers and shadows. He knows it yet allows his mind to play paranoid tricks on him that he can't control anymore. He half remembers Rolan and his arms holding him up like he was drunk and half remembers Genna's hands on his cheeks to make him remember where he is.

But her warmth was long gone now. Rhaenyra was still Viserys' favourite; the petition didn't change that. Lucerys is still the Heir to Driftmark; the petition nor Vaemond couldn't change that. Daemon still has the blood of the dragon within him when he cut Vaemond's head off. Baelor saw it coming, who could not? Genna didn't; she never did see such things. He remembers his fleeting hands trying to keep her upwards when she got sick, when she whispered a prayer (and he wasn't sure if it was for Vaemond or herself) and how she held her belly that ached. He had wanted to lunge at the Rogue Prince, tear him apart, make him choke on his own blood. Instead, he had stood there, nails digging into his palms as Rhaenyra fought back, as their father wheezed and groaned and tried to hold everything together with his dying hands.

He had ignored Orwylle's counsel, had disregarded his wife's condition, had let her stand there, watching the power slip from his hands as if it had never belonged to him at all. Now, he was here, standing outside their chambers, watching the door as if it might lash out at him.

Baelor flinched when the doors swung open. Maester Orwylle stepped out, his expression unreadable, wiping dried blood from his fingers with a white cloth.

"Is she alright?" Baelor's voice came hoarse, "the babe?"

"The Lady will be fine," Orwylle nodded, tucking the cloth away, "the babe as well. Kicking like a goat, still."

Baelor's lips parted slightly, almost as if he meant to say something more, but he only exhaled. He nodded, dropping his hand from his mouth, pushing past the Maester with a mumbled "thank you" before disappearing behind the doors.

Inside, the room was stiflingly warm, the air thick with the scent of herbs and spiced tea. A pile of blankets surrounded Genna, though she had kicked one off—her foot peeked from beneath the covers, shifting. The bed was a mess of pillows, some green, some red, a few old white ones that Baelor remembers from his childhood chambers before he had ever met her. The sight of them, so out of place here, made something twist uncomfortably in his stomach.

He was still too aware of everything—of the weight of his own body, of the sweat clinging to his collar, of the way his heartbeat had not slowed since yesterday. Genna looked exhausted.

Baelor hesitated in the doorway, fingers twitching at his sides before he finally stepped forward. His boots felt too heavy, so he pushed them off clumsily before making his way to the side of the bed. Up close, he could see the dryness of her lips, the tiredness in her eyes. His stomach turned again.

Without thinking, he grabbed the tea from the small table, already halfway to pressing it into her hands before stopping. He stared down at the dark liquid, frowning.

Had anyone touched it?

His fingers tightened around the cup as he studied it closely, searching for any sign that it had been messed with. It was a stupid thought—Orwylle had just been here, and who in the Seven Hells would poison Genna?—but still, the doubt curled inside him. If he had done it to his own father, who was to say someone else would not do the same to his wife?

"Baelor," she spoke in a hoarse, tired but patient whisper.

Only then did he realize how long he had been staring at the tea. Clearing his throat, he finally handed it to her, helping her sit up so she could drink it. She murmured a quiet "thank you," lips curling faintly in a smile before pressing against the rim of the cup.

Baelor sat beside her, the mattress dipping under his weight. He hesitated before shifting lower, laying onto the bed, pressing his head lightly against her belly. The warmth of her skin, even through the thin fabric of her nightgown, felt grounding. Safe.

His fingers traced idle patterns over the curve of her stomach—small, jagged shapes, almost like dragons. He wasn't sure why. The babe could not see them. Perhaps it was just something to do with his hands.

Still, he whispered, "hello there."

Genna set the cup back down, letting him have his moment. He did not know why, but he kept talking.

"It might be time to meet you soon, my little dragon," he murmured, "Rhaella still believes you will be a girl, and that I shall name you Rhaenys. Alyssa still thinks you will be a boy, and that I shall name you Aegon. Either way, I think I would be glad."

Silence settled, save for the sound of Genna's breathing, the occasional crackle of the fire. His fingers stilled entirely. His voice was quieter when he spoke again.

"At this point, I just wish to see you. To meet you," he swallowed, pressing his forehead lightly against her belly, "we are both very excited to hold you. So, keep kicking, right? Not too harshly, though. It hurts your mother."

Another silence. Baelor let himself stare. He wasn't sure what emotion had settled in his chest. It wasn't quite guilt, not quite relief. Something else. Still, it was better than whatever had gripped him yesterday.

Slowly, he lifted his head, meeting Genna's gaze. His throat felt tight, "I—" he swallowed, tried again, "I apologize."

Genna frowned slightly, as if confused by the shift in his voice. Baelor turned his head, staring down at his hands over her stomach, "not just for today. For last night."

She said nothing. Baelor exhaled, long and slow. "I don't know why I said it. I don't—I don't know why I do half the things I do."

Genna's fingers brushed against his, barely there, as if afraid to touch him, "I know."

Baelor sighed, forcing himself to look at her again, "I shouldn't have let you see me like that," he said, his voice quieter, "I—I didn't want you to."

Genna still said nothing. He wasn't sure what else to say. He had never been good at apologizing. He had never needed to be.

After a long moment, Genna finally shifted, settling more comfortably against the pillows, "you should sleep," she murmured.

Baelor huffed a quiet laugh, though there was no humour in it, "I doubt I will."

She didn't argue. He shifted lower, pressing his forehead against her belly again, letting the warmth of her skin and the faintest movements of their child settle something restless inside him. He would not sleep tonight. But for now, this was enough.

There was tension in the air when the Targaryen-Lannister family entered the grand dining chambers. The Green Queen was already seated behind the long oak table, surrounded by flickering candlelight and the smell of roasted meats and spiced wine. Servants moved between the long rows, filling goblets and setting platters of food before the gathering of family—though the word family felt looser than ever.

Baelor's fingers twitched at his side, an ache for a goblet of wine creeping through his blood like an old, familiar sickness. He should resist. But the sight of Rhaenyra, already comfortably seated among her sons, laughing at something Jacaerys had said, only worsened the feeling in his chest.

His daughter, however, was unaware of the tension of the room. Alyssa, still young and unbothered by the courtly games, had let go of his hand without a second thought, her small feet carrying her toward Jacaerys before he could stop her. She grabbed at the fabric of his nephew's dark tunic and looked up at him with a bright smile, "hello!"

Jacaerys hesitated, looking down at the little girl. He didn't feel anger towards her, why should he? He wasn't Baelor who felt anger and resentment towards them. Baelor was already there, pulling Alyssa back with a firm but careful grip on her shoulder. He didn't say a word to his nephew, didn't give him a chance to even acknowledge her. Instead, he turned and led Alyssa away, ignoring the way he could feel Rhaenyra's gaze on his back. He sat his daughter beside Aegon, who ruffled her curls in greeting.

A silent glare burned into the side of his face, one he knew belonged to his mother. Alicent had little patience for his temper, but Baelor didn't look up to meet her eyes. He had no interest in arguing, not tonight. Instead, he walked back to the steps where Genna waited for him, his arm offered to his wife as he adjusted Rhaella's weight on his hip, taking her from Genna. He had to help Genna up the short stairs this time, her belly far too large to allow the same ease of movement she once had. She smiled at Rhaenyra, to be polite.

By the time they sat, Rhaella still refused to leave his lap. His little girl curled into him, her hands fisting the fabric of his doublet, as if seeking for peace in this tension.

"Do you not want to sit on your own, little dragon?" he murmured against her hair.

Rhaella shook her head, burying herself further into his chest. Her mother reached over, gently tucking a few stray strands of hair behind her ear, "are you alright, sweetling?"

A nod. Baelor pressed a kiss against the top of her head, breathing in the scent of lavender oil and childhood innocence that would be stripped from her as she grew. Growing up, Rhaella had always been this way: more nervous than Alyssa, more refusal to leave her parents' side if she didn't absolutely need to.

His thoughts were broken when Aegon slid a goblet of Dornish red toward him, bypassing both Alyssa and Genna to set it directly in front of him. Baelor stared at it, his throat tightening. He didn't want to be weak. He needed to be good, to be better. He prayed—to whom, he did not know—for strength. But Baelor Targaryen was a weak man. A man too easily turned.

He reached for the cup. The wine burned down his throat, half the goblet drained in one go. Meanwhile, Alyssa had made her way toward her aunt Helaena, eyes wide and eager as she listened to her stories about the little beetle she had been gifted earlier that day. The child took in every word, focused on the tiny creature resting in Helaena's palm.

Genna, beside him, pressed a hand against her belly, discomfort written across her face. Baelor set his goblet down and placed a steadying hand over hers, grounding her through whatever pain she was feeling. His attention was pulled away when his father was announced.

Viserys was barely more than a corpse in a crown, his body shuffled to his seat with the careful handling of the Kingsguards. When he spoke, it was with the exhaustion of a dying man clinging to the last moments of life. Baelor barely heard a word. Not until his name was called.

"Rhaenyra has informed me of a proposition that I am most delighted with," the king rasped, "that Jacaerys and Lucerys will marry their cousins Baela and Rhaena. And that Alyssa and Rhaella will marry Joffrey and Aegon when they are of age. A proposition I wholeheartedly agree with."

Silence.

He'd feel their gazes on him: his mother with confused eyes, brows furrowed by the edges. His grandsire clenching his jaw, breathing heavy. If he could, Aegon would laugh in his face for it. Aemond mad that his brother would even think to marry his own flesh and blood to the whore of Dragonstone's bastards. And when he'd look at Genna, he'd see nothing: an empty stare at the table in front when the realization washed over her like the waves she wished that consumed her full – she could never save her own daughters from living through the same fate as her.

Baelor didn't listen when his father continued, "for the house of the dragon cannot remain strong if our bonds are broken. We must stay together, as family. Shake hands and forgive each other for the things you have done, said. I will not be here much longer and I wish to see you all content. Happy. I wish to see the house to thrive. Now, let us eat together as family one more time. For the sake of your father. Your brother. Your king."

The word father was rotting in the children he had for duty. There was only one child that remained who was brought to the world for the king's love for his wife. The children he had with Alicent Hightower were bound to him by duty to the Realm. Baelor sat Rhaella straighter on his knees for her to reach the grapes that sat near her father's plate, taking a fist of them. She leaned back against his chest and offered him an open palm. Her father pressed a kiss of gratitude on her temple and took one grape.

Baelor looked on Rhaenyra's side of the table, eyes landing on Lucerys who shrunk under his uncle's gaze to a size of a small mouse. The words I shall have your eye felt like a curse in his mind. He wondered if his uncle still wants to cut out his eye for what he did to Aemond in their youth. For some reason, Baelor didn't tear his eyes from that side of the table. He couldn't look at his mother or grandsire. He didn't dare looking at Genna on his side, eyes watered, biting her tongue so harshly that blood spilled.

Helaena pushed a plate of strawberries pass Aegon and in Genna's eyesight. She remembered a conversation in the first few weeks of Genna's marriage to Baelor when the two sat inside the garden and she'd tell the princess she'll miss the strawberries from home. Genna offered Helaena a tight smile; at least she hoped it came out as some sort of smile. The princess beamed back with a smile before she focused back on the bug in her hands.

Alyssa pushed herself off her chair once more and skipped her way around the table and between her grandparents. She sneaked under Viserys' arm that he held around a cane, smiling up at him. The king let out a shaky breath of pain before Alicent gently tugged her granddaughter away from her grandfather and closer to her instead. She let Alyssa sit on her lap and play with streaks of hair that fell from her pinned up hair.

The dinner had blurred into a different voice, cutlery clinking against plates, and the forced laughter that grated on Baelor's ears. He stopped pretending to care, focusing on Rhaella in his lap and the twitch of his fingers around the base of his goblet. His father's speech had been as inspiring as a leaky bucket trying to hold wine—nice in theory, but useless in practice. The House of the Dragon was rotting from the inside out, and Baelor had no interest in pretending otherwise.

Still, he sat through it, biting his tongue, until Jacaerys had the audacity to return from his dance with Helaena and extend his hand toward Genna. Baelor barely had to think. His head tilted ever so slightly, his lips curling in a mockery of a smile as he hissed, "touch her, and I shall have your hand."

The words were quiet but sharp, slicing through the tension like a dagger between ribs. Jacaerys blinked at him, caught between anger and confusion. But Baelor wasn't finished.

"Then again," he mused, his voice a lazy drawl, "that might be difficult, no? I hear you've got quite the... strong grip when it comes to keeping that hand occupied."

Jacaerys' face darkened, jaw tightening, "say that again."

"Why?" he tilted his head, his amusement deepening as he leaned in just slightly. Rhaella curled out of his grasp, wanting her mother instead and Genna pulled her on the edge of her knees.

"'Twas merely a compliment. Surely a strong, noble future king like yourself wouldn't be so sensitive?" Baelor's voice dropped into a mocking whisper, as he stood up, "or do my words strike a little too close to home?"

The punch came out of nowhere for many, Baelor half expected it. It split his lip open and blood filled his mouth; copper and warmth against his tongue. He took a stumbling step back, his back against the chair, fingers reaching up to brush the blood of his skin. Lucerys was already half up when Aegon grabbed him by the collar of his black doublet, slamming his face down against the table as he hissed, "try to touch my brother, bastard."

Whatever came next was a blur—Alicent shouted for order, Rhaenyra stepped up, calling for her sons to step back, Otto rose as well, hand reaching out to drag Helaena out of the way while Aemond's fingers curled around Genna's elbows, taking Rhaella

Baelor wiped the blood from his mouth, laughing as his mother pulled him back by the arm, "what a great king you shall be, Jacaerys Velaryon. I wonder if you will strike everyone who dares think differently of you."

It was only then when Jacaerys realized that it was what Baelor wanted all along: for the king to see him getting riled up by simple words, that he'll see the heir to the throne after his mother treating his family like this just after his speech of fixing broken family bonds. Viserys rested his forehead against his hand and his wife called for the Maester, requesting him to be brought to his chambers. Baelor looked at Daemon who stepped in between like he was to stop whatever was about to come. Genna left Aemond's side and warmth to go and press a napkin against the bleeding cut on Baelor's lip.

Alyssa tore herself from where she held herself closely to Aemond's leather covered leg and rushed to her father's side, tiny fingers clenching around his pants, urging him to pick her up. Baelor, naturally, bend down and took the older of the twins on his hip. She buried her head on the side of his neck, eyes turned to where her mother held the napkin as she muttered, "when I have a dragon I will burn them."

Baelor couldn't tell if he was proud or sick over her statement.

The tension still clung to Baelor like a second skin as he walked through the corridors of the Keep, Alyssa's tiny fingers still clutching at his collar. She fell asleep against him, but he didn't dare put her down just yet. It was easier this way—easier to focus on her breath than what he had done. He knew why he did it: he wanted to show his father that Rhaenyra's children are nothing but bastards, full of temper and anger and far from being fit for rulers. He wasn't like that, he truly believed.

He placed his girls inside their chambers, plastering them with soft kisses and murmured goodbyes before he stepped outside again. Cole was there tonight. Rolan was off on his duty outside the Keep, through the front yards. The man bowed his head slightly, "my prince."

"Cole," Baelor nodded his head and his mouth opened as if he wanted to say something but close them again like a fish before walking away.

Genna was sitting at the edge of their bed, hands shaking as she pressed them over her face. The moment he shut the door, she let out a sob, the kind that came from deep within, like a wound that had been festering for far too long.

Baelor let out a slow breath, "Genna—"

"Don't," her voice was thick with tears, her head shaking as she refused to look at him, "do not say my name, do not speak, just—just let me—"

He sat beside her, resting his elbows on his knees, clasping his hands together as he let the silence stretch between them, only her sobs and the fireplace heard.

"That was what I was talking about yesterday," his voice was quieter now as if this was a secret, "I don't even know why I did it."

Genna let out a bitter laugh, a first in her life towards him, "you don't know? Then by all means, explain to me why you just decided our daughters' fates without so much as a look in my direction."

Baelor clenched his jaw, "do you think I planned that? Gods, Genna, I—It just came out. I was angry. I was sick of the way they looked at me. Like I was a child, like I didn't belong there, like I was less than them—"

Genna's lips trembled, but her anger did not fade, "so you condemned our daughters to the very same fate that has made you miserable?"

Baelor flinched. Because this wasn't the Genna Lannister he knew. But, then again, when did he ever know her? Besides the shallow information he must know of his wife.

"I hate it," she whispered, her voice barely above a breath, "I hate the Targaryen ways. The way they look at me whenever I'm in the Sept. As if I am one of you. The duty, the way your mother looks at me like I am some breeding mare to continue your line."

She pressed a hand against her belly, "and now, our daughters will know that same fate. And you expect me to just—"

Baelor felt something inside him twist; like a knife was launched into his chest. But when he looked down, he saw no knife and no blood. He reached for her hand, but she pulled away.

"I will fix it," the words left his mouth before he could think, but he meant them, "I will find a way, I swear it."

Genna laughed again, hollow, "and how will you do that? Will you tell the king you changed your mind? Rhaenyra? That you were 'angry' and 'didn't know' why you said it? Do you even hear yourself, Baelor?"

He swallowed hard. He didn't have an answer. He sat next to her, so close he felt her warm skin but it felt like they were miles apart. 

Baelor had barely managed to clean the blood from his face and help Genna in their bed when a servant appeared at his door, his expression pale, "the Queen requests your presence in her chambers, my prince."

By the time he reached his mother's chambers, Otto stood by the window, his posture tense, his hands clasped behind his back. Alicent sat near the fire, her lips pressed so tightly together they had nearly lost their colour.

Baelor barely had time to close the door before Otto turned, "what in the name of the Seven have you done?"

Baelor felt the words like a slap, his heart lurching. He had spent his whole life being told what to do, how to act, how to think, he spent his entire life walking the way his grandsire wanted him to and yet, when he had finally made a choice of his own—it had not felt like his choice at all.

"I—" his throat was dry. He had no excuse.

Alicent stood slowly, her voice sharp, "you gave away your daughters as if they were bargaining chips. To Rhaenyra's sons of all people! Baelor, have you lost your senses?"

Baelor opened his mouth, but no words came. He didn't know. That was the most terrifying part—he had no idea why he did that. It had happened before—small things, mostly. A sentence he hadn't meant to say, a decision made without realizing it. But this? This was different.

Otto exhaled through his nose, "you have weakened us, boy. You have tied us to Rhaenyra's bastards. Do you think this will make them trust you? That they will see you as an ally? No. They will see it for what it is—desperation."

Baelor's fingers twitched. He wanted to defend himself, to tell them that it had been a calculated move—but it hadn't been. It has been a decision made by a mind he no longer trusted.

Alicent's voice softened, but it was no less sharp, because, above everything, she was still his mother, "Baelor, tell me the truth. Why did you do it?"

Baelor opened his mouth, then closed it like a fish. The silence stretched. Otto's eyes darkened when he shook his head, "you are as weak as your father."

Baelor flinched. He peered at him through downcast eyes and it felt like another dagger was piercing his skin.

"That is not true," Alicent's voice was quiet but firm because she wanted to believe Baelor to be good, "he is not Viserys."

Baelor wished she was right. But at this moment, he was not sure. Otto spoke after a sigh, "what's done is done. But understand this—you have made yourself vulnerable. And in this game, vulnerability is as good as a blade at your throat."

Baelor exhaled, nodding. His mind felt like it was slipping through his fingers. He needed to leave.

Alicent touched his arm gently. Her fingers curled around his left elbow and only then did he look up at her. Her voice was quiet, soft and a plead, "fix this."

Baelorswallowed hard and nod to his mother, "I will."