There was a saying that was stuck at the back of Baelor's mind by a woman, one he had overheard one late night while walking through the filthy streets of King's Landing: whenever one of those Targaryens is born, the Seven flip a coin, I heard. They either become mad or die trying to be that.

If he hadn't been in disguise, he would have laughed in her face, perhaps even had her thrown into the Black Cells for speaking so freely. But the words lingered, as they always did.

How cruel, then, that he sat here now—back stiff, face twisted in irritation—inside the cold, musty chambers of Maester Orwylle like some common man seeking healing for his issues. His doublet was bunched in his hands, fingers gripping at the fine fabric as if he could pull his frustration out of it. The old man's touch was impersonal, his fingers ghosting over Baelor's back, tracing every scar and mark with the same detachment as one might inspect a piece of meat at the market. He wasn't as gentle as Genna is, Baelor thought then.

Another sigh. Orwylle was full of them, "that is getting better, my prince."

Baelor exhaled sharply through his nose, yanking his shirt back over his head. "Marvelous," he drawled, voice dripping with sarcasm, "and I assume the cuts have nothing to do with my mind?"

Orwylle ignored the tone. He walked to his desk, flipping through the ever-growing stack of papers littering the desk there. His silence grew longer. Baelor tapped his fingers against his thigh, impatient. The Maester sighed again before finally writing something down, "they are becoming more common, my prince."

Baelor's lips curled in a sneer, "yes, thank you for your exceptional insight. Would you like to tell me the sky is blue while you're at it?"

Orwylle, to his credit, did not react to the jest. He simply continued reading, his eyes looking over the recorded dates, places, and company the prince had kept whenever he came stumbling into these chambers in a fit of hysteria.

"Three incidents in the past moon alone," he noted, "whereas before that, there was only one in—perhaps—six moons."

Baelor's patience snapped. His voice was sharp, "Orwylle. I am well aware of how many times it has happened. What I am not aware of is why you refuse to help me."

"Because I do not know how to, my prince," Orwylle admitted, finally looking up from the pages, "the mind is a delicate thing. In Essos, there are records of a woman—stricken with hysteria after childbirth—who was treated by having a hole drilled into the back of her skull. They believed it would let out the evil spirits."

Baelor let out a sharp laugh, "oh, brilliant! You intend to treat me as some Essosi wench? Are we not further along in our understanding of the mind?"

"We are not," Orwylle said simply, "not when it comes to matters of the mind, my prince."

Baelor exhaled, exasperated, pinching the bridge of his nose, "well, you will not be putting a hole in my skull. I do wish to see my daughters grow up, you know."

"The woman survived," Orwylle said mildly.

"I do not give a shit about that woman, Orwylle!" Baelor snapped, his voice rising before he caught himself. He closed his eyes, exhaling through gritted teeth, "Gods, my brother already terrifies the court with his eyepatch. What would they think if I came waltzing in with a hole in the back of my head?"

The Maester barely had time to respond before Baelor pushed himself to his feet, brushing invisible dust from his sleeves, "enough of this nonsense, send those herbs to my chambers."

"My prince," Orwylle sighed, "the herbs do not—"

"—do not work as they should," Baelor interrupted, waving a dismissive hand, "yes, yes, I know, Maester. But they do keep me calm, which is more than I can say for your drivel about Essosi torture methods. So do send them up."

Without waiting for a response, Baelor pulled the door open and stepped out, shutting it behind him with an air of finality.

He stood there for a moment, breath coming quicker than he'd like. He hated this—hated feeling so weak, hated being at the mercy of something he couldn't name, something he couldn't fight. He rolled his shoulders, shaking off the moment of vulnerability before pushing forward, disappearing down the dimly lit hallway, intent on finding something—anything—to distract himself from the ever-present whisper of madness curling at the edges of his mind.

Sliding through the doors of the Godswood, Baelor barely had time to exhale before his evening was thoroughly ruined.

Larys Strong.

The man stood amongst the flowers like some creeping shadow, fingers plucking absently at the petals as if he had any business being here. He did not even turn when he spoke, his voice smooth, knowing, "my prince."

Baelor stiffened, barely masking his irritation. He straightened his spine, lifting his chin in that practiced Targaryen way that reminded men of who they spoke to, "lord Strong."

"I have heard of your children's sudden illness," Larys murmured, finally shifting to lean on his wooden cane, his head tilting in that unnerving way of his, "I do hope they are feeling better."

Baelor's fingers curled into fists at his sides. The way he spoke of his children sent something cold trickling down his spine. As if their suffering was nothing more than another curiosity for him to collect. Another curiosity he can use for his own thing.

"They are," Baelor said shortly, "thank you, my lord."

He forced a tight, humourless smile then, "words spread quickly around the Keep."

"Like fire, my prince," Larys let out a quiet chuckle, shuffling closer. The sound of his cane tapping against the stone grated on Baelor's nerves, "it is like a bird locked inside its cage."

Baelor's lip curled, unimpressed with whatever game the man was playing at. He had little patience for Larys and his riddles, "and what would it take for the bird to be released from its cage?"

"Little things, my prince," Larys said easily, fully leaning onto his cane, as if they were having some pleasant little chat instead of whatever this was.

His next words made Baelor's stomach twist, "for the bird already sings for someone higher than you."

Baelor's jaw tightened. His mother — of course it was. His lips pressed in a thin line now, "and what would have to be done for the bird to sing for a prince?"

Larys studied him, his eyes filled with something that made Baelor's skin crawl, "a fair price," he mused before shifting, his attention moving elsewhere, "I have heard the tales of Lady Genna's beauty."

Baelor's nostrils flared, his jaw clenching so tightly it ached, "and yet you have not seen her to confirm these tales? She is everywherein the Keep, lord."

"Well, yes," Larys said, turning that insipid little smile on him, "but I have yet to have a conversation with the lady. I have many questions about House Lannister that only she could answer."

Baelor tilted his head, his impatience bubbling into the open, "is that the price for your words, lord? A conversation with my wife?"

Larys' smile stretched, sick and twisted, smug in that way that made Baelor want to put a fist through his face, "perhaps."

Baelor exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head as if to rid himself of the sheer absurdity of it. He chuckled, "you cannot be serious."

But Larys was already moving, shuffling toward the doors that led back inside the Keep. He did not turn when he called over his shoulder, "the truth is never in plain sight, my prince. Sometimes it rots under the mask. Under someone else."

Baelor felt something sharp claw at his insides. He turned his head slightly, his voice dropping into something dangerous, "I suggest you watch what you say to me, Lord Strong. I am still your prince."

Larys did turn then, offering him a smile that was far too knowing, "that, I am aware of, my prince."

And with that, he disappeared into the Keep, leaving Baelor standing there, his blood full of anger, disgust, and the knowledge that he would never truly be rid of Larys Strong.

Baelor exhaled sharply, his fingers curling into fists before relaxing again in a slow rhythm. It was a poor attempt to keep himself together, to stop himself from storming after Larys and draining the life from his scheming little body. But Seven help him, the urge was strong.

Before his frustration could take over, something small and warm latched onto his leg, followed by a breathless giggle. He blinked, his thoughts shattered as he glanced down to find Alyssa, her curls falling messily over her face as she clung to him.

His irritation melted, replaced with fond amusement, "did you escape from Septa Mordane again?"

"No," Alyssa murmured unconvincingly against the back of his leg, her fingers tightening their grip as hurried footsteps echoed from the corridor.

"Alyssa!" the unmistakable voice of Septa Mordane rang out.

With a shriek, Alyssa spun around, using her father's legs as a shield. She looked up at him with wide, pleading eyes, "hide me! Please, please, please, please, please!"

"Absolutely not," Baelor wasted no time in scooping her up into his arms, her tiny body weightless as he hoisted her onto his hip, "how many times have I told you, Aly? You must not run from your Septa—or from your studies."

Alyssa groaned, throwing her head back in dramatic protest, "but she is so dull," she whined, crossing her arms with a fierce pout, "and she likes Rhaella more than me."

Baelor grinned as he began walking back toward the Keep, "I think the reason for that, little dragon, is that Rhaella does not run away from her studies."

"But they are so dull!" she insisted, "I would rather swing a sword like you or Ser Cole than sit in those stuffy chambers listening to Septa Mordane go on about how I am to dress and curtsy and recite prayers."

"You would rather be a knight?" Baelor teased, "shall I tell your mother you wish to trade your gowns for armour?"

Alyssa grinned at the thought, "I would look nice."

Baelor let out a low chuckle, "I have no doubt you would."

As they reached the entrance hall, a figure emerged from the shadows—Septa Mordane, her thin lips pressed into a firm line, one hand clutching the Star of the Seven that hung from her neck as if it might grant her patience. Her cheeks were flushed from running, and a few wisps of grey hair had fallen loose from her modest wimple.

"My prince," she greeted with a shallow bow, "I— I had turned for but a moment, and the princess was gone."

Baelor sighed, shifting Alyssa in his arms before setting her back on the ground. He pressed a kiss to the crown of her head, "be good, Alyssa," he murmured, "I beg of you."

She peered up at him, her violet eyes twinkling with something, "only if you take me on Moonfyre later."

Baelor narrowed his eyes playfully, "are you trying to blackmail your father?"

Alyssa flashed him a grin, so eerily like his own it was almost unsettling, "only if it's working."

He sighed, feigning defeat, and cradled her cheek in his palm before pressing a kiss to the other, "only if you behave."

Before she could celebrate her small victory, he straightened, fixing her with a more serious look, "and I will ask Septa Mordane how well you did."

"Kepa!" Alyssa protested, stomping her foot against the polished stone floor. (father)

"Tala!" Baelor echoed back with the same theatrical exasperation before softening. "Go study. Please." (daughter)

Alyssa puffed out her cheeks in a final display of loss before she finally took Septa Mordane's hand. As she was led away, Baelor watched her go: she was a fire in human form, and though she frustrated the Septas to no end, he could not help but admire the ways of her thinking. With a quiet sigh, he turned on his heel and made his way toward his chambers.

Baelor's eyes flickered open, his gaze falling on Genna by the fire, Visenya nestled in her arms, chattering softly. A curse escaped his lips, low and bitter, as he moved inside, closing the doors with care. The sound barely broke the silence between them. She didn't need to know he was there—not yet. Not until he was ready to face whatever came next.

He moved to his desk, drained the rest of his wine in a cup there, and dragged himself onto the balcony. Since that moment the night before, neither of them had spoken a word. Genna too terrified to ask, Baelor too humiliated to admit anything. He stared at the papers scattered before him, the words he had written—his only release—haunting him. Six episodes in four moon turns, five when he was alone, one with Genna. Alone, the screams clawed at his throat, a madness eating at his insides. How could he ever claim the Iron Throne when his mind was rotten? How could he sit upon it when the Targaryen curse was already pulling him in?

A flash of a thought—the kind of thought that came in moments of desperation—crossed his mind. He could let Orwylle drill a hole into his skull, like that woman in Essos. If it worked for her, why not him? Why should he suffer when he was a prince, heir to the throne? What was she but a foreigner? But the truth gripped him then—if it went wrong, it would all be over. He would never see his daughters grow. He would never sit on the Iron Throne.

But before he could sink further into his thoughts, Genna's soft voice cut through, "are you alright?"

The question burned through him, and for a moment, he thought of lying. He could scream at her to leave him alone, to stop asking, but the truth was suffocating him. He was losing control. His grandsire had betrayed him, leaving his daughters to suffer, his mother already seeing through his false looks and words. His daughters nearly died. The weight of it all twisted inside him. He had lost everything he had once fought for. He shook his head, not trusting his own voice to speak the words.

Genna stepped outside, her blanket wrapped around her slender frame, the spring air biting at her exposed skin, "what is it?"

His gaze didn't lift from the table, the words coming out cold, "has Larys Strong sought you out yet?"

Her brows furrowed in confusion, "Lord Strong? No, I haven't spoken to him."

"When he does," Baelor's voice was low, almost as a warning, "turn him away. Do not speak to him."

Genna opened her mouth to ask why, but he silenced her with a glare, his eyes sharp and calculating, "swear it, Genna."

The air went still as she stared at him, nervousness creeping in. He didn't give her a chance to protest, "swear that you won't tell Larys Strong anything. Not about me. Not about the girls. Not about yourself."

Her voice shook slightly, "I swear."

He nodded once, his eyes sliding away from her, unwilling to meet her gaze. The wind howled through the open doors, rustling the papers scattered across the balcony. One drifted to the floor at Genna's feet. She picked it up, her heart sinking as she read the words, "Prince Baelor experiences hallucinations, puts himself and others in danger, believes everyone is conspiring against him, and has difficulty connecting to others."

Before she could react, the paper was snatched from her hands, and she flinched at the violence in his movement. He towered over her, his voice like ice, "you didn't see that."

"Baelor," she whispered, stepping back, her eyes wide with fear, "what's wrong?"

"Nothing," he muttered, gathering the remaining papers, his fingers trembling as they shoved them into a pile, "just... nothing."

Genna reached out, grabbing his wrist before he could walk away, "please. Don't shut me out. Let me help."

His hand jerked away from her grip, his voice seething, "if you want to help me, you will leave me alone. You will let me do what I must. No more questions. No more interference."

Genna's heart cracked, her thoughts tumbling over each other, but she held her ground, "If this is about Myna—"

Baelor turned around, anger flashing in his eyes, "do not mention her name! Do not dare, Genna."

Tears filled her eyes as she tried to steady her voice, "but I must! When you said you took care of the issue last night, you meant the babe, didn't you?"

Baelor slammed the papers down on the desk, his eyes darkening as he stepped closer to her, almost whispering now, his words like a dagger in the air, "eeverything I do is for the greater good. You need to understand that."

Genna's voice broke as she whispered, her hands shaking, "you didn't need to kill the babe. If it wasn't yours . . . why would it matter?"

Baelor took her hands in his, his grip tight, as though holding on to some thread of control, "because I have to. For us. For the realm."

Her tears spilled over, and she whispered, "I know. I always have."

Baelor closed his eyes, the weight of his actions pressing down on him. His forehead brushed against hers, his breath shallow, "I do this for a reason, Genna. You'll see it, soon."

Genna's voice was barely heard, "what could possibly justify this?"

He pulled away slightly, his eyes narrowing, his breath steadying, "you will see. Trust me."

Genna didn't respond, silence hanging between them like a heavy fog. Finally, Baelor spoke again, quieter, almost desperate, "do you remember what I told you on our wedding night?"

"That you wouldn't hurt me."

His hands cupped her face, "I will keep that promise. I will keep you safe, Genna. Even if I have to kill for it. I will do whatever it takes."

Genna shook her head, her voice breaking, "you can't say your actions are in my name."

"No," he whispered, shaking his head violently, "not in your name. I do it in mine. In my own name. But... I have done awful things, I know that. But those days are behind me now. I will be better. I swear it."

Her lip quivered, and she looked up at him with pain in her eyes, "Baelor... don't swear on things like this. Not with me."

"But I have," he replied, his thumb gently brushing her cheek, "would you rather see a bastard running rampant in the Keep like my nephews? Is that what you want?"

"I would rather have no bastard at all," she whispered back, the words cutting through him.

Baelor's gaze hardened, his jaw tightening, "those days are over. We're moving past that, Genna. A new time is coming. And I will make sure of it."