The chambers of Grand Maester Orwylle were as dim and unwelcoming as ever, barely lit by the weak flicker of a few candles placed across the desk. The air smelled of parchment, dried herbs, and something bitter—tonics, most likely. Baelor hated it.

With a sigh, he lounged against one of the many armchairs cluttering the space, his discarded doublet draped carelessly over another. The sharp sting of ointment being pressed into his skin made him hiss, his head snapping around as if he could glare the pain away.

"The Gods have finally cursed me, have they not?" he complained, twisting his face into a grimace.

"It is not the Gods, my prince, but your mind," Orwylle answered without looking up, his hands steady as he worked on the raw, ever-growing scars marring Baelor's back.

Baelor rolled his eyes, "and what a fascinating revelation that is, Grand Maester. Shall I send for a scribe to immortalize your wisdom in the histories?"

Orwylle did not dignify that with a response. Baelor scoffed, the silence only further proof that the man was utterly humourless, "what of these treatments, then?"

He pulled his doublet from the chair with an irritated flick of his wrist, not bothering to hide his impatience as he fastened the buttons—poorly, at that. The Maester moved toward his desk, pushing through stacks of parchment with all the urgency of a man tending to his herb garden, "some Maesters have written back with their findings. There is talk of allowing the afflicted to free bleed, as they claim it purges the body of its troubles."

Baelor let out a dramatic gasp, placing a hand over his heart as though wounded, "ah, I see. They wish to drain me dry. Should I send them a vial of my blood to quicken the process?"

"I have not written your name, my prince," Orwylle replied, unmoved by the theatrics. He shuffled another parchment into his hands, "others have experimented with diet restrictions, while some have found success using cold-water treatments—most notably for women suffering from manic episodes after childbirth."

Baelor snorted, "well, save that one for Genna, in case she goes mad. Though, knowing her, she would sooner drown herself than let you pour cold water over her head."

Orwylle gave him a sharp look, but Baelor merely smirked, running a hand through his unkempt hair, "oh, don't give me that look, old man. She will be fine."

The Maester exhaled, unimpressed, before turning his attention back to the papers. Baelor, however, had already lost interest. His ears caught the faintest sound—a crack, something shifting near the chamber doors. His head snapped toward it, his expression twisting with suspicion.

But there was nothing. Still, an itch prickled at the back of his neck, an unease he did not like. He chewed the inside of his cheek, the sharp taste of copper teasing his tongue before he clicked it against his teeth. He wasn't going to sit here in this miserable room any longer.

Without a word, he turned on his heel and strode toward the door.

"Prince Baelor," Orwylle called after him, but he was already halfway down the hall, leaving only the flickering candlelight and the Maester's disapproving sigh in his wake.

Rhaenyra's eyes wandered across the Godswood. She turned at the sound of footsteps approaching, expecting to see Rhaenys—but was instead met with Baelor Targaryen.

Her fingers tightened around her wrist, a nervous gesture that she couldn't fully explain, "brother."

"Sister," Baelor's lips twisted into something that might have been a smile—thin, hollow, and faintly unsettling. He stopped a few steps away, his hands folded behind his back in a posture that felt too rehearsed, "I trust the journey was not too unpleasant?"

Rhaenyra nodded stiffly, "it was fine, thank you."

Baelor's gaze flickered downward, his lilac eyes drifting to the curve of her belly beneath her cloak. He nodded toward it, his tone almost too casual, "congratulations on the babe."

Rhaenyra felt a sudden, unnatural tightness in her chest—too much warmth, too much pressure—but she forced herself to maintain her composure, "thank you. Same to you."

The words felt like they were slipping away from him as soon as they left his mouth. Baelor barely held the illusion of calm, like the pieces of his demeanour were slowly falling apart. He smiled again, the same fake smile, "to ease your discomfort—and obvious confusion—I have no spies on Dragonstone. Genna told me."

Rhaenyra's brow furrowed slightly, "I wasn't implying otherwise."

Her voice broke through the strange feeling in the air, "what do you want, Baelor?"

His smile wavered, and he took a step closer, but Rhaenyra felt a cold shiver run down her spine, as though the air around them had grown colder. His words were almost too slow, like he was struggling to form them.

"Our father is ill," he said after a pause, his eyes fixed ahead but seeming to focus on something far away, "that much, you already know. I believe he would appreciate what I am about to propose."

Rhaenyra couldn't shake the sense that something was wrong. The world around them seemed to sway for a split second. Baelor continued, his voice oddly distant, "I propose a marriage."

Her heart skipped a beat, "a marriage?"

"Yes. When the children are of age, of course," he said, his voice sharp and clear, but the words were no longer matching the movements of his lips. His lips curled into something more animal than human, "your sons and my daughters. To heal the distance in our family."

Rhaenyra blinked rapidly, trying to clear the fog that had settled in her mind, "Jacaerys and Lucerys are already betrothed," she said, her voice strained as the pressure on her chest grew. Her breath quickened, but she pressed on, "to Baela and Rhaena."

Baelor's eyes narrowed slightly, his posture stiffening, "Joffrey is not. Nor are your other children."

A part of Rhaenyra wanted to laugh at the absurdity, but instead, she felt her head spinning, "why are you doing this, Baelor?" she asked, her voice thick with confusion.

Baelor's eyes glazed over. He took a step forward, his hand stretching as if to reach for something—but the ground beneath them cracked, just briefly, like it might split open. Rhaenyra stumbled back, but he did not seem to notice. Baelor's lips twisted, and his voice lowered, so quiet now that she could barely hear him, "forever upholding the kingdom. The family. The law."

The words felt hollow, like they belonged to someone else. Like he wasn't speaking them at all. Because, at the end of the day, those words didn't belong to them. It was a distant memory now—Laena's funeral, Driftmark, Aemond losing an eye and gaining a dragon.

"Do you not trust your sons to be good to my daughters?" he asked, his eyes too wide now, as though the world around them had begun to press in on him.

"I'm not doing this to uphold anything," Baelor muttered, his voice faint, like the words didn't belong to him, "not truly. But I will make sure there's something left after it all. Something... right."

He took another step forward, and the ground cracked again, louder this time; cracks in reality. And then he said it, "one day, you will be Queen."

His voice was strange, like it was coming from far away. Like he wasn't saying them. Not truly. He didn't believe them.

"Our father is still alive," she said, her voice distant.

"For now," Baelor's lips parted, his gaze shifting. But something in his eyes had changed. Something darker, "when he is gone, you will sit on the Iron Throne. And I..." His voice trailed off, almost as if he was searching for the right words, but none came.

A cold breeze swept through the clearing, and Rhaenyra felt the fleeting sense that she was no longer standing on solid ground. She looked at her brother, his image flickering before her eyes.

"Do you wish to see my daughters wed your sons?" Baelor murmured, his voice blending into the shadows, "I wish for them to be Queens one day."

Before she could respond, the voice of Rhaenys cut through the air.

"Baelor," she said, stepping into the Godswood. The tension in the air snapped like a rope pulling taut.

Baelor turned toward her, the smile on his lips too wide, too fake, "Rhaenys."

The shadows seemed to settle, but not entirely.

"I will remove myself," Baelor muttered, as if his words were a struggle to pull from his mouth. His eyes flickered back to Rhaenyra, "think about my proposition. I'll be around for your confirmation."

Baelor walked away from the Godswood, his footsteps heavy, dragging as though the very earth beneath him had grown thicker, rottener with each passing second. The cool air of the garden no longer felt refreshing—it felt like a weight pressing down on him.

The conversation with Rhaenyra echoed in his mind, louder now than it had been in the moment. A marriage. His daughters, her sons. What had he said? He stumbled for a moment, his feet unsteady, and reached out to steady himself against a nearby pillar.

His breath came too fast, too shallow.

Did I really suggest that?; The question gnawed at him, like a worm burrowing deeper and deeper into his mind. His hand gripped the stone harder, the coolness of it offering no comfort. The shadows around him seemed to bend, as if reaching for him with invisible fingers. Their whispers, once so faint, were now sharper, clearer. He blinked, but the world did not return to its previous state. The shadows deepened. The whispers grew louder.

He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself: focus. Focus, Baelor. But the more he tried to ground himself, the more the world around him spun. His vision flickered and he could swear he saw figures moving in the corners of his eyes—figures that shouldn't have been there.

A voice—low, gravelly—came from behind him: "You don't even know why you said it, do you?"

Baelor whipped around, his heart hammering in his chest. But the path was empty. No one was there. His breath caught. The voice had been real. He was sure of it. He had heard it. But who?

He turned back toward the stone pillar, his grip tightening around it until his knuckles turned white. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the dizziness, but it only grew stronger. The world was closing in around him, the trees now almost leaning over him, their branches heavy like a cloak of shadows.

What have I done?; His thoughts tumbled through his mind like a storm. He had suggested it—marriage. His daughters to Rhaenyra's sons. Bastards. To her bastards, of all people. It had come from his mouth, without hesitation.

I don't want this; he thought, but the thought felt foreign. The realization made his stomach churn, but the nausea was not just physical. It was like his mind had betrayed him, forcing him to say those things without knowing why.

Suddenly, he was aware of his own skin—too aware. His fingers shook, the tremor spreading up his arm. His heart raced; was this madness? Am I losing my mind?

The whispers grew louder again, and Baelor spun around, his body jerking in an unnatural motion. There, standing in front of him now, were figures—twisted, unrecognizable. Their faces blurred, shifting like smoke. He reached for them, his hands shaking, but they disappeared before he could touch them.

He stumbled backward, his vision blurring even further. The figures had turned into something else. A kaleidoscope of faces, twisting. Faces of his family, his daughters, his father. His eyes locked on the face of Rhaenyra for just a second—a moment where she seemed to speak to him, but no words came out. Instead, her mouth was moving in an endless loop, her lips stretched too wide, her eyes too bright.

"Baelor..."

The voice from behind him again—closer now. This time, it was familiar, "Baelor, you're losing control."

Baelor spun around again, and there, just beyond the trees, stood a figure in a long, flowing cloak. It was Rhaenys. But she wasn't quite right. Her face was distorted, her features sharp and cruel. Her eyes were empty, black pits, staring directly into his soul.

"You've gone too far this time, Baelor," she whispered, her voice soft, "you've set things in motion that you cannot undo."

Baelor felt his chest tighten, panic rising in him. His pulse hammered in his ears, drowning out the voices. He stumbled back, his hands gripping his head, trying to shut out the images: this isn't real. None of this is real.

But it didn't stop. The hallucinations clung to him like a suffocating fog, warping the world around him.

He dropped to his knees, his fingers clutching at the stone ground. The coldness of it felt like ice against his palms, but it did nothing to calm him. His heart thudded in his chest, so loud he thought it might shatter his ribcage.

"I—I need to fix this," he muttered to himself, his voice trembling, "I can't fix it. What did I do? I—"

A flash of light broke through his thoughts, blinding him for a moment. When the light faded, he found himself alone. The figures were gone. The shadows had receded.

"Baelor?" came the voice again and he flinched backwards until his back hit the wall behind.

It wasn't Rhaenys reaching out for him. The hand came quicker and swifter and he knew the hand. Rolan grabbed him by his shoulders and kept him upwards, "Baelor. Look at me."

"I shouldn't have—" he murmured, drops of sweat on his forehead, frantic eyes looking anywhere but Rolan in front, "—Gods, what have I done?"

"Orwylle?" the Kingsguard asked, tilting his head down so he could look at the manic purple eyes, "do I take you to Orwylle?"

"No—no," Baelor murmured again, frantic hands trying to grasp Rolan off and away until he still has the chance, "no Orwylle. No leaches, no blood dripping, no holes in my head."

He doesn't understand it; no one does. But Rolan tries as Baelor is his friend, titles be damned, "where do I take you?" Baelor doesn't reply, only mumbled sounds Rolan doesn't understand, "Baelor. Where do I take you?"

Only then does the prince look up and at Rolan. He's not sure if he's feverish now. He knows the scars ache, the burn on his wrist hurts, anything and everything he had extended over his body. Through his cracked lips, Baelor speaks, "my Gods given solace."

And so, Rolan takes Baelor to Genna.

Rolan's grip tightened on Baelor's shoulders as the prince swayed, seemingly lost in his own spiralling thoughts. His usual arrogance is gone, leaving behind a boy consumed by something he couldn't understand.

Rolan hesitated. He'd seen Baelor at his lowest points before, but this—this was different. Baelor was unravelling in a way that felt darker, deeper. The frantic shaking of his hands, the way his breath quickened as if he were fighting an invisible enemy—it wasn't something Rolan could dismiss as a mere episode. This was something worse.

The hallway felt longer than usual. The torches cast eerie shadows that seemed to move with them, creeping along the walls. The air was thick, suffocating, as if even the very stones beneath their feet could sense the growing panic in Baelor.

"Baelor," Rolan said quietly, his voice an anchor in the midst of the chaos, "focus on me. Look at me, my friend."

But the prince's eyes never met his. Instead, Baelor's gaze darted around, as if seeing something just beyond Rolan's shoulder. His lips were moving, whispering something—fragments of thoughts, broken pieces of a conversation that had never truly been said aloud.

It wasn't long before they reached Genna's chambers, and Rolan knocked, only a moment before pushing the door open. Baelor's body tensed at the sight of the room, his eyes flicking from the well-lit interior to the shadowed corners, where the world seemed to distort and twist.

Genna was seated by the fireplace, fingers working on patching a tunic Baelor cut before. When the doors opened with frantic steps, she looked up and her expression turned into concern when she looked at Baelor— shaking, beads of sweat still dotting his brow. His clothes were wrinkled, his face pale as though he hadn't slept in days.

"What's happened?" she asked softly, rising from her seat to meet them, the tunic discarded on the floor as she pulled herself off the couch.

Rolan, without much explanation, led Baelor forward. The prince stood there for a moment, as if he was on the edge of falling apart. His hands twitched, curling into fists before releasing again.

"My gods-given solace," he repeated once more, but this time it sounded almost like a prayer, his voice cracking as though his very soul was splintering under the weight of his own guilt.

Genna stepped forward, her gaze never leaving Baelor, "Baelor, what is it? What's wrong?" she asked, her tone a mixture of concern and confusion.

"I don't... I don't know anymore," Baelor whispered, the words barely escaping his lips as his head dipped down, his body shaking, "I... I did something... and I don't know why... I don't understand."

For anyone else, they might think the prince was drunk once more. But to Genna and Rolan, this ran far deeper. She glanced at Rolan, murmuring, "help me get him to bed, please."

Rolan nodded without having to be told twice before he kicked the doors shut, a hand holding Baelor's right arm as Genna held his other one. Both guided him towards the made bed as Genna pulled the covers off and helped him slide under. She pulled herself onto the bed's edge, gently prying his hands away from his face to cup his cheeks, "you're not alone in this. You never have been—let us help you."

His shoulders shook with silent sobs, his mind still trapped in the web of his own confusion, "I didn't mean to... I didn't mean to do it."

Genna's heart clenched. She had never seen Baelor like this. Neither did Rolan. Sure, he'd seen him drunk and mad. And, sure, she saw him both and him having moments of anger. But never tearing down like this.

"Baelor," she said softly, her voice steady despite the emotions within her, "whatever it is, you don't have to face it alone. Let us help you."

He looked at her, his gaze almost pleading, "I don't even know what I've done. I... I've hurt people... I hurt you, didn't I?"

Genna shook her head, her voice still soft, even in lies, "no, Baelor. Whatever you think you've done, it doesn't define you. You're still you."

But deep down, she knew the truth. This wasn't just a passing moment. Baelor had crossed some line within himself—something inside him had cracked, and now, it was starting to bleed through. And she feared that even her presence wouldn't be enough to stop the damage from spreading.

Baelor's breath was unsteady, coming in sharp, ragged gasps as he gripped Genna's arms, his fingers pressing into her skin as if she were the only thing keeping him tethered to reality. His body still trembled, the sweat cooling on his forehead, his eyes wide and lost.

"I don't understand," he whispered again, shaking his head as though he could dislodge whatever it was clawing at the edges of his mind, "I—why did I say that to her? Why did I—? I don't want it. I don't want any of it."

Genna looked at Rolan over her shoulder, who remained by the door, standing stiff and uncertain, a man who had never been taught how to deal with something he could not fight with a sword.

"Baelor," Genna murmured, her hands moving to his cheeks, her thumbs brushing against the feverish skin beneath his eyes, "look at me."

His lilac eyes darted wildly before finally settling on hers, but there was something unfocused in them, something unhinged. He was barely present.

"I need you to breathe," she said softly, her voice steady despite the frantic beating of her own heart, "can you do that for me?"

Baelor sucked in a breath, shuddering as he did so.

"That's it," Genna soothed, as if talking to her girls, "again."

Another breath, uneven but still deeper than before. He was shaking so violently now that she wasn't sure if it was from the weight of his own mind or something worse. But then, as she held his gaze, something flickered behind his eyes—a shadow, a presence just behind him that wasn't truly there.

Genna didn't have to turn to know what he was seeing. She had seen him like this before, when his mind full of ghosts, when he was trapped in something only he could see.

Baelor's lips parted, his breath shallow, his voice barely audible. He whispered then, "they're here."

A chill ran down Genna's spine, "who, Baelor?"

His head turned slightly as if listening to something she could not hear. His fingers twitched against her arms, and then his entire body flinched, as though someone had whispered something right into his ear.

"I don't—I don't know," he said, his voice barely more than a breath. His brows furrowed, confusion washing over his features, "they're saying something. I can't—I can't hear it."

Rolan shifted uneasily by the door. "Baelor," he called, his voice firm, trying to pull him back, "there's no one here."

Baelor flinched again. His eyes snapped to Rolan now, but his pupils were still blown wide, his expression frantic. He whispered with a sudden fear in his voice, "don't. Don't speak."

Rolan froze, "what?"

Baelor's hands clenched into fists, his breathing erratic, "they don't like it when you speak."

The words sent a bolt of chills down Genna's spine. She had seen Baelor like this before, but never like this. Never this deep, never this lost. She swallowed the fear that rose in her throat and took his hands in hers, her grip firm, grounding.

"Baelor," she whispered, forcing his attention back to her, "there's no one here. No one but me and Rolan."

Baelor's head shook, his body going rigid. His hands shook in hers, but his grip was desperate, as if she were the only thing keeping him from slipping into something worse.

"I don't know what's real anymore," he admitted, his voice breaking on the words. His eyes met hers again, and in them, she saw something she had never seen in him before.

Terror.

Not just fear. Not just uncertainty. True, gut-wrenching terror.

"Then let me be real," she whispered, "hold onto me."

Baelor's lips parted, as if he wanted to say something—perhaps something important, something that had been lingering on the edge of his mind for so long but had never been spoken aloud. But he never did.

Rolan spoke then; Genna didn't know he was crying, "we need to get him to a Maester."

"No," Baelor croaked weakly, barely conscious now, his body sagging in his bed, "no Orwylle... no holes in my head."

She looked up at Rolan, "no Maesters."

"Then what do we do?" Rolan asked.

Genna exhaled, shifting to cup Baelor's face once more, brushing his damp hair from his forehead.

"We keep him here," she said softly, "and we don't let go."

Baelor slept uneasily, his breathing shallow, his fingers twitching against the sheets. Every now and then, his brows furrowed, his lips parting as if he meant to speak, only for his voice to die in his throat.

Genna sat beside him, her hand resting lightly over his, grounding him, though she doubted he could feel it in his current state.

Across the room, Rolan stood with his arms crossed, watching Baelor with the wary gaze of a man who had seen too much but understood too little.

"He spoke of voices," Genna murmured after a while, not looking up, "of whispers."

Rolan exhaled sharply through his nose, "it's not the first time."

Genna's grip on Baelor's hand tightened slightly, looking up, "what do you mean?"

Rolan hesitated, glancing at the sleeping prince before shaking his head, "he doesn't speak of it often. But I've seen it. Sometimes, he stops mid-sentence and looks over his shoulder like someone's behind him. Other times, he flinches at things no one else sees. And when it gets bad, he tears at himself."

Genna swallowed, her eyes flicking to the faded scars across Baelor's wrists, the burns that marred the skin beneath his sleeves. The ones she'd dressed before.

She let out a slow breath, "and no one does anything?"

Rolan huffed a humourless laugh, "who would? Orwylle sends his leeches and his tonics, but Baelor refuses them more often than not."

Genna glanced back down at Baelor, her fingers brushing the damp strands of brown hair from his forehead. He shifted slightly in his sleep, pressing into the warmth of her palm like a child seeking comfort.

"It's getting worse," she admitted, her voice quiet.

Rolan nodded, "yes."

For a moment there was silence. Until Rolan brushed the tears away and shuffled on his feet, "he asked for you. 'Tis why I brought him here."

Genna hesitated, her fingers still curled around Baelor's hand. She didn't know how to answer. She shrugged her shoulders then, "I am his wife."

Rolan studied her for a long moment before nodding. Baelor stirred, his breath hitching, and Genna's grip instinctively tightened, steadying him even in sleep. None of them moved. None of them spoke. They simply stayed.