King Viserys I Targaryen is dead.

His body is locked inside his chambers. 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 teas. 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.

"I do hope he's on a ship to Essos already," spoke Baelor after the silence that followed, fingers twisting the old, beaten hat on his head, fixing it as the two walked down the corners of the city, "it would save us some troubles."

"Do you not wish to see him on the Throne?" Criston called over his shoulder as he stepped over some bodies on the floor, "rather see your sister?"

Baelor knew he was joking. Still, he scoffed, words twisted with sarcasm, "yes, I would much rather see a Dragonstone whore on my brother's Throne, I thought I was obvious through the years."

The Kingsguard snorted before they reached the whore house. His fingers curled and he knocked loudly on the old, beaten doors of the building. Baelor's eyes travelled around before the doors opened, "yes?"

Before Criston could ask in a district matter, Baelor asked bluntly, "is my brother here?"

"Prince Baelor," the Madame nodded her head to the once frequent visitor of her work place, "not in the mood for one of the girls?"

"Not today, no," he shook his head lightly, fingers twisting the golden ring on one of his fingers; matching the golden dragon and lion with Genna, "my brother?"

"Was not here today," the elderly woman replied, fingers gently tapping on the outline of the doors.

And when Criston wanted to ask further, Baelor nudged his shoulder for him to follow him. The Madame called after the prince - something about hoping he'll return soon but Baelor was out of it all. His feet dragged him towards the Sept of Baelor, Ser Criston quickly following him, "what? You think that your brother suddenly became devoted to the Faith?"

"No," the prince shook his head and almost collided with Criston by his side when he avoided a rotting body on the floor, "but our mother is. Aegon was always weak, that much you and I know. Where else would he hide other than a place he never saw comfort it? The only place that connects him fully to our mother without her actual presence?"

Sometimes Criston wondered what was happening inside Baelor's mind - was it covered in dark themes only? Was he ever like his mother? Was he liked the dead King? He'd see himself in the prince, that much he was aware of. It pained him more than anything. He followed close behind, his fingers tugging on the back of Baelor's hat, keeping his hair within, "your mind does wonders."

"I'm not the weak brother," he replied, going up to the Sept two steps at the time, ignoring the movement of Criston's fingers tugging on the back of his hat to keep his hair under.

There was eerie silence within the Sept. The only sound were the candles cracking and the wind blowing. Baelor quietly moved around the open space, making sure his boots don't creak. He stopped by the candles, eyes wandering across them. He wondered what it was like if someone prayed - he did; at some point in his life, he prayed a lot. Sometimes he did it without even realizing: when he'd hear Genna's struggles and cries inside the birthing chambers, his fingers would twitch and a prayer to the Mother left his lips. It felt like he was becoming his own mother at those moments. But Baelor is no Alicent Hightower.

A finger gently tapped the front of his boot on accident, a curse in High Valyrian following. Baelor sighed and closed his eyes, "ao should emagon dakogon faster." (you should run faster)

Aegon sighed from under the table; teary eyed and drunk, "Nyke emagon nykeā lōgor ready. Ivestragī issa jikagon." (I have a ship ready. Let me go)

Criston hasn't entered the Sept yet when Baelor replied, "Nyke daor holding ao arlī, lēkia." (I'm not holding you back, brother)

There was a moment of silence before Aegon replied, "Ao jāhor daor ivestragī issa jikagon either." (you will not let me go either)

Though his brother couldn't see it, Baelor shook his head, lilac eyes still closed, "I will not let you go, no."

Aegon pulled himself from under the table, hair sticking to his forehead by sweat and to his cheeks by tears, "I have no desire to rule."

"We both know that," his brother replied, looking down at the mess he called his twin, "yet you are the older one."

Before Aegon could reply, Baelor wrapped his fingers around the cloak that dangled off his brother's shoulders and pulled him up, "and yet you are the king. Our father is dead. You are his first-born son and you will sit the Iron Throne. Do you know what our whore of a half-sister will do? She'll take what rightfully belongs to you. And do you truly think she would let any of us live? Helaena, your children? Their blood will lay on your hands, Aegon - if you do not take the Throne."

Alcohol almost left his body at his words, "why would she kill us?"

"Because you are the challenge, Aegon," Baelor hissed at his brother, amazed by his stupidity, "simply by living and breathing! You are a man grown; how can you be so blind?"

The doors of the Sept opened, Aegon grabbed Baelor by his cheeks to make him look at him, "we can leave. We can take our wives, our children and leave. Somewhere in Essos, Free Cities; wherever you'd want. You can be fucking free, Baelor. Nobody will fucking care that you are as mad as anyone can be."

World stilled around him. How could he be so blind not to see the mask was slipping off? If his drunken brother could tell his mind was not alright, did everyone else see it too? Baelor let Aegon grip on his cheeks; his eyes pleading, hoping when Ser Criston called for the princes. The younger of the twins replied in a hiss, "do not speak of my mind."

Aegon snorted, "whispers are true then? As mad as any Targaryen?"

Baelor pushed his brother off him and Criston caught him before he could run out of the Sept. He thought of it - he'd take his dagger from under his belt and slit Aegon's throat. Criston wouldn't tell anyone; for he knew he'd prefer him on the Throne over Aegon. He could let him get on the ship but risk someone noticing him. He could strangle him with his bare hands. He could push him down the stairs outside the Sept. But he didn't do anything. He let Criston grab Aegon off the floor and drag him away from Baelor. Because at his very core, Baelor Targaryen was a weak worm.

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.

Dear father,

please allow me to come home. If only for a few days. I must get from here before I lose my mind and do something irrational. I fear I might see mother soon.

She fears of sending the letter, of someone finding the paper, of someone reading it and labelling her as mad. Genna stares at the wall in front of her and her hand stopped moving. She captures her lower lip in between her teeth, biting harshly on it when the pain continues. She feels the babe stir and she calms herself: they're still here, they're still kicking, they're still alive. She hopes for a boy. She hopes a boy cries out soon and she can stop having children. That, once a boy is given to the Realm by her, Baelor will stop with his wish of her giving him more children. She thinks four will be enough. She hopes that, at least.

She tries to hide the paper when the doors swing open and Alicent walks inside, Helaena padding behind her like a lost duckling - eyes blown wide and teary, hands shaking and her rings clinking together, dressed in a deep green, the Star of the Seven hanging closely at her neck. Genna glances at the two and she wants to comfort Helaena for whatever reason she feels down but the cramps don't allow her to stand up. Alicent stops by the table and chair, eyes diverting away, "the king is dead."

Not her husband but the king. Because it's not about someone's husband or someone's father and grandfather dying; it's always about the king. Especially now when the Iron Throne has no one to sit upon. Genna clenches the Star that lays just above her breast. She looks down with furrowed brows and whispers, "dead."

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

Genna looks up and ponders, "ready for what?"

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

Genna bites her tongue before saying it out loud - they're crowning Aegon not Rhaenyra. They're usurping the rightful Heir, the person chosen by the king before his passing. Still, she stands up with their help and moves to the centre of the chambers. She's helped by the two women to get dress: dark green dress with long sleeves, dragons and lions sewed in the material. She hears Alicent speak of Aegon being crowned in front of the masses, of Viserys whispering his last wish of having his first-born son rule after him, of the Conquerors crown being placed upon his and Helaena's head. Genna wonders, when they pull the dress over her shoulder, if she'll ever be able to see Casterly Rock again, if her children will ever see her childhood home in all its glory, if her father was on it to name Aegon the king, if he'll be standing next to her as they watch the usurping of the Iron Throne.

Genna and Baelor ride in the carriage behind Alicent, Aegon and Helaena. The girls remained within the Red Keep with their cousins as the crowd cheered for the pretender king and the rightful queen who remained on Dragonstone. He watched the smallfolk outside, eyes trained on anything but his wife. His fingers twisted the ring on his finger, not noticing Genna was doing the same. Her fingers rested on her aching belly - something she was afraid to admit: for saying it out loud that her stomach was hurting two moons before she was supposed to give birth scared her.

He wondered what was on her mind. Not only today when they ride to the coronation in silence but most of the days. Without noticing, Genna was often on his mind. He wondered if she ached for home, if she missed her mother, if she wished her father was more often with her, if she actually enjoyed her life and if she cared for him as much as she cares for their daughters. He'd slap himself to having weak moments as such where he craved for her touch. He'd consider himself weak and say it's his mind doing tricks on him, not that he'd actually feel something for her because Genna was his wife and mother of his children, nothing more and nothing less.

Like an instinct when she felt his fingers twitched, her hand reached out and took his right one, burying it on the couching between, not looking from the window. Baelor did the same: his eyes still looked outside but didn't say a word when she caressed her thumb over his knuckles to calm his mind and racing heart. Genna bit the inside of her cheek and whispered, "it will be alright."

"I doubt it," her husband whispered back, burying his left knuckles between his teeth, biting on the skin, almost as harshly to have blood spill from it.

Genna looked on her left, "Baelor."

"Do not," he shook his head and sniffed, looking back out of the window.

She stayed quiet and looked away and out of the window once more, listening to the smallfolk yelling for Aegon when he moved out of the carriage.

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.