His fingers tapped against the old wooden table within the chambers of the now Green Council. His twin sat at the top of the table, the Conquer crown held between his fingers; a burden he didn't ask for. It would have looked better on him, Baelor concluded.

"Aemond will go to House Baratheon," their grandsire spoke in the dire tension and silence, breaking it like a knife breaks apart butter, "Daeron is already in Oldtown. We cannot send Aegon anywhere just yet. Baelor can go up North with his dragon."

"Up North?" Baelor scoffed and looked up from where his fingers played with the stone in front, "you want me to go and speak to Cregan Stark? Did his father not pledge his alliance to Rhaenyra?"

"Rickon Stark, yes," Otto continued, straightened, "Cregan not yet. Offer him something he could never refuse."

I have nothing to offer, he wanted to bicker, but instead he said: "I get the Northman and Aemond gets Baratheon? Might as well send Aegon, he's already on his side."

His younger brother scoffed and shook his head as their grandsire continued, "Aegon is not going anywhere."

"Terrified of the Northman, brother?" Aemond jested from the other side of the table, fingers tapping against the wood.

"You go then," Baelor bickered back as if he was a child – as if he was Alyssa bickering with Rhaella over a toy.

His gaze returned back to the stone in front of him, "besides, I must remain here. Grand Maester said my lady wife is experiencing tougher last moons of pregnancy."

"As if you care about that," hummed Aemond from the side which caused Baelor to glare at him before glancing over to Tyland.

Otto continued, "it is settled, Baelor."

It is settled, Baelor rung in his brain like the words were insects feasting on a rotting corpse. He watched his grandsire speak but he didn't register what he was saying. All the actions, all the sacrifices he has made to make him proud of him were now tossed away, his presence vanished by his twin brother. Baelor tapped his fingers against the wood, mirroring Aegon without even realizing it. Because, at the end of the day and if they liked it or not, they were two sides of the same coin.

Baelor didn't leave for Winterfell just yet. He paced up and down his chambers, a letter between his fingers: Rhaenyra was crowned Queen on Dragonstone after losing her daughter. Not a daughter, a creature was what was written on the paper – no heart, only a hole, dragon scales and dragon tail. He stared through a window while his mother sat in the armchair, nails digging within her skin, "the whore did not die in birth."

"The Seven did not grant us that wish, no," her son replied as a mutter before dropping the paper on the desk that was filled with Genna's letters from home, her pins, her unfinished needlework. His eyes lingered on them far more than he'd admit.

Alicent sighs, shaking her head, "we must protect our own, Baelor. It is no time for your foolish games."

He scoffs, shaking his head. He looks up from the desk, his eyes following the outlines of the painting above, "I play no games, mother. I know we must protect our own."

"And you had," she replies and he knows what she means – she thanks him for being reasonable, for he didn't harm Aegon. He didn't kill him, injured him or let him run away.

"Better to have a cunt on the Throne than to let Rhaenyra have it," he replied and he looked away from his mother. His fingers grazed the hairbrush on the desk – white, edges coloured golden, small roses drawn on its back. Aemond gifted Genna that as a wedding gift. Baelor grabbed it and threw it out of the open balcony doors.

Alicent ran her palm over her eyebrows at his action. Baelor breathed a few rigid breaths before looking back at his mother, "why send Aemond to the Baratheon's? It is a sealed deal already. We could have sent Helaena and she would return with victory."

His mother watches him – his eyes and fingers twitching with every breath he took. She thinks of all the times she prayed for his health, safety. She desperately hoped to love him. She sighs then, "because I know you are destined for more, Baelor. I do not wish you to live in anyone's shadow."

He thinks she might pity him, then. It's why she says things she doesn't mean. Baelor bits his tongue and closes his fingers in a fist, "all my life I have lived in someone's shadow. Might as well continue that."

Genna hums a tired Rhaella to her sleep – a mop of curls lays aside her aching stomach, tiny fingers wrapped around the edge of her nightgown. It was a gift from her father on her wedding night. Something to remind her of home, he'd say.

Baelor paces up and down the chambers once more. Visenya sleeps in his arms, his fingers clinging onto the back of her nightgown like he was clinging onto reality, scared he'll lose himself if he lets go of his children. Genna wants to ask him when he's to leave. Before she even has the chance, her husband speaks, "I have to leave soon."

She nods though she's not watching him – she's looking down where Rhaella sleeps, where Alyssa lays her head against her twin's shoulder, drops of drool rolling from the side of her mouth, "to the North?"

He hates the thought of it, "yes."

"Helaena says she's scared," Genna whispers in the dead of the night, fingers clinging onto her children, "that rats are everywhere. I don't know if she means it any other way or not."

Baelor tilts his head and stops at the foot of the bed, "the rats?"

She's scared too, she wants to say but instead whispers, "do you trust everyone in the Keep?"

He doesn't hesitate with his answer, "no."

Genna looks up at him – there's a scar of the cut on his cheek, his eyes and soul are tired, she can tell. They're both scared, "do you trust Rolan?"

Once more, Baelor doesn't hesitate with his answer, "with my life."

"Then place him in front of the children's chambers," she whispers and she pleads, "it would – it would keep at peace at night. To know they guarded by someone you trust."

"They would be fools to come after the children," he whispers back though he is equally afraid for the worst to happen, "but if it calms you, I shall speak to Rolan. See if he can do that."

She truly is grateful when she whispers it, "thank you."

Baelor nods and slowly strides to the crib. Genna insisted on keeping Visenya close to her until she can stay in the chambers with her sisters. He gently places his youngest in the crib, "do stay away from Helaena for some time."

"Why?" she asks – as confused as she is angry.

Like a silent plea, prayer or something worse and sinister, he whispers while his bleeding fingers achingly reach for Visenya's cheek, "because the rats come play out at night."

Before she can a chance to ask what he means, what he asks her to do, it was almost like he snapped out of whatever state he was in. He straightens himself from where he was leaning over the crib and walked to the bed. He reached out for Rhaella that was tugged close to her mother's belly and pulled her in his arms. She laid her head against his shoulder, drops of drool coming in contact with his doublet. His free arm reached out again and swooped Alyssa from the bed and she instantly pushed her arms around her father's neck, "I'll be back soon."

He was lying and Genna knew.

A storm was charging over King's Landing. It flushed over Old Town first. On nights like these, Baelor watches the rain and the hail and hopes Daeron doesn't feel scared. He thinks he, himself, should feel scared. Moonfyre echoes his rider's thoughts when he pushes his head out of his home. His snout nudges Baelor and brings him from his thoughts. It was too stormy to fly. Maybe it was a sign from the Seven to not continue his plan but Baelor was always too blind for obvious things.

"īlon sōvegon arlī, issa valonqar," Baelor whispers with a smile, aching fingers sliding across his dragon's scales. (We fly again, my boy)

Sometimes he thinks Moonfyre, alongside his girls, is the only constant thing in his life. His mind changes every day, he doesn't feel alright for the majority of his life, everything and everyone around him are changing. Except for Moonfyre. He's as loyal and present as he can be. He's grateful for it.

"You are a fool to leave," a voice speaks and for a moment he thinks his brain is playing tricks on him.

It's not – it's Myna who stands in the entrance of the dragon pit. Baelor turns his head from his dragon and watches her; her hair is, despite the late hour, neatly pinned together in a braid. She's not yet wearing a nightgown, instead prompted in a dark green dress. He's aware his mother made her wear the colour. The right side of his cheek is caught between his teeth, "I must go to the North. I'm sure brother dearest told you so."

"But you won't go to the North," she replies – she knows him to his bones and he's afraid of it, "you'll go to the Baratheons just to spite Aemond. You're scared, Baelor."

Moonfyre's head turned as if ready to attack her. In some odd ways, Baelor might allow it – to erase Myna from his life and path would be a book and story closed. But not tonight, "lykirī, Moonfyre." (be calm)

She doesn't stop, "what are you scared of?"

He tries not to think about it. About the war, the deaths, the dragons. He's not scared of that, he believes. But the thought of losing his daughters scare him far more than he likes to admit to anyone, especially himself. He retorts back, "why should I be scared? Will you strangle me in the night?"

Myna smiles, lips reaching her eyes, "not yet. I do wish to see you suffer in some way or another. I must say; it was quite entertaining to see you struggle during Aegon's coronation."

Moonfyre turned his head again, moving it closer to Myna. She doesn't flinch or take a step away from the beast – it's not like she has anything to live for. She continued, "you are a fool if you do it, Baelor. I mean that. You can secure the North, the Starks and beyond. Why use that power for a House that is already secured?"

"Why do you suddenly care for Aemond so much?" he asks as if it's the only thing he gathered from her words.

She shrugged her shoulders, "maybe I care for you."

He stayed silent for a moment before grinning, "I highly doubt that. You want to see me sufferer, you said it yourself."

Myna shrugs her shoulders again and starts to leave, "perhaps. 'Tis why I wish you to go to the North, not the Baratheons."

It was a distraction. Not that Aemond needed one – Baelor thinks he's afraid of his elder brother in some way. Vhagar roars outside and descends in the sky. Baelor let out a raged breath, as mad as Moonfyre suddenly feels, "you tricked me."

Myna turns to look at him, her fingers wrapped around her wrists where it rests on her stomach, "well, I did say I wish to see you suffer. And I remain loyal to Aemond."

He's fucking laughing at me, Baelor thinks of Aemond in the sky.

But then again – if Baelor would've left the pit, Lucerys Velaryon would've still be alive.