Rhaenyra's fingers traced the dagger's hilt with the care one might give to a priceless heirloom. Her lips curved into a faint, amused smile.
"Alright," she said softly, her tone carrying a mixture of indulgence and affection, "I'll forgive you this once."
Baelon returned the smile—small, controlled, but warm. "Are you feeling better now?" His voice lowered, almost conspiratorial. "Rhaenyra, I just hope that when you close your eyes tonight, your dreams are filled with joy and light… not shadowed by sadness or worry."
During the day, her earlier words had struck him like a hammer blow, heavy and unrelenting. They had burrowed deep into his mind, forcing him into uncomfortable reflection. He had never truly considered her feelings in such depth before.
It was true—Viserys and Emma loved Rhaenyra. In fact, they treated her far better than most parents in the Seven Kingdoms treated their daughters. They encouraged her education, respected her spirit, and even considered her for succession—something rare for a woman. And yet… even with all that, as parents, they could not help but give more attention to their son.
It wasn't entirely their fault. As the male heir, Baelon naturally and effortlessly attracted more of their affection. He had never thought much of it before; the attention had always been there, an unshakable constant. It was simply how things were. Only now did he realize the sharp sting such favoritism must have left in Rhaenyra's heart.
His mother, Emma, had been a woman of steadfast convictions. She believed with all her heart that her destiny—her duty—was to bear children for Viserys. To her, childbirth was not just a personal role but an act of service to the kingdom.
And so she bore that burden without complaint.
In the original history Baelon remembered, she had endured a cruel fate. Within just two and a half years, she had been pregnant five times. One child had died in infancy, two were stillborn, and two had been lost to miscarriage. The constant pregnancies drained her health, leaving her body fragile and worn. When she became pregnant yet again—this time with the long-awaited male heir—her body was already at its limit.
The labor was difficult. The child was in a breech position, and complications arose almost immediately. The birth claimed her life.
Viserys… poor, indecisive Viserys… had been utterly devoted to her. So much so that he dared to defy the expectations of the entire kingdom and name their daughter Rhaenyra as his heir. But in the same breath, he had also made the cruelest decision of all—when he learned that the unborn child was a boy, he ordered Emma's belly cut open in a desperate attempt to save him.
That memory, though not yet part of this life, burned in Baelon's mind. He knew he could not change Viserys and Emma entirely—not in who they were, nor in the deep-seated traditions that shaped them. But he could make one change: he could be better to Rhaenyra.
After all, she had always been there for him. Even if they bickered now and then—brother and sister as they were—whenever he found himself in danger, she never hesitated to come to his aid.
In the flickering light of the fire, Rhaenyra's eyes gleamed like rare amethysts. She met his gaze and said simply, "Thank you, Baelon."
Seeing her mood finally lift, Baelon allowed himself a small sense of relief. They parted ways with gentle goodnights, and under the careful escort of a knight, Baelon returned obediently to his chambers.
Once in his room, he climbed into bed, letting the warmth of the blankets wrap around him. His breathing slowed, and for a brief moment, it seemed as though sleep might claim him.
The knight lingered only long enough to ensure the boy was resting peacefully. As instructed, he left a candle burning on the bedside table, then tiptoed out, closing the door with a soft click.
The draft from the closing door made the candle's flame waver. Its light flickered, dancing across the room's shadows.
And in that moment, Baelon's eyes snapped open—clear, sharp, and utterly devoid of drowsiness.
Sleep? he thought with a smirk. Not a chance.
How could he possibly waste time sleeping at his age? This was a life of unparalleled opportunity. To squander it would be a crime against the system… and against the great god of transmigration itself.
His creed was simple: As long as overwork doesn't kill me, I'll work myself to death.
For a bright future, he would push forward without pause.
Quietly, he slipped from beneath the covers and knelt beside the bed. From underneath, he pulled out a coil of rope and a torch. The torch was already soaked in oil. All it took was a touch to the candle flame, and with a satisfying whoosh, a bright, steady fire roared to life.
He tied one end of the rope securely to the bedpost, then crossed to the window. Opening it, he tossed the rope into the night. It vanished into the darkness below.
Unwrapping the cloth from his fingers, he studied them briefly. The wounds from the bowstring had already healed. The rapid self-healing—triggered when his satiety was full—could be a powerful advantage in battle. But it was also something he intended to keep hidden. Too many people had seen him injure his fingers, so the bandages had been a necessary disguise.
He slipped on his deerskin gloves and settled himself on the windowsill. Outside, the sea breeze roared endlessly, tugging at the torch's flame. It swayed and bent but did not go out.
Gripping the rope, Baelon hooked it around his feet, shifted his weight, and swung out of the window. His body slid down the rope in one smooth motion.
It was easy—thanks to the system, and thanks to the Targaryen family's rigorous martial training. To prepare their heirs for future dragon-riding, they placed great emphasis on hand and lower body strength. That training now served Baelon well.
When his feet finally touched solid ground, he let out a quiet breath of relief. Not every boy who climbed towers at night met a tragic or fateful encounter. Tonight, luck was on his side.
He glanced at his system panel:
Satiety: 40/40
Health: 100/100
Spirit: 198/200
Mana: 100/100
Under the cover of night, his Spirit value would slowly decline—ten points lost by morning. With two hundred total, it was hardly worth worrying about.
Orienting himself by memory, Baelon began making his way toward Vaghar's resting place. As he walked, he lowered the torch, letting its light reveal the ground in front of him. He searched as he went, looking for anything useful.
Before long, he spotted a patch of weeds among the moss. Kneeling, he tugged them up with a gentle pull.
Mana -1
The roots in his hand—brown, earthy, still clinging to soil—suddenly shimmered and transformed into neatly cut, arm-length yellow stalks. It was as though a scythe had trimmed them perfectly.
Baelon studied them. Not magic in the traditional sense, perhaps, but still fueled by mana.
Closing his eyes, he tried to feel the change, to grasp that fleeting sensation of mana leaving his body. But it was like water slipping between his fingers—there one moment, gone the next.
A few steps later, he found another clump of green weeds.
Mana -1
Again, the transformation occurred—green turned to yellow, wild turned to neatly cut straw. It didn't matter what the original plant was. The moment he pulled it up, the result was always the same.
So he continued, pulling grass after grass, the pile growing in his inventory.
Grass: Quantity 50
He learned nothing new about controlling mana… but he had fifty pieces of grass now, which would save him fifty mana points when feeding the sapling later.
The closer he drew to Vaghar's resting place, the more deliberate his steps became. Above him, the sky was pitch-black, the stars hidden behind thick cloud. The air was cool, tinged with salt from the sea.
Finally, he reached her.
Vaghar lay curled in the darkness, her massive form still, her breathing deep. Even at rest, she radiated power.
"Vaghar…" Baelon whispered, his voice just loud enough to reach her ears.
One massive eye slid open, glowing faintly in the torchlight. Annoyance flared in her gaze—how dare anyone disturb her rest? Her head lifted slightly, ready to swat away this insolent intruder.
But then the wind shifted, carrying with it a scent she knew well—the scent of Targaryen blood. And layered beneath it, an even more tempting aroma.
Baelon reached into his pack and withdrew two spider glands—the last he had. He let her catch their scent before tucking them swiftly into his inventory.
The delicious smell vanished instantly.
Vaghar's pupils narrowed to sharp slits. Her neck straightened, her gaze locking on him with dangerous intensity..