Night had fallen, and the world lay wrapped in a darkness so deep it was as though it rested at the bottom of a ten-thousand-meter-deep sea.
In the pitch-black room, Billy stirred awake. Feeling around in the dark, he fumbled for his clothes, the coarse fabric cold to the touch. Quietly, he pushed open the old wooden door. It let out a long, protesting creak, the sound unnaturally loud in the silence of the night.
A sharp chill pierced his thin clothing, sending a shiver down his spine. But ahead, faint light flickered in the kitchen. The glow of a small fire licked the stone walls, and in front of it, a skinny figure hunched over, busy with some task.
The pot on the hearth was bubbling gently, sending up waves of steam. A faint aroma drifted over to him — the familiar, comforting scent of bread.
Billy stepped forward and lifted the pot lid. Warm white steam rose, curling into the air before being stolen away by a gust of wind.
Just as he suspected — inside, half a leftover bun from last night floated in the hot water, being boiled into porridge.
Thanks to the prince's unexpected generosity, they had been able to eat yesterday. Before darkness had fully fallen, Billy had managed to catch some scattered shellfish and a few small fish in the shallow waters. They had been a modest catch, but to his family, it was treasure.
When he returned home, he had spoken briefly to his mother about a work recruitment he had heard of. Her brows had furrowed with worry, but when he mentioned the payment — a bucket of bread — his younger siblings' eyes lit up, their faces eager and hopeful.
Surrounded by their expectant gazes, Billy had reached into his coat and pulled out the bread he had been hiding. The room had erupted instantly into cheers, the cramped space filling with their noisy happiness.
His second sister, quick as always, had torn half of the bun into pieces and dropped them into the fish soup. The family gathered around the small wooden table, cradling their bowls as if afraid they might disappear, eating so enthusiastically they nearly buried their faces in the steam.
Billy had intended to save the other half of the bun for them — a small reserve for leaner times.
But now, his second sister was in the kitchen, carefully ladling all of the bread porridge into his bowl.
"You're going to work," she said firmly. "How can you not eat something good in the morning?"
"It's too much," Billy protested, trying to push the bowl back toward her. "The prince said he'll give us lunch and dinner. Keep it for yourself."
"No," she countered, already pulling the pot out of his reach. "If you dump it back in, it'll spill on the floor and be wasted. Eat it. Mother said you should fill your stomach. And don't wake her — she's been in pain all night and only just fell asleep."
He hesitated but could see there was no winning this argument. Lowering his head, he began to eat. The hot steam rose into his face, warming his cheeks until his eyes blurred.
When the bowl was empty, he dressed more warmly, wrapping himself in every scrap of clothing he could manage, and stepped outside. The bread porridge had left a pleasant heat in his belly, enough to take the edge off the biting morning cold.
On the road, he wasn't alone. Here and there, other fishermen emerged from the darkness, moving in small, silent groups. Nobody spoke; the only sound was the crunch of their steps on the frost-hardened earth.
The prince had said they would gather when the bell rang — but who would dare make the prince wait? In this land, everything the common folk possessed, even their lives, ultimately belonged to the lords.
When Billy reached the base of the castle, he saw that he was not especially early. Most of the fishermen were already there, wrapped tightly in patched coats, crouched in corners with their food containers clutched in their hands.
Above them, the sky was shifting — the deep, inky blue of night slowly giving way to a muted indigo. The first faint thread of morning light crept in over the horizon.
From the cliffs, seabirds began their raucous calls, swooping and circling overhead. Somewhere near the battlements, Prince Baelon slid his sword back into its scabbard, the sound faint but crisp in the quiet. He knew he had to return to his chamber before the household fully woke.
Among the swirling seabirds, a lone carrier raven cut through, flying in a determined, unwavering line toward the castle.
In Westeros, ravens were the lifeblood of communication. Every maester who graduated from the Citadel knew how to train them to carry messages between specific locations, ensuring their lord was always informed.
Baelon's eyes followed the bird briefly before he looked away. Whatever news it carried, he could always ask Old Bei or his father later if it concerned him.
He climbed back into his chamber the same way he had left — by rope — and stowed it under the bed. On his way back, he noticed several fishermen huddled by the castle wall. At first, in the dim light, he had mistaken them for a cluster of mushrooms. He had nearly been spotted. He hadn't expected them to arrive so early.
Outside his door, two knights stood rigidly on either side, clad in immaculate armor. They looked like twin statues, eyes forward, hands resting on their swords.
Servants passed by quietly, balancing trays without letting the dishes so much as clink. Even the floorboards seemed to hush their usual groans in deference to the sleeping lords.
Baelon could tell Viserys and Old Bei had not yet risen.
From the far end of the hall, the light spilling from the kitchen was bright and warm. As he approached, a wave of heat rolled over him. Inside, the kitchen was alive with movement — pots boiling, knives clattering on cutting boards, cooks bustling between counters.
A strong, broad-shouldered woman with her hair tied up and sleeves rolled high strode among them, inspecting the work with a sharp eye and scolding in a voice that carried.
When the kitchen staff noticed Baelon, they froze for a split second. He raised a hand casually, gesturing for them to continue.
The head cook approached quickly, her stern demeanor replaced by an almost nervous smile.
"Your Highness," she said respectfully, "what brings you to the kitchen? Is there something you need?"
"I came to check on the preparations," Baelon replied evenly. He never made a habit of antagonizing cooks — they might not dare to poison food, but there were far less lethal, far more disgusting ways to make a meal unpleasant.
"This way, please. Everything is nearly ready." She led him past the long preparation tables, where platters of food were already being set out — red wine–soaked foie gras, lamb chops roasted in almond milk, salads of turnips, beets, walnuts, and grapes topped with crumbled cheese, steaming mushroom soup, golden crab pies, pumpkin glazed with honey, and two seabirds roasted with lemon and honey.
Baelon recognized those birds — he had shot them himself.
Near the wall, five or six large basins sat on the damp stone floor, each filled with rough gray-black barley dough. The mix contained mostly wheat bran with a small portion of wheat flour, giving it a sour, almost dizzying smell.
A nearby barrel held chunks of mutton — likely the same meat he and Rhaenyra had hunted the day before.
Baelon quickly judged the amount. The dough would make several hundred loaves, enough to feed the workers collecting oysters that day. Each worker would receive two loaves and a bowl of broth. If you wanted labor, you had to feed people — though not too well.
"If you ask me," the kitchen lady said with a chuckle, "those peasants don't need to eat so nicely. Our prince is generous indeed."
"Enough," Baelon cut in, a faint flush on his face. In his past life, someone might have called him a black-hearted capitalist for thinking like this. The truth was, bread made from wheat bran was still a luxury compared to the sawdust-and-stone loaves that sometimes passed for food among the poor.
Satisfied with the progress, Baelon continued the inspection. The large cleaned jars for making oyster sauce were ready, along with vats, pots, and stacked firewood. He ran his hand through a sack of golden wheat, letting the grains pour over his fingers until they reached past his wrist.
[Wheat seeds obtained ×99]
Without any sign of guilt, he let the seeds vanish into his storage before brushing the remaining grains from his hand.
"You've done well," he told the cook, placing a silver stag into her rough palm. Her eyes widened, cheeks flushing red as she began to heap praises on his kindness.
Baelon left the kitchen amidst her flattery and headed toward the courtyard. "Ring the bell. Call the workers," he instructed one of the knights.
The knight hesitated. "But, Your Highness, Princes Baelon and Viserys are still—"
"You work for me now," Baelon said calmly. "If anyone asks, tell them it was my order."
As he stepped into the corridor, a robed maester passed by, bowing politely. Something about the man's darting eyes and tense expression caught Baelon's attention. He turned to watch the hunched figure retreating down the hall.
That corridor led only to the kitchen. And the maester's breakfast was always brought to his chambers.
So why, Baelon wondered, was the maester visiting the kitchen at this hour?