Boom!
The bell's deep, resonant roar shattered the quiet morning, reverberating through the thick stone walls of the castle. The sound seemed to punch through the cold air and strike directly at the heart of everyone within earshot.
Out by the shore, the tide had pulled far back, exposing long jagged rows of reefs. The stone formations were a mottled mix of dull gray and slick black, glistening under the pale sunlight. Each surface was carpeted with layers of barnacles and oysters, their shells warped and twisted by years of battering waves. They looked like gaping mouths, sinister and unwelcoming.
Fishermen, hardened by a lifetime of labor, moved among the rocks with practiced ease. Rolling up their rough-spun trousers, they stepped barefoot into the icy seawater without hesitation. Bent low under the wind, they gripped their pickaxes and chisels with calloused hands. Each swing carved a clean arc through the air before striking stone, the sharp clack-clack-clack of metal on rock blending seamlessly with the rhythmic crash of waves. The sounds formed a rough, unplanned symphony—nature's relentless pulse accompanied by human persistence.
From a rock higher up the beach, Baeron stood apart, his leather boots pristine and untouched by seawater. His eyes followed the fishermen, who clung to the reefs like barnacles themselves, every movement purposeful and patient. Watching them stirred something unfamiliar in him—an odd blend of respect, pity, and perhaps a trace of envy for their simple certainty of purpose.
Nearby, a crude kitchen station had been set up. A few heavy stone tables formed a makeshift counter, and a stove of piled rocks was already smoking. The kitchen matron, assisted by several burly men and women, heaved a large iron pot into place above the fire. Steam hissed as seawater splashed against the heated metal.
"Prince, everything's been moved in," the cook reported, bowing slightly, her voice tinged with forced cheer.
Baeron's gaze stayed on the restless tide. "Did anyone go into the kitchen after I left?"
The question came out light, but his mind was already turning over the memory of that morning—Maester Arlin's sudden appearance in the corridor by the kitchens. It was an encounter that had left a faint itch in his thoughts.
The cook scratched her head nervously. "No, no one else has been to the kitchen."
He forced himself not to glance at the black crescents of grime under her nails. He didn't want to imagine how many of the meals he'd eaten bore the silent touch of those hands. Still, the others behind her—the kitchen assistants—looked as they always did, calm and unbothered. It eased his suspicion slightly.
So, Arlin had been in the corridor but hadn't entered the kitchen itself. That fact didn't sit quite right. Baeron's brow furrowed, the sensation like a cat's claws dragging slowly over his thoughts.
He had never trusted the Order of Maesters entirely. In his eyes, they were like quiet mice lurking in the walls—unseen but always listening, gathering scraps of knowledge no one else noticed. Most noble houses relied on them: tending the ravens for long-distance messages, treating wounds and illnesses, tutoring children, advising lords. Their usefulness made them indispensable.
But they also served the Citadel, a place where knowledge gathered like storm clouds, and political currents ran deeper than many dared to admit. Outwardly calm, yes—but the stillest waters could conceal the strongest undertow.
Leaving a knight posted to watch over the fishermen, Baeron turned and made his way back to the castle.
Inside the great hall's dining chamber, the air was warm with the scent of roasted meat and sweet honey. Viserys sat at the table with Emma, Rhaenyla, and Old Bay. As soon as Baeron entered, he felt the weight of their eyes on him—all four turning to watch his every step.
Their gazes were so alike, he thought—quietly appraising, carved from the same stone.
"Why are you all staring at me like that?" he asked, genuinely puzzled.
Viserys rubbed his temple and gave a soft groan. "Baeron… are you planning to ring that bell again tomorrow morning?"
Baeron blinked, as if the idea of it being a problem hadn't occurred to him. "Early? How can it be called early? Maester Arlin was already up. I even met him outside the kitchens."
"That bell," Emma said gently, "was loud enough to wake the dead. My heart's still pounding. Perhaps there's… a less alarming way to gather the fishermen?"
He glanced around and saw that Rhaenyla and Old Bay both looked sluggish, still half-buried in the remains of their interrupted sleep. With a small shrug, Baeron nodded. "All right. I'll try another way tomorrow."
It was true—the convener's role didn't require a bell. There were other options. The Hightowers of Oldtown, when calling their bannermen to war, lit a great green flame at the top of their tower. Fire could be just as commanding as sound.
He took a bite of honey-glazed seabird, savoring the sweetness while firmly pushing away the thought of the cook's filthy apron. "Grandfather," he said casually, "any news from King's Landing?"
Old Bay paused mid-bite, a lamb bone in one hand and a cup of wine in the other. "News?" he echoed.
"A raven landed on the tower this morning," Baeron said with a faint smile. "Didn't Maester Arlin tell you?"
"Arrived just this morning. Perhaps it's too soon," Old Bay said with a dismissive wave. His tone suggested it was nothing urgent.
Like many lords, Old Bay trusted in the oaths of the maesters. To him, their loyalty was unshakable; after all, they surrendered both name and inheritance for the chain of their order. Who could bribe a man with nothing left to sell? And in power, who rivaled the Targaryens?
Before Baeron could respond, a voice broke through the hall—dry, old, and yet brisk.
"Prince Baeron, a letter from the king!"
Maester Arlin swept past him with surprising speed, heading straight for Old Bay. His hands held a roll of yellowed parchment, which he offered with deep respect. Old Bay took it with greasy fingers, giving Baeron a sly wink.
The maester's white beard and kindly smile made him look like a figure from a winter tale—though Baeron wasn't fooled. "Good morning again, little Prince Baeron," Arlin said warmly. "Up early, I see."
"And what were you doing in the kitchen this morning, Maester?" Baeron asked at once, not bothering with courtesy. He had no need to dance around the question—he was Targaryen blood.
The old man chuckled, his voice drawn out like warm honey. "Ah, Prince… when you reach my age, you'll understand. Sleep is a stingy river—it grants the elderly only a few drops each night. So, I wander the castle. And besides, the stones here are older than I am; they make good company."
His hands rested easily at his sides, the chain of his order glinting in the candlelight. On his little finger sat a plain copper ring among others of different metals.
"And the kitchen?" Baeron pressed. "Not a usual place for a prince to wander, I suppose?" Arlin met his gaze evenly, unblinking.
The air between them cooled. The hall, despite morning light streaming in from narrow windows, seemed dim—candles flickered and hissed, shadows licking the walls.
Baeron leaned back in his chair, fingers drumming a slow rhythm on the carved armrest. The maester's gaze wavered slightly, and Baeron caught it—the faint tremor of the little finger.
He smiled faintly. "Are you asking about me, Maester?" His tone was gentle, but the edge beneath it was sharp enough to cut parchment.
Arlin lowered his head just a fraction, his eyes drifting to the three-headed dragon etched into the table's surface. "Prince," he said softly, "I only wish to serve you better."