The boat crossed the narrow stretch known as the Throat and entered the vast expanse of Blackwater Bay. The journey had been smooth so far, with calm winds and steady waves carrying them onward.
The ship rose and fell gently with the breathing rhythm of the sea, while the waves surged endlessly in shades of blue and silver.
Emma had been standing at the bow with Baeron and Rhaenyra, enjoying the crisp sea air and the rolling view. But in an instant, her vision blurred, the light dimmed before her eyes, and she stumbled forward, dangerously close to the railing.
With quick reflexes, Baeron caught hold of his mother's clothes and yanked her back onto the deck before she could tumble into the water. Only then did the servants, alerted by his shout, rush over.
Hurried footsteps followed, and the sound of a wooden door slammed hard against a wall.
Viserys burst into the cabin, breathing heavily. Seeing Emma sitting upright in bed, he exhaled in relief.
"Emma!" he called, his voice both anxious and relieved. "What happened?!"
He rushed forward and wrapped his arms around her. His father was gravely ill—he could not bear the thought of losing his wife too.
Emma patted his back gently and swallowed the words she almost said. Instead, she offered a light explanation.
"I'm fine," she assured him softly. "Perhaps I haven't rested well recently. I just felt a little dizzy, that's all."
She decided it was better not to alarm him with any uncertain possibilities for now.
Before she could continue, a sudden churning in her stomach forced her to turn aside, retching uncontrollably.
With no maester aboard, a squire hurriedly fetched milk of the poppy to ease her discomfort.
Baeron, too young to know medicine, took Rhaenyra's small, cold hand in his own, keeping her close and out of the way. The recent string of troubling events had left the four-year-old girl at a loss, her lips pressed into a tight line.
Emma's nausea lingered, her throat convulsing with dry heaves. Baeron quickly prepared a cup of lemon water and offered it to her.
"Mom, drink some water. It might help you feel better," he said earnestly.
He remembered that during the Great Council of 101 AC, Emma had been pregnant—perhaps the same was true now.
Emma forced a smile for her two children, took the sour drink, and sipped it slowly until it was gone.
Just then, the maid entered with a cup of yellowish liquid in which small flocs floated. The strong scent of wine, mingled with urine and ammonia, filled the small cabin.
Emma examined the cup carefully, her brow softening into a smile as her hand drifted to rest on her belly.
Viserys's eyes widened as realization dawned. He placed his hand over hers.
"Could it be…?"
Emma nodded, her smile warm.
"Yes, Viserys. I'm pregnant. A new life is on the way."
She waved her children closer.
"Baeron, Rhaenyra—soon you will have a little brother."
Viserys let out a deep breath, relief replacing his earlier panic.
"That's wonderful, Emma. I'm so glad you're all right… truly glad."
The family embraced, the rocking of the cabin suddenly seeming gentler.
Baeron slipped from the embrace and walked over to the table, turning his back to the others as he prepared another cup of hot water. Into it, he stirred a fine green powder—an antidote—until it dissolved, leaving the water clear and odorless.
He handed the cup to Emma.
"Mom, drink some more hot water. It should make you feel better," he said with a faint smile.
"Thank you, Baeron," Emma replied, gently stroking his head.
Baeron stood quietly in his parents' arms. But deep down, a rare sense of guilt gnawed at him. When he had poisoned his mother before, he had not known she might be carrying another child. Now, with that knowledge, he understood he needed to neutralize the poison—otherwise it would be far too cruel.
Viserys rubbed his side, feeling a strange sting.
"It's a good thing we'll reach King's Landing tonight. I'll have the maester give you a thorough examination," he said, though he seemed distracted by his own discomfort.
---
King's Landing
The heart of Westeros. The stage upon which the Game of Thrones was played.
This city, however, was neither grand in architecture nor clean in its streets.
The cobblestones underfoot had only been laid after King Jaehaerys came to power. Before that, the capital's roads were nothing but dirt.
The carriage carrying the royal party sped down the foul-smelling streets, its wheels splashing through "chocolate rivers" and dodging piles of "land mines."
King Jaehaerys had designed the drainage and sewer system to carry waste into the river, but habits were hard to change. Residents still emptied chamber pots straight from their windows, sending their contents splattering onto the streets below.
The stench was infamous. Foreign dignitaries had complained before—most memorably, the Lord of Tyrosh, who after visiting the city, publicly declared it a "stinking sewer."
At least the royal family could ride in a carriage, spared from having to wade through it on foot.
The carriage rattled through the gates and came to a halt before the Prime Minister's Tower. Servants and officials bustled in and out.
Inside, Old Baelon lay pale and motionless on his bed. Only days ago, he had been full of vigor, able to ride a dragon from King's Landing to Dragonstone overnight. Now, he looked a shadow of himself.
King Jaehaerys sat beside him, head bowed, his wrinkled hand clasping Baelon's. His expression was unreadable.
"Father!" Viserys's knees nearly gave out at the sight. He could not imagine how the man who had always been so strong could have fallen so ill so suddenly.
Daemon, the second son, stood nearby. His eyes were red from days of watching over their father. He caught Viserys by the arm to steady him.
Emma, keeping their children close, quietly inquired after the patient's condition from the attending maester.
Viserys squeezed his father's hand—and felt the faintest twitch in response. Hope flared in his eyes, but Old Baelon's lids remained closed. A low, pained groan escaped his throat.
"...Pain…"
Jaehaerys's hunched back seemed to sag further. He looked more like a tired old man than a ruling king.
The maester, Runeltel, quickly brought milk of the poppy. But Baelon's body convulsed violently, his cries intensifying.
"It hurts… it hurts so much…"
The sound was raw, almost inhuman.
The maester tried to pour the milk between his lips to dull the agony. Gradually, the cries faded into broken sobs.
"Mother… it hurts…"
Unlike Maester Arryn's swift passing, this death came slowly, wracked with agony.
Baeron stared into his grandfather's vacant violet eyes, then lowered his gaze to the antidote he still carried. He could save him—perhaps easily—but that would change everything.
He stepped closer, and the sound of his movement made Jaehaerys glance up.
"Emma, take the children outside," the king ordered, voice hoarse.
But Baeron pulled away from his mother.
"I won't leave. At least let me stay with Grandfather," he insisted.
Jaehaerys did not refuse. Perhaps he lacked the strength to argue.
Emotion told Baeron to act, but cold logic restrained him.
Jaehaerys was over sixty; Old Baelon only forty, still in his prime. If Baelon survived, how much longer before Viserys inherited the throne? How much longer before Baeron's own ambitions could take shape?
If Baelon died, the path ahead would clear.
Should a man sacrifice family for the Iron Throne? Baeron asked himself—and found the answer already there.
He would not regret his choices, but he must accept their price. That price was watching his grandfather die in agony, knowing he could have stopped it.
This was his burden to bear. If he could not shoulder it, he had no right to speak of ambition.
Death came quietly at last—a faint whimper, a breath that did not return, a chest stilled. The warmth bled away, skin turning cold and stiff.
Baeron's stomach twisted, but outwardly he remained composed, his breathing steady. His gaze swept over the body with a pious detachment.
Death was the great equalizer. Noble or slave, all met the same end.
One day, he too would face it.
Around him, wailing filled the room. The roar of a dragon echoed above—Vhagar's cry of grief for his fallen rider.
Baeron lowered his head and let tears fall with the rest, his role in the moment hidden behind the grief of the crowd.
---