For the eleventh time, the elderly sent off the young.
As a father, King Jaehaerys had lost yet another son. As a ruler, he had watched his two heirs die one after another.
He sat in silence beside the bed, his body hunched, frozen like a weathered statue.
The Seven Gods had once blessed him with kindness, granting him thirteen children. Yet one by one, the gods had cruelly taken them away.
And now, the last child still beside him — Prince Baelon — had also been claimed.
Of his children, only two remained alive: Vaegon, now a maester in Oldtown, and Saera, far away in exile. Neither could bring him comfort in this moment.
Jaehaerys, whose life and reign were once legendary, now seemed nothing more than an old man drained of strength, watching helplessly as his son's life slipped away.
Baelon, though weakened, caught sight of his father's weathered, empty eyes. In that moment, understanding struck him — a cold realization.
Jaehaerys would not last long. The death of "Old Baelon" had stolen away the king's spirit. Overnight, he had aged years.
Old Baelon had been the monarch that everyone wanted — steadfast, fair, and strong. His passing left a wound in the realm that could not easily be healed.
The room was thick with grief. Even the newly appointed Maester Runetel was weeping as though his own kin had died.
Viserys knelt before the bed, tears streaming down his cheeks. At first, he thought the ache in his stomach was nothing more than grief twisting in his gut.
But the pain grew sharper. More intense.
It hit him suddenly, like a spear to the belly. His face turned pale, sweat beading on his forehead as he fell to the floor.
"Brother!" Daemon shouted, rushing to his side and pulling him upright.
The pain was unbearable — sharp, burning, relentless. And then the truth hit Daemon: the symptoms were exactly the same as their father's final hours.
His mind raced. His father's death had seemed like an accident… but now? Now it was far too much of a coincidence.
Daemon's expression darkened. His eyes burned like hot embers.
Viserys groaned, clutching his abdomen, the pain like a thousand steel needles stabbing into his stomach. His body shook as if each breath sent waves of agony tearing through him.
Baelon, too, was fading. His vision blurred, cold sweat dripping down his spine. In the haze, a crimson warning flashed before his eyes:
Health -1
Health -1
The poison was potent — a mere drop could rupture the intestines and cause pain so unbearable that a man would beg to tear his own stomach out.
Even through the agony, Bellon couldn't help but grudgingly admire the craftsmanship. "The maesters' handiwork is… impressive," he thought. "Perhaps I should keep a few around for… research."
The sounds in the room grew distant.
"Runetel! Quickly!" someone shouted.
The king's voice — sharp, cold, and dangerous — cut through the haze.
The fire of his Targaryen blood flared, and Jaehaerys glared like an enraged dragon. "See to them, Maester!"
Runetel, trembling, stepped forward. His hands moved quickly — but not without fear.
Just then, the sound of hurried footsteps echoed in the hallway.
Queen Aemma burst into the room, clutching the limp body of young Rhaenyra in her arms. Her face was pale with terror.
"Viserys! Rhaenyra, she—"
She stopped mid-sentence, her eyes darting from her unconscious daughter to her husband and brother-in-law doubled over in pain.
Her shock was absolute. In the space of a single day, her father-in-law, her husband, and her daughter had all collapsed.
Daemon took Rhaenyra from her arms, glancing around. The beds were full, so he placed both her and Baelon on chairs.
The truth was undeniable now.
This was no accident.
This was murder.
Daemon's hand shot out, seizing Runetel by the collar. The maester gasped, powerless against the prince's strength.
"Save them!" Daemon roared. "If they die, I will see you buried with them."
Bellon, half-conscious, remained silent, feigning complete collapse. If Daemon thought only of his brothers, perhaps it was best to let him.
Runetel's hands shook as he worked. He applied leeches to draw blood and cool fever, then forced poppy milk between the lips of the writhing victims to dull the agony.
The room was silent save for labored breathing and the scraping of wooden chairs against stone.
The death of Old Baelon could still, perhaps, be written off as fate. But three members of Viserys's family falling ill in the same way? Only the blind would call it coincidence.
Jaehaerys might have been old, but his mind was as sharp as ever — and with Prince Daemon watching like a hawk, no detail would be missed.
The matter was now beyond suspicion.
"This is deliberate," Daemon hissed. "Who? The Myrish?" His hand rested on the hilt of Dark Sister.
The Targaryens had few enemies left. The only true blood feud was with the Myrish. Years ago, a band of exiled Myrish assassins had killed Prince Aemon, Jaehaerys's son and heir.
In retaliation, Old Baelon had flown to Tarth on Vhagar and massacred every Myrish exile he could find.
They had been outcasts, failed in their power struggles, despised even by their own kin. Surely none remained with the power — or the nerve — to strike back now.
But Daemon's blood was up. If he could not find the guilty, he would destroy all the possible guilty.
Pacing the room like a caged dragon, he longed to mount Caraxes and rain fire upon his enemies. Only Viserys's worsening condition kept him grounded.
Meanwhile, Jaehaerys's mind worked quickly.
Viserys's family had only just arrived from Dragonstone that day. Whether this was poison or plague, it had been contracted there.
Baelon and Viserys had been struck at different times, meaning the culprit had acted twice — and with nerve enough to wait for the perfect moment.
Dragonstone was sparsely populated: a few squires, fishermen, and one resident maester.
Who among them had such skill, such timing… and such daring?
His gaze shifted to Queen Aemma — the only member of the Dragonstone household left untouched.
"Was there anything unusual there?" Jaehaerys asked, his voice calm but sharp as a blade.
Aemma froze under his stare. She took a breath, steadying herself.
"No… everything was fine. Except…" She hesitated, then continued, "Maester Arlin tried to touch a wild dragon. He was killed for it."
Runetel's eyes flickered. His heart skipped a beat.
The conversation had taken a dangerous turn.
Jaehaerys's stare locked onto the new maester.
Oaths meant little — even the Kingsguard had betrayed their vows in the past. Five of King Maegor's own White Cloaks had abandoned him for Jaehaerys before Maegor's fall.
Though they had helped Jaehaerys, he had not forgiven them. Without Queen Alysanne's pleading, they would have been executed rather than sent to the Wall.
Now, the king whispered an order to Ser Clement Crabb of the Kingsguard.
Crabb's eyes lingered on Runetel, the weight of his gaze a silent threat, before he departed.
Runetel's stomach twisted. He tried to make himself small, to disappear, but every breath felt loud.
"It's fine," he told himself. "Even if they search the Red Keep from top to bottom, they'll find nothing on me."
But time crawled like a wounded animal. Each minute stretched into an eternity.
Finally, the sound of boots on stone announced Ser Clement's return—