Clemont leaned close, whispering something in Jaehaerys's ear.
The king's expression tightened, and with a small nod, he gestured to his Iron Guards. Leon Raymond and Clement moved at once, each seizing one of Maester Runetel's arms.
"Wait! What are you doing?!" Runetel's voice cracked in outrage as he struggled in their grip.
It was useless. The Kingsguard held him fast.
His face flushed, the maester glared at Jaehaerys. "Your Grace, are you doubting my loyalty?!" His tone was a mixture of hurt and disbelief. "I have served countless lords over the years. I've amputated the legs of the wounded, delivered babies for desperate mothers, tended the dying—"
Damon, standing nearby, cut him off with open impatience. "Enough babbling. Search him!"
And without waiting for the guards, Damon stepped forward himself.
Runetel's entire body trembled. Humiliation burned through him hotter than any fire. The servants in the room seemed to be watching with poorly concealed smirks, whispering behind their hands, laughing at his disgrace.
Damon's hand emerged from the folds of Runetel's robes holding a small glass vial. Inside was a fine green powder.
"What's this?" Damon demanded, his voice cold.
Runetel blinked at the vial, stunned. What is that?
"This is a frame-up! A filthy frame-up!" he shouted, panic rising in his chest. He was certain—absolutely certain—he had never possessed such a thing. Someone had planted it on him.
But the bottle had been found in his pocket, and there were too many witnesses. In the court of public perception, he was already guilty.
Belron coughed twice, drawing every eye. "Cough… cough…" He straightened, eyes hazy with feigned confusion.
"Ugh… it hurts…" he groaned, clutching his stomach. The pain in his voice sounded real enough to make Emma rush to his side, wrapping him in a tight embrace.
"Berlon, it's all right. You'll be fine," she whispered through tears, calling for milk of the poppy to ease his agony.
Jaehaerys's gaze lingered on his son, a shadow of dread passing over his features. Perhaps he will join Baelon soon, in the kingdom of the Seven Gods.
"What is this powder?!" Damon barked at Runetel, his sword half-drawn.
"I—I don't know! It's not mine!" the maester stammered.
Damon sneered. "We'll see about that." Without hesitation, he mixed the green powder into a cup of water and forced it toward Runetel's lips.
But in that tense moment, everyone's attention was locked on the accused maester—no one noticed Baeron slip from Emma's arms.
The boy moved with sudden purpose toward the hearth. He didn't hesitate. The moment the flames touched his clothes, they roared to life, devouring fabric and engulfing him in an instant.
Gasps filled the room. The fire wrapped around him like a living thing, its heat beating against the walls.
Emma screamed, fainting dead away.
"Put out the fire!" Jaehaerys roared, leaping to his feet.
Damon reacted first, ripping down a heavy curtain and throwing it over Baeron. The Kingsguard rushed to help.
Runetel, momentarily forgotten, stood frozen. Has the little prince gone mad from the pain? he thought.
Beneath the smothering fabric, Baeron silently counted. Twenty-three… twenty-four… The flames licked his skin, but the fire was nothing to him.
A nauseating smell of scorched fabric filled the room, forcing some to gag. The glow of the fire painted everyone's faces in flickering gold and red, heat pressing them back.
At sixty-five seconds, the flames were finally beaten out.
Baeron emerged from the charred fabric, covered in soot and ash. His silver hair was matted and his clothing was destroyed. Everyone braced themselves for the sight of horrific burns.
But when Damon brushed away the black ash from Baeron's arm, pale, unblemished skin shone beneath.
"By the gods…" Damon muttered. "He's not hurt at all."
Baeron calmly wiped the ash from his face, revealing the same perfect skin. Not a single blister or scorch mark marred him. Even the silver strands near his ears were untouched.
Jaehaerys stepped closer, his hand trembling as he touched his son's cheek. It was warm, but unburned.
The room had gone silent. The impossible had happened before their eyes.
Baeron smiled faintly. "I feel… wonderful. Even the pain in my stomach is gone."
He spoke with a strange certainty. "Just now, in a dream, I met an old man. He told me: Blood and fire come from the same source. A true dragon fears no flame. The fire cleanses pain, purges sickness, and burns away impurities."
He raised his arm for all to see, rotating it in the light. Every eye followed the movement, disbelief etched on their faces.
Jaehaerys and Damon exchanged a glance. They both knew the Targaryens could endure more heat than other men—but this was something far beyond legend.
Fire as a cure? Neither had heard of such a thing.
The one most shaken, however, was Maester Runetel. His voice was almost a whisper at first. "Impossible… impossible…"
For centuries, the Citadel and the rest of Westeros had half-believed the tales—that Targaryens carried the blood of dragons, that there was fire in their veins which could burn out plague and disease.
But that belief had been broken when Princess Daenerys, pure-blooded daughter of Jaehaerys, died of a simple fever like any mortal girl.
From then on, the Citadel declared the dragonlords were nothing more than men—gifted, perhaps, but mortal.
Now, Baeron's display threatened to shatter that doctrine all over again.
Emma was carried away to her chambers, still unconscious. Baeron followed, ensuring she was comfortable before turning to Damon. "What of Viserys and Rhaenyra?"
Damon's eyes were sharp as he relayed the details. Baeron frowned, picking up the vial of green powder. "This was found on the maester?"
"Yes," Damon replied flatly.
"Then perhaps I can discover its purpose," Baeron said. "It's either poison or an antidote. Let me take it."
"No," Jaehaerys said immediately, his voice hard. "I won't risk another of my children for answers."
"This flame can burn away toxins," Baeron pressed. "Even if it is poison, it cannot harm me."
"Don't take such risks," Damon said, his tone like steel. "Runetel will tell us what it is."
"But I cannot stand by while Father and Rhaenyra suffer," Baeron said, his voice low with determination.
"I said no," Jaehaerys repeated, the finality in his words brooking no argument. "I will not lose you, Baeron."
The young prince sighed, his gaze lingering on the shaken maester. Somewhere deep inside, he already knew—answers would come, but not without a fight.