Runetel lowered his head, his expression hidden in shadow.
The poison he had chosen was precise, deliberate—crafted to make the Targaryen prince writhe in agony before dying in public.
It was not just murder; it was a statement.
The message was simple: the Targaryens are no different from ordinary mortals. There would be no divine exceptions, no unbreakable bloodlines. In the end, the so-called "dragon" would fall just like any man.
But now…
It was all ruined.
The candlelight flickered, throwing restless shadows across the cramped chamber. Since Baelon had emerged from the fire untouched, every face in the room wore an expression caught somewhere between awe and disbelief.
Runetel's eyes swept over them—knights, servants, and lords alike—reading each reaction. His anger ebbed, slowly replaced by a creeping despair. At last, his legs gave out, and he sank onto the cold, unyielding floor.
The knights' gazes burned with curiosity, their postures shifting into reverent respect. The servants did not dare to meet the boy's eyes. One knelt so low it was almost a prostration, whispering prayers under his breath as if in the presence of a living god.
The Prime Minister's Tower, small and plain as it was, suddenly felt like a grand temple.
And in that moment, under the witness of all present, a new legend took its first breath.
Grian would see to it that the miracle of Baelon's fire-proof body spread far and wide. The bards' songs would carry the tale across the Seven Kingdoms, until his name was etched into the memory of Westeros itself. Even centuries after his death, people would still speak of the boy who walked unscathed through flames.
Baelon approached slowly, his boots echoing on the stone floor. Sir Ryan twisted Runetel's arms behind his back, pressing the old man forward until he fell to his knees.
Runetel's face flushed a deep red, the chain of his maester's necklace slipping from his neck and clattering to the ground.
Baelon stood over him in silence for a long moment. The weight of it pressed against every chest in the room. Sometimes, silent thunder is far more terrifying than the loudest roar.
The flames in the hearth crackled softly.
When Baelon finally spoke, his voice was calm—almost too calm.
> "Maester Runetel, to poison a prince is to commit treason."
He took a step closer, eyes locked on the old man.
> "Tell me who sent you, and I might let you die with a shred of dignity."
In this world, truth was rarely uncovered by evidence. Confessions wrung out through pain were the rule, not the exception. And there was only one sure way to obtain a confession: violence.
The incriminating pouch of powdered poison had been found in Runetel's own robes. The only reason he was still breathing was because Daemon needed him alive—for now—to test the antidote. Once the remedy was confirmed to work, the old maester's use would be at an end.
His fate had only two doors: a swift death… or a slow, screaming one.
Baelon studied him closely. He had assumed that anyone willing to attempt such a bold crime would have steeled themselves for death. But Runetel's trembling hands and darting eyes told another story—his courage was crumbling.
"I didn't do it!" Runetel blurted, his voice cracking. "I never poisoned Prince Baelon or Prince Viserys! Someone planted that bottle on me!"
Baelon's lips curled into a cold smile.
> "A maester protecting a maester… You mean you didn't do it—Arlin did."
Runetel's eyes widened, color draining from his face. Now he understood what it felt like to have a pig for a teammate.
Arlin, his supposed ally, had been the one to poison old Prince Baelon on Dragonstone. The venom was designed to take effect only after the old man returned to King's Landing. No one would have known. Even if the city were turned upside down in the search, no evidence would have surfaced.
The plan had been foolproof—this was the first time such a poison had been tested on Targaryen blood. To be safe, Runetel had sent an extra dose in case dragon blood truly resisted ordinary toxins.
What he had not anticipated was that the fool Arlin would poison Viserys's entire family.
Baelon's gaze was sharp and unrelenting. This was no longer a guessing game; the truth was bleeding out in every flicker of Runetel's panic.
To kill a prince required not just skill but also an iron mind. Yet here was the man, already cracking under pressure.
Runetel seemed to realize the inevitable. Lords could be more ruthless than war itself, and he, as a maester, knew too well how merciless their justice could be. Enduring torture was not in his nature.
Better to confess on his own terms than be broken under the rack.
He lifted his chin.
> "Yes. It was me and Arlin. We conspired to poison them."
Gasps rippled through the room.
The idea of a maester betraying his vows and murdering his liege lord was unthinkable—sacrilege. The angry murmurs of the onlookers were sharper than blades, and the fury of the Targaryens was hotter than any fire.
King Jaehaerys slammed his hands down on the chair's arms, his voice a snarl.
> "Kill him!"
The veins stood out in Daemon's neck as he drew his sword without hesitation.
In a single motion, steel flashed through the air. Baelon saw a gleam of silver, then a warm spray of blood struck his face.
Runetel's body slumped forward, head rolling across the floor until it came to rest at Baelon's feet. The maester's wide, lifeless eyes stared upward, frozen in shock.
Daemon ground his heel onto the head and spat.
> "Throw it to the dogs."
Baelon took a step back, wiping the blood from his cheek. The cut had been so clean it almost seemed unreal. The Valyrian steel blade had severed the neck in a single stroke.
Daemon Targaryen, famed knight of the Seven Kingdoms, had proven once again that his speed in killing was unmatched.
It struck Baelon that for all his supposed ruthlessness, he still lagged far behind men like Daemon. In his former life, he had been taught to temper violence. But here, cruelty was not just survival—it was currency.
He still had much to learn.
Jaehaerys remained frozen in his chair, staring at the corpse. His jaw trembled, and though the murderer lay dead at his feet, the king's rage still burned.
A servant quietly brought in a new test subject while others mopped the blood as though such scenes were routine.
When the man was ready to drink the green powder, Baelon glanced at his father.
> "Father, Rhaenyra and Viserys are still in pain. We should give them the medicine now. Even if it doesn't work, at least they won't suffer more than they already have."
Jaehaerys hesitated. If it was truly an antidote, it would save them. If not… at least their agony would end. He closed his eyes, hearing the faint cries of his children, and finally nodded.
Daemon carefully propped Viserys up, while Baelon lifted Rhaenyra into his arms. The antidote, mixed with warm water, was fed to both.
Thankfully, they still had enough awareness to swallow.
A faint groan escaped Viserys as his eyes fluttered open. His voice was groggy.
> "Daemon… I had a dream that something happened to Father. But… it was just a dream, wasn't it?"
He blinked, looking around.
> "Where is he?"
Daemon's silence was answer enough. Slowly, realization crept across Viserys's face. Memories of what happened before he collapsed returned in a rush.
It wasn't a dream. His father was gone.
He clung to Daemon, sobbing.
Rhaenyra stirred next, her small arms wrapping around Baelon's neck. Tears streamed down her cheeks.
> "I thought… I was going to die."
Baelon patted her back gently.
> "You're safe now. I won't let anything happen to you."
Across the room, Jaehaerys stumbled to the table. His hand trembled as he picked up the medicine bottle, staring out the window without a word. The candlelight caught the lines on his face, deepened now by grief.
Outside, the wind howled against the Tower walls, carrying with it the first whispers of a legend that would soon echo across the world.