Jaehaerys rushed back to the Red Keep, his steps heavy with urgency, and convened a council of kings to address the shocking news of the poisoning.
The meeting was tense and brief. Otto Hightower of Oldtown was officially appointed as Hand of the King — a decision that stirred quiet murmurs among the lords. The Citadel, after all, was in Oldtown, deep within Hightower territory, and this choice was not without political weight.
Baelon, however, had no part in these high-level deliberations. What happened within the royal council chambers remained a mystery to him. At that moment, his duties lay elsewhere — specifically, at the side of the grief-stricken Viserys, accompanying him to transport Old Baelon's body back to Dragonstone.
---
A Kingdom in Mourning
The news of Old Baelon's death swept through the Seven Kingdoms like a cold wind before a storm. Wherever it touched, grief and unrest followed. In the streets of King's Landing, Baelon saw people lining both sides of the road, crying out Old Baelon's name, some openly weeping as the procession passed.
Overhead, Daemon rode upon Caraxes — the Blood Wyrm — cutting through the sky with unnerving speed. Its crimson scales glinted in the sunlight, and its long, sinewy neck gave the creature a strange, almost alien appearance. Baelon couldn't help but stare, his mind momentarily drifting. The Blood Wyrm was unlike most dragons — smaller than Vhagar, barely half the size, but it was fierce enough that, in the histories, it would eventually meet its end alongside that very titan of the skies.
After Old Baelon's passing, Vhagar had been confined to the dragon's lair. In the days Baelon remained in King's Landing, he had tried to enter the lair, but both the dragon guards and the knights posted by Viserys barred his way. Even with his curiosity burning, he could not approach the great she-dragon. And now, with Old Baelon's body scarcely cold, attempting to claim control over Vhagar would seem callous — an act that could easily be interpreted as cold-blooded ambition.
Baelon could only sigh inwardly and bide his time.
---
The Funeral on Dragonstone
Within days, nobles and dragons alike gathered on Dragonstone to attend Old Baelon's funeral. Among the mourners came Rhaenys Targaryen, riding her scarlet-scaled dragon Meleys — the "Red Queen." At her side was her husband, Corlys Velaryon, the "Sea Snake," and their two children.
King Jaehaerys himself arrived astride Vermithor, the great Bronze Fury. The sight of three dragons resting along the shore struck awe into all who witnessed it — a living reminder of Targaryen dominance.
The funeral pyre was built with care, using seven kinds of sacred wood: cypress for mourning, pine for strength, oak for endurance, and others steeped in symbolic meaning. In solemn silence, King Jaehaerys gave the order, and Vermithor exhaled a torrent of flame, igniting the pyre. The fire roared to life, consuming the body of his son and sending thick plumes of fragrant smoke spiraling into the sky. The mingling scents of burning wood and salt from the sea carried the prince's soul on its final journey.
Baelon stood beside his parents, his thoughts heavy. The air seemed to tremble with the weight of change. Old Baelon was gone — and with him, a major pillar in the Targaryen succession. King Jaehaerys was old, and the Iron Throne now stood at the center of a dangerous contest.
---
The Seeds of Succession
Baelon's gaze swept over the crowd, finally settling on Princess Rhaenys. Out of the fourteen living claimants, only two held real weight in the contest for the throne — Viserys and Rhaenys herself.
Her expression was unreadable. There was no outward display of grief for Old Baelon — not surprising, given that he was the uncle who had displaced her as heir.
Rhaenys was the only daughter of Prince Aemon. After Aemon's death, King Jaehaerys had bypassed her entirely, naming Aemon's younger brother, Baelon, as heir instead. That single decision had sparked the "Second Quarrel" between King and Queen. Queen Alysanne had been so offended by the slight against her granddaughter that she departed to live separately from Jaehaerys for two years. Even in her final illness the year before, Alysanne had insisted Rhaenys had been wrongfully denied her rights.
Beside Rhaenys, Corlys Velaryon turned and met Baelon's eyes with a sharp, measuring look. Baelon returned the stare calmly, then shifted his attention to Corlys's daughter, Laena — barely eight years old, clinging to her father. In the original histories, she would one day ride mighty Vhagar.
---
Return to Routine
Once the funeral ended, Dragonstone slowly returned to its steady rhythm. The dead were honored, the living moved forward. Baelon took ship back to King's Landing, remarking to himself that the constant travel had all but cured his seasickness.
The Red Keep itself was a labyrinth — riddled with so many hidden tunnels and secret passages that even the king could not claim to know them all. While dangerous for a monarch, such pathways were convenient for Baelon's quiet comings and goings.
Over the next two months, he kept to himself, chopping wood and hunting in the surrounding lands. On occasion, Daemon would summon him back to Dragonstone — not for matters of state, but to make oyster sauce.
This odd culinary creation had, unexpectedly, become a sensation across the Seven Kingdoms. Its rich flavor and supposed unique properties made it as valuable as pepper or saffron. In the free cities across the Narrow Sea, its worth was likened to gold itself. With such demand, gold dragons flowed into Baelon's hands with satisfying regularity.
---
Training Under Daemon
Baelon had also grown familiar with his uncle Daemon during this time. For all his hot temper and brash manner, Daemon was fiercely loyal to his family. Aside from his occasional attempts to drag Baelon to Silk Street — much to Baelon's dismay — he was proving to be a likable and, more importantly, skilled mentor.
One afternoon, on the training grounds, Daemon barked instructions in his usual commanding tone.
"Twist your waist! Shoulders forward! Strength in the wrists!" he called out. "Slash from the top down — again!"
Baelon obeyed, sword in hand, beads of sweat running down his forehead and into his eyes. He was younger than most who trained with steel, and Viserys had been reluctant to let him practice at all. In the end, Baelon had won permission only to train at the level of a knight's page — basic drills and no more.
Still, with Viserys often away, Daemon's lessons were an opportunity too valuable to waste.
"Come on!" Daemon called, grinning. "Swing at me!"
Baelon stepped in, muscles tensing, and slashed. The clang of steel rang out as Daemon caught the blow on the flat of his blade.
"Oof—" Daemon grimaced. "Strong for your size… but where were you aiming, boy?" He smirked, eyes glinting with mischief. "Do you know how many women's happiness depends on that?"
Baelon rolled his eyes. "I can't help where I reach — I'm short, remember?"
Without another word, he adjusted his grip, wrist flicking sharply as his blade blurred into a silver arc. Daemon's smirk faded as he brought his sword up to block. The rapid exchange rang with the steady ding-ding-ding of clashing steel.
Then Baelon shifted — a sudden upward slash from below, catching Daemon just off guard. The prince twisted aside, but not before the edge scraped his leather armor, leaving a pale mark.
Baelon smiled slyly. "Looks like I got lucky. Thank you, Uncle, for letting me win."
Daemon laughed, shaking his head. "Clever little fox. You aim for a man's weakness — you'll go far."
"Thanks to my uncle's teaching," Baelon replied, pushing his damp silver hair back. Targaryens favored long hair, but in moments like this, it was more nuisance than pride.
Daemon clapped him on the shoulder. "Training's done. Let's go — I'll take you to Silk Street."
Baelon twitched. Silk Street, of course, being the infamous brothel district. "I think I'll pass. I'm going to the armory to pick out a new sword."
He raised the weapon in his hand, showing the jagged notches in its blade from clashing with Daemon's Valyrian steel sword, Dark Sister.
Baelon's eyes lingered on the flawless, razor-sharp edge of that legendary weapon. One day, he thought, he would need a blade of Valyrian steel for himself — and perhaps armor and a saddle to match.