Whitefrost folded his hands within the sleeves of his robe and spoke with measured calm, as if reciting a report before a lord's council rather than standing in a quiet chamber heavy with unease.
"I conducted a full examination of Prince Baelon together with the maester," he said. "From head to toe. First, there were no external wounds. No broken bones, no signs of blunt force. This alone rules out an attack by wildlings or beasts."
Cregan Karstark snorted softly, lifting the pomelo he had been idly turning in his fingers and setting it, without thinking, atop Whitefrost's head like a crown.
Whitefrost's eyes flicked upward. With a sharp motion of his wrist, he knocked the fruit aside before it could settle, his expression unchanging but his jaw tightening a fraction.
"Second," he continued, unperturbed, "Prince Baelon's body bears extensive frostbite. Severe enough to alarm any healer. However, after careful probing, the maester and I confirmed that the damage is limited to the skin. The cold never reached the muscle or the organs beneath."
Cregan Stark, seated across from them, leaned forward slightly. His grey eyes did not leave Whitefrost's face.
"And the burns?" he asked quietly.
Whitefrost hesitated.
For the first time, uncertainty crept into his posture. His fingers flexed, then stilled. "The burns were recorded as well," he said. "But whether they should be spoken of openly is… debatable."
At that, Cregan Karstark choked on the juice he had just swallowed. He slammed the cup down, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
"What kind of answer is that?" he barked. "Say what needs saying. Don't circle it like a skittish horse."
Whitefrost did not rise to the provocation. Instead, he turned his gaze to Cregan Stark, searching his face.
This was no false caution. What he had seen with his own eyes defied reason, and reason ruled the North.
"Speak," Cregan Stark said at last. His voice was calm, even gentle, but it carried the weight of Winterfell. "Whatever it is, it will remain between us."
Karstark grunted. "Aye. By the old gods, I won't loose my tongue."
Only then did Whitefrost incline his head.
"My lords," he said, lowering his voice, "this matter cannot be known beyond these walls. To House Targaryen, it would be taken as a grave insult."
He paused, then allowed himself a thin, uneasy smile.
"Have either of you heard the tales of the Unburnt of Valyria?"
Karstark frowned, scratching at his beard. "Men who don't burn?" he said. "Sounds like a sailor's lie."
Cregan Stark considered it longer, then shook his head. "No such tale was taught to me."
"As the maester explained," Whitefrost went on, "House Targaryen descends from the dragonlords of old Valyria. At the height of their power, certain bloodlines were said to be closer to dragons than to men."
He clasped his hands again, steadier now.
"Those of the purest blood could withstand flame itself. Fire would touch them and yet do them no harm. Such men were called the Unburnt."
Karstark scoffed under his breath, but said nothing.
"There are few clear records of such men," Whitefrost continued. "The histories speak more often of dragon-dreamers. Visions, prophecy. Yet the maester believes Prince Baelon may be one of these rare Unburnt."
Cregan Stark's brows drew together. "You are saying the burns exist because fire touched him," he said slowly, "but did not truly harm him."
"Yes," Whitefrost replied. "The skin bears marks, but there is no true injury beneath. The flame was resisted."
Silence stretched between them.
Then Whitefrost spoke again, quieter still.
"To be certain, I tested it."
Both men looked up sharply.
"I ensured no one was present," Whitefrost said. "In my chamber, I brought a torch close. The flame met his flesh."
He swallowed once.
"It did nothing. No blister. No pain. Nothing at all."
Karstark let out a low curse. His earlier bluster had vanished.
Cregan Stark leaned back, fingers steepled, his face unreadable.
"That," Whitefrost said, "is why this must remain secret. If Prince Baelon wakes and learns that I put fire to him… even an Unburnt might not forgive such presumption."
The corner of his mouth twitched. "I have no wish to be tested by dragonfire in return."
When he finished, Whitefrost looked from one lord to the other, awaiting judgment.
"You both gave me your word," he said quietly. "You swore this matter would go no further."
Cregan Stark answered at once. He placed a hand flat against the table, the old northern gesture of oath-taking. "On my honor as a Stark, it will not leave this room."
Cregan Karstark followed suit with a sharp nod. "You have my word as well. If this tale spreads, it won't be from me."
Only then did the tension drain from Whitefrost's shoulders. He exhaled slowly, as though he had been holding his breath since the examination ended.
"Good," he said. "Then we may proceed as planned."
Cregan Stark rose from his seat. "The northern lords will arrive within days," he said. "Glover, Whitehill, Karstark. If nothing unexpected occurs, we will receive them here at Last Hearth. Once Prince Baelon wakes, we will decide our course."
Whitefrost inclined his head. "I am of the same mind."
Karstark grunted his agreement. "Aye. Best to hear what the dragon himself has to say."
Prince Baelon woke the following morning.
For a long moment, he lay still, staring up at a ceiling he did not recognize. Heavy beams of dark wood crossed above him, and the air smelled faintly of pine smoke and cold stone.
"…Last Hearth," he murmured hoarsely. "That's right. I landed here."
The memory came back in fragments. Grey skies. The wind howling off the Bay of Seals. Tyraxes folding his wings as they descended.
Baelon pressed a hand to his temple and winced.
"Seven hells," he muttered. "Why does my head feel like it's been split with Ice?"
He pushed himself upright. His body felt stiff, as if he had slept for a week rather than a single night, and a dull, throbbing ache pulsed behind his eyes.
Then his fingers brushed his scalp.
Baelon froze.
"…Where," he said slowly, "is my hair?"
He felt again, more urgently this time. There was a swollen lump beneath his palm, tender to the touch, and smooth skin where silver-gold hair most certainly should have been.
He stared at his hand.
Bald.
He was bald.
For a heartbeat, he simply sat there, stunned. Then he let out a low, incredulous laugh.
"So that's the price," he said. "Thrown from Tyraxes and shaved by fate itself."
The pain flared when he pressed the bump again. "That fall nearly cracked my skull. I'm lucky it only took my hair."
At least, he reflected with a faint smirk, it did nothing to lessen his looks. Targaryen blood saw to that.
His gaze dropped to the clothes laid out beside the bed. The robes were finely made, embroidered with the sigil of House Glover. Someone had taken care to see him properly dressed.
"Whitefrost," Baelon said under his breath. "Thoughtful as ever."
He dressed quickly, pulled on his boots, and pushed open the chamber door.
The corridors of Last Hearth were already awake. Servants hurried past with trays and linens. Guards stood at their posts, spears in hand.
And every single one of them stared at him.
At first, Baelon assumed the reason was obvious. He lifted a hand and brushed his bare scalp again.
"Gods," he thought, "is it truly that shocking?"
But as he continued down the hall, he realized something was wrong.
Their looks were not amused. Nor merely curious.
They were reverent.
Men straightened as he passed. Backs stiffened. Eyes lowered, then lifted again with awe that bordered on fear.
This was not how one looked at a man who had lost his hair.
Baelon slowed, then stopped beside a guard whose shield bore the sunburst sigil of House Karstark.
"You," he said. "A moment."
The guard snapped to attention at once.
"Why are you all staring at me like that?" Baelon asked, gesturing vaguely at his head. "Is it truly because of this?"
He smoothed his scalp with an almost theatrical sigh.
The guard's eyes widened. He dropped to one knee so fast his armor clattered.
"All hail Prince Baelon!" the man shouted, voice ringing down the corridor. "All hail the Bloodflame King!
The Unburnt, whom flame cannot harm!
The dragonlord who fears no fire!"
Baelon just stared at him.
---------
A/N: If you think you know what comes next… you don't. The answers are already waiting ahead.
There are 35+ advance chapters on Patreon,
If you've enjoyed the story so far, this is the moment you don't want to miss.
www.patreon.com/Baelon
Send the stones this way. Okay???