Flashback continuing
Kinvara let the offer of her magic hang between them. Baelon arched an eyebrow, considering it. Magic always came at a price—he'd read enough to know that much, and trusted it less for the knowing.
But desperate times called for desperate measures. He made his decision at once. "Everyone back to your tents. We move at sunrise." Sensing his intent, the unnecessary spectators cleared out of his tent without needing to be told twice. Kinvara stepped closer as they filed out, until only Baelon, Kinvara, the guards, and Caesar—still gripping the dagger buried in his own hand—remained.
"And what would that cost me?" Baelon asked.
Kinvara only smiled, reading the distrust plainly written across the prince's face—distrust of magic, and no doubt of her as well.
"Your assumption, though not wrong, isn't always true, my prince," she said, as if explaining something to a student. "Magic doesn't always demand loss. Sacrifice isn't the only currency it accepts."
"Then what does it demand?"
"An equitable exchange, always. The greater the need, the greater the price." She spoke the words like something long practiced, meant for anyone who cared to listen. The guards holding Caesar's chains shifted, visibly uneasy. Caesar himself had gone rigid with dread, and beneath it, hatred. The Faith of the Seven despised magic above almost anything else—to die by its hand would be the most shameful death he could imagine. Still, no one spoke as the conversation between prince and priestess continued.
"So as long as the price is met, you can do anything," Baelon said. He suspected there was more to it than that, and Kinvara's smile only widened, pleased at how quickly he'd caught the thread.
"Very nearly, my prince. But there is one condition above all others—you must carry magic in your blood. Few in the known world do. And that changes things considerably." She let the words sit, weighted with meaning she clearly wasn't finished explaining.
His eyes widened, just slightly. He wanted to press her further, but this was hardly the hour for a lesson in sorcery. He steered the conversation back to the matter at hand. "What, then, will be the price for this?" he asked, his gaze sliding to Caesar.
"There is no price for you to pay, Prince Baelon," Kinvara said. "That has already been settled. I made a vow, to aid House Targaryen in its hour of gravest need."
A bead of sweat gathered on Baelon's brow. He understood exactly what that meant. House Targaryen stood on the edge of ruin, its future balanced on a blade's thin edge.
The Red Temple had only ever pledged its aid for House Targaryen's darkest hour—and that hour, it seemed, had arrived.
He hated it. All his foresight, every scrap of hindsight carried over from a life not fully his own, and still his choices had dragged them into this game of death. There was no such grave danger his family faced in that timeline, which means his actions have started a different reaction from Faith. But there was no room left for regret. Only for striking back.
The bargain with the Red Faith had already begun.
She meant it, he thought. Settled. She vowed to aid House Targaryen in its hour of gravest need.
"Well then. I am grateful to Lady Kinvara," he said. "I find myself rather astounded by the brightness of your flames." A pointed remark—asking, without asking, whether she had seen something in them that might yet help him.
"A mere candle," she replied, "set against dragonfire." A quiet assurance that he would weather this crisis, whatever it cost.
"If Lady Kinvara's aid truly comes freely offered, I would be a fool to refuse it," he said. "So. How is this done, my lady?" A sadistic gleam crept into his eyes as they settled on Caesar, who by now regretted every decision that had brought him to this tent.
"We do nothing, my prince. The flames of R'hllor will show us what needs to be shown." Her tone was calm, untouched by any relish in Caesar's suffering. To her he was simply a man lost, chasing false gods to his own end.
"Shall I have my men raise a pyre, then?" Baelon asked, recalling well enough how the red priests favored their rituals.
"Hmm." Kinvara arched a brow at the casual cruelty of the suggestion, something like fondness kindling behind her eyes. "That would prove... fruitful."
"Tha—that would be exceedingly harsh, my prince," William said, eyes fixed on the ground, sweat beading at his temple, plainly shaken by what he'd just heard from his prince's mouth.
William and his men traded uneasy glances, baffled that Prince Baelon—a man the realm knew for his kindness, his courage, his easy warmth with the smallfolk—could suggest burning a man alive so lightly.
They had served him near a year now, and in that time had come to admire the young prince's character, his humility, his gift for drawing loyalty from men who would have died for him without a second thought. A natural leader, and barely more than a boy. William found himself wondering, not for the first time, what sort of man this prince might become once he'd grown into himself.
"I may show generosity to my loyal men, William. Humility, even." Baelon's voice didn't rise, didn't need to. "But I show no mercy to traitors. Fire and Blood. If i had my dragon today, traitor would met his end in the same way. Remember that." With those words alone, William understood, plainly, that this prince was not one to flinch from hard choices.
Fiercely protective of his family, Baelon would prove a dangerous man for anyone foolish enough to cross House Targaryen. Some already whispered he might be feared more, in time, than his elder brother—the Golden Prince, known across the realm as the better of the two in nearly everything.
This new generation, William thought, would carry the realm to heights unseen, or bring it to ruin. Perhaps both.
"William. Have some men raise a pyre in the deep woods, far enough to muffle the noise. No need to tell the rest of the camp. Keep it quiet. And silence this traitor," Baelon ordered, looking down at Caesar, who cursed and shouted and thrashed, dread written across every inch of his face as he understood, at last, exactly what fate awaited him.
Burning alive. Not a death any man would wish for.
…
Two Days Before the Trial
Eleventh Moon of 69 AC
King's Study, Red Keep, King's Landing
The hour was late, and the Red Keep lay wrapped in the flickering glow of candlelight.
King Jaehaerys Targaryen sat alone in his study, his face drawn with concern, poring over the parchments scattered across his desk—all of them, one way or another, tied to the trial now only two days away.
Reports lay in uneven stacks before him: a letter from the commander of the Gold Cloaks warning of rising tension in Flea Bottom, another from the small council debating how best to strengthen the city's defenses. Jaehaerys sighed, feeling the weight of his crown pressing down harder than it had in years.
A knock broke the silence.
"Enter," he called.
The door creaked open, and a Kingsguard stepped through, his white cloak catching what little light the candles offered. "Your Grace. Grand Maester Elysar is here. He says it's urgent."
Jaehaerys's brow furrowed. He nodded. "Send him in."
Elysar entered a moment later, clutching a letter sealed with the Targaryen crest, his steps heavy, his face carrying the weariness of a man burdened with troubling news.
"Your Grace," he began, bowing low. "A rider from Prince Baelon's party arrived not an hour ago. He rode through the night to reach us. He said the letter was urgent, and for your eyes alone."
Jaehaerys arched a brow, curious despite himself. Ten moons had passed since Baelon left the capital, and in that time few letters had come—nothing beyond the usual reports of roads and progress. He had grown used to his second son's independence over the years, but the long silence had begun, of late, to weigh on him more than he cared to admit.
"Give it here," the king said.
Elysar passed the letter over but made no move to leave. Jaehaerys noted his lingering presence and chose, for now, to let it be.
He broke the seal and unrolled the parchment—written, he saw with some surprise, in High Valyrian—and began to read.
It opened as Baelon's letters always did: warm, familiar, full of affection for his mother and his younger siblings. But the tone shifted quickly, the weight of what followed pressing through even the opening lines.
I trust, Father, that you are alone as you read this. What follows in next pages is meant for the family's eyes only. You may wish to send for Mother and Aemon before you continue.
Jaehaerys frowned. What could his son possibly need to share that demanded such caution? Still, he set the letter down a moment and looked up at the Grand Maester.
"Go and rest tonight, Elysar. There are difficult days ahead of us." His tone was clipped. "And send for the Queen. And the Crown Prince."
Elysar bowed deeply and withdrew, his footsteps fading down the corridor. Jaehaerys wasted no time picking the letter back up, eager now to know what his son had to say.
I have something of great importance to tell you, it went on, and it concerns the survival of our house.
The king's fingers tightened around the parchment. The survival of House Targaryen? It seemed almost absurd to him—the dragon's house had never stood stronger, its numbers and its dragons both growing with each passing year. What threat could possibly reach them? Dorne, perhaps. Rising tension across the Narrow Sea, at worst.
Baelon's next line put an end to such easy guesses, and chilled him straight through.
I have made a deal with the High Priest of the Red Temple in Volantis.
Jaehaerys's jaw tightened, his knuckles going white around the parchment. His son. Dealing in magic. In foreign gods. It felt, for one furious moment, like the height of recklessness.
He knew, as every Targaryen knew, that magic never came free. Nothing given by gods came without a price attached.
The letter continued. And yes—it is part of the reason behind the Faith's actions, and the rebellion now stirring in the capital.
Jaehaerys felt the beginnings of a headache building behind his eyes. He knew his son's paranoia well enough, his fierce, sometimes overbearing protectiveness of family. But this? Striking bargains with foreign sorcerers while tensions with the Faith climbed toward the breaking point? It felt reckless beyond reason, and anger began rising hot in his chest. He very nearly crushed the parchment in his fist—until the next line stayed his hand.
Now, before you tear this letter to pieces and fly Vermithor here to punish me—know that this was not done on impulse. It was necessary. To face our enemies.
Enemies. Jaehaerys paused, his fury dimming just enough to let curiosity through. What enemies?
He read on. Everyone, Father. Everyone who does not share our blood is our enemy. For context—I have only just survived an attack by five hundred men bearing the seven-pointed star.
Jaehaerys's eyes went wide with disbelief. His first instinct was to bolt from the chair, mount Vermithor, and fly straight to his son's side. Baelon rode with barely two hundred men. If the Faith had thrown that many soldiers against a Targaryen prince in the open, this was no longer mere rebellion. This was war.
His hands trembled as he read further, his thoughts racing ahead of the words on the page. Burn Oldtown's septs to the ground, he thought savagely. Had he been fool enough to believe the Faith would simply accept the summons without striking back? He should have sent more men with Baelon. He should have—
Worry not, Father. I am safe. The attack failed, thanks to information given up by a tortured traitor traveling in my own party.
Jaehaerys let out a long breath, relief flooding through him. It didn't last.
That the Faith struck at me so openly means they no longer fear the Crown. They have a plan, and we should assume it means to strike at all of us. They've smuggled fifteen hundred of the Faith Militant into King's Landing, disguised as common folk. They mean to attack the Red Keep. They intend to kill every one of us. Even little Daella and Saera.
The floor seemed to fall away beneath him. A cold sweat broke across his skin, his face draining of color as the image rose unbidden—his daughters, innocent, unaware, caught in the middle of it. His stomach turned.
"These words," he whispered to himself, heart hammering, "they're true." It felt less like a warning and more like prophecy already written.
They plan, too, to undercut the trial itself—to argue the High Septon cannot answer for every septon under him, and to deny his involvement outright for lack of direct proof against him.
You may wonder how I know all this. Kinvara, the Red Priestess traveling with me, showed me. A few sacrifices were made. I saw it all in the flames.
Jaehaerys stopped reading. His thoughts spun, a churn of horror and disbelief he couldn't quite settle.
He had always held the mystical at arm's length—dangerous, costly, not to be trusted. And yet reading his son's words now, something deep and instinctive told him it was true, every word of it.
Perhaps it was the old blood in him, the dragon dreams every Targaryen carried whether they wished to or not. Perhaps only his gut. Either way, he felt his whole world tilt beneath him at the thought that he had stood one day and two nights from losing everything—his family, his kingdom, all of it. They would likely have survived such an attack. But not without grievous loss.
His hands shook as he reached the letter's final lines, his son's words settling into the simmering fury already building in his chest.
Now that we know what's coming, we hold the advantage. We need evidence of high septon's involvement. Evidence real or not. I hope you will show our enemies no mercy, Father. I want vengeance, and I trust you want the same. The realm has forgotten what Old Valyria was capable of. Our ancestors would curse us both if we let this pass unanswered.
The words struck something deep in the king. Rage kindled hot in his chest, his blood running like dragonfire through his veins, his eyes burning, his hands trembling under the weight of his son's demand. And yet, even through the fire, his mind stayed sharp.
He understood the truth of it now. This was no ordinary enemy—no single man, no single army. This was faith itself they were fighting. The Faith of the Seven lived in the hearts of countless men and women across the realm. South of the Neck, it was not merely belief. It was life itself, woven into everything.
You can kill a man. Burn a city to cinders. But you cannot kill a belief, he thought grimly. To wipe the Faith from the realm entirely, he would need to burn the whole of the South to ash. And then what? Rule over a kingdom of corpses and ruin?
Then, unbidden, another thought surfaced. Perhaps I could.
He stared into the candle flame, and for a moment let himself picture it—the seven-pointed star ground to dust beneath dragonfire.
But tempting as the image was, it wasn't a plan he could sustain. The Faith was too deeply rooted, too many lords too deeply tied to it. A different plan began, instead, to take shape in his mind.
But we can weaken it. Cut its power down to nothing worth fearing.
His eyes sharpened as the shape of it came together. He read on.
I know exactly how to use this, Father. The Crown withdraws its support of the Seven. The royal family returns to the old Valyrian gods. We declare the Seven Kingdoms secular, free for any man to worship as he pleases. And we bring a new rival into the market—the Red Faith, sworn by holy oath never to harm a Targaryen—and let it loose in the same garden. Let the two faiths tear each other apart, and leave us untouched by either.
It was ruthless. Part of him recoiled at the sheer audacity of the plan, even as he recognized the opportunity Baelon's bargain with the Red Temple had handed them.
And the boy was right, damn him. House Targaryen needed to remind the realm, in no uncertain terms, of what their ancestors had once been capable of when provoked.
Still, as his resolve hardened, Jaehaerys's thoughts turned to the great houses of the realm. They would not stand by quietly while the Crown dismantled the Faith piece by piece. Lords who had stood loyal to House Targaryen for generations would balk at this—the Faith held too much sway in too many halls for them not to.
But if they want the Faith to survive, Jaehaerys thought darkly, they will pay dearly to keep it standing.
A grim smile touched his lips. House Targaryen would not let this chance slip away. Let the lords scramble to prop up their crumbling faith—it would only leave them more dependent on the Crown in the end. More vulnerable to it, too.
The letter went on.
I trust you've already turned all this over in your mind, Father. These are only suggestions—meant to serve our house, nothing more. But don't forget Lord Hightower and the Citadel in all this. They are far from innocent. I'd also suggest sending the little ones out of the capital for a time. Harrenhal, perhaps. Aunt Rhaena would be glad of the company, and Dreamfyre would keep them safe.
Jaehaerys frowned faintly at the mention of Rhaena. His elder sister had kept her distance from the family since the tragedy at Dragonstone, withdrawn in ways that still troubled him. But Baelon wasn't wrong—she would welcome the children gladly, and between Dreamfyre and the distance from King's Landing, they would want for nothing in the way of safety.
The letter closed with a final farewell, and Baelon's promise to be home in time for the trial.
Jaehaerys had barely set the parchment down when the study door opened. Queen Alysanne entered, her footsteps soft against the stone floor, their eldest son Aemon close behind her. Alysanne's sharp eyes found her husband at once—his labored breathing, the sweat along his brow, the letter still clutched in his hand—and concern flooded her face.
"What's wrong, husband?" she asked, crossing the room quickly, resting a hand on his shoulder, her voice threaded with worry.
Aemon hung back, posture rigid, sensing something was badly wrong even before he understood what. Jaehaerys said nothing. He only laid the parchment on the table between them and gestured for them to read it themselves.
Silence settled over the room as Alysanne and Aemon's eyes moved down the page. Jaehaerys watched them, recognizing in their faces the same emotions that had gripped him only minutes before. Alysanne's eyes filled with tears, her voice dropping to barely a whisper.
"My sweet Baelon," she murmured, fear for her son closing tight around her heart.
Aemon's reaction ran the opposite direction—rage, plain and burning, his fists clenched at his sides, his jaw tight as he pictured his brother nearly killed while he himself sat safe in King's Landing. Guilt gnawed at him alongside the anger; he should have ridden with Baelon. Should have been there. He looked to his father at last, his voice low, simmering.
"What will we do, Father?" he asked in High Valyrian, eyes blazing.
Jaehaerys met his son's gaze, cold and resolute. "As Baelon asked of us. There will be no mercy."
Alysanne still stared down at the parchment in her hands, her mind clearly racing ahead. Jaehaerys turned to her, his voice firm now, though gentler than it had been with Aemon. "My love. Choose a few men you trust from Dragonstone, and the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard besides. Smuggle the children out to Harrenhal. They'll reach the God's Eye within a day, and Rhaena will keep them safe until this passes."
Alysanne nodded, understanding settling over her features. She would not risk her children's lives a moment longer than she had to.
Jaehaerys turned then to Aemon, his voice steady, carrying the full weight of what he meant to ask. "And you, Aemon..." His eyes locked on his heir's, fierce, unwavering.
"Go get yourself a dragon."
…