Dick Waters was already dead.
Tyraxes's hind claw had come down upon him with irresistible force, pinning him to the stone as though he were nothing more than a beetle beneath a boot. Armor crumpled first, iron folding inward with a shriek. Flesh followed. Bone shattered last.
When the dragon lifted its claw, there was nothing left that could be called a man.
Only a crushed ruin of metal and meat remained, darkening the stones of the Dragon Gate.
From high above, Baelon looked down without expression.
"Open the gates," he said coldly. "Let my host enter."
"Yes. Yes, my lord."
Terror had stolen the voices of most of the Gold Cloaks. Many stood frozen in place, hands shaking upon spear hafts, eyes fixed upon the blood-red bulk of the dragon crouched beside the shattered wall.
It was only a handful of older veterans, men whose service stretched back to the days of Prince Daemon, who found their wits quickly enough to act. With grim faces and clenched jaws, they rushed to the winches and chains.
The Dragon Gate groaned.
Slowly, obediently, it opened.
Baelon's cavalry began to move, hooves striking stone in disciplined rhythm as they poured into the city. Crimson cloaks fluttered behind them like banners of war.
Above them, another shadow passed.
Syrax descended from the sky, her golden scales catching the sun as she circled once before landing near Tyraxes. Princess Rhaenyra dismounted, her expression taut as she surveyed the carnage below.
"So this was one of Otto's newly elevated officers," Baelon said, his gaze briefly returning to what remained of Dick Waters.
"Yes," Rhaenyra replied. "King's Landing has seven gates. Aside from the Dragon Gate, the captains of the Iron Gate and the Gate of the Gods have also sworn themselves to Otto."
She paused, her mouth tightening.
"The others have not pledged to him, but neither will they answer me. They claim loyalty only to the king."
The Gold Cloaks, save for the guards of the Red Keep, were the only permanent armed force in the capital. Control of them meant leverage. Influence. Power.
Once, they had belonged wholly to Daemon Targaryen.
Later, when Baelon took a portion of them to form his own household guard, the remainder had been replenished with fresh recruits. The result was a force divided in memory and loyalty.
Over time, most had come to rally beneath King Viserys's banner.
Only a few still remembered old debts.
The former captain of the Dragon Gate had been the sole officer among them who openly favored Rhaenyra.
Baelon nodded once.
"That resolves one," he said. "The other two will require a different hand. This method serves only once."
He guided Tyraxes to an open stretch of ground and dismounted with practiced ease.
Rhaenyra followed, Syrax lifting back into the air once her rider was clear.
"Your approach was… effective," she said carefully. "Blaming it on an unfortunate landing leaves Otto no room to protest. No matter his anger, he cannot voice it."
Only now did she fully understand.
Not his ambition. Not his lineage.
His capacity.
I cannot contend with him, she realized. Not in this lifetime.
"He is already dead," Baelon replied evenly. "What charge remains to answer? If anyone objects, they may present their grievance to my dragon."
He did not say the rest aloud.
We all struggle to survive, after all.
Baelon mounted his white stag and rode forward, his troops closing ranks around him as they advanced toward the Red Keep.
It had been many years since he last entered King's Landing so openly. This time, he came not as a visitor, but as an anchor, sent to steady a city on the brink.
Viserys still lived. And would live for years yet.
According to the story, the king would pass peacefully in 129 AC, dying in his sleep.
That would be the moment.
He would not rebel against his uncle.
To rule was not merely to seize power. It was to be accepted. To be wanted.
King Viserys's legitimacy was unassailable. Chosen by the Great Council. Loved by the smallfolk. Accepted by the lords. History would remember him kindly, save for his failure to resolve the succession.
To rise against him now would be folly.
It would shatter Baelon's alliances and brand him a traitor.
Daemon Targaryen above all would never allow it.
The brothers might quarrel, might wound one another with words, but their bond endured. Viserys forgave. And Daemon defended.
That truth had never changed.
"Prince Baelon. The Prince of Dawn has returned."
"Seven save us, look at him. And that stag."
"By the gods, it has been years."
The cheers rose as Baelon passed through the streets of King's Landing.
From his white stag, flanked by disciplined ranks of soldiers, his presence alone ignited awe. Valyrian beauty, draconic might, and the aura of inevitability combined into something almost mythic.
Baelon lifted one hand in acknowledgment.
Even as he did, his thoughts turned darker.
He had not forgotten how dragons truly died.
Not to other dragons, but to crowds. To fear made violent. To mobs armed with nothing but rage.
The authority of House Targaryen would not be tested again.
How best to ensure that remained to be seen.
Soon, the Red Keep rose before them.
Viserys I Targaryen awaited him in the training yard, surrounded by courtiers and guards.
"Uncle."
Baelon dismounted at once and embraced him.
Viserys laughed, broad and delighted.
"Good. Good."
He returned the embrace with enthusiasm, basking in the simple pleasure of family.
"I hear you crushed a man while landing your dragon," Viserys said cheerfully. "Try not to make a habit of that. Jason has already seen to compensation for the fellow's family. From your coffers, of course."
Plumper than before, Viserys reached up and ruffled Baelon's hair affectionately.
"He's grown again," he said to no one in particular. "Soon he'll be as fearsome as his uncle."
As for the dead captain, gold would smooth the matter.
Viserys was generous enough to add a few extra dragons besides.
"Rest assured, Uncle," Baelon said pleasantly. "It will not occur again."
He turned then toward Otto Hightower.
"My apologies, Lord Hand," Baelon said mildly. "I fear I crushed one of your trusted men. I hope you are not displeased."
Otto's expression did not shift.
"I believe there is a misunderstanding," he replied calmly. "Captain Dick served His Grace alone. He was no man of mine."
"Is that so?" Baelon said lightly. "Then I must beg your pardon. You will not hold it against me, I trust."
Otto inclined his head.
"Never, my prince."
Polite words. Smiling faces.
Steel beneath both.
"That will do, Baelon," Alicent Hightower said, stepping forward. "Come inside. The kitchens have prepared a feast."
"Gladly," Baelon replied. "I find myself quite parched."
He allowed the matter to rest.
For now.
A far better design had just taken shape in his mind.
One that would quiet the mobs of King's Landing.
And one that would see Otto Hightower laid in his grave.
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A/N: If you think you know what comes next… you don't. The answers are already waiting ahead.
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Send the stones this way. Okay???