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Baela V

Baela’s feet slowed, then stilled. For a heartbeat the street seemed to vanish, the dockside clamor, the shouts of fishmongers, the salt stench of the Blackwater, all of it dimmed before the storm rising in her chest.

Was she still dreaming? For an instant she thought so, the sight of him too strange, too sudden.

Yet Alyn stood there all the same, apart from her crew, watching her with that raw, wounded look.

A smile tugged at her lips despite herself.

She pushed down the flicker of guilt that rose in her chest. What had she to be guilty of? Nothing.

“Alyn,” she said, warmth softening her voice as she went to him. “Seven hells, what are you doing here?”

“You were meant to stay at Driftmark, during grandfather's absence,” she pressed, the smile fading into steel as the first rush of joy gave way to sense. “Learn its running. Hear petitions, watch the ledgers, sit in the seat that will be yours one day.”

Alyn’s mouth quirked, half-grin, half-grimace. “I tried. Sat and listened to the castellan drone of grain imports for five minutes, and it near killed me. Driftmark is no place for me, Baela. Not without you. I missed you. Worried for you. So I took a boat, small crew, slipped in as Grandfather’s men. No one thought to question.”

Her smile lingered a moment longer before fading into something sterner. “You had no leave, Alyn. Do you know what danger you risk, stealing into the king’s city as if it were nothing? What Daeron might think, if he guessed at deception?”

He only shrugged, the grin refusing to die. “Then let him. He’s not fool enough to quarrel with the Sea Snake’s grandson over such a trifle. Tell me instead, how goes it with your king?”

Her smile lingered, soft and unwilling to leave. “The king has been reasonable enough. More than I expected. His halls are thick with Alicent and her brood, and their green-eyed loyalists never cease staring, but Daeron speaks as if he wants peace as much as we.”

Alyn chuckled, brushing a strand of her hair from her brow. “Peace? That’s what he whispers in your ear as he walks you through his keep?”

Baela arched a brow, half-amused, half-annoyed. “He has been an escort, aye. Courteous. Nothing more.”

“Courteous,” Alyn echoed, smile tightening. “And you thank him with those smiles of yours? With your embraces?”

Her smile falters. “Alyn…”

“I only ask,” he pressed on, still light in tone, but the edge beneath was clear. “A king takes what he wants. And this one seems to want to be at your side.”

The warmth between them had nearly disappeared.

Baela’s arms fell from his shoulders, her face hardening. “We spoke of peace, Alyn. Terms and oaths. Nothing more. Must I suffer jealous fancies on top of all else? The king is not a bad man.”

“For now,” he muttered, eyes fixed on hers, dark with something she could not name.

Her temper snapped. “Until what? Until I’m chained to him? That you’ll lose me to a boy who seeks only peace for his realm? Gods, Alyn, I came here to escape the endless politicking of the Red Keep, not to have you add to the clamor. If you mean to sour every breath I take, you should have stayed at Driftmark with your ledgers.”

The gulls screamed above them, waves slapping stone. Alyn’s jaw worked, but no words came.

At last he drew a slow breath.

“I only wanted to see you safe,” he said quietly. “If that makes me a fool, then a fool I am. Forgive me.”

Her anger ebbed in an instant, leaving only the ache of guilt. “Alyn...” she started, her voice soft now, reaching toward him.

But he had already stepped back. He shook his head, the boyish grin gone, the hurt raw once more. “Best I go. I’ll not trouble you further.”

“Alyn, stay,” she called after him, too low for her crew to hear.

But he only lifted a hand in parting, and then he was gone, swallowed by the press of the city streets.

Baela stood rooted, her heart pulled in two directions at once, wishing she could unsay half her words and knowing it was too late.

Baela blinked, suddenly aware of the cluster of faces around her, her crew, loyal and watchful, waiting patiently.

She forced a smile, pushing down the lingering guilt. What have I to be guilty about? she reminded herself.

“Good to see you all,” she said brightly, moving toward them. Her eyes found Malen Scales, the head sailor, and she sat beside him.

“How are you all being treated?” she asked.

Malen’s jaw tightened. “The city folk and goldcloaks give us stares and muttered curses. Follow us anywhere we go. But we’re fed, watered, and have a place to sleep.”

She nodded, giving a small sigh of relief. “That’s good. I wish I were down here with you instead of up in that snake-infested keep.”

Malen smirked. “And how goes it up there?”

“All too easy for Corlys,” she admitted. “The game of words, the smiles, the patience, it comes naturally to him. I have neither the time nor the passion for it.”

Malen scoffed. “So your walk and hug with the king… that wasn’t a game?”

She groaned. “Not you too,” she muttered, taking the drink he offered and downing it in one.

“Well, you see,” he said dryly, “ When the princess of the Blacks hugs the Green King, you’re going to raise questions.”

Baela gave a quiet inward note to herself, be more careful with my actions. Outwardly, she simply said, “He is a good man and wants peace as much as we do.”

Malen’s eyes softened with a trace of longing. “I hope he does. And I hope it happens soon. I miss Driftmark… the quicker we get out of here, the better.”

She smiled faintly. “On Dragonstone and Driftmark, things seemed clearer.”

For a while, she sat with the crew, listening to their quiet chatter. She decided not to partake too much in the drink; a clear head would be needed today.

“Any news on my brother?” she asked after a while.

Malen shook his head. “Nothing concrete. But the Sea Snake has contacts in most ports in the Kingdom, and they are keeping eyes and ears open for word on Aegon the Younger. There has been talk from sailors coming from Lys, a dragon spotted flying over the Stepstones.”

Baela frowned, puzzled. Most dragonriders had been accounted for.

After some time, she rose. “When Alyn returns,” she said to Malen, “tell him I’m sorry. Let him know I’d like to speak to him again before he does anything rash, like leaving without a proper goodbye.”

Malen gave a respectful nod. “Will do, Princess. And keep your wits about you back up there. The Red Keep has a habit of eating up and spitting out Targaryen princesses.”

She grimly nodded and called for her Goldcloak escorts, grateful that King Daeron had ensured women attendants were part of the escort.

It was nearly afternoon by the time she returned to the quarters she shared with her grandfather. She found him sitting by the fire, poring over a stack of scrolls.

“You checked on the crew?” he asked, looking up as she entered.

She recounted what Malen had told her, careful to leave out any mention of Alyn and his unexpected arrival. She knew Corlys would learn soon enough, but she had no wish to get Alyn into any more trouble just yet.

“And how was your day?” she asked.

“Tiring,” he admitted. “I met with some of the men still here from my time as Master of Ships under King Viserys, not that there are many left. I also discussed some trivial matters with lords who were willing to be seen with me.”

She stifled a yawn. “What matters? Which lords?”

“It does not matter,” he said, leaning back in his chair. Then he added, softer, “Are you well?”

“Yes,” she said. “It’s just… being here is mentally draining. I cannot wait to return to Dragonstone, where I can feel the sea air and actually think freely.”

“On that, we agree,” he murmured.

After a pause, he added, “You never mentioned your walk with the king.”

Her cheeks warmed, and she quickly turned to the window, hoping he hadn’t noticed. “It’s good. I genuinely believe he wants peace and has a good heart.”

He nodded. “And yet…”

She hesitated, then admitted, “I just wonder how long that will last in a place like this, surrounded by the people he is surrounded by.”

Her grandfather rose to stoke the fire. “I suppose he needs some around him to say the opposite,” he muttered.

“What do you mean?” she asked, turning back to him.

He gave a vague shrug. “Just musing aloud.”

“And where is the king now?”

“I believe the council has met for the pivotal meeting.”

“So we will know if our terms can be accepted?”

“We will have clarity, child. Yes.”

Baela started to pace near the window, restless.

Her gaze kept drifting toward the door, wondering where the important meeting was underway. Every minute that passed felt heavy with uncertainty.

“Child,” Corlys said gently, noticing her pacing, “you cannot hurry the council. There is little more we can do now but wait.”

“I know,” she admitted, turning to him. “But I cannot help it. My mind will not sit still while so much is at stake.”

He smiled faintly. “Then perhaps we should pass the time with something to occupy your thoughts.” He reached toward a nearby table. “Cyvasse. I brought my set. It usually eases my restless mind.”

She paused, surprised. “Cyvasse? I have not played that foreign game since my family lived in Volantis. I did not think people even played it in Westeros.”

“You forget, child,” he replied with a soft chuckle. “I have travelled the world, seen many customs and games. I thought it might do you some good to recall one you once enjoyed.”

She allowed herself a small smile and joined him at the table. The pieces clacked quietly as they set up the board, and soon they were absorbed in the game, moving dragons, elephants, and spears across the battlefield of carved wood and metal.

Time passed with a gentle, measured rhythm.

Baela was up a game on her grandfather, laughing at his unexpected moves, and they were so engrossed in the game that they nearly missed the sharp knock on the door.

Both looked up, anticipation and anxiety immediately returning to their faces.

Baela opened the door to find King Daeron standing there, flanked by his Kingsguard from earlier.

His posture was rigid, but his eyes were distracted and downcast, the weight of the day written clearly across his face.

“Your Grace,” Baela said cautiously, stepping aside. “Are you… okay? How was the meeting?”

Daeron let out a long, weary sigh. “Long… stressful. Full of lords looking for advantage at every turn.”

Corlys, still seated near the cyvasse board, called out, “Come in, then. You may discuss it with us, if you so wish.”

Daeron shifted uncomfortably, his gaze flicking around the room. “There’s nothing to discuss… not yet. The terms you’ve sought have been brought up, but it will take another meeting tomorrow before anything is resolved.”

Baela’s eyes narrowed, anger rising. “Why? What was deemed so important to take precedence over our matter?”

Daeron met her glare, pain flashing across his face. “Other pressing matters… matters that proved controversial… required attention. The meeting had to be adjourned until tomorrow.”

Baela’s frustration boiled over, and she marched back toward him, fists clenched. “Then why did you come if you have nothing of use to tell us?”

Daeron’s words tumbled out nervously, unpracticed and unsteady. “I… I told Princess Jaehaera she could meet with you this evening. She’s back speaking to me, and I didn’t want to disappoint her. I… I know it’s bad timing, and the last thing you’d want is...”

Before he could continue, Baela, having gathered her things, stepped up to him firmly. “I’m ready to go see her, then. I’ll finish that game when I come back, Grandfather, and I’ll remember where every piece was, so don’t dare try something.”

Corlys held his hands up in mock surprise, a faint smile breaking through. “My word, child, such certainty in the middle of the chaos.”

Baela brushed past Daeron, muttering under her breath as she went, “Some of us actually set out to see something finished.”

Daeron led the way through the quiet corridors, his steps measured but his posture stiff, a silent tension hanging around him. Baela trailed beside him, her impatience simmering. The silence between them stretched taut, each unspoken word gnawing at her.

“You’re awfully quiet,” Baela said, her voice edged with irritation. “Are you going to say something, or am I meant to carry all the conversation?”

Daeron’s eyes flicked toward her, briefly, before he replied, “I imagined you’ve heard enough from me today. You made your frustrations clear back at the room.”

Her sigh was sharp. “You don’t even know what ‘my frustration made clear’ looks like.”

He chuckled softly, a warm sound that almost made her join in, if only for a heartbeat. “If that wasn’t it, I pray I never do see it.”

She finally glanced at him as they started to walked in tandem, muttering, “Then don’t disappoint me.”

Daeron’s gaze met hers, heated, intense. “If I had my way… I would never disappoint you again.”

She looked away quickly, a small blush rising to her cheeks, needing to escape that piercing stare. “Can you tell me the topic at the meeting that derailed our freedom… or must that be kept secret?”

He fell silent for a moment before replying cautiously, “I cannot go into specifics, for obvious reasons… but the topic of my marriage was brought up.”

Baela’s curiosity sparked despite herself. She laughed softly, shaking her head.

“Who knew the Green Council were a bunch of maidens, squeaking and preening over the talk of marriage.”

The Kingsguard behind them let out a low chuckle, earning a sharp scolding glance from Daeron.

He turned back to Baela, voice quieter, tinged with unease: “If only that topic were as trivial as you makes it out to be.”

She tried to let it lie, though she couldn’t fight her rising interest. “So… was a lucky lady picked out? Our new queen?”

Daeron’s discomfort was evident again, and she silently wondered it must be someone awful.

He murmured, “A few names were discussed… but nothing decided yet. The choice lies with me, for now.”

She exhaled slowly. “You’re lucky in that regard. Ladies rarely get that choice.”

He met her gaze, deep and steady. “I do not feel like I’m lucky.”

Silence fell between them for a moment, Baela confused over his words.

Then he asked, carefully, “Have you thought of marriage, Princess?”

“I… I don’t know if I can discuss this with you,” she admitted.

He sighed. “That is fair.”

“But… yes,” she said finally, a quiet certainty in her voice. “And I probably know to whom.”

“Oh…” he murmured, his tone soft, wary. “I presume he will remain unnamed?”

“Yes. You presume right,” she said.

He smirked, teasing. “Not that silver-haired sailor who was at the docks for you this morning?”

Baela stopped in surprise. “What?”

“Alyn Velaryon, was it not? The proposed new heir for Driftmark.”

Her brow furrowed in worry, as the panic in her rised. “How did you know?”

He noticed immediately. “Do not worry. No harm will come to him. As for how I knew, I do have a Lord of Whispers keeping an eye on things… little misses him.”

She laughed lightly. “Yeah… he’s kind of a creep.”

A hand covered her mouth before she realized she’d spoken aloud. Daeron laughed, a true, hearty sound, and she felt the tension slip from her shoulders.

“Aye, yes,” he said with a grin. “He is kind of creepy. But no, I will not imprison Alyn. I swear it, I made a promise to his brother I would never raise arms against him, and I intend to keep it.”

Her curiosity piqued. “I did not know you knew Addam.”

“Yes… he was there at Tumbleton. Died saving my life. A true knight.”

“Yeah… he was,” she murmured softly.

Then, with a cautious glance, he asked, “So… do you love him?”

“Who?!” Baela’s shock was immediate.

“Alyn,” he said, voice quiet, almost teasing, almost serious.

"Why do you care?" her shock at the king's line of question evident.

“Let’s just say all this talk of marriage has turned me into a romantic.”

Silence fell. Baela looked away, gathering her thoughts. “I do not know if it is love yet… but what we have is far more than most matches at the start.”

He stared at her for a moment, expression unreadable, emotion hidden. Then quietly, almost mournfully, he said, “Well… you two are luckier than most.”

Before she could question further, they arrived at the door where the little princess waited. Daeron turned the handle. “It will be just her and us in here. The Lord Commander will remain just outside, and my mother is not nearby, so you need not worry.”

Baela nodded, noting the silent presence of the Kingsguard behind them as the new Lord Commander.

He paused again, hand on the door, and added with a small grin, “Oh, and compliment her hair. She had it done just for you.”

Jaehaera was waiting for them in the small chamber warmed by a crackling fire. The child leapt up the moment they entered, her pale hands clutching at the skirts of a gown that seemed far too formal for her years.

Green silk, finely worked, though the girl’s restless fidgeting had already wrinkled the hems.

She dropped into a curtsy that was a touch clumsy, her knees knocking together, and blurted, “Welcome, Princess. Welcome back, uncle. I am..I am glad to see you.”

Her voice wavered with the effort of sounding grown.

Baela’s lips curved into something gentle. “And I am glad to see you, sweet Princess. How more formal you look since our last meeting.”

Jaehara’s face brightened, but she cast a nervous glance down at her gown. “Grandmother said green was proper for me, though...though I thought…”

The words faltered, the girl biting her lip as if she realized too late the colour might sting.

Baela knelt a little so their eyes were level. “It suits you well. Truly. The colour makes your eyes shine, and your hair…” She brushed a lock of the child’s pale hair back from her face with surprising tenderness. “Your hair is lovelier than any silk in Oldtown’s looms.”

The girl blushed fiercely, her nervous composure shattering into a shy giggle before she remembered herself and tried to stand straighter.
“Thank you, Princess. You are too kind.”

“Baela,” she corrected softly. “You can call me Baela.”

Jaehaera tilted her head. “Well, you already know my name…”

“Do I?” Baela’s eyes danced with mischief. “Let me think. Was it… Visenya?”

“No!” the girl squeaked, giggling again.

“Maegelle then?”

“Absolutely not!”

“Ahh, I remember now...a good northern name it was. Brandon, wasn’t it?”

The child shook her head so hard Baela feared she would give herself a headache.

“No! It’s Jaehaera!” she declared at last, laughter bubbling out of her.

Daeron had said little, standing a pace back, silent as the exchange unfolded. Yet when Baela’s teasing drew laughter from the girl, a trace of warmth touched his weary features. His gaze lingered first on Jaehaera, then on Baela, quiet approval plain in his eyes.

Baela sat close to the little girl, her voice softening. “Tell me, Jaehaera, what do you enjoy most? What keeps you happy when all the duties of being a lady grow tiresome?”

The child shifted her hands in front of her, eyes downcast but thoughtful. “I like to knit,” she said at last, almost in a whisper. “And play the harp. And… sometimes I write.”

Baela’s gaze drifted to the corner of the chamber, where the polished curve of a small harp rested against a chair. Her smile warmed. “I see you have one here. Would you play me a tune?”

Jaehaera’s eyes widened, her cheeks colouring. She shook her head quickly. “I..I am not very good. In Storm’s End, there was never time to practice. Too many eyes… too many duties.”

"Please? My sister used to play too and it would be nice to be reminded of her."

Jaehaera hesitated, then crossed the room with small, deliberate steps and plucked at the harp’s strings. The sound was thin at first, uneven, but soon a soft, wavering melody filled the chamber.

Baela let her play only a few notes before lifting a hand, smiling. “No more, little one, or you’ll have me weeping. I look forward to hearing you again once you’ve had your hands on those strings every day.”

The girl’s eyes widened, a flicker of hope breaking through her shyness. “Does… does that mean you’ll be here often?”

Baela glanced toward Daeron, then back to the girl’s eager face. “Perhaps. Or perhaps the princess might visit me on Dragonstone instead.”

Jaehaera’s whole face lit up at that. “Dragonstone? I always wanted to see it! Papa would never…” Her voice trailed off, dimming as quickly as it had brightened, the word papa hanging heavy in the air.

Her words then faltered, her gaze dropping to the floor, shame and sorrow pulling at her small features.

Before the silence could stretch, Baela crossed the space between them and gently took the girl’s hands in her own. “Sweetling, you need not feel guilty for speaking of him. Or for remembering what you’ve lost. I know what it is to lose parents… and others I loved. It leaves a hole no words can fill.”

She squeezed Jaehaera’s fingers softly, her voice warm but steady. “But we owe it to them to keep talking about them, remembering the good times. With me, and with the king, you don’t have to grieve alone. We can help one another.”

The girl blinked up at her, eyes glistening though she fought to keep them dry. Slowly, she nodded, leaning closer into Baela’s touch as if the warmth itself granted her permission to let go of some of the weight.

From his place a step back, Daeron watched in silence. The weariness etched into his features softened, replaced by something quieter, almost reverent.

His gaze lingered on Baela as she comforted the child, gentle and unafraid of grief, as though he were seeing a part of her he had only guessed at before.

Jaehaera’s lips trembled as she blurted, almost in a whisper, “I just thought you’d hate me… because of my family. Grandmother said..”

“Hush, little one.” Baela’s interruption was gentle but steady, her thumb brushing across the girl’s knuckles.

“I could never hate a sweet thing like you. The king and I have made a pact of sorts, that we judge each soul by their own heart, not by the deeds of their kin. Someone you do not like may still be dearly loved by another. It does no good to carry on their quarrels. Better to let them rest.”

Jaehaera’s wide eyes searched hers, uncertain, as if weighing whether such mercy could truly exist.

Baela smiled faintly, a warmth that reached her eyes. “So no, princess, I could never hate you. Not now, not ever.”

She tilted her head, a playful glint in her eye. “Then… do you want to be part of our pact, Jaehaera?”

The little princess giggled, curiosity sparkling in her eyes. “Yes! So just the three of us?”

“Aye,” Baela replied, her smile widening. “And my sister and brother, when he comes home. We must all look after each other.” She cast a subtle glance at Daeron, half hoping he would take her words to heart.

Jaehaera turned to him with wide eyes. “What do you think, Uncle?”

Daeron blinked, startled from his quiet admiration of Baela, and a rare smile tugged at his lips. “I think… it’s the first good idea I’ve heard in this castle in years,” he said softly.

Baela then asked "You said you liked to write, what do you write about?"

"Mainly my dreams.." the Princess mutters, becoming more withdrawn at the new topic.

Baela leaned closer, her voice softening. “You know… you don’t have to tell me everything, but maybe I could share some of the things I dream about. And then… maybe you can return the favour.”

Jaehaera hesitated, her small fingers twisting in her lap. “Maybe,” she whispered.

“Maybe is a start,” Baela said with a small smile, before letting her thoughts drift. “I dream about travelling the Free Cities with my parents and my sister… of my mother singing as she combed my hair, and my father bouncing me on his knee, telling me legends of ancient Valyria. I dream of the day my dragon egg hatched, and Moondancer emerged… and my first flight. How free it made me feel, to see the world from the sky, how any problem seemed so small from up there.”

Her voice caught, and a tear slipped down her cheek. She pressed on, her words trembling but alive with memory. “I dream of meeting Jace for the first time… our first dance… and all the mischief Rhaena, Jace, Luke and I got into on Dragonstone.”

Jaehaera, sensing the raw emotion, reached out and placed a tiny hand over Baela’s. “They’re beautiful dreams,” she said softly, her eyes wide and earnest.

Baela blinked back tears, a faint smile breaking through her grief, warmed by the child’s unexpected kindness.

Jaehaera’s small shoulders trembled as she whispered, “I… I mostly dream of the bad things.”

Baela gently reached out, brushing a tear from the girl’s cheek, as she also wiped her own. “Being honest… I dream of them too,” she admitted softly.

Jaehaera’s eyes flickered downwards. “When I do… I try to make them go away.”

Baela’s gaze met hers, steady and deep. “You cannot make them go away. They are a part of you, as much as the good memories. By trying to push them out, you only hurt yourself more.”

The child’s voice was barely audible. “Then… what should I do?”

Baela paused, thinking, then gave a small, determined smile. “I do not have all the answers, but… we try to make more good memories. Ones that outweigh the bad. Ones that remind us there’s still light, even when the dark comes.”

Jaehaera looked at her with wide, earnest eyes. “I… I like that,” she whispered, a shy smile tugging at her lips.

“I… I would like to make them with you,” she followed softly, eyes bright with hope.

Baela let out a small laugh, feeling a bit awkward at the intensity of the child’s earnestness.

“Uncle,” Jaehaera added quickly, “Please have Baela around more… or let us visit her at Dragonstone.”

Daeron shifted, clearly caught off guard, and said with a small smile, “I’ll see what I can do, sweetling. However, the hour is getting late, and your grandmother will need your company soon.”

Jaehaera nodded and began to rise, glancing at Baela. “I hope to talk to you more before you go back home.”

Baela smiled warmly, squeezing the girl’s hands. “I hope so too. We’re all part of a pact now.”

The little princess giggled at that, the sound brightening the room.

Daeron stepped forward, taking Jaehaera’s hand, looking at Baela. “Thank you for this. Perhaps, if we can, we shall meet later; there are further matters I need to discuss.”

Baela tilted her head, a playful glint in her eye. “Maybe we could all sup together?”

Daeron chuckled softly. “Jaehaera will need to eat with her grandmother, but you and your grandfather could join me.”

Baela smiled, nodding. “It sounds like a plan.”

Jaehaera let out a small giggle. “Sounds more like a… romantic dinner,” she said, eyes twinkling mischievously.

Both adults reddened slightly. Baela shot the girl a look, smiling despite herself. “Look at you, already making jokes. Now off with you.”

As Baela walked back to her chambers, her thoughts wandered, half on the day’s events, half on the crew she had left below.

She had meant to see if Alyn had returned, as a small, guilty part of her worried she might have left him truly hurt.

Still, she supposed there was no harm in lingering a while longer to discuss the plans for tomorrow’s meeting with the king.

The warmth of her time with the Princess clung to her, softening the edges of her anxiety, and she found herself smiling despite the tension. Clarity with the king might help steady her mind, she told herself, and she could always return to the crew afterward.

Baela arrived back at her chambers to find them empty; her grandfather was elsewhere, no doubt caught up in matters of state or his own thoughts. She lowered herself onto the edge of the bed, letting the quiet settle around her.

The day’s events, the meeting with Princess Jaehaera, the delicate conversation with the king, all replayed in her mind.

A flicker of unease pricked at her, had she exposed too much of herself? Her thoughts, her memories, even her dreams, laid bare before the king and the little princess.

But then another, gentler voice in her mind reminded her of the value of trust, of the boon that came from befriending them both. Surely, it was better to forge bonds than to retreat behind walls, however safe those walls might feel. She let out a slow breath, settling into the thought, and for a moment, the weight of the day lightened.

Eventually, the door creaked open and her grandfather entered, leaning slightly on his cane but wearing a warm smile at the sight of her.

“And how did your meeting with the princess go?” he asked, settling himself in a chair nearby.

Baela returned his smile. “It went well. I like the little princess. She reminds me of Rhaena… I just worry about her.”

Corlys huffed softly. “Look at you, worrying about the other side.”

Baela shook her head with a gentle sigh. “There is no other side when it comes to scared children.”

Her grandfather’s eyes softened, a quiet smile tugging at his lips. “I could not agree more.”

After a pause, Baela tilted her head. “So… are you going to tell me where you keep wandering off to? Should I be prepared for more… so-called grandchildren of yours to start appearing a year from this trip?”

Corlys blinked, taken aback by her statement. “You forget yourself at times.”

She offered a small, amused apology. “I’m sorry…”

He waved a hand. “You must realize, your barbed words hurt at times.”

A silence fell, heavy but comfortable, before Baela said, “The king has asked that we sup with him… to discuss further matters.”

“Ah,” Corlys said, nodding. “A good idea. I hope it’s not far; my legs are tired from today’s excursions.”

Their eyes met for a moment, hers teasing, his a mock warning. “Don’t,” he said, and then both burst into laughter, the tension of the day dissolving around them.

The dining room was small, and much to Corlys’s delight, and not far from their chambers. The table, far too large for three, made them cluster close at the top: Daeron at the head, Baela to his right, Corlys to his left. A new Kingsguard stood quietly at attention nearby, noting the princess’s watchful eyes.

As servants brought in the meal, Daeron and Corlys engaged in polite small talk. Baela, tapping her fingers impatiently, finally interrupted.

“Come on, Daeron,” she said, voice edged with amusement and impatience. “Are you just going to keep teasing, or are we going to get into proper discussions?”

The Kingsguard and servers froze at her informal tone, but Daeron looked awkward, fidgeting with his knife.

Corlys chuckled. “As you said previously, the council has adjourned until tomorrow, Your Grace, I presume we’ll have clarity on our stance then?"

Daeron nodded, head down, picking at his food.

Baela leaned forward. “Earlier Daeron told me it was over the topic of his marriage that caused the council to erupt,” she said, giggling, until she noticed Corlys’s blank stare.

Corlys turned sharply toward Daeron. “Your Grace, what was actually said when our terms were brought up?”

Daeron swallowed. “I believe… that Alyn’s legitimization can be done.”

“And? Dragonstone, Baela, and her siblings?"

"My council felt it was too big an ask without assurances.”

Baela’s temper flared. “Assurances? What assurances?”

Daeron lowered his gaze. “They believed your word on Aegon the Younger’s renunciation is not enough. We would to need to guarantee his cooperation.”

Silence fell.

“A hostage?” Baela asked sharply.

Daeron’s eyes flicked toward Corlys. “I proposed Lord Corlys remain here as part of my council as assurance, but there’s no blood tie between him and Aegon. So it wasn’t enough. Rhaena… perhaps, but Lady Arryn would never give her up… and… we already have a sister here… one he’s reported closer to.”

“You bastard!” Baela snapped, rising suddenly. “You mean to keep me here as a prisoner?”

“No, no, Baela. I could never… I said it would never stand. To keep you or your sister here as prisoners would send the wrong message, defeat the terms of peace we are trying to set.”

“So what then, Daeron? What is it?”

Pieces clicked together in her mind, the council uproar, his earlier prying about her suitors, the weight behind every word. “No… no, no, no…” she muttered.

Daeron rose, reaching for her hand. “I am sorry… I am so sorry.”

She yanked her hand away. “I should have known. You Greens are all the same. You made me think you were decent, so my guard was down… just to have me as a hostage against my brother! A hostage you can legally…”

Daeron’s face went pale, struck. “That is not it! It was never it, Baela… please…”

Corlys stood, voice steady but firm. “Baela, while it is shocking… I think it is the way forward.”

Both Daeron and Baela stared at him.

“Grandfather? How? I’ll be sold to them… for what? To be used as a piece?”

“Granddaughter, have you not been listening to me at all since we left Dragonstone?”

“I have been!” she snapped. “And that was my first mistake.”

She moved toward the door, only for the new Kingsguard to step in her path.

Baela whirled toward the king, mocking. “Does the imprisonment start now, my love?”

Daeron opened his mouth, but the words caught in his throat. Finally, he said, tight-lipped: “Ser Tom, let the princess go.”

The Kingsguard stepped aside. Baela paused, looking back at the two men standing at the table, their expressions caught somewhere between concern and regret. Then, with a last glance, she turned and left the room.

Baela ran from the Red Keep, her heart hammering, the anger and frustration from the meal still raw. She was lucky it was late and sudden; otherwise, a small cohort of knights would surely have been on her heels.

She knew exactly where she needed to go. She needed Alyn. Now.

The tavern where her crew was staying came into view, the Goldcloaks around it giving her strange, questioning looks at her lack of escort. She pushed through the door, the warmth and chatter inside barely registering as she stormed toward the bar.

Malen spotted her from a booth, where he sat with several of the crew. Seeing her distress, he hurried over. “Princess, are you… are you all right?”

“Yes… no… I don’t know,” she admitted, her voice tight.

Malen hesitated. “What’s wrong? What happened? Where’s your grandfather?”

“I need Alyn,” she said, her frustration spilling over. “Do you know where he is?”

Malen shifted uncomfortably. “He… he’s not available right now. You should sit with us, with the crew. He’ll be down soon.”

“Down?” Baela’s eyes narrowed. “So he’s upstairs in one of the rooms?”

Malen cursed under his breath as she stormed toward the stairs. “Princess, wait! Just sit with us...”

“No, Malen! I am sick of men lying to me and telling me what to do. I need to talk to him, I don’t care if he’s up there drinking his feelings away. Now give me the room, or I’ll start kicking down every door!”

Malen looked at the crew, then back at her, resigned. “Third room on the right, second floor.”

“Thanks,” she muttered, striding up the stairs. She stopped outside the door and knocked sharply.

“Alyn, it’s me. I’m sorry for earlier… you were right, I need you.”

From inside, she heard shuffling and quiet whispers.

The his voice, flustered “Baela… please, a minute. I’m not proper.”

Her stomach dropped. When the door finally opened, Alyn’s worried eyes met hers.

“What’s wrong? Did something bad happen?” he asked.

Baela marched past him. “Where is she?”

“Baela…”

“Do you think me a fool? Where is she?”

At that moment, a blonde-haired girl tried to sneak from behind the door out. Their eyes met briefly before the girl darted away.

Alyn grabbed Baela’s hand, trying to steady her. “Baela, please… just sit. I’m worried.”

“Worried?” she shot back. “Aye, you seemed worried, you bastard. Your shirt’s on backwards!”

“Baela… we can talk about this,” he started.

“You know what, Alyn? I thought you cared about me… even loved me.”

“I do, Baela. Of course I do. I want nothing more than to make you my wife.”

“Were you thinking of your love for me when you were rutting that poor girl?”

“Baela… please… I was hurt.”

“Ah, so it’s my fault. You get jealous and… go sleep with a whore. I am worried to think of what you got up to whenever you saw me hug my grandfather back on Dragonstone.”

“Baela, it’s not like that! You always said you believed your grandparents had a great love, and even he had others, I am proof...”

“You picked the wrong day to start using him as a positive example, Alyn.”

“Why… what happened?”

“You know what? Nothing that concerns you.”

“Baela… please…”

“You said that already. You’ve hurt me, Alyn. Deeply. Maybe it’s normal for men to have others, and we are not even married yet… but I thought we were different, better. You’re no different from any of them. But don’t worry...I will not use this hurt to hop into someone’s bed like you.”

“How do I know you haven’t already… into the king’s bed?”

Baela slapped him. “Go, Alyn. Back to Driftmark, or elsewhere. I care not. But I do not need you here.”

She turned sharply and marched out of the room.

“Baela, wait! Talk to me!” he called after her, but she kept walking, tears beginning to streak down her face.

Her crew rose from their seats, but she ignored them, pushing past, breaking into a run. The Goldcloaks outside barely had time to react.

Finally, she reached a quiet section of the dock. She sank to the ground, legs dangling over the water, and stared at her reflection, the city lights shimmering in the ripples. Her heart was still pounding, her thoughts tangled, but for the first time in hours, she allowed herself a moment to breathe.

Baela stared down at her reflection in the dark water below, the ripples twisting her face into something unrecognizable. For a heartbeat she saw not herself but her sister in the Vale, her brother lost to the winds, all the pieces of her family scattered like driftwood on a stormy sea. She had thought herself strong, unshakable, but here she was, alone.

Men surrounded her on every side, men who wanted to guide her, use her, possess her.

Her fingers curled on the wooden edge of the dock.

The water swayed gently, whispering promises. How easy it would be to just let go, to fall, to slip into the depths and be done with it. A fitting end for a half-Velaryon.

Was this what Queen Helaena had thought at the end? That eternal sleep would be gentler than the world?

But then another voice rose in her mind, her own, fiercer than the rest. What of her other half? She was fire and blood. She would not be some note in a maester’s chronicle, forgotten beneath another man’s deeds.

They owed it to the lost to keep going. That was what her grandfather had said, and though thinking of him now cut deep, the words still held true.

She owed it to her sister in the Vale.
She owed it to her brother wherever he might be.
She owed it to herself.

Baela rose, brushing at her wet cheeks. She would go back up to that gods-forsaken castle. She would hold her head high, face whatever schemes awaited, and fight. She was Baela Targaryen. Blood of the dragon.

Daeron V

Daeron felt his chest tighten. He had anticipated debate, perhaps even some protest, but marriage? To cement peace with the Blacks? He had also not expected the room to fracture so violently over it.

Borros Baratheon stood abruptly, chair scraping sharply against the stone. His broad frame seemed to fill the chamber, fists clenched, veins standing stark against his temples. “Do you take me for a fool, boy?” he thundered, voice echoing off the walls. “My men bled for the Green cause! My people, my kin, spilled their blood so that a black bitch queen would not sit upon the throne! And now you would dare… dare to marry one anyway?”

Tyland Lannister leaned forward, voice soft, trying to smooth the storm. “Lord Borros, please… let us temper our words...”

“I will temper nothing!” Borros roared, spinning to face Daeron, eyes fierce, unyielding. “Your two brothers were promised to my daughters! That was honour! That was oaths! And you sit there, presuming to bind me with your whim! I care not which daughter, take one, take two, take all if you wish. But a real, honourable King would honour the agreements sworn to my family!”

Daeron’s gaze hardened, steady and unwavering. “You presume too much, Lord Borros,” he said evenly, his voice cutting through the chamber like steel.

Borros muttered under his breath, sharp as a blade, “Insolent pup.”

Larys Strong, ever the opportunist, leaned back slightly, cane tapping the floor with mock sympathy. “I had no intention of provoking such uproar, Your Grace. Only… I believed the logic sound. Surely you can see it as a matter of practicality rather than insult.”

Unwin Peake’s voice rose, cautious but firm. “Why would we reward the side we bled to fight?”

Tyland Lannister, normally the voice of measured reason, inclined his head slowly, agreeing. “Indeed. I endured war, Your Grace, and more beside, only to have a Black sit the throne? I… I cannot reconcile such an outcome lightly.”

Lyonel Hightower shifted awkwardly, hands fidgeting on the table. “I had hoped, Your Grace, that you might consider one of my sisters. A Hightower maiden would make a fine match. Still… I trust you will make the right choice, as always.”

Daeron raised a hand, silencing the chatter. “Enough. Let it be clear: I did not suggest this. It was raised, merely as a notion, by one of my councilors. And yet, I wonder… should the loyalty of my vassals be expected to bend based solely on whose hand I choose to take? Or is such loyalty conditional?” His gaze fixed, unblinking, on Borros.

Borros’s shoulders squared. “Consider what you wish, boy, but the Rivermen still march, and who knows what the Northern bastards are scheming. The Vale remains silent, and the Westerlands is in disarray.”

Tyland flinched subtly at the reminder of his families tenuous position.

Borros’s voice grew measured, slow, deliberate. “Your Grace, you will have an army, yes. You will have support, but only if you keep these lords onside. Rewarding traitors with queenship and the Hand while the loyal suffer nothing… they might well ask themselves the purpose of such loyalty.”

Daeron’s eyes narrowed. “Is that a threat, Lord Borros?”

Borros growled, leaning slightly closer. “It is council, Your Grace. Is that not what we are here for? To counsel?”

“Aye,” Daeron replied evenly, “and you are here to counsel me on war, not marriages. Perhaps focus there first.”

“Ah, Your Grace,” Borros countered, voice low and heavy with warning, “if you do not see how one leads to the other, you are foolish.”

Before the tension could ignite further, Unwin Peake interjected, hands raised, voice calm. “Enough. It is clear this council needs time to take heed of what has been discussed today and reconvene tomorrow. Nothing of worth will be decided at this point.”

Larys Strong’s smile returned, cane tapping lightly. “An excellent suggestion. I think we should all have time to digest this discussion and return fresh and ready to act.”

Borros’s glare remained fixed on Daeron for a heartbeat longer. “I have said all I need say. One night will not change my mind, but perhaps it will allow the king to see clearly.”

Daeron met his gaze steadily. “I will see as I wish to see.”

Borros inclined his head slightly, almost imperceptibly, muttering, “Might do well to reflect on that first… perhaps discuss with your family what they think. Remember, I did keep one safe during the war.”

The councilors filed from the chamber in varying moods, some muttering, some thoughtful, some simmering with barely contained fury.

When the last of them had gone, Daeron turned to Tyland Lannister, who remained seated. “Stay,” the king said quietly, the weight of the room still heavy on his shoulders.

Tyland remained seated, hands folded over his wax tablets. “As you wish, Your Grace,” he said softly.

Daeron exhaled slowly, the weight of the council’s storm still pressing against him. “What do you think, Lord Tyland?”

The blind lord paused, fingers drumming lightly on the table. “I see Lord Borros’s point. Gruff, ignorant, stubborn as he is, yet not wrong. He is, at present, the strongest vassal you have. You may do well not to antagonize him so openly.”

Daeron poured himself a drink, swirling the wine thoughtfully before taking a slow sip. “Perhaps you are right. I simply do not like feeling as though I can be pressured into one choice or another.”

“Such is the dance a king must take, Your Grace,” Tyland replied evenly.

Daeron set his cup down, eyes fixed on the dark-stone floor for a long moment. “So… I marry one of his daughters? Or a Hightower cousin, to appease my loyal vassals… and then what of Lord Corlys, Princess Baela, and that discussion?”

Tyland’s hands rested on the table, voice measured. “Well… it seems to me that you would need to imprison both. Ensure any other claimants on that side are dealt with swiftly, brought to heel. And you might inflame the remaining Black loyalists, giving them cause to rally. However there would be no cause if there is not an adequate claimant.”

Daeron’s jaw tightened. “I do not know if I like that choice. However, I cannot see a way to marry a lady to appease my loyal vassals and keep a happy coexistence with the amenable side of the Black faction.”

Tyland leaned forward slightly. “So, if you go down Lord Larys’s suggestion… hmm… you might soften some of the Black faction, and give the rest reason to pause about rebellion. However… you would sow discontent among your own, and the Blacks may rise against you anyway.”

Daeron pinched the bridge of his nose. “Seems a lose-lose, Lord Tyland.”

“Perhaps,” Tyland conceded, “but I would lean more toward taking a Baratheon to wed, and keeping the Sea Snake and his granddaughter here as hostages.”

Daeron gave a faint nod, picking up his cup again. “I appreciate your counsel. It is sound, Lord Tyland.”

“Thank you, Your Grace… but, if I may be so bold...”

“Of course.”

“I feel your mind is already made up.”

Daeron looked up at the blind man, half-feeling as though Tyland could see straight through him in that moment. “And… you think I am making a mistake?”

“Perhaps… maybe,” Tyland said softly, “or perhaps it will bind the realm back together.”

Tyland let out a long sigh. “You have a good heart, Your Grace. But think on this talk… perhaps speak to others around you, consider all angles.”

Daeron inclined his head. “You may go.”

Tyland rose, steady despite his blindness, and was escorted by an aide toward the chamber doors. Daeron downed the remainder of his wine in silence, setting the empty cup on the table with a quiet clink.

He leaned back, letting the chair bear his weight, eyes staring into the fading light spilling through the windows. Alone at last, he reflected on Borros’s wrath, Larys’s cunning, and the impossible balance that now rested upon his crown.

He wants to keep her safe, but she may hate him for it.

Daeron found his mother in the solar, the afternoon light slicing through the tall windows. Alicent sat upright, her posture formal, eyes cool as ever. “Your Grace,” she said, voice clipped. “How did the council proceed?”

Daeron allowed a small, coy smile. “Intense. Heated discussions.”

She lifted a brow, waiting for him to expand.

“Jaehaera,” Alicent said sharply, “go to your room and gather together anything you may wish to bring. I will speak with your uncle.” The little princess scurried off, leaving them alone.

Alicent gestured for Daeron to sit across from her. “I can offer counsel,” she said softly. “Your brother Aegon used to come to me for sound advice, and before that, in the later years of your father’s reign, your grandfather and I nearly ran the realm together.”

Daeron let out a scoff, sharp and bitter. “Is that why we find ourselves in this situation now?”

Her eyes flinched, hurt flashing across her face, and he felt the old ache of guilt tighten in his chest, remembering the warmth of his mother in quieter years.

“I know we’ve spoken in heated terms recently,” she continued, voice gentler now, “but I still love you deeply, Daeron. I am truly on your side.”

He sighed and recounted the council meeting, laying out the debates, the tension, Borros’s fury, and Larys’s sly provocations.

When he finished, Alicent’s hands folded neatly in her lap. “The path forward is clear,” she said. “Wed one of Borros’s daughters and put the Sea Snake and his granddaughter in chains.”

Daeron’s jaw tightened. “Mother… they came here to discuss peace. How would it look if I then imprisoned them?”

Alicent leaned forward slightly, her tone firm. “Daeron, how many sins have they committed against us? You must see the big picture. You cannot be both a just knight and a good king.”

Daeron sighed “Baela cannot be judged for her father’s sins, Mother. If we follow that logic, someone might wish to harm Jaehaera for Aegon’s actions.”

Alicent’s eyes narrowed, sharp and unwavering. “And what of her brothers, Daeron? Your nephews? Have your forgotten?.”

“Never,” Daeron admitted softly, voice low.

“We sit the throne. So use it, Daeron… and keep us all safe.”

At that moment, Jaehaera returned, her small hands clutching a bundle of dolls, eyes bright. “I’m ready to see Princess Baela!” she exclaimed, skipping forward with excitement.

Daeron rose, inclining his head toward his mother. His hand gently rested on Jaehaera’s shoulder as he guided her toward the door. The little princess’s eyes sparkled with excitement, lingering on the thought of meeting Baela, her small hands clasped tightly together, her grin bright and open.

Alicent watched, her gaze sharp, lingering on Daeron as he paused just long enough for the gesture to speak for itself, the light in Jaehaera’s eyes, the quick tilt of her head toward the door, the way she clutched his hand, all wordless proof of her admiration, even love, for the woman Alicent might otherwise have thought to chain.

Daeron’s eyes flicked briefly to his mother, a faint, knowing curl to his lips.

No words were needed. Alicent’s lips pressed together, her expression unreadable for a moment, before the faintest scorn in her eyes betrayed her understanding.

“Do not be all evening, Daeron. I shall await the princess’s return to sup with.”

“Of course, Mother,” Daeron replied lightly, inclining his head with a faint smile.

She let out a soft sigh, turning her attention to the fire, the glow reflecting in her thoughtful eyes. Without another word, she sat back, her posture stiff but composed.

Daeron offered Jaehaera a reassuring squeeze of the hand, then led her from the room. The little princess skipped ahead lightly, excitement bubbling over, her grip firm in his. 

As they walked through the corridors, Jaehaera tugged lightly at Daeron’s hand. “Uncle… do you like my hair?”

Daeron blinked, still unaccustomed to the little girl speaking so freely, her voice bright and insistent. “Yes… it is beautiful,” he said, forcing a warm smile.

Jaehaera grinned and bounced on her heels. “Good! I had it done before meeting Baela… she said she liked my hair.”

Daeron nodded. “Aye… she is… nice.”

“She is! And pretty! And smart!” Jaehaera jabbered on, spilling words in a rapid, cheerful jumble. Daeron’s mind began to drift, the childish rambling washing over him as he thought again of his mother’s cold, measured stare.

“…and I think she’d be a good queen. Don’t you, Uncle?”

Daeron stopped mid-step, caught off guard. “What was that, sweetling?” he asked, his tone softer, almost wary.

“I said I think she’d be a good queen. Don’t you, Uncle?”

For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, quietly, nearly to himself, he murmured, “Aye… I agree.”

They reached the door to the chamber where Baela would meet her. Daeron knelt slightly, looking Jaehaera in the eyes. “Wait here. There’s a harp, and your dolls… and people just outside. I’ll be back quickly, I promise.”

Jaehaera’s face lit with a bright smile. “I’ll wait!” she said, nodding eagerly.

Daeron straightened, taking a deep breath, and with Ser Willis Fell at his side, he left to fetch Baela. As they walked, his mind turned over the coming moments, wondering how he would navigate her questions about the council, and how he could steer the conversation without revealing too much or alarming her.

He had no wish for more talk of councils or compromise today, least of all from the man who just then stepped out from the shadows ahead.

“Your Grace,” Lord Larys said smoothly, falling into step beside him, forcing Daeron to slow his pace. “Might I steal a moment of your time?”

“I’ve no time for further counsel,” Daeron said curtly. “Especially not from one who’d blindside me before the rest of the table.”

Larys’s limp made his gait uneven, yet somehow he kept the same measured rhythm. “My apologies, Your Grace,” he said, though his eyes remained as still as stone. “But I trust you see the merit in what was proposed. Or else, would you be walking now to speak with the princess again?”

Daeron’s tone hardened. “Careful now.”

“You understand that it needed to come from a councillor, not from the king himself,” Larys continued mildly, as if Daeron had not spoken. “It would not do for the court to see collusion. You had to be surprised, so it did not seem foreplanned.”

“Well, you succeeded in that,” Daeron muttered.

“Good. And it grants Your Grace an out, should you wish to refuse the match,” Larys said, voice dropping low. “Though I would strongly advise otherwise.”

Daeron gave him a sidelong look. “And what’s in it for you, Lord Larys? You’ve never done anything from the nobleness of your heart.”

The clubfoot smiled faintly. “I wish to see the realm united again, Your Grace. This marriage may be the first stone upon that bridge.”

He was lying, or hiding something, but Daeron chose to leave it lie. “Was that all you came to me for, then? To praise yourself to your king?”

A small laugh escaped Larys, soft and dry as dust. “Hardly. I would be remiss if I did not share what I heard after you and the princess’s morning walk to the dock. She was seen having quite the heated exchange with Alyn Waters, or is it Velaryon now. Anyway, my sources said it looked rather… intimate. The quarrel of lovers, perhaps.”

Daeron’s stride faltered despite himself, a sharp twist in his stomach he could not name. “And you tell me this why?”

Larys’s smile widened. “You know why.”

And before Daeron could reply, the man was already gone, vanished back into the dark as if he’d never been there at all.

Daeron found himself standing before the princess’s door. His thoughts churned. She has a lover… someone she sees herself marrying.

He drew a slow breath, forcing the thought aside. It should not concern him. It cannot. Yet some small, treacherous part of him still recoiled at the image, stung by something he would not name.

There could never be anything straightforward.

He tried to steady himself before knocking, but as he heard her voice through the door, bright, familiar, and near, it hit him again, deep and sudden, that same unbidden drop in his chest. 

The corridors of the Red Keep were quieter now, the torches burning low and steady, their flames reflected in the polished stone floors. Jaehaera’s hand was small and cool in Daeron’s, her soft steps barely making a sound beside his measured tread as they walked back to his mother.

“She’s very kind, Uncle,” the little girl said after a long silence, her voice still carrying the tremor of excitement. “Princess Baela, I mean. I wish she could stay forever.”

Daeron glanced down at her, and though the corners of his mouth twitched in what might have been a smile, his eyes were distant. “Aye,” he said quietly. “She is kind.”

“She said I could visit her on Dragonstone,” Jaehaera added hopefully. “Do you think Grandmother will let me?”

Daeron did not answer at once. “We shall see,” he said at last.

When they reached Alicent’s solar, the door was open and the queen dowager sat by the fire, a cup of wine untouched in her hand. She looked up as they entered.

“You’ve returned,” she said, her tone cool and measured. “Longer then expected, I will have the food sent for.”

“I had someone send word to the kitchen on the way over Mother” Daeron replied, his voice even, ignoring her jab about the length of the meeting.

Alicent’s eyes shifted to her granddaughter, softening only slightly. “Come here, sweetling. Did you have a pleasant talk with Lady Baela?”

Daeron noted her refusal to call Baela Princess, though he supposed he should be grateful she used Lady instead of what she truly thought of her.

Jaehaera nodded eagerly. “Yes, Grandmother. She’s wonderful. She said we made a pact, me, her, and Uncle.”

Alicent’s brow arched, though her smile was faint. “A pact, is it? I hope it was one worth making.”

Jaehaera’s excitement dimmed a little under her grandmother’s gaze, and Daeron felt her hand tighten around his.

“She was kind to her,” he said quietly, meeting his mother’s eyes. “Gentle. It did the girl good.”

Alicent looked at him for a long moment before setting down her cup. “That may be so,” she said, her tone firm again, “but it grows late. I would have my granddaughter get ready for supper then bed. You are welcome to join us, of course.”

Daeron inclined his head. “I have other matters to attend to this evening.”