House of the Dragon: Daemon’s Bastard Son Who Hatched a Dragon Chapter 6: The Golden Hen

Baelon's arrival fell upon the royal camp like a sudden frost.

Murmurs dulled, laughter thinned, and the restless sea of banners stilled as he stepped down from the wheelhouse, pale hair stirring gently in the Kingswood breeze. Among the young blood of House Targaryen, only three nas stirred expectation these days, Rhaenyra, Aegon… and Baelon, the younger son of Prince Daemon. The court had not yet decided what to make of him.

Rhaenyra, rightful heir in her father's decree, had long since gathered knights and sworn lords to her cause. Aegon, though scarcely past infancy, already drew the flattering and ambitious to his cradle, eager to guess the shifting winds of succession.

Baelon, by contrast, had only the single white-cloaked guardsman assigned to keep watch over him. No banner-bearers, no hopeful lords, no whispering circle of would-be favorites.

If they had been in King's Landing, perhaps the Gold Cloaks, loyal to his father, might have cheered for Daemon's son. But this was the Kingswood. The City Watch was far away, chasing cutpurses through the alleys of Flea Bottom.

"Greetings, everyone," Baelon said, voice steady and courteous. "I am Baelon Targaryen, son of Prince Daemon. May you all enjoy the festivities."

The words were formal enough for a child, delivered with an almost disarming calm. The nobles nearest the wheelhouse bowed or dipped their heads, but little warmth colored their gestures. They watched him with polite indifference, waiting for sothing, anything, to explain his presence.

Baelon descended the last step, his boots sinking into the soft loam, and surveyed the camp with quiet calculation. No power base yet, no loyalists, no sworn retainers. But he was six. And six years was not a chain, it was a beginning.

Besides, a child possessed certain freedoms adults did not.

Like asking for gifts.

His violet eyes scanned the milling nobles until they found their target.

"Excuse ," Baelon said, lifting a hand to shield his gaze from the sun. "Are you Lord Jason Lannister of Casterly Rock?"

The tall man turned, golden hair catching the light like newly minted coin. His leathers were chased with threads of gold, a roaring lion embroidered on his chest. A crimson cloak swept behind him as he strode forward, every inch the proud Lannister lordling.

"I am," Jason said with a smooth bow. "Jason Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock and Warden of the West. Prince Baelon, it is an honor."

There was no mistaking the flicker in the man's eyes, surprise that Daemon's little boy had approached him openly. Surprise… and a hint of caution. Baelon had a dragon now... or would, once it grew from hatchling to true mount. But well, whether large or small, a dragon was still a fucking dragon.

"I've heard," Baelon said, tilting his head with innocent curiosity, "that Casterly Rock has gold mines so deep they've yet to be emptied even after thousands of years. Is that true?"

Jason straightened, chest swelling with Lannister pride. "Indeed it is, my prince. The veins run deep beneath the Rock. They will last ten thousand years more, should the gods will it."

Baelon released a soft, wistful sigh.

"That is wonderful. If only King's Landing had such mines… Uncle and Rhaenyra would not worry so much about the empty royal treasury." He pressed small hands together with earnest concern. "So days they can hardly eat properly."

The boy's tone was pure, unfeigned childhood sympathy.

Jason Lannister did not hear innocence.

He heard politics.

He stiffened. A drop of sweat slid from his temple despite the breeze. The king had hinted, subtly, awkwardly, that he might pursue Princess Rhaenyra. A match between the West and the heir to the Iron Throne.

But a marriage alliance with the heir… requires offerings. Great offerings.

Suddenly it made sense. The boy had co not as a child but as a ssenger. A herald of the king's intentions.

Royal treasury… gold… marriage…

Jason's mind raced. When Rhaenys Targaryen wed Corlys Velaryon, the Sea Snake had offered half his fleet and riches that rivaled even his own Rock. That was the price the Velaryons paid, and Rhaenys had no heirs to the throne.

Princess Rhaenyra was far more valuable.

Jason dropped to a knee, cloak pooling behind him.

"Your wisdom honors , my prince," he said gravely. "House Lannister has little to offer save gold… yet I pray you will not find it lacking."

He drew a purse from his belt, heavy, bulging, clinking with the unmistakable weight of gold dragons, and placed it reverently into Baelon's hands.

Baelon accepted the offering with a bright, grateful smile.

Before Jason could rise, Baelon leaned closer, lowering his voice as if confiding a secret between trusted allies.

"Lord Jason," he whispered earnestly, "I don't think you should approach Rhaenyra today. She's in a terrible mood. You might quarrel."

Jason froze. Slowly, his eyes widened.

A second warning. Another sign. Another thread of royal favor.

He bowed again, deeper.

"My prince… you have my eternal gratitude."

The Lannister lord hesitated only a mont more before tugging off a gemstone-studded ring and unclasping the heavy gold chain around his neck, offering both to the child with shaking hands. Then he strode away with renewed purpose, toward the king's pavilion, where he would no doubt present his "donation" with great fanfare.

Baelon turned the glittering treasures over in his palms, eyes bright with genuine pleasure.

"Ah, House Lannister," he murmured. "Truly a hen that lays golden eggs. One gentle nudge, and out tumble gold chains and gem-set rings. How delightful."

Despite his noble birth, he had no private treasury of his own... not yet.

In any world, without coin, a man was without power.

Baelon passed the treasures to Ser Cantell Rosby, his white-cloaked guardian, who stowed them discreetly beneath his cloak. The boy folded his hands behind his back and waited.

The crowd thinned by degrees. Servants hurried about unpacking hunting gear, knights compared arms and armor, and lords drifted away to join their preferred circles. Eventually, the chatter faded.

Rhaenyra erged last from the wheelhouse.

Her golden hair fell loose about her shoulders, stirred by the breeze. She stepped onto the grass with slow, heavy movents, each breath thick with the weight of the morning's humiliation. The mory still burned fresh, the nobles who once knelt to her now turned eagerly toward little Aegon. Her half-brother's na, shouted and cheered, echoed louder than her father's decree naming her heir.

Because she was a woman.

The thought stung like a knife twisting in her chest.

Her eyes glistened.

Baelon moved toward her at once, lifting a hand in greeting. "Rhaenyra."

She halted, gaze softening as she noticed him standing alone, waiting for her. Sothing fragile cracked inside her, and the pain she had swallowed so dutifully surged upward.

In two quick steps, she closed the distance.

Her arms circled him tightly, pressing his small fra against her silk bodice. She buried her face for a mont against his silver hair, drawing strength from the warmth he offered so freely. Baelon lifted his hands awkwardly, then returned the embrace, lightly but without hesitation.

He tilted his head back to peer up at her. "Are you well?"

Rhaenyra blinked rapidly, collecting herself. "I… will be," she said softly.

But the mont shattered as a tall figure approached, boots crunching against the forest floor.

"Princess Rhaenyra." Harwin Strong, broad-shouldered, dark-haired, and imposing in his black-and-gold attire, bowed as he reached them. "Forgive the intrusion. I am Harwin Strong, captain of the City Watch. Do you require assistance?"

Rhaenyra stepped back at once, withdrawing her arms from Baelon as though caught in an indiscretion. She straightened, smoothing her gown with quick, controlled gestures.

"No need, Ser Harwin," she said with the calm composure expected of an heir to the throne. "But I thank you for your concern."

She placed a hand on Baelon's shoulder, guiding him gently toward the king's pavilion.

Harwin remained where he stood, watching her go with an expression he struggled to mask. Hunger flickered in his eyes, longing, admiration, and sothing far less honorable than the chivalry he proclaid.

The truth of him was written plain as ink upon parchnt.

The captain of the City Watch was far from the virtuous knight he pretended to be.

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Next chapter- The Prince Who Smiled While Ordering a Execution

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