The morning sun poured through the high arched windows of the chamber. The space overlooked the pale harbour of Oldtown, bustling with grand silhouettes of ships and shifting figures of rchants.
Baelon sat midway down the polished oak table, surrounded by his maternal family, who had housed him these past three years.
At the head sat Lord Hobert Hightower, his grand-uncle; he was a broad man of dignified bearing, with a trimd reddish-grey beard. Beside him sat Lady Lynesse, his wife, a woman with warm eyes, wrapped in a gown of pale green.
Their son, Ormund Hightower, sat to Baelon's left. To his right, almost directly across from Hobert, were Ser Otto Hightower, Baelon's grandfather, and Otto's son Ser Gwayne, dressed in the muted green and white of Oldtown's guard.
The family ate with asured formality: no raised voices, no idle chatter. Simply questions and answers shared between family.
Hobert cleared his throat, lowering his cup of spiced tea.
"Baelon," he began, his tone mild, "your ti is almost over. I trust you have gained sothing of worth during your stay with us?"
Baelon looked up from the bread he had been quietly tearing.
"Yes," he replied. "More than I expected, truthfully. The knowledge in the Citadel… it's imasurable in both quantity and quality."
A faint, derisive breath escaped Otto. The old man didn't look up from slicing his trout. "If only your elder brother thought the sa."
The words dropped like a stone in still water. Even the clink of cutlery paused.
Baelon's jaw tensed. He wasn't a fool. He knew exactly what his grandfather was thinking.
Otto believed that only a strong, learned heir could counter Rhaenyra's claim.
And, Aegon, drunk and volatile, was far from the ideal. Still, Baelon swallowed his retort and lowered his gaze, forcing himself to continue eating.
Ormund said nothing. Gwayne, usually light-spoken, stared fixedly at his plate as though the next slice of bread might save him from the conversation.
At last, Lynesse broke the silence with gentle tact. "And how is sweet Helaena? Has she written to you recently? How is she doing?"
Baelon nodded.
"She has." A small smile tugged his lips. "She's been speaking to Dreamfyre often. I don't think it will be long before she claims her."
A soft murmur moved around the table.
Even Otto's expression eased. Among the Hightowers, Helaena was a favourite, a whimsical, gentle child unaffected by the brashness of Aegon or the intensity of Aemond.
Her sweetness softened even the sternest of hearts.
Conversation settled into small, comfortable exchanges. Plates were cleared and replaced, cups refilled with watered wine. One by one, the family finished their al and pushed back from the table.
As a servant removed the last of the dishes, Hobert turned to Baelon.
"Word has co from His Majesty. You are to return to King's Landing." He folded his hands. "A carriage is already on its way."
Baelon's brows lifted. He hadn't expected it this soon.
Hobert continued, his voice softening. "If ever you find yourself in need of a place to rest, or to think, know that Oldtown is yours as much as the capital is. You are welco here, Baelon."
Baelon rose with the others, offering a polite bow of his head.
"Thank you for your hospitality, my lord. I am grateful."
But gratitude soured almost instantly as his thoughts turned inward. He knew Hobert cared for him, along with Lynesse. Even the calculating Otto held affection for him.
But this affection was marred by calculation. Whilst they loved him as family, they also saw him as a contingency to Aegon.
A quiet, competent shadow. A piece to be played during the dance. Either as a blade wielded by his brother, should he claim a dragon, or a tool for a marriage alliance if not.
And, for him, who only wished to escape these chains that bound him…. this affection was almost poison.
He could not and would not let them entertain the notion of casting him into the storm that was to co.
Especially when all his dreams seed to scream at him, telling him that the realm would soon be engulfed in the mires of war.
Baelon glanced around the hall, the warm stone, the gentle light, the familiar faces, yet he felt no sense of belonging.
'I won't let myself be dragged into the heart of the storm,' he vowed. 'Not . And not Helaena.'
***
Behind the Hightower stretched a broad training yard, walled and largely empty except for scattered dummies and sandbags.
The morning sun glead off the pale stone of the tower as a light breeze carried the scent of sea salt and iron from the distant harbour. Today, however, it was far from empty.
Clang!
The sharp clash of steel rang through the courtyard as Baelon raised his smaller, lighter blade to parry Ser Torgon Harlyn's powerful swings.
Each strike jolted his arms, forcing him to pivot on the balls of his feet, dust puffing from the soft earth.
Ser Harlyn stepped back, allowing Baelon a brief respite whose chest heaved, breaths both sharp and uneven. His shoulders trembled, but he kept his eyes on Harlyn, refusing to back down.
"You've done well, young prince," the knight said, lowering his sword in a practised flourish. "Your technique would put any standard knight to sha."
"B-but..." Baelon managed between pants, gripping his hilt with both hands. "...that clearly isn't enough to beat you, is it?"
Ser Harlyn laughed, swinging his long blade in a broad, almost ceremonial arc, letting the flat of the steel trace the air. "Right you are. I may not be much more skilled than you are now, but I am stronger and have more experience. Talent alone cannot bridge that gap."
Baelon felt a spark of pride at his words, but smothered it instantly.
He had yet to land a true victory, so what did this praise even amount to?
"Co!" Baelon shouted, steadier now, chest rising and falling in a asured rhythm.
Unconsciously, he began the breathing exercises from the pyromancy to, the sa pattern he had practised yesterday evening.
With his breath following the peculiar rhythm, Baelon's eyes brightened as his stamina was consud at a slower pace than before.
He lunged forward, shorter blade darting. Unfortunately, Harlyn t it with a simple parry.
Baelon didn't falter; he followed with a flurry of strikes, each one aid to exploit his dexterity and newfound stamina.
Slowly, Harlyn's expression shifted; now he was taking him seriously.
Clash!
Another of Baelon's blows was parried, but—
Montum carried Baelon to a bold move: he released his grip for an instant, flipping his sword into a reverse hold.
The smaller blade skimd across Harlyn's. Baelon's heart leapt; he had caught the knight off guard.
Ti seed to stretch. A triumphant smile tugged at Baelon's lips. He had done it, if only once. After three gruelling years, even one small success like this felt monuntal to him.
Ser Harlyn was, after all, an experienced knight, rumoured to have even won a tourney in his youth held in King's Landing.
However, Baelon's joys were swiftly cut short.
Thump!
A sharp force slamd into his chest, hurling him backwards. Dust and grit stung his eyes as he hit the ground, gasping for breath.
"Damn it! You cheated! What in the Seven Hells was that?" He wheezed.
"What do you an, Your Highness?" Harlyn shrugged casually. "That was a kick. Nothing more."
"I know it was a kick, but we were sparring with swords! Why use anything else?"
"Co now," the knight said, rolling his eyes, "you're too clever to believe that nonsense. This is to be expected. Stop grumbling, you were bested, child."
Baelon clicked his tongue in frustration, rubbing his sore chest.
He was close…
Yet Harlyn knelt beside him, tone shifting to praise. "Though I must ask, where did that move co from?"
"Just a mont of inspiration," Baelon murmured a reply casually.
His thoughts, however, revealed a completely different truth.
'Who would have expected watching that Braavosi water dancer teach in my dreams would help like this?' Baelon tilted his head, but he wasn't too surprised.
His rapid growth in swordsmanship, though partly explained by talent, was also due to the various battles he witnessed in his dreams.
Though he was a bit curious why a water dancer was in what seed to be the Red Keep, it didn't seem too important.
For all he knew, this could be a scene centuries into the future or a reality that was never to be. Maybe even both.
Clap! Clap!
A sudden burst of applause drew both their attentions.
Baelon remained sitting on the dirt, as Ser Harlyn got up, bowing to the newcor. "Lord Ormund!"
"Uncle." Baelon similarly greeted, his remarks far more casual.
Ormund acknowledged the knights with a short nod as he stepped inside. When he reached Baelon, he ruffled the boy's hair with a fondness that slipped past his usual sternness, then extended an arm.
"Co now. The carriage waits."
Baelon clasped the offered arm and pulled himself upright. Before following, he turned toward Harlyn, who stood a respectful distance away, helm tucked beneath his arm.
"Thank you, Ser Harlyn." Baelon tipped his head in a small bow. "Your guidance these past years has ant more to than you know."
The reaction was imdiate: Harlyn straightened, visibly unsettled, a flush rising under his beard. "Your Highness, don't. That is my duty. There's no need for you to bow to ."
Baelon's smile ca soft. "Even so, my gratitude remains."
He fell in step behind Ormund as they left the open field, pondering his gains during his ti away from King's Landing.
He had learned so much in recent years: scraps of lore and history of the known world.
Ranging from tales of the Valyrian Freehold to notes about the myriad ancient Kingdoms that graced Essos in days past.
He also glead so information on magic and even a to archiving real spells, though its veracity remained to be seen.
His swordsmanship, too, was finally acceptable. No longer was it the clumsy flailing of a bookish boy but the steady form of soone who could at least defend himself.
Piece by piece, he had begun shaping an escape from the storm he and Helaena foresaw. A path away from the fire and blood to co.
And yet… the thought of leaving weighed heavily.
Would he really abandon all this? His kin, his ho, everything he loved, because of a vision that might not even co to pass?
He wiped a sheen of sweat from his brow as he followed behind Ormund.
"Uncle," Baelon called.
Ormund slowed. "Yes?"
Baelon picked his words with care. "What would you do… if you knew soone you cared for might die in the future? But if you tried to stop it… you might make everything worse?"
Ormund stopped fully this ti and looked over his shoulder, studying the boy with a faint spark of curiosity. Then he resud walking, answering only once his thoughts had settled.
"Sotis," he said, "knowledge of what may co is more burden than blessing. The future is no straight path. It's a web. Change one thread and the whole thing trembles."
Baelon frowned. "So… you'd do nothing?"
"No." Ormund shook his head. "You act when action has purpose. Not when you're clawing at shadows in fear. Protect who you can. Prepare yourself. But don't let dread drive your hand. Panic ruins more than prophecy ever has."
"Patience…?" Baelon echoed.
"Patience," Ormund confird. "It is the strongest virtue of our house. Observe. Steady yourself. Use the mont when it cos… if it cos. In your little scenario, I would test whether the future can even be changed. If it can, then good. If it cannot…" His tone hardened, but not unkindly. "…then there is little I can say. After all, I have neither the experience nor the knowledge to help you find an answer."
"But why do you ask?" Ormund turned to Baelon. "Did you read sothing in the citadel to prompt such a question?"
"Sothing like that," Baelon mumbled.
Then, silence took them for a mont. Baelon stared at the ground on which he walked, absorbing each word.
'He's right…Whether the future was fixed or already shifting, preparation mattered more than fear.'
So of the visions he rembered might never happen. Others might twist into sothing unrecognisable.
But he could still prepare.
He would prepare.
User Comments
0 comments from readers