Baelon remained in King's Landing for less than a week before taking the road north once more. His departure was swift, almost abrupt, yet the reasons behind it wound together like threads of an old gown.
The first was simple enough. His host needed proper ground to camp. King's Landing, for all its teeming life, carried a stench that had become a legend unto itself. The men who had marched beside him from Harrenhal and Crab Bay had endured battlefields, burned towns and the smoke of war, but even they could hardly tolerate the reek that rolled through the capital's alleys like a living fog. Flies clung to the fishmongers' stalls. The gutters stank of waste.
No soldier could rest or ready himself amid such filth.
The second reason was more tangled. Trouble had risen again in the Stepstones.
Baelon learned only belatedly that he had been granted not merely the title of Lordof Crab Bay but the title of a prince as well.
In his own design, the raid upon Tyrosh and the reclaiming of the Stepstones should have served as the foundation for such a title, not a surprise bestowed without his knowledge.
The Stepstones, positioned at the mouth of the narrow sea, were a prize of rare value. With them under his rule, he meant to construct a bastion for future conquest across Essos and a chokehold over the trade routes that fed Westeros.
But Otto Hightower would never allow him that freedom or that strength. The king's Hand had built a lifetime upon the art of quiet shackles.
Harrenhal, Crab Bay, the Stepstones. Should all three domains rest in Baelon's hands, the narrow sea and the Trident would bow to his command. That was power enough to shape the future of the realm. Otto saw this, and so he whispered. A boy like Baelon could not be permitted to grow into a rival king, even if he bore the blood of the dragon.
Thus Otto counseled Viserys to deny the request.
The Stepstones, he insisted, were too great a reward for one man. The small council echoed him, most too timid to stand against the Hand's certainty.
After the war, Otto's quiet murmurs had taken deeper root. Once Baelon had been hailed as the Dawn Prince, a merciful yet fearsome champion of the crown. But now, among the smallfolk, other names drifted through the taverns and fishmarkets. Blood Flame Dragonlord. Hell Born Wyrm. Warnings spoken in low voices, never when they thought his sworn men might hear.
The will of the people could be a tide of its own, and Viserys Targaryen had always cared too deeply for the tempers and fancies of the common folk. He flinched from their fear.
"If we grant Prince Baelon the Stepstones," Otto had said in the council chamber, folding his hands as though in humble concern, "he will use the spoils taken from Tyrosh to raise more men. He will strike again, perhaps at Lys or Myr. He may ignite a war that spans two continents. Is that a burden we wish the crown to bear?"
Viserys had looked stricken, as if the very thought of it weighed upon his shoulders. Otto's reasoning could not be refuted, for in truth Baelon intended precisely that.
Only a fool would seize such a strategic archipelago and fail to forge it into a fortress. So long as the Stepstones rested in his grasp, the fleets of the Triarchy would never again threaten Westerosi shores.
Yet Viserys denied him. Instead, the king offered a great mountain of gold dragons as consolation.
The third reason for Baelon's swift return to Harrenhal was the simplest. A year of war had left behind a mountain of tasks. Victories must be celebrated, lands must be granted, and men... they must be rewarded. A new fleet must be laid down beneath the towers of Crab Bay. None of these labors could be left to chance or to the ambitions of lesser men.
Thus Baelon chose the road home.
As for the Stepstones, let them fall to any hand bold or foolish enough to claim them. Time would favor him. It always had.
One Year Later
Baelon stood beside a narrow window in the Blackheart Tower, the wind riffling the loose strands of his dark hair as he gazed down at the Shattered Stone Courtyard. Three thousand men trained below him, their shouts and the clangor of steel drifting upward.
He looked much the same as he had a year before, though taller now, his shoulders broader, his features sharpened by time.
Two thousand of the men below were hardened veterans. The remaining thousand were sailors and raiders he had gathered from Crab Bay and the western coast of Essos. The Tyroshi ships he had captured had long since been reforged into a fleet that patrolled the waters from Harrenhal's shadows to the very edges of the narrow sea.
A roar shattered the sky, so powerful that the window panes quivered in their lead frames. The soldiers below paused in their drills, raising their faces to behold the shadow descending through the clouds.
A vast, blood red shape spiraled above the tower before dropping lower, each beat of its wings churning the air like a storm.
"Tyraxes is growing too swiftly," Baelon murmured, eyes narrowing in thought. He rested one hand on the stone sill, feeling the tremor of the dragon's cry through the tower's bones. "Five more meters in a single year, and the change in his frame is even stranger."
During the assault on Tyrosh, Tyraxes had measured no more than twelve or thirteen meters from nose to tail. Now the dragon spanned eighteen, perhaps more. His limbs had thickened into cable hard muscle, his chest broadened, his neck ridged with strength unlike any young dragon Baelon had ever seen.
Some of this came from the blood strengthening elixir Baelon had administered, though the greater portion, he suspected, belonged to Harrenhal itself. The ancient lore of House Lustrius spoke of this land as a wound of old magic, a place steeped in forces that warped both men and beasts. If so, perhaps Tyraxes had merely awakened to what lay buried here.
Perhaps a roost should be raised, Baelon mused. A true hatchery built upon the plains beside the Gods Eye. A place where wyrmlings might grow beneath watchful eyes.
"My lord." A quiet voice approached from behind him.
Baelon turned from the window. "Illis. What news?"
Illis bowed his head as he stepped forward, a stack of sealed letters in his gloved hands. The young man's eyes were alert despite the long ride he must have taken to bring them. "Reports from Tyrosh, from the Bloodguard and our allies."
Baelon gestured for him to continue.
Illis drew a breath and lifted the uppermost letter. "Archon Equis has succeeded. The new Tyroshi archon is dead. Poison did the work cleanly. With the aid of the Blood Flame Company and the thousand Unsullied you stationed in the city, Equis has secured power for himself. Tyrosh kneels to him."
Baelon's lips curved with slow approval. "So he managed it. I thought he would. In that case, the embargo upon Tyrosh is lifted. Trade with Myr has grown tiresome."
Illis hesitated. His fingers tightened around the next parchment, knuckles whitening. Baelon raised a brow.
"Speak freely," Baelon said, his voice even.
"My prince." Illis looked up, his expression troubled. "Equis's loyalty remains uncertain. You gelded him. Such a wound festers in a man's heart. How can we trust he will bear your leash forever?"
Baelon let out a soft laugh. He stepped away from the window and crossed the chamber until he stood beside Illis. The candlelight cast long shadows against the stones, gilding the sharp lines of his face.
"You misunderstand the nature of men," Baelon said. "Especially those who have been robbed of the hope of children. Tell me, Illis. What does such a man desire above all else? Wealth? Power?"
Illis swallowed and shook his head.
"No. Those matter far less than this. A legacy."
Baelon moved past him and poured wine from a flagon resting on a carved table. He held the cup for a moment, watching the deep red swirl like blood beneath the torchlight.
"If Equis had many children or none at all, I would have chosen other methods to secure him. Slow poisons perhaps, or the quiet replacement of Tyrosh's command with men whose hearts beat for Harrenhal." He took a sip, then set the cup aside. "But fate was kind to us. Equis has one son. A newborn boy."
Illis looked startled. "You brought the child here."
"To Harrenhal, yes." Baelon's gaze sharpened, dark with intent. "Not only to command the father's loyalty, though that alone would have sufficed. I brought him so that I might shape him. A child raised here grows under my eye, my will, my teachings. When he comes of age, he may well become a shield rather than a blade pointed at my back."
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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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