Baelon did not much care whether Equis was truly loyal.
Loyalty, after all, was a fragile thing. It bent with hunger, with fear, with the promise of legacy. In Baelon's experience, men did not need to love their master. They needed only to believe that their future depended upon him.
After a full year of bloodshed, factional strife, and open war within the Disputed Lands, the city of Tyrosh had been hollowed nearly to the bone. Where once banners had flown thick upon the walls and the harbor bristled with mercenary companies, now fewer than four thousand trained soldiers remained fit for service.
Of those, barely fifteen hundred answered to anyone but Baelon.
Unsullied purchased at ruinous cost. Sellswords whose contracts were written in Baelon's own hand. Men who ate his bread, took his coin, and knew that if Tyrosh fell, they would fall with it.
That alone made them more dependable than any oath sworn before gods.
More importantly, Baelon had already put his quiet command into motion. The Blood Dragon Guard of Tyrosh had begun administering poison, measured carefully and without haste. The doses were small enough to be unnoticed. The effects slow enough to be mistaken for weakness of age or constitution.
Infertility, when it came, would seem an accident of fate.
And truly, what did a eunuch treasure above all else?
In his former life, Baelon had known many such men. Their passions were few, but unwavering. Gold, above all. And next, the need for legacy. If they could not pass on blood, they would steal the shape of it through adoption, through heirs named in ink rather than flesh.
This world would be no different.
Yet compared to an adopted son, a trueborn heir of one's own seed would always matter more. Even to a eunuch. Especially to a eunuch.
Equis would understand that soon enough.
At this rate, it was only a matter of time before Tyrosh itself began to take Baelon's shape.
The chamber was quiet save for the low crackle of brazier coals. Illis stood before Baelon's desk, posture straight, his hands folded neatly before him as he read from the gathered reports.
"On the Disputed Lands front," Illis said, his voice measured, "the Triarchy forces under Craghas Drahar remain locked in stalemate with the armies of Volantis. Though Craghas has suffered heavy losses, his men continue to hold the line. Morale remains unexpectedly strong."
Illis turned a page.
"They are likely to endure for some time yet."
Baelon leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled beneath his chin. The light from the brazier painted half his face in shadow, lending his expression an unreadable stillness.
"Letters have also arrived from King's Landing," Illis continued. "Princess Helaena's first name day approaches. His Grace extends an invitation, requesting your presence at the celebration."
Another pause, another page.
"And lastly, according to the Bloodsworn Guard, Prince Daemon Targaryen has begun making preparations. He has kept a low profile in the capital for nearly a year, but signs suggest he is moving toward some design unknown to us."
Illis finished reading. He lowered the parchment and waited, silent as a statue.
Baelon did not answer at once. His gaze drifted toward the narrow window, toward the distant sea beyond Tyrosh's walls.
"Leave Craghas be," Baelon said at last. "He has bled Volantis well enough. That was his purpose, and he has served it."
Illis inclined his head.
"As for the banquet," Baelon went on, turning his attention back to the room, "send word that I will attend. I will arrive as expected."
Then his voice slowed, and his fingers tightened slightly against one another.
"And my father," he said. "Have the Bloodsworn Guard learn precisely what Prince Daemon intends. Spare no effort. If his plans threaten me, or threaten the balance we have built, then see that they are stopped."
Even speaking the name brought a faint tension to Baelon's brow.
Daemon Targaryen had always been thus. Reckless in youth, driven by a constant need to prove himself. A man who mistook motion for purpose, and danger for destiny. Age would temper him, Baelon knew that. Time sharpened wisdom, even in fools.
But Daemon was not yet old enough to be wise.
At present, he was impulsive, contradictory, and perilous.
"Yes, my lord," Illis said softly.
He did not ask questions. He never did.
Illis bowed and withdrew from the chamber, his steps soundless upon the stone.
Over the past year, he had come to see Baelon with unsettling clarity. And it was precisely that clarity which extinguished the last embers of resistance in his heart. Whatever doubts he once harbored had withered away, replaced by certainty.
From that moment on, Illis devoted himself wholly to Baelon's cause.
In his eyes, Baelon was a king born.
He was indifferent to life, yet every command he issued carried a careful restraint, a mercy weighed and measured rather than felt. Cold in reason, yet able to don the mask of a devoted son or caring kinsman without flaw or fracture.
More than that, he understood how to rule men. How to pull them forward without breaking them. How to keep rival forces in equilibrium rather than letting them tear each other apart.
And above all else, he possessed a force capable of overturning the board entirely.
A dragon.
With all these truths laid bare before him, Illis gave his loyalty without reserve.
Baelon rose from his seat and turned toward the man standing near the door, clad in blackened steel etched with sigils of a bleeding heart.
"Brayden," Baelon said.
The Black Heart Knight straightened at once.
"Gather the household guard," Baelon commanded. "We ride for King's Landing."
"At once, my lord," Brayden replied, striking fist to chest.
*
King's Landing, The Red Keep
The Red Keep was louder than Baelon remembered.
When he had last departed the city, the castle had felt subdued, its corridors echoing with whispers and restraint. Now it thrummed with motion. Servants hurried through the halls. Guards stood in doubled numbers at every gate and stair.
Much of that was Otto Hightower's doing.
Using his authority as Hand of the King, Otto had filled the Red Keep with men sworn to Oldtown, ostensibly to protect Queen Alicent and her children. Their green and silver sigils were everywhere, subtle yet impossible to miss.
Alicent herself had not stopped him.
Though she resented her father for forcing Baelon from the capital, Otto remained her father still. And beneath her composed exterior lay a deep, gnawing fear. She clung to whatever sense of safety she could grasp.
Viserys's Chambers
Voices echoed behind the heavy doors.
"I have said this before," King Viserys shouted, his voice raw with strain. "My heir is Rhaenyra. She alone stands to inherit the Iron Throne. Neither you nor Baelon will ever take it."
Daemon Targaryen stood across from his brother, arms folded, expression unreadable. He did not raise his voice. He did not pace.
He merely watched.
"You lie to yourself," Daemon said quietly. "Baelon surpasses Rhaenyra in both talent and standing. You know it as well as I do. Do you truly believe she matches him? Or do you simply wish it so?"
Viserys recoiled as if struck. His hands clenched atop the table.
"Yes," he snapped. "I know he is better. I admit it. But it does not matter. He is a bastard. No matter how capable he is, he will never sit my throne."
His breath came fast now.
"And do not pretend I do not see your designs," he continued. "You would steal the crown from Rhaenyra. That will never be allowed."
Whenever Rhaenyra's succession was questioned, Viserys lost all restraint. His devotion to her bordered on obsession.
"If you truly mean to protect her claim," Daemon said evenly, "then you must be willing to act without mercy."
Viserys frowned. "What are you suggesting?"
"Strip the succession rights from all but Rhaenyra," Daemon replied. "Mine. Baelon's. Even Aegon's and Helaena's."
He stepped closer, lowering his voice.
"And tell me you have not noticed the growing number of Hightowers in this castle."
Viserys fell silent.
He had noticed.
At length, he exhaled heavily.
"I will remove Otto as Hand," Viserys said. "He will be sent from King's Landing. Lord Lyman Beesbury shall serve in his place. Jason Lannister will take the treasury."
He rubbed his temples.
"With Corlys Velaryon returned, Tyland Lannister no longer holds the ships. To appease the West, Jason shall have the coin."
He hesitated.
"The posts of Master of Laws and Commander of the City Watch remain vacant," Viserys said. "Would you have either?"
Daemon shook his head.
"No," he said. "None of it interests me. When Helaena's name day is done, I will leave for Essos."
He turned and walked away, disappointment heavy in his stride.
Viserys lifted a hand as if to call him back.
In the end, he let it fall.
Baelon learned of none of this until his arrival.
Only after entering the Red Keep did Rhaenyra pull him aside, her eyes bright with vindictive delight.
"Otto is gone," she said, unable to hide her grin. "Stripped of his office and sent away with his tail between his legs. Before you returned, the Hightower sigil was everywhere. It made my skin crawl."
Baelon sighed softly.
"Enough," he said, shaking his head. "If Alicent hears you speak like that, the rift between you will only deepen."
Rhaenyra's smile faded, replaced by a tight, complicated silence.
During Baelon's absence, the bond between the two women had frayed beyond repair.
They were not yet enemies.
But the girls who once whispered secrets together beneath the Red Keep's towers were gone, perhaps forever.
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