Rhaenyra pressed her lips together, studying him for a heartbeat longer than she intended.
"All right," she said at last.
There was resignation in her tone, but no bitterness. In truth, despite everything that lay tangled between them, she still held a deep fondness for Alicent.
Baelon only smiled, the sort of smile that came easily to him, and offered his hand. When she accepted it, he closed his fingers around hers with quiet assurance and led her toward the great hall of the Red Keep.
His days had settled into a careful rhythm.
He kept Alicent company, listening more than he spoke, offering courtesy without presumption. With Rhaenyra, he shared tales of Tyrosh and the Narrow Sea, of bright banners snapping in sea winds and markets that never seemed to sleep. Before King Viserys, he presented himself as the very image of a dutiful prince, modest in speech, measured in conduct, and unfailingly respectful.
He offended no one, and in doing so, drew steadily closer to everyone.
Yet even as Baelon labored to smooth old rifts and bind frayed ties together, trouble found Prince Daemon Targaryen.
Daemon had long since abandoned the Red Keep, choosing instead to reside in the squalid sprawl of Flea Bottom. The court had named him the Prince of Flea Bottom in mockery at first, but Daemon had worn the title like armor. He despised the suffocating politeness of the castle, the endless watchful eyes, the unspoken judgments. Flea Bottom was honest in its filth. Wine flowed freely there, as did laughter, blood, and coin.
When he commanded the City Watch, he had feasted among his Gold Cloaks in those narrow streets. There had been food enough, drink enough, and women enough to drown any thought of restraint.
What Daemon did not know was that the foundation he had once laid had been quietly torn out from beneath him.
While he had been away from King's Landing, waging war and chasing glory elsewhere, King Viserys had acted with rare decisiveness. Those Gold Cloaks most fiercely loyal to Daemon had been reassigned under polite pretexts. Many were sent to Harrenhal to serve under Prince Baelon, posted far from the alleys they once ruled.
The rest were left behind, and those men were patient.
Gold yielded where loyalty would not. Mysaria knew this well.
Through whispered promises, heavy purses, and subtle threats, she drew them to her. One by one, the men Daemon once believed his own came to answer to another voice.
Daemon discovered this truth only when it was too late.
The tavern stank of sour wine and sweat. Daemon sat slouched over the table, fingers loose around a chipped cup, his vision swimming. He laughed at something someone said, though the words no longer made sense to him.
Then the room shifted.
Boots scraped against the floor. Shadows moved where none should have been.
"What are you doing?" he muttered, pushing himself upright with an effort. His head felt stuffed with wool. "You lot look lost."
Four men closed in, broad shouldered and thick armed. Their faces were unfamiliar, and that alone should have warned him.
One of them hesitated, his jaw tightening. "Forgive us, Prince Daemon. Someone wishes to see you."
The words had barely left his mouth before his fist came up.
Daemon reacted on instinct, years of battle overriding drink. He twisted aside, the blow grazing past him. He reached for the dagger at his belt, but another man struck from behind. A bottle shattered against his skull, glass biting deep.
He went down hard.
Darkness took him.
Around them, the tavern fell quiet. No one shouted. No one intervened. Eyes slid away. Cups were lifted. The night swallowed the sound.
By dawn, the title Prince of Flea Bottom meant nothing at all.
Daemon woke in pain.
Every muscle screamed as he tried to move. His head throbbed in time with his heartbeat. He groaned and lifted a hand, only to feel the hard bite of rope against his wrists.
That snapped him fully awake.
He jerked against his bonds, breath quickening. His arms were bound to the chair, his legs secured. The room was dim, unfamiliar, the air cold against his skin.
"What is this?" he muttered, forcing himself to breathe.
Memory returned in fragments. The tavern. The men. The blow.
"How long?" he whispered. "How long was I out? Who in Flea bottom dares to touch me!"
Rage followed close behind the confusion.
Flea Bottom dared to lay hands on him. On him. That place had been his. His stronghold. His domain.
The truth burned worse than the pain. His power in King's Landing was gone.
A voice answered him, smooth and cold.
"That was the past."
Daemon looked up.
Mysaria stood before him, dressed in white, the fabric slipping from one shoulder. She was as beautiful as ever, her dark eyes unreadable.
"Now Flea Bottom belongs to me."
Daemon exhaled slowly. Some of the tension left him. Of all faces to see, hers was not the worst. They were no longer lovers, that much was clear, but he had not thought them enemies.
"So it is you," he said quietly. "Mysaria."
She tilted her head, studying him as one might study a curiosity.
"You still do not understand," she said. "You are my prisoner. You might at least pretend to realize it."
She took a dagger from one of the men beside her. The steel caught the light.
Daemon swallowed.
She would not truly do this. Surely not.
He strained against the ropes, but they did not give.
The dagger touched his cheek.
"On the day my son was born", she said, her voice steady, "you tore him from my arms. You did not look at me. You did not ask. You did not care."
Her hand drifted downward, the blade tracing a slow path across his chest.
"Do you know how I have lived since then?" she demanded. "Do you know what that loss did to me?"
The steel pressed closer, close enough that even Daemon felt fear coil in his gut.
"Wait," he said quickly. "Listen to me."
She did not stop.
"Baelon is a prince now," Daemon said, the words tumbling over each other. "He holds Harrenhal. The greatest castle in the Seven Kingdoms. The lands of the Trident answer to him. Does that not prove I was right?"
His voice rose, desperation creeping in.
"If I had kept him on Dragonstone, he would still be nothing. A bastard hidden away, unacknowledged by my brother. No lands. No name."
Mysaria's eyes were cold.
She said nothing.
Instead, she reached for his trousers and pulled them away.
"I trusted you," she said quietly. "That is why I followed you. That is why I bore your child."
She stepped closer.
"I trust you no longer."
The dagger hovered, teasing pain. The blade kissed skin, drawing thin lines of red.
Daemon cried out, his body shuddering.
"Mysaria," he gasped. "Think. You know what you are doing."
Before she could answer, a knock sounded.
Mysaria stiffened.
"Lady Mysaria," a voice called from beyond the door. "By order of Prince Baelon, Dennis of the Bloodsworn Guard requests entry."
The men in the room tensed, hands going to weapons.
Mysaria closed her eyes briefly, then composed herself. She slid the dagger out of sight and opened the door.
A middle aged man stood there, plainly dressed, a badge of a blood red dragon pinned to his chest. He knelt at once.
"You may rise," Mysaria said.
"By Prince Baelon's command," the man said, "we are here to take Prince Daemon into custody."
He hesitated, then added, "Prince Baelon also extends an invitation. Harrenhal stands ready for you. Should you prefer, passage to Tyrosh can be arranged. Any place you wish. Even the Archon's seat in tyrosh itself is not beyond discussion."
Silence filled the room.
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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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