Baelon and Helaena stood at the edge of the cliffs overlooking Storm's End, the grey stone fortress rising imposingly behind them.
Its walls, scarred by centuries of storms, stretched high above the sea, and the banners of House Baratheon snapped in the wind.
"Thank you for the help, Your Highness!" Borros Baratheon said, his broad frame towering over most men, his sun-bronzed skin glinting in the sunlight.
The smile that spread across his square-jawed face was genuine, almost boyish. "If it weren't for you, those Connington bastards would have gotten away with it."
Baelon inclined his head slightly before shaking it with measured calm. "We just did what we were tasked with by our father." His gaze swept over the massive castle before them. "They were in the wrong in this situation. The pasture has long been Baratheon territory; House Connington should never have infringed."
Borros parted his lips to respond, his eyes bright with admiration, but before a word could form, the sky above split with a deafening roar.
Three massive dragons descended in a swirl of wind and force, landing behind Baelon and Helaena. Their scales shimmered in hues of silver, bronze, and sapphire.
Even from a distance, the heat of their presence pressed against the skin, with the ground trembled from their initial landing.
Baelon remained composed, though his gaze flicked toward Borros. "The letter I gave you yesterday, regarding the details of this mission, has it been sent to King's Landing?"
Borros' gaze shifted uneasily between the dragons and the young prince. His hands fidgeted with the straps of his belt, and a bead of sweat rolled down his temple. "O-of course, Your Highness. The maester sent the raven out yesterday without fail."
Hearing this, Baelon exchanged a brief, knowing glance with Helaena. Her lips curved in a small, satisfied smile, and she adjusted the folds of her riding cloak, the wind catching it and tugging it lightly.
Baelon returned his attention to Borros. "Very well. You may go, Ser Borros."
His smile was polite, whilst his words were a reminder, yet not a reminder.
With a short bow, Borros retreated, keeping a wary eye on the dragons until he vanished from sight.
Baelon turned back to Helaena, and together they strode toward their dragons. Baelon's hand rested briefly on the massive, ridged neck of Vermithor, feeling warm scales beneath the tips of his fingers.
Helaena mirrored the gesture, leaning close to murmur something into Dreamfyre's ear, the beast rumbling in acknowledgement.
Baelon turned towards his sister. "Do you have everything?"
Helaena paused before turning to him and nodding. "Waterskin, some spare clothes and most of my Gold Dragons." Deliberating for a moment, she looked at Baelon. "Are you sure this is all we need? After all, you said it was in the far from civilisation."
"Don't worry." Baelon chuckled. "While it's far from established civilisation, it is also in the Dothraki Sea. Food will scarcely be an issue for us."
Finishing his words, he climbed atop Vermithor, the Bronze Fury, sensing his rider's excitement, and let out a bellowing roar. Soon, Helaena did the same with Dreamfyre.
With an almost childlike thrill coursing through his veins, Baelon exchanged a glance with the similarly excited Helaena as they shouted in High Valyrian.
"Sōvēs!" Fly!
***
Viserys hobbled across the solar as a model of Valyria sat before him. The miniature towers and spires glimmered in the soft candlelight, each meticulously painted and positioned.
He leaned close, adjusting a tilting column here, a misaligned tilted wall there, his fingers moving with the care and joy of a child building a sandcastle.
For a moment, the weight of his kingship seemed to slip away.
"This is it…" He murmured as he sank onto a cushioned bench and ran his hands over the tiny streets, smiling faintly. "No screaming. No shouting. No arguments. Just… peace."
His mind floated for a moment, imagining the city of Valyria as it had been, glorious and whole, untouched by The Doom.
The chaos of the court felt so very far away to him, muted by his joy and peace in this very moment.
Ever since Daemon had fled Driftmark three months ago, his life had been a storm of tensions, with the Queen's faction constantly undermining his daughter, Rhaenyra.
Yet, Viserys did not resent them entirely.
Aemond had lost an eye because of Daemon's recklessness, and the bond Daemon held with his niece had only been emphasised by his request before leaving.
Who would Alicent spurn if not Rhaenyra?
Alas, arguments and conflict had never been alien to Viserys; he had weathered them all during his reign, especially those involving his brother.
But the slow fracturing of his family gnawed at him more than any courtly intrigue.
'Still… at least there were still those two,' he thought.
Baelon and Helaena, so bright, so untainted by the petty cruelties of court, brought him genuine pride and warmth. They did not see him as a king, merely a father, and he adored them all the more for it.
"Still, it's a shame I have to keep them away from the Red Keep," he muttered, a frown briefly crossing his features.
He would shield these two pure souls from the vultures circling at court, no matter how inconvenient it might be.
He hummed softly, low at first, then picked up a tentative melody in High Valyrian.
It was a half-remembered lullaby he remembered his father singing to him all those years ago, when he was but a child.
Those were simpler days. Kinder days.
Knock. Knock.
A sharp knock on the door startled him out of his reverie.
"Come in," he called, voice still soft, masking the tinge of annoyance he had felt at being interrupted.
The door opened to reveal Maester Mellos, holding a neatly sealed envelope.
"Your Grace, a letter has arrived from Prince Baelon and Princess Helaena," he announced, bowing slightly.
Viserys nodded, accepting the envelope. "It seems they are already done with the issue in the Stormlands," he murmured, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "As capable as always…"
"Thank you, Maester," he added, dismissing the man with a gentle wave. The maester bowed again and left, leaving Viserys alone in the soft flicker of candlelight.
He slit the seal of the envelope as two letters fell into his hands. A jolt of unease ran through him.
Normally, reports from the twins came in a single, concise letter, made for Small Council briefings.
He picked up the first letter. The familiar, precise handwriting made his lips press together in a quiet, approving smile.
It was a simple summary of what they had achieved in the Stormlands, actions completed, disputes settled, duties fulfilled. Pride swelled quietly in his chest.
But then… he reached for the second letter. His stomach twisted. And then, as he unfolded it, as his eyes swept over the words…Viserys felt the world around him fade into silence.
The ink blurred in his gaze as tears welled, glinting in the faint light of the solar. His hands trembled, fingers clutching the parchment so tightly that the edges creased.
A tear fell onto the paper. Then, another. His breathing hitched as he read, emotion overtaking reason.
Dear Father,
Should you receive this letter, Helaena and I are likely already beyond the borders of the realm. I am ashamed to present this to you, but I can think of no other way.
Despite how much you care for us, you would never have allowed us to venture out like this; you are far too protective, far too responsible. And so, I can only offer my deepest apologies for our rash actions.
If we had stayed in Westeros any longer, Father, I fear we would have been in grave danger. Not just from the chaos of the court, but from the constant conflicts that would inevitably arise within our own family.
Mother and Rhaenyra are already at each other's throats, and the court dares debate your successor while you still draw breath. Father… Helaena and I can no longer bear it.
We cannot live in a place where love is twisted into suspicion, where every smile hides a knife, where we must sleep with one eye open for fear that a whisper, a plot, or a grievance might cost us our lives.
To move through the Red Keep, wary of our own kin…what kind of life is that?
We are exhausted. Worn thin. And, if I am honest, frightened in a way I have never admitted before.
Over the years, you have done more for us than I could ever hope to put into words. You sheltered us from the worst of the court's ugliness, shielding us from intrigues we were too young to understand.
You ensured my place at the Citadel was secured without trouble.
Whilst I had only realised in recent years, you also quietly reduced the guards outside my chambers at Dragonstone that night, so that I could claim a dragon without fear of discovery.
You steadied our mother's hand when she pushed too strongly toward betrothals we were not ready to face.
Every step of our lives, you have tried, more than tried… Father, you have fought to keep us safe.
And no matter what the court whispers, no matter what anyone dares to claim, to Helaena and me, you have always been a good father and a good king.
We carry that truth with us wherever we go. I will forever be grateful for the burdens you bore and for the gentleness you showed us, even when the world turned cruel around you.
Thank you for everything.
Baelon Targaryen
Viserys' vision swam, his eyes burning a deep, watery crimson as he stroked the letter in his grasp.
Then, with a mixture of shame and dread, he forced himself to look down at the second half of the letter.
Hello Father,
I am…sorry. Truly. I could not bring myself to face you, though Baelon wished it, despite what he said. He was rather confident we could escape even should you confine us, but…I am too weak.
I knew that if I saw your eyes, I would lose all courage, and the goodbye would break me. I did not want you to see my shame, nor the hurt in me at leaving when you need us most.
You have always done everything you could to keep us safe, and yet we are running from you in a moment when you should have had people you trust beside you. But we cannot stay in King's Landing, not now...
It feels like a nest of rats waiting to bite when our backs are turned. Please forgive us for choosing to flee instead of enduring it alongside you.
I wish you good health and steady strength. And if…if we ever return, I hope I will find you standing on your feet again, smiling the way you used to, ready to hold us close like you did when we were children.
Until that day, know that I carry you with me…in my thoughts, in my dreams, in all the little hopes I keep to myself.
Your loving daughter,
Helaena Targaryen
Silence settled over Viserys like a shroud as he read. The chamber seemed to fade away until only the soft patter of his own tears against the letter remained.
He knew he ought to have been furious, outraged, even.
Two royal children fleeing the realm with dragons… it was absurd, unprecedented, a scandal that would stain his reign for generations to come.
Yet all he felt was a crushing sense of helplessness.
'How frightened must they have been… to choose exile over King's Landing?' His hand trembled as he wiped the fresh streaks down his cheeks. 'They have scarcely passed their eleventh nameday… and now they must survive the world alone.'
He could picture Baelon's cunning mind working through every detail of their journey, preparing with quiet diligence long before this day came.
Thus, Viserys was confident that harm would be unlikely to befall either child.
However, that understanding only twisted the knife deeper…it told a sad truth.
Their departure was likely not impulsive…it was born of fear, driven by wounds he had failed to see, or refused to acknowledge.
His most capable, gentle children were gone, and the world felt suddenly colder around him.
Rhaenyra rarely spoke to him these days, especially following the farce at Driftmark. And, when they did speak, her words were filled with complaints and anger.
Even amid the rumours drowning him regarding her children, he stood tall, turning a deaf ear to the complaints of his court.
But disregarding all his efforts, she had her eyes fixed on a crown he had never withdrawn from her.
Alicent, meanwhile, pushed ceaselessly for her eldest… Aegon this, Aegon that. She remained blind to the fact that he had established an heir and blind to the harm she had caused her family in her efforts to chase the duty instilled in her from a young age.
To further her family's glory.
Viserys clutched the letter to his chest, breaths coming in short, ragged bursts. His panting faltered and broke, giving way to small, strangled sobs.
Thus, for the first time since Aemma died, he wept. Not the restrained tears of a king, nor the polite grief of a ruler expected to endure, but the sobs of a man whose heart had been split open time and time again.
In that moment, all his titles fell away.
He was not the King of the Seven Kingdoms.
Neither was he the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms.
Nor the ruler who held the Iron Throne.
He was only a father.
Lost and grieving with the love he bore for two children who had been the last bright warmth in a world turning steadily to shadow.
And as the tears slid quietly to the stone floor, Viserys Targaryen found himself praying.
Praying that the world beyond his reach would be kinder to his children than the one he ruled.