Baelon came to as he realised he was back in King's Landing. He looked at Helaena, who mirrored his confusion, tilting her head in silent askance.
They had finally managed to find something in the library; all Baelon wanted was to wake up tomorrow so they could properly sort through the books.
Yet here he was again, dragged back to a place he had desperately run from. He barely restrained a curse as Helaena poked him in the arm.
"What is it?" He muttered, voice lethargic.
At this point, he didn't care what the dream could show him. Nothing it could do would harm him. Better just wade through until he wakes up.
Helaena pointed toward a throng gathered along the streets. Baelon wanted nothing more than to ignore it, but the mention of dragons among the chatter pricked at his attention.
Exchanging a glance, they pushed forward to see the commotion.
At the centre, a man stood atop a rough wooden platform, voice rising above the crowd.
"Dragons are not gifts from the gods!" He cried. "They are demons in flesh! Fire incarnate! They have burned our fathers, our brothers, our sons alive! They leave but death and ruin in their wake! How many more must fall before these monsters are brought low?"
The crowd swelled, voices echoing his rage and grief. Some shouted in agreement, others wiped tears, carried along by his words.
The man raised his arms higher, lowering his voice to a grim whisper.
"And yet, even these beasts are not invincible," he said. "Soon, all shall see proof…today, we parade one of their own through the streets of King's Landing! The she-dragon, red as fire itself, whose wings once blotted out the sun, whose roar struck fear into knights and lords alike. Behold her death, and know that even the mightiest fall!"
Helaena murmured, almost to herself, "This should be a prophecy in the future…"
"Future?" Baelon shook his head. "This is more metaphorical than anything. Can you imagine people in King's Landing openly denouncing dragons?"
Dragons were the foundation of their family's legitimacy, the very force that kept the realm in balance.
How could anyone dare curse them? And the idea of a dragon's head paraded through the streets was preposterous.
Yet, the man only continued, voice dripping with grim relish.
"Her scales, once crimson and gleaming, are now dull and broken. Her eyes, the colour of molten rubies, stare lifelessly. And, her copper crown of horns, once proud, lies shattered!"
"That…" Baelon hesitated, a cold knot forming in his stomach. "…that sounds a bit like Aunt Rhaenys'… Meleys."
Helaena's eyes widened, a mix of shock and curiosity. "She does seem to fit the definition..."
"But… how is that possible?" Baelon gave a nervous, disbelieving chuckle.
The notion that a dragon rider could fall alongside her dragon was unthinkable, something that hadn't happened since Meraxes fell in Dorne or Quicksilver at Maegor's hand.
Since then?
Not a single Targaryen dragon had been lost in battle, only Balerion passing away naturally; their numbers still counted in the dozens.
A shiver ran through him. The destruction he had glimpsed in dreams, villages razed, people burned…while tragic, they did not proclaim the end of a dynasty.
But a dragon… dead? Paraded like a dead dog? That was something else entirely.
Restless thoughts gnawed at him as he grabbed Helaena's hand, following the swelling crowd.
He had already forgotten his previous words; all he wanted to know was to get to the bottom of this situation.
A dozen. A hundred. A thousand. Tens of thousands. The numbers pressed around them, yet all remained silent. No cheers, no cries of triumph, just a heavy, sombre hush.
The eerie quiet twisted in his stomach like a knife.
Phasing through the sea of silhouettes, Baelon and Helaena found themselves at the forefront of the crowd.
Down the long road came the oncoming party: a procession of armoured knights and King's Guard, polished helms glinting in the sun, banners fluttering with a variant of the Targaryen sigil.
At the centre rode Ser Criston Cole, whilst a man beside him cried out. "Behold! The traitorous dragon, Meleys! Slain in battle by your true king!"
Baelon gritted his teeth. Criston Cole's presence meant one thing: this was not some distant prophecy or metaphor.
This was something that would take place in their lifetime, and judging by the man's countenance, it would happen all too soon.
Still, those words failed to rouse the intended joy. The smallfolk around them did not cheer as expected.
Their faces were drawn, eyes fixed on the sight before them with confusion, dread, and a peculiar awe.
Some even bowed their heads with a mixture of reverence and sorrow.
Baelon let the sound wash over him without response. His attention remained fixed on the centrepiece of the procession.
The dragon's head being hauled along the street left no doubt…it was Meleys.
The Red Queen.
And what made Baelon's stomach churn was the wound.
A brutal, jagged gash, unmistakably caused by another dragon.
Baelon's mind raced. In the coming years, when Westeros was engulfed in war, dragons would not be invulnerable.
Nausea swept over him in waves. He was not foolish; he understood the precedent this set.
Dragons were no longer untouchable. No longer gods in flesh. This display had shouted the truth to the smallfolk who once revered them: dragons could die.
And now they had been made to witness it.
Baelon closed his eyes. He did not know which faction orchestrated this spectacle, nor did he care.
One fact burned clear in his mind: the Targaryen hold over Westeros would never be absolute again.
***
The next morning, a sombre Baelon and Helaena sat together over a quiet breakfast. The bread they ate was coarse and dark, traded for days ago, its crust hard enough to scrape against the teeth.
Helaena had cut thick slices of cheese beside it, pale and faintly crumbly, made from goat's milk she had worked herself in the past.
By the time they finished eating, neither reached for more. They simply sat there in silence, hands resting idly.
Both were still grappling with the dream.
So many of their visions in recent years had been disjointed things. Scenes from eras not their own, or abstract metaphors for what was to come.
Omens without context. Warnings without shape. Yet last night had been different. Horribly so.
"I thought…" Helaena whispered at last. "…no matter how bad it gets in the future. No matter how many of us die. Our family's legacy would still endure."
"That doesn't seem very likely now," Baelon replied, exhaling slowly.
With the precedent of a dragon's death laid bare, he understood what it truly meant.
Whilst the faction behind the display wanted to proudly tell the realm: We can kill Gods.
The true message the smallfolk learned was: Even Gods could be killed.
Baelon closed his eyes. The memories of his childhood dreams flashed through his mind.
Scenes of men being slaughtered by fellow men or burned alive by dragonfire. Scenes of towns and cities being burned. Scenes of those he loved dying.
Baelon allowed himself a fragile hope that Meleys might be the sole casualty of such a war. That the dream showed the worst of it, and nothing more.
But deep down, he knew better.
If one dragon had fallen, then others had surely fallen before…or would fall after. And once that threshold was crossed, there would be no turning back.
This war would not be like Baelon expected, merely fracturing the realm and weakening House Targaryen.
No.
This vision made it abundantly clear that what was to come was House Targaryen's dusk. In the worst-case scenario, their reign may even end right then and there.
If a civil war truly came to be, it would truly burn the realm. Dragons against dragons. Blood against blood.
***
Days had passed since the dream.
Fortunately, or perhaps cruelly, the ones that followed did not return to the image of Meleys' death. No paraded head. No roaring crowds. No further revelations.
And yet, the absence itself gnawed at Helaena more than any vision might have. The silence felt like a held breath, as though the world itself were waiting.
She stood in the doorway of their home, one hand resting against the wooden frame, fingers curled too tightly.
The place was quiet, filled only with the soft creak of the floorboards and the faint scratch of parchment. Baelon sat at the table across the room, a book cracked open before him.
Its spine was worn, the pages yellowed and uneven. Blood Rituals, the same book they had retrieved from the ruined library.
The sight of it made her stomach twist.
Light from the window caught his face as he leaned forward, strands of hair slipping loose from the style she had helped him with days ago.
The braids had softened his features, drawing attention away from the sharp angles that once made him seem perpetually severe.
At a glance, he almost looked gentle. Almost fragile.
Helaena knew better.
She knew the stubbornness that lived behind those violet eyes, the quiet resolve that no plea or warning could easily dislodge.
"Do you…" Her voice faltered. She clenched her jaw, forcing the words past the knot in her throat. "…do you have to do this ritual?"
Baelon's eyes lifted from the page, surprise flickering across his expression before he masked it.
Helaena pressed on before he could answer.
"Isn't everything fine as it is?" Her voice rose despite herself. "We can stay here. Live together. Grow together. Away from Westeros. Away from… them."
The last word tasted bitter. Her family.
She loved them, she truly did, but love had curdled into something distant and numb. If they were truly the source of her dreams, of each escalating horror… what was left to feel?
She had seen the realm burn. Seen herself die. Seen their father's death hidden beneath ceremony and silence. Seen Meleys' head displayed like a butchered prize.
And now this.
Baelon stood on the edge of doing something irrevocably foolish. Something dangerous. Something that could kill him.
All because of them.
Apathy was easier than grief.
"Helaena…" Baelon said softly. He turned fully toward her now, then glanced away, fingers tightening around the edge of the table. "Are you truly content with hiding from Father for the rest of our lives? With never returning home?"
"Is this not home?" She asked, sharper than she meant.
To her surprise, he nodded.
"It is." He met her gaze again, a small, genuine smile breaking through his tension. "Wherever you are is home for me."
Warmth bloomed in her chest, unwelcome and painful in its sincerity. She forced it down, confusion overtaking it just as quickly.
"Then why," she asked quietly, "do you seem so intent on returning later?"
Baelon was silent for a long moment. His gaze drifted back to the book, though he did not read.
"If this had been before," he said at last, voice low, "I would never have set foot there again."
He inhaled slowly.
"But if…and I mean if…the dragons are truly hunted in this coming war… slaughtered, even by one another… then the world will learn something it has never fully accepted."
He looked at her then, eyes steady.
"That dragons can be killed. That they can be seized."
Helaena felt her breath hitch.
"And once that truth is known," he continued, "it won't matter where we are. The known world will turn its eyes outward. Toward us."
He gestured faintly, encompassing the land beyond their walls. "Three dragons cannot be hidden forever. Not when they are among the largest alive, only Vhagar surpasses them in size. No matter how desolate this place is, someone will come. Assassins. Armies. Hunters."
His lips twitched, humourless. "And if I am captured, while Westeros bleeds itself dry…I will not be killed."
Helaena frowned. "You won't?"
"No." His voice was flat. "I'll be used. Turned into a breeding stallion to produce dragonseeds."
The words were crude. Horrifying.
She almost laughed, almost, but the sound caught in her throat as the truth of it struck her. The world they lived in would not hesitate. Not with that knowledge. Not with that prize.
She wanted to deny it. To scream at him. To tell him none of this was worth the risk. That the ritual was madness. That he did not need to sacrifice himself on the altar of fear and prophecy.
But when she looked into his eyes, so very similar to her own, filled with care and quiet resolve, the words withered before they could be spoken.
What replaced them was calm.
A heavy, resigned calm.
"Whatever," she said at last. "I'll go with you."
Baelon stiffened. "Helaena—"
"If you succeed," she interrupted, "then so be it. If you die…"
She met his gaze without flinching.
"Then so will I."
The room fell silent once more.