Pain.
That single word had been Baelon's entire world for days uncounted.
Had it been a single, unchanging agony, he might have endured it more easily. The mind, when pressed long enough, learned how to dull a blade that cut in only one direction.
Unfortunately for him, his torment was not so merciful. It was ever shifting, ever changing…never allowing familiarity to blunt it.
There was the sensation of his organs being roasted while he remained fully conscious, fire licking through his chest and belly, curling inward before cooking him from the inside out.
There was the agony of his blistered, ruined skin pressing against stone and earth. Even a slight movement caused his open wounds to tear open, wounds that had not yet learned how to close.
And then there was the rolling, crushing pressure that followed every single drop of dragon blood, a force that flooded his veins like molten lead, squeezing his heart until it felt ready to burst.
Each pain was etched into him, mind and body alike, conspiring to deny him even a moment's respite.
Every waking hour stretched unbearably long, time itself seeming to mock him as it crawled forward in cruel increments.
He lost count of how many times despair crept close enough for him to taste it. How many times he regretted his own rashness, cursed the arrogance that had driven him to attempt such a ritual.
More than once, he had wanted to give up. To let the fire take him and be done with it.
And yet, every time he hovered on that edge, he heard her.
Soft whispers, barely audible over the roar of flame and the drumming of his own blood.
Sometimes there was a touch, light and hesitant, against his boiling skin. He knew what it cost her.
Even with Targaryen blood in her veins, she was no dragon. Every time she laid a hand upon him, it burned her all the same.
She did it anyway.
Again and again, she stayed. Tended him. Refused to leave him to die alone.
If she was trying so hard…enduring pain she had never asked for; then what right did he have to stop?
So Baelon endured.
For seven days and seven nights, he suffered through it all fully conscious, fully aware.
He felt the flames destroy him, felt organs blacken, rupture, and collapse, only to be rebuilt by forces he could scarcely comprehend.
Over and over the cycle repeated: burn, break, heal.
Until, at last, there was silence.
No pain. No heat. Nothing at all.
'How long has it been?' He wondered faintly.
Was he dead? Alive? Or suspended somewhere between the two?
His body was numb, but his mind, his mind felt sharper than it had been in days.
And then—
He opened his eyes.
"What in the—?!" The curse almost tore itself from his lips as he took in the sight of flames roaring all around him.
Yet he stopped short.
There was no pain. No searing heat. The fire caressed him like warm air.
Slowly, cautiously even, Baelon rose to his feet and stepped forward, out of the inferno as biting winds sent a chill through his skin.
He glanced back, eyes widening to find a towering pile of flames still raging where he had stood moments earlier.
Time seemed to pause for him.
Had he come out of that? That inferno? Alive?
Baelon knew well what that meant.
A wave of satisfaction surged through him. He had done it. He had survived that absurd, suicidal ritual.
Now, all that remained was to see if his agony was worth it.
Closing his eyes, he could feel the dense power coiled within his limbs. He had grown stronger. Much stronger.
In this state, he was certain he could take on half a dozen seasoned knights without so much as breaking a sweat.
Fire immunity, he already knew that much.
But magic?
Baelon raised his hand, studying it closely. The skin was flawless. Smooth. Untouched by blister or scar, as pristine as that of a newborn.
Whoosh.
A ball of flame bloomed into existence in his palm at a mere thought. It danced and twisted eagerly, curling around his fingers as if alive.
Pyromancy, which once seemed laborious to him, seemed effortless. Its reliance on nearby flames was also gone.
This… this was incredible.
He felt invincible. As though the world itself had suddenly grown too small to contain him.
"B-Baelon?" A familiar voice wavered from nearby.
He spun around and found Helaena sitting up from the ground, clearly having remained there the entire time.
The sight of her struck him harder than any pain had. Her hair was tangled, her cheeks red from the cold and wind, her eyes...a deeper red than blood itself.
All of it…because of him.
Guilt surged through his previous triumph. She had to suffer all of that, just for him…
Then he noticed something else.
Why was her face so red? Was she hurt?
Concern clawed at him, but her next words stopped him short.
"C-could you please put on some clothes…" She whispered, hiding her eyes behind her hands, though he could have sworn there was a narrow gap between her fingers, revealing a sliver of violet. "I-I don't mind, of course, but it's cold outside, and you might get unwell…"
He didn't hear the rest.
Baelon looked down.
Understanding struck him like a hammer.
He was naked.
Stark naked.
Him, Baelon Targaryen, prince of the realm, dragonrider of the legendary Vermithor, a Pyromancer in the flesh…was standing unclothed in broad daylight.
With speed that would have put a Dothraki horse to shame, Baelon bolted toward the house, the sound of Helaena's giggling chasing after him through the cold air.
***
Baelon pursed his lips as he regarded the smiling girl seated opposite him at the table.
He had already burned through what would have once been a week's worth of food, yet the gnawing hunger in his stomach refused to fade.
Helaena's gaze, however, was far more difficult to ignore.
"Laugh. Go on," Baelon huffed, folding his arms. "I know you're laughing at me right now."
He was painfully aware of how ridiculous he looked. Whether it was a side effect of the ritual or something more permanent, he had grown… significantly.
His old clothes clung to him awkwardly, stretched tight in places they had never been before. If anything, they fit him about as well as Helaena's clothes would have fit the previous him.
At his words, Helaena finally gave in and giggled, the sound light and unrestrained. The sight filled him with an unexpected sense of relief.
For all her efforts to hide her hands beneath the table, he had already seen the damage. Those angry blisters that marred her hands.
If she could smile, even for a moment, forget the pain she carried, then it was worth the blow to his pride.
Even so, his gaze drifted to the state of the house. Scorch marks marred the walls. Shattered fragments lay half-cleared in corners.
One of Helaena's embroidered handkerchiefs, an intricate bronze dragon worked carefully into its fabric, had been nearly ruined, its edges blackened and curling.
He swallowed, guilt settling heavy in his chest.
He had put her through far more than he wanted to admit.
"What do you plan to do now?" Helaena asked softly. Her smile faded, replaced by a thoughtful seriousness that made her seem older than she was.
Baelon leaned back slightly, considering. "I suppose we stick to the plan," he said after a moment. "Stay here for a bit. Grow stronger. Then leave, once rumours of three giant, fire-breathing lizards start spreading across Essos."
Helaena pressed a hand to her lips, suppressing a chuckle. "And then where will we go?" she asked.
As she placed her hand on the table, she winced and quickly pulled it back, offering him an awkward, apologetic smile.
Baelon felt the familiar twist of discomfort at the sight but forced himself to keep his tone light.
"Anywhere," he replied. "I've plans for us. The world's too large to stay in one corner forever."
As he spoke, excitement crept into his voice despite himself. "Asshai, for one. I've heard their magic is unlike anything else; we could learn a great deal there. And Valyria…" His eyes gleamed faintly.
And so, within the confines of the small, battered home, the eager voice of a young boy filled the air as he tried to so desperately distract the young girl before him from her pain.
The young girl listened on with quiet curiosity, a gentle smile on her face as she gazed at the foolish boy before her.