The afternoon sun bore down upon Baelon and Helaena without mercy, its light bleaching the world into pale gold and dust.
They sat together atop a low rise of earth, little more than a stubborn hill that had refused to be ground flat by wind and time.
Above them, dragons wheeled lazily through the sky, their vast shapes reduced to distant silhouettes, mere dots drifting across the heavens, as if even they wished to keep their distance from the land below.
Helaena leaned into Baelon's side, her shoulder resting against his arm, silver hair stirred gently by the hot breeze.
Baelon allowed himself to relax just enough to lean back against her in turn, the two of them sharing what little shade their bodies could offer one another.
They said nothing at first, simply staring out at the barren stretch before them.
The land was dead.
Baelon's gaze traced the cracked earth. The soil was pale and brittle, crumbling at the edges, as though it had long since given up any hope of nurturing life.
Sparse shrubs jutted from the ground at uneven intervals, their leaves shrivelled and grey-green, clinging to existence out of nothing but spite.
Nothing here grew because it was welcomed, only because it refused to die.
"Is this the Red Waste?" Helaena murmured at last, her voice hesitant.
Her violet eyes reflected the desolation before them, wide and forlorn as she took in the merciless desert stretching toward the horizon.
Baelon shook his head slowly. "Not exactly," he replied. "But it's close enough that you can feel it breathing down your neck."
A brief silence followed, filled only by the distant cry of dragons and the low sigh of wind dragging sand across stone.
"You said we were heading to Astapor," Helaena said after a moment. "Are you planning to make it our base?"
Baelon exhaled quietly, eyes never leaving the wasteland. "As tempting as it might be to dominate Slaver's Bay," he said, his tone measured, "I don't think either of us is built for such… noble conquests. At least not yet." He glanced at her briefly. "If we took those cities, we'd be forced to free the slaves. After all, neither of us could stand to rule while chains still clattered in the streets."
His words stirred memories he would have rather left buried, lifeless gazes staring out from hollow faces, bodies bent beneath the weight of palanquins in the lightless streets of Asshai.
Slave after slave, moving as if already dead, dragged home through shadows that swallowed hope whole.
There had been nothing he could do then.
He pitied slaves, of course, he did.
But pity was dangerous.
Helping them meant tearing at the foundations of Essos itself, and that kind of upheaval would drown countless innocents alongside the guilty.
Even if he succeeded, if he conquered the cities, shattered the masters, and broke every chain, what would follow?
The land itself offered no mercy.
This place was cruel and dry, sustained only by fragile canals carved and maintained through endless slave labour.
Without slaves, the fields would wither. Without slaves, the cities would starve. Without slaves, Slaver's Bay would collapse, economically, agriculturally, utterly.
And judging by the tight line of Helaena's lips as she looked at him, she had reached the same conclusions.
"Really?" Baelon snorted, catching her gaze. "Do you think giving me that look will change my mind?" He rolled his eyes lightly. "You are my priority. Whatever you're trying won't change that."
Helaena huffed softly, a faint sulk tugging at her expression, but it lasted only a heartbeat.
His words settled in, and her lips curved into a bright smile as she laughed under her breath.
Still, the smile faded as she turned serious once more.
"I know I'm being unreasonable, but…" She sighed, fingers curling lightly into the fabric of his sleeve. "You've seen how slaves are treated in Essos. I feel foolish thinking like this, but I just want to help them. Even a little. Anything."
"You're too kind for your own good," Baelon muttered fondly, lifting a hand to stroke her head. Soft silver strands slid between his fingers, warm from the sun. "Alas… who decided to make you the closest person in the world to me?"
His voice carried both exasperation and unmistakable affection.
"Y-you have a plan?" Helaena looked up at him, eyes suddenly alight.
Baelon nodded. "Astapor is close to our true destination. That's my primary reason for coming." His lips curved faintly. "More specifically, to raid the Good Masters. Men like them hoard treasures and knowledge. According to what Seryon had said, some may even possess relics or records tied to Old Valyria."
He paused, then continued, eyes glinting. "And… there's a way for me to get what I want while allowing some of the slaves a chance to escape."
Helaena didn't hesitate; she wrapped her arms around him tightly, burying her face against his chest.
He patted her back gently. "Don't get too excited," he said quietly. "Most will be hunted down again. Others may starve. Only a handful will truly escape."
It didn't matter.
"All I know," Helaena whispered near his ear, "is that you cared enough about me to change your plans." She tightened her grip briefly. "And you gave them hope. That's enough. Sometimes… that's how miracles begin."
They remained like that for a moment, the world held at bay.
Then Baelon stilled.
"…Do you hear that?"
Helaena pulled back, a faint blush clinging to her cheeks. She closed her eyes, listening intently.
"That…" She opened them again, her expression sharpening. "That sounds like horses."
Baelon's gaze hardened.
Slaver's Bay.
Horses.
Even with half a mind, the answer was obvious.
Sure enough, dark shapes crested the horizon, riders emerging from the scorching haze.
A small band of Dothraki approached at an unhurried pace, their horses lean and powerful, braids swinging with each step.
Before them stumbled a ragged group of captives, men and women bound together with rough ropes, clothes torn, bodies caked in dust and blood.
Some limped. Others were dragged forward when they faltered.
The riders laughed among themselves, voices carrying faintly on the wind.
Baelon's hand tightened around the hilt at his side.
So much for peace.
Worse still, the small horde had clearly noticed them atop the hill. A handful of riders peeled away from the main group, spurring their horses forward as dust billowed in their wake.
Baelon's gaze flicked briefly to Helaena's bright silver hair, then to his own, equally conspicuous beneath the sun.
For the second time in his life, he cursed the inconvenience that came with such…striking hair.
"Baelon," Helaena tugged at his arm, calm despite the approaching threat. "What do we do with them?"
He knew what she meant. She did not refer to the Dothraki; she had no fear of them, but rather the slaves being driven ahead like cattle were her concern.
"We're heading to Astapor," Baelon replied, eyes narrowing as he calculated distances and numbers.
"Arriving alone would look… suspicious." He paused, then sighed softly. "I suppose we can save them."
Helaena beamed. She leaned closer and pecked his cheek before he could react.
Baelon blinked, then absently touched the warm, faintly damp spot on his skin. An unfamiliar sensation settled in his chest. 'That wasn't so bad…?'
With renewed focus, he turned his attention back to the riders. His eyes flicked briefly to the sky, where dragons still traced lazy circles as small dots, before settling forward again.
'No need to spread news of them yet. That can wait.'
Moments later, the Dothraki reined in before them, horses snorting and stamping, dust swirling around their lean forms. Their eyes lingered first on the silver hair, then fixed hungrily on Helaena.
Baelon regarded them with something close to pity. 'The sun shines, the sky is clear… and still men seek the Stranger's embrace.'
"I know you don't like this," Baelon murmured, turning to Helaena. He ruffled her hair once. "Stay here."
She nodded without protest, following which Baelon slid down the hill in a controlled rush, before drawing his sword.
The blade gleamed in the harsh sunlight, just as it had all those years ago when his father had placed it in his hands.
Shwiing!
Baelon burst into motion.
Before the riders could react, he surged forward, his sword flashing in a wide, merciless arc.
The closest Dothraki was cut clean in two at the waist, his upper body sliding from the saddle as blood poured freely into the sand.
The horses screamed.
Shouts erupted in harsh and frantic Dothraki tongue, but Baelon did not slow.
He moved through them like a blade through silk, cutting down two more riders in the span of a heartbeat, each strike final.
Only one of the initial attackers managed to respond.
The man charged, arakh flashing as he swung for Baelon's head.
Too slow.
Baelon ducked beneath the blow, his counterstroke severing the horse's foreleg.
The beast collapsed mid-stride, throwing its rider violently to the ground. Baelon stepped forward and ended it with a single thrust, silencing the man's groans forever.
But there was no time to breathe.
The remaining escort, nearly a dozen riders, spurred their horses forward, thundering toward him.
Baelon grimaced.
He needed them dead. But he could not reveal his dragons, or his fire, to the slaves watching from afar.
His plans demanded he be inconspicuous, at least for now. And worse still, he could not allow even one of them to reach Helaena.
She would survive, yes, but she hated killing. She always had.
'What to do… what to do…' His eyes dropped to the fallen Dothraki, to the curved arakhs scattered in the dust.
Slowly, an idea began to bloom amid his thoughts as his eyes brightened.
Baelon crouched swiftly, gathering four of them at his feet. He picked one up, testing its balance, feeling the weight and curve.
"It really is a perfect weapon against unarmoured foes," he murmured.
Baelon drew back his arm.
Swiiish!
The first blade flew and missed wide, skidding uselessly through the sand.
Baelon winced. "That was… expected. First time, after all."
He very deliberately did not look back toward Helaena.
The second throw was different.
This time, Baelon adjusted, tilting the blade slightly, accounting for both its curve and the wind.
With a solemn throw, he released the arakh, which sailed both low and true.
Then—
It struck.
The blade cleaved into a horse's shoulder, its momentum carrying it through flesh and bone.
The beast collapsed, tripping two riders behind it as all three horses went down in a tangled, screaming heap.
Baelon did not hesitate.
The third arakh took another horse by the neck.
The fourth shattered a foreleg, sending its rider crashing violently to the ground.
"There we go," Baelon murmured, tightening his grip on his sword. "Half a dozen left. Manageable."
And it was.
The Dothraki pressed forward, but their charge had lost its teeth. Horses panicked. Riders hesitated.
Baelon carved through them with ruthless efficiency by the time they reached him, each strike decisive, each life ended before fear could even fully bloom.
Despite his inhuman strength, his swordplay remained flexible and effective. After all, he had never given up practising it, even with his other powers.
Alas, things did not go completely to plan as two of the Dothraki broke away whilst Baelon busied himself carving up their companions.
The pair is veering toward Helaena as Baelon's eyes narrowed.
He surged forward, his inhuman physique carrying him alongside the nearest horse in moments.
One brutal cut to its hind legs sent it crashing down. Then he hastened to the rider, severing his head cleanly.
Baelon snatched up the fallen arakh, prepared to throw…and stopped.
Helaena stood too close.
He exhaled sharply, letting the weapon drop.
Not worth the risk.
And, much to his frustration, despite Helaena's raised hands indicating she was about to cast Pyromancy, she had yet to do anything.
'How much does she trust me to believe that the fool will never reach her...' Baelon bit back a sigh as he threw a glance over his shoulder, finding the captives still distant, frozen by fear.
"Well," Baelon muttered, "they're far enough for a little cheating."
With narrowed eyes, he stared at the galloping Dothraki drifting further and further away from him.
Then, with a click of his fingers, a small ball of flame bloomed into existence before the last rider.
The horse screamed at the sudden apparition, tried to dodge, and tripped over its own momentum. Both beast and man crashed to the ground.
The Dothraki rose shakily, one arm hanging uselessly, and staggered toward Helaena atop the hill—
Only for Baelon's sword to pierce his throat as he rushed toward the rider.
Silence followed.
Baelon stood amid the bodies, blood dripping steadily from his blade. No matter how many times he did this, the dissonance never faded.
Did it have to be this way?
Was there truly no other path?
Was he any better than the hypocrites who ruled from gilded halls, so quick to discard lives?
The questions lingered.
But, as Helaena approached, Baelon pushed the doubts aside. 'Whatever he became, as long as she was safe, all was well.'
Cruel. Selfish. Callous.
He knew his thoughts were by no means noble, but he did not care.
His priority had always been clear.
"Tired?" Helaena asked gently.
"I'm fine," Baelon replied, shaking his head. "Just… adapting."
His gaze shifted to the captives in the distance, eyes sharpening.
They'll do.
Used well, these people could help them carve a foothold in Astapor.