The bedroom walls were the same familiar black stone Baelon had grown accustomed to since returning to the Prince's Estate.
Still, nowhere as odd as the oily stone they saw in Asshai. Baelon lay on his back atop the covers, one arm folded behind his head, the other resting loosely against his chest.
Ah, sleep refused to come.
His eyes remained fixed on the ceiling, unfocused, mind turning over thoughts that refused to settle.
Beside him, Helaena had already drawn the blankets up to her shoulders, though her posture made it clear she was no more asleep than he was.
She lay on her side, facing him, silver-gold hair spilling across the pillow like molten light in the candle glow.
A week of rest after Tyria should have dulled his restless thoughts. Instead, it had done the opposite.
They had explored the ruins for days, returned weary, and yet Baelon felt no relief.
Word had reached him when he arrived back at Tolos of New Ghis, stirring.
It was enough to make him certain his next expedition into Valyria would be delayed, no matter how much it gnawed at him.
And still, above even that, one memory eclipsed all others.
The chamber.
The hidden chamber he found after Vermithor felled the firewrym. The writing. The dragon eggs.
"Still thinking about that little escapade of yours?" Helaena's soft but edged voice cut the silence. Her eyes narrowed as she studied him. "Do you plan to make me stay behind next time so you can wander off and dally with ancient prophecies alone?"
Her annoyance was unmistakable.
Baelon let out a quiet, nervous laugh and turned his head toward her. "That was an accident," he said, lifting a shoulder in a helpless shrug. "I was curious. How was I supposed to know I'd find…that?"
He gestured vaguely toward the far corner of the room. Four dragon eggs rested there, cradled in ash-lined basins of stone.
Helaena followed his gaze, then looked back at him. "And the writing?" she asked, tilting her head. "You haven't stopped thinking about it. What do you think it meant?"
Baelon exhaled. "My guess is as good as yours." He paused, then added, more carefully, "But taken together…with that dragonglass tablet, we can at least say this much: the Faceless Men were involved in the Doom."
The Faceless Men. That ever-so mysterious organisation from Braavos. Little was known about them, other than the fact that they considered themselves servants of death.
Nevertheless, whilst that much was obvious, everything else was not.
Helaena shifted closer, turning fully toward him now. "Involved how?" she pressed. "They don't build hideouts without reason. And they don't die in them on a whim."
Baelon frowned. "That cavern wasn't a base. It was a temporary hideout, from what I saw. Rushed even." The words tasted wrong even as he spoke them. "And, whatever they did there, it killed them. Or worse."
Helaena's fingers traced idle patterns into the sheets as she thought. Then she looked up. "Who do the Faceless Men worship?"
"The Many-Faced God," Baelon replied without hesitation.
Her eyes narrowed. "And its other name?"
He hesitated, brow creasing as he searched his memory. Then his eyes widened slightly. "The God of Death."
Cold understanding crept in as he recalled that phrase.
No face should choose.
"You think," Baelon said slowly, "that what they chose was death?"
"Not their own," Helaena replied. "At least, not at first."
His thoughts raced back to the inscription on the dragonglass. Yet their blades strike deeper than fire.
"They killed," Baelon murmured. "Valyrians. Not as assassins for hire, but by choice. Their choice. Their own free will."
Faceless Men were servants, bound to the God of Death. To kill for coin was permitted.
But to choose targets of their own accord, to decide who should die, and when, was something else entirely.
It was…blasphemy.
"To place themselves above their god," Helaena said quietly, "and decide death on their own terms."
Baelon stared at the ceiling once more, the weight of it settling over him like ash. "And if they believed Valyria itself had to die…" He didn't finish the thought.
He didn't need to.
Braavos, from where the Faceless Men were rumoured to be situated, held a long-standing grudge against the Valyrians.
It was known as Valyria's bastard daughter. Founded by slaves who had escaped the Freehold's grasp, running to the Northern edges of the world with the guidance of the moonsingers.
Thus, it was rather obvious why these descendants of escaped slaves would hold Valyria in distaste. Hatred even.
Baelon thought back to the chamber, the altar ringed with shrivelled masks, their expressions hollow.
"Do you think," Baelon said quietly, "the dragon eggs were an apology for their actions? A sacrifice…?" The word made his skin crawl.
Because if his suspicion was right, then the apology had failed utterly. Not only had it failed, but it had also damned them. Their god had not forgiven them. It had claimed them.
"But do gods truly exist like that?" Helaena murmured, her voice softened by thought rather than doubt.
Baelon did not answer at once. He could not. He had no answer to give.
Did gods truly exist?
He had lived his entire life beneath septon sermons and carved statues, beneath the watchful eyes of the Seven, and yet he had not once seen them act.
No miracle. No sign. No whisper from beyond the veil.
'If a septon heard me thinking this,' he mused dryly, 'they'd probably name me the second Maegor.'
His lips twitched despite himself.
"Regardless of whether it's true," Baelon said at last, his tone shifting, "we have a more important matter at hand."
Helaena slid closer, whispering softly. "And what might those be?" Her eyes were wide with a mix of shyness and excitement.
The air grew warm. Slick with an unknown fervour and intensity.
Then—
Baelon spoke with a boyish grin. "Sleep."
With that, he rolled onto his side and turned his back to her, eyes already closing as if the matter were settled.
For a heartbeat, nothing happened.
Then he felt it.
A heavy gaze drilling into his spine with intent sharp enough to cut into him.
Before he could react, a slender arm hooked around his waist. The world lurched, and suddenly Baelon found himself flipped onto his back like an unruly doll.
"Dammit, Helaena w-what is—?!" He yelped as she climbed atop him, hair tumbling loose, eyes alight with mischief. "Y-you don't have any sense of propriety? I thought I'd been tackled by a wild boar!"
She said nothing, only smirked.
Clearly, someone's anticipation and shyness had transformed into something far more sinister.
And in that instant, Baelon ruefully realised yet another reason he had been hesitant about letting Helaena undergo the Blood Bond ritual.
She would absolutely use this strength to bully him, secure in the knowledge that he would never truly fight back.
'Where is my justice?'
Baelon mourned it silently, shedding unseen tears for his dignity.
Then—
Her fingers struck.
She went straight for his sides, quick and merciless, slipping past fabric and defences alike. Baelon gasped, a startled laugh tearing itself from his chest as he squirmed instinctively.
"H-Helaena—stop—!" He protested between breathless bursts of laughter.
"Stop?" She echoed innocently, fingers dancing again. "You turned your back on me. On a wild boar…"
The last of her words was spoken through gritted teeth.
Still, Baelon was not one to go down without a fight.
Whilst he would never harm her, retaliating in kind was perfectly justified in his opinion.
"C-careful!" Baelon shouted through his short breaths. "Keep this up, and I may well begin to enjoy it."
Helaena paused.
"Y-you how could you say such a thing!" Her words were thick with disbelief and embarrassment.
'An opportunity!' Baelon's eyes shone.
His hands shot up, catching her at the waist, then the ribs, returning the assault with much interest.
Helaena squeaked, an undignified, betrayed sound, before dissolving into helpless giggles, trying and failing to wriggle away.
"Baelon—no—wait—!" she laughed, breathless, hair falling into her face as she half-collapsed against him.
They laughed like children. Entirely foolish and entirely unburdened.
The weight of the future, whether it be their paused exploration of Valyria or the upcoming troubles regarding New Ghis.
All of it faded into nothingness.
There was only warmth. Laughter. The steady rhythm of two hearts far too close to be anything but content.
As long as they had each other, every day was a good day.
Why burden themselves with needless frustration, when joy…both simple and precious, was right here?
***
With a solemn face that betrayed nothing of the prior night's events, Baelon and Helaena sat once more upon the paired thrones of Dragon's Bay.
Before them stood their council.
Rhevos waited with the quiet patient. Grey Fist stood at attention, bronze helm tucked beneath one arm, eyes forward like a statue brought to life.
Beside him lingered Silvo, his posture loose, the faintest hint of a smile playing at his lips.
And, finally, there was Sahrys. The flabby Tolosian merchant stood with his body hunched and his eyes darting.
"So," Baelon said at last, "New Ghis has already begun preparing its Iron Legions?"
His words carried a trace of amusement, to no one's surprise.
After all, no one here had the slightest thought of them losing in this upcoming conflict.
"Yes, Your Highness." Rhevos inclined his head. "Our observers report accelerated musters and the recall of veteran officers in New Ghis. Astapor remains unstable after the riot, its newfound councils fracture faster than they can be reformed, but Meereen and Yunkai are rousing. Both have secured multiple trade arrangements with Free Cities. Primarily grain and weapons."
Helaena lifted her gaze, pale eyes thoughtful rather than alarmed.
"It seems they're well prepared," she said softly. "Maybe they want to use this chance to get rid of their reliance on importing food from us..."
Nevertheless, her tone was slightly down.
It was obvious to everyone that whilst this may work out for the Slave Cities, such a vast amount of food cannot be supplemented in such a short period of time.
That left one group in particular at risk of starvation…the slaves.
After all, Tolos and Elyria hold the chokepoint of Slavers Bay via the Gulf of Grief. It is Dragon Bay that dictates what flows in and out of Slaver's Bay.
Baelon tapped a single finger against the throne's arm.
"Starvation," he murmured. "A dull weapon, but a cruel one. They could use it to push these slaves into fighting their war for them…"
Helaena pressed her lips into a thin line at his words.
Silvo tilted his head. "Volantis is most eager," he added. "Its markets grow restless. Lys follows its coin, as always. Myr feigns restraint, as it always does. Whilst Pentos…waits to see which way the wind blows."
Baelon exhaled slowly. "External pressure from every side, yet no single hand to strike."
"We cannot answer all of Essos with fire," Sahrys said carefully. "Even dragons have limits."
"Indeed, we cannot respond in kind with Fire and Blood," Helaena nodded. "If we become the terror they already whisper of, they will find unity in fear. We ought not gift them that."
Baelon nodded at her words.
Antagonising all the Free Cities?
Even with half a brain, he understood how perilous that would be.
Grey Fist shifted slightly. "Then we wait?"
"No," Baelon said. "Waiting concedes the board."
Silence stretched. The distant cry of a dragon echoed faintly through the chamber.
Baelon's eyes unfocused for a heartbeat, thoughts churning.
He had to find a way to pressure the Free Cities so that they would be too busy to interfere with Dragon's Bay.
'But how?' Baelon narrowed his eyes. 'Helaena is right, using our dragons like that would be both cruel and short-sighted…'
Then—
Baelon's eyes lit up. He remembered something. A people. A people who were able to strike terror into the hearts of every man of Essos.
Their reputation is reaching similar heights to the Valyrians in terms of sheer brutality.
"The Dothraki," he said.
Helaena turned her head at once, eyes widening. "The khalasars? Why would they help us?"
"Her Highness is right, the Dothraki are not loyal. They do not honour promises or believe in trade," Rhevos cautioned. "They seize. They take. That is their way. Their life."
Clearly, the Myrish sailor was still having troubles regarding his previous capture by the Dothraki before he was to be sold in Astapor.
"But they are predictable. Too predictable," Baelon replied. "They go where grass and fear take them. If the plains shift, so do they. If they wind whispers, they heed it all the same."
Silvo's smile widened a fraction as realisation crossed his face. "Dragons frighten horses just as well as men, Your Highness."
Baelon chuckles, seeing the man's sly smile. Clearly, someone understood well what he meant.
Helaena's brow creased faintly. "You would drive them west?"
"Not drive," Baelon corrected. "Nudge." He helplessly gestured with his hands.
Baelon would never attempt to converse with the Dothraki, nor would he try to command them.
The best route of action would be to simply use their dragons to burn parts of the grasslands and push the khalasars West.
Grey Fist spoke with scepticism. "Toward the Free Cities? All of them?"
"Volantis. Pentos. Myr," Baelon said. "Let the horselords press their borders, raid their hinterlands, choke roads and fields. We simply need…unrest."
Helaena's countenance relaxed briefly, then tightened. "That path breeds suffering among those with no say in this war." She glanced at Baelon beside her.
The Dothraki were a savage people. If they were to push West, all they would leave behind would be suffering, death and destruction.
Helaena herself had seen the ruins of Sallosh; she had no desire to see more cities follow its path.
Baelon met her gaze. "And where would the horse-lords go otherwise? Lhazar? The slave cities? Other Ghiscari remnants?"
He knew Helaena was reluctant to do this, but if they did not do this, the Dothraki would not magically refrain from their acts.
They would only harm other people instead.
She held his eyes for a long moment, then looked away. "I suppose…" Her tone was slightly defeated.
Rhevos cleared his throat. "Such pressure may push the Free Cities closer together. Though not against us."
"Unless," Sahrys cut in cautiously, "they are too busy fearing one another."
Baelon's eyes flickered at his words.
He held Helaena's hand gently as he deliberated his words.
"Conditional neutrality," he said. "We do not demand their allegiance. Only…compliance."
Helaena listened intently now, head tilted slightly. It was clear this non-violent approach drew her interest.
"Volantis," Baelon continued, "whilst it faces the oncoming Dothraki hordes, can receive grain from us. Enough to quiet its streets. The condition, being they pressure Lys. Delays. Tariffs. I do not care; their attitude is paramount."
Helaena's eyes lit up. "Lys...it survives on only indulgence and illusion. Threaten its trade routes, and their merchants will panic."
Despite her words, her lips curved.
Baelon sighed as he saw this; his sister was truly gentle, and she was all too keen for this approach.
Alas, it worked for the better here. The slavers seem reluctant to take their grain, so let the Free Cities instead.
Not only would it help them resist the Dothraki and prevent their people from starving, but it would also indirectly help Dragon's Bay, too.
"Exactly," Baelon said. "Lys, in turn, is offered food only if it undermines Myr."
"And Myr?" Rhevos asked.
"Grain reaches Myr only aboard Tyroshi hulls," Baelon replied.
Tyrosh. One of the three daughters. Thanks to the War of the Stepstones, Tyrosh was the weakest it has been in decades.
Furthermore, tensions between the former Triarchy cities had been rising due to competing trade and businesses.
This was why Tyrosh alone had not yet interfered with Dragon's Bay. Not out of compassion. Out of weakness.
Thus, this scheme would bolster said tensions between these states.
As for the cowardly Magisters of Pentos, Baelon will leave it to them to splurge their wealth in desperate hopes of appeasing the Dothraki.
'I wonder…' Baelon mused, 'if the Dothraki only receive tribute from Pentos whilst everyone else is refusing…would they not just siege Pentos?'
After all, Pentos was among the weakest of the Free Cities. If the Dothraki were truly starving, it was not outside the realms of possibility for them to attempt such a thing.
Rhevos' expression did not change, but his voice carried approval. "Each city fears isolation."
"And suspects betrayal," Silvo added. "No alliance holds when hunger sharpens knives."
Helaena closed her eyes briefly. When she opened them, there was sadness there, but resolve as well.
"They will suffer," she said. "And they will blame us for it."
"They already do," Baelon replied softly.
Helaena hummed. "Perhaps, this is for the best…"
He knew what she meant.
Despite the Dothraki being pushed West, as long as Dragon's Bay consistently exported grain to the Free Cities, the people would suffer less than they otherwise would have.
Rhevos inclined his head. "I will ready our ships; our war with New Ghis will only end in our victory."
Silvo gave a shallow bow. "I will ensure the right fears bloom in the right places at the right times. The Free Cities will soon be unable to bother us."
"You gave us honour. You gave us dignity. You gave us freedom." Grey Fist straightened fully. "The Unsullied will be ready should neutrality fail. "
Seeing the other three speak, Sahrys knew he could not fall behind. "I'll do my best to draft the trade agreements."
Soon, the discussion was settled as the four departed from the hall, leaving Baelon and Helaena alone.
Helaena remained seated as gaze lingered on Baelon.
"Thank you…" She whispered.
"Oh?" Baelon raised a brow. "Whatever do you mean?"
Helaena rolled her eyes. It was obvious Baelon was teasing her.
"You did not abandon them entirely," she said at last. "The people of the Free Cities, I mean. Even if they stand against us, you did not choose needless bloodshed."
She paused, fingers twisting lightly in the sleeve of her gown.
"I am no holy man," Baelon replied with a soft chuckle, leaning back against the stone of his throne, "but I do not wish tragedy upon strangers, sister. Is that truly how little you think of me?"
He turned his head to look at her properly now, amusement glinting in his eyes.
"Do you see me as another Uncle Daemon?"
Helaena's lips parted, then closed again. She did not answer immediately.
Baelon did not wait for her.
His thoughts had already wandered to a lean figure clad in black and red, to a temper as hot as wildfire and a smile as sharp as a knife.
'Who am I kidding?' He mused inwardly. 'The madman would have bathed Myr or Pentos in dragonfire before the first ledger was even opened. Burn one city so brightly the rest would kneel in its ashes.'
The image was vivid enough to almost make him laugh.
"I take it back," Baelon said aloud, lifting a hand in mock surrender. "Compared to our uncle, I am the man closest to embodying the Mother herself. A true paragon of mercy."
He sighed theatrically.
The sound that answered him was not disapproval, but laughter.
Helaena giggled, a sound that seemed almost out of place in this grim hall.
"Yes," she said, still smiling. "I suppose you are."
Helaena laughed, and Baelon smiled with her.