101 AC - The Death of Baelon the Brave
February, 101 AC
I was standing outside the door, tense, ears straining against the noise from within. The maesters were scurrying like rats in a storm, their urgent footsteps echoing through the hall. Behind the closed doors, Prince Baelon the Brave cried out in pain.
It had started a few days earlier—after a hunting trip, the Prince complained of a mild stomachache. He thought it was just a bad meal and brushed it off. By the next day, the pain had intensified to the point he could barely walk. The maesters gave him milk of the poppy, hoping it would soothe him. But by the third day, the Red Keep was steeped in dread. Something was deeply wrong.
The maesters were helpless. Their methods now boiled down to offering more milk of the poppy and praying the body would heal itself. I tried to act the concerned squire—hovering outside the chamber, pacing, not sleeping, even weeping a little alongside Viserys and Daemon. Some told me to rest, but I didn't dare.
I already knew the truth. Baelon was going to die. Maybe not today, but within a day or two.
Was I sad? Yes. But not overwhelmed. This wasn't something I could change. From the symptoms, I suspected a burst appendix. Not that I was a healer, or even someone with a biology background. My understanding of such things was minimal, and the last thing I wanted to do was suggest something random and get blamed for the Prince's death.
If Baelon died, and somehow someone whispered, "Well, the boy said something to the maesters," I'd be dead before sunset. Dragonlords don't need courts to burn you. One word to Daemon and Caraxes would be feasting on my bones.
Two more sleepless nights passed. Then came the moment. The door creaked open, and the maester stepped out with a pale face.
"The Prince has passed."
I wept, loudly. Perhaps too dramatically, but no one questioned it. I threw my arms around Viserys, even comforted little Rhaenyra, who had adored her grandfather. My grief had to be loud enough to drown out any questions about my place in the Keep. Without Baelon, I was just another squire. A skilled one, yes, but replaceable.
The royal council quickly organized the funeral. The King looked older than I had ever seen him. We gathered before the pyre. Golden Vermithor loomed nearby, a living monument to Baelon's power.
The King looked once more at his son, then gave the command. "Dracarys."
Flames erupted from Vermithor, engulfing the pyre. I could feel the heat wash over me. Baelon was gone.
Back at the Red Keep, I finally found a quiet moment alone with Viserys. I knelt before him and said:
"Prince Viserys, I failed to fulfill my duty as your father's squire. I could not save him from death. But I swear to you now, I will be your sword. Your shield. Your counsel when needed. I will protect you and your family with all I have. Everything I am, I owe to the grace of the gods and House Targaryen. I ask only to continue serving you, in whatever way you see fit."
And with that, my loyalty was sealed—not just by duty, but by necessity. Because in the game of thrones, survival often begins with a well-placed vow.
Prince Viserys who know me for around 3 year and have been friend finally accept me in his household,As I was leaving red keep to go to home I was relive ,I have place in red keep,No body will cast me aside .
Returning home, I opened the old chest hidden beneath my bed. Inside lay two golden dragons and 150 silver stags. To be knighted, I would need at least fifteen gold dragons. I was still far from that goal. But I would get there—by 103 AC, no matter what it took.