Chapter 620: Baela’s Hatred

Time flew by, and half a month later...

King's Landing, Mud Gate.

Boom!

A massive scarlet creature, resembling a giant serpent, soared over Blackwater Bay, its wide, fleshy wings casting a shadow over the towering city gate.

The people in the city looked up, their reactions a mix of cheers and curses. Among them, none were more delighted than the prostitutes of Flea Bottom.

...

Red Keep.

"Son, I'm home!" Daemon shouted, striding quickly into the hall.

In his haste, he hadn't taken the time to change. He was still clad in black steel armor, scratched from battle, a scarlet cloak draped over his shoulders, and a dragon wing helmet tucked under his arm. His lean figure moved with purpose, and his long silver-and-gold hair flowed freely, framing his youthful yet stern face.

"Father!!" A silver-haired boy, sitting in the hall, jumped to his feet in surprise at the sound.

Rhaenys stood off to the side, arms crossed, murmuring, "Be careful, he's not going anywhere."

The boy, his milk teeth showing in a wide grin, threw himself into the cold, metallic embrace of Daemon's armor.

"Look what I brought you, Gaemon." Daemon lifted his eldest son with one arm, pulling out a Dragonbone dagger from behind his back. It was a prize from the battlefield of Qohor, taken from a Norvoshi temple. While not as precious as Valyrian steel, it was a rare treasure nonetheless.

"I like it," Gaemon said, his hands gripping the delicate dagger as he shyly wrapped his arms around his father's neck. He didn't mind the smell of dragon breath mixed with blood that clung to his father.

Daemon's mouth curled into a smile as he gazed at his son. "What have you been up to while I was away? You seem full of spirit."

As he spoke, he glanced at Rhaenys, who remained expressionless. "Tessarion hatched a young dragon named Morghul," she said casually. "Quite the sought-after creature these days."

That young dragon, with its earthy scales and crimson vertical pupils, had already been deemed a fierce and aggressive beast by the Dragonkeepers.

Daemon's smile turned playful. "My son doesn't need a young dragon to make his mark."

"Right!" Gaemon nodded proudly. "I have Thunderstrider."

Daemon's smile widened as he ruffled his son's messy hair. That dark blue, sub-adult dragon had been a precious find from the Smoking Sea, one that Daemon had captured with great care. Though still too young to ride, Thunderstrider was already tamed and bound to Gaemon.

Rhaenys watched the two of them, her expression unreadable. "Just because you don't care about it doesn't mean others won't fight over it."

Daemon frowned slightly, caught off guard by her words.

Knock, knock.

The sound of knocking on the hall door made him turn. Standing in the doorway was another boy, much younger, with a knapsack on his shoulders. He looked at Daemon weakly, unsure of his welcome.

...

Not long after, at the Dragonpit...

Roar!

"..."

Several dragons of varying sizes crawled around the vast hall, hissing angrily at one another.

"Moondancer and Trickster are growing like wildfire," Rhaegar remarked, standing by the campfire, his gaze fixed on the two enormous creatures nestled together.

One was darker in color, with gray stripes that resembled tree rings at first glance. The other was vividly colored, sporting a pair of sharp dragon horns and a long, scorpion-like tail. Both sub-adult dragons were under twenty years of age, with Trickster—the larger of the two—already stretching over twenty meters. Their robust frames radiated raw power.

"The Trickster has quite the appetite, and it's not picky—cows, goats, pigs, it devours them all," Aemon boasted, a proud smile on his face. "Just like its rider—smart and capable."

"Is that so?" Rhaegar's eyes sparkled as he looked his second son up and down. Aemon was carefree, taking after no one in particular. Unlike his older brother, Baelon, who was calm and composed, Aemon was bold and adventurous.

Rhaegar had also noticed how the twins had begun to grow apart, not just in personality but in appearance as well. Baelon had grown stronger, with a more intense gaze, while Aemon, leaner and swift, wore his short silver-blonde hair in contrast to his brother's longer locks. The resemblance between them, once nearly identical, had lessened. Perhaps it was their hearts that set them apart.

"Of course!" Aemon replied confidently, meeting his father's gaze without hesitation. "The people of Tyrosh and Lys know me. I've repaired and rebuilt half the bridges and canals in both Free Cities."

As the future Prince of Lys and husband to the Queen of Tyrosh, Aemon had his own role to play. With Baelon often consumed by matters of state, Aemon believed he might one day be named Hand of the King. His knowledge of domestic affairs was considerable, as he had spent much time among the poor, the homeless, and the prostitutes in every slum.

With their mother away in Lys and their uncle Daemon fighting in Qohor, much of the management of the Free Cities had fallen to him and his foster sister, Baela.

"Not bad, you've got some talent," Rhaegar said with a faint smile, offering rare praise. He knew his second son well enough to understand that Aemon couldn't resist a bit of recognition.

"Hey, where's Baelon?" Aemon asked, a note of pride in his voice, eager for his brother to witness his achievements.

"He's in the Riverlands," Rhaegar replied, his expression darkening slightly. I wonder if the mission has gone well? he mused silently.

Aemon's excitement dimmed, but his thoughts quickly shifted. "I heard from the merchants at the docks that Maekar flew to Slaver's Bay on dragonback and rescued Lord Tyland... but left his brother, Lord Jason, behind."

"Who told you that?" Rhaegar frowned.

"Everyone knows," Aemon continued, undeterred. "Maekar was reckless. He only rescued Lord Tyland."

Rhaegar's gaze sharpened as he turned to his son. "And what exactly are you suggesting? That Jason is somehow more important than Tyland? Or are you accusing your half-brother of deliberately leaving that fool behind in Slaver's Bay so his teacher could inherit the Westerlands?"

His voice was laced with frustration. Truth be told, Rhaegar often wondered if Jason's brain was filled with nothing but air. The audacity of that man to ride into Slaver's Bay, make claims on territory, and then insult the master to his face. But what irked him even more was his second son's veiled complaint, whether intentional or not.

Aemon was taken aback and quickly explained, "I only meant that it was dangerous for Maekar to rescue Lord Tyland alone. A long-term plan should've been considered."

"It better have been," Rhaegar said sharply, his gaze unwavering. He repeated his warning, 'Remember my words—it had better be.'

"Yes, Father," Aemon bowed his head, not daring to argue further.

Seeing his son's submission, Rhaegar softened slightly. "You are blood brothers, bound by the same fate. Your glory is my glory, and your failure is my failure. If a brother is in trouble, you must help him—not mock or gossip behind his back."

"I understand," Aemon muttered, eyes cast to the floor.

Rhaegar, uninterested in prolonging the lecture, waved him off. "Go now. Don't leave your fiancée waiting."

...

On the other side of the Dragonpit...

Roar~~

A young, earth-colored dragon tore into a roasted goat, its sharp teeth and claws making quick work of the meal.

"Do you want this dragon, Aenar?" Baela asked, standing beside her half-brother. Tall for her age, she gently patted his head. At fifteen, she was already a striking young woman. With a dark complexion, her delicate features were framed by short silver-blonde hair, her ambitious purple eyes shining.

Her twin sister, Rhaena, stood next to her, looking far less developed, almost like a child. Rhaena also glanced at Aenar and whispered, "Morghul is a fine young dragon, and it's growing fast."

Her words carried an implication as her gaze drifted toward a corner of the Dragonpit.

Roar!

A pale pink sub-adult dragon fluttered its wings, graceful like a butterfly. Morning was not large, barely over ten meters, but it had reached the size where it could carry a rider. Rhaena didn't expect her dragon to be much use in battle, but it was enough to indulge her occasional desire for dragon riding.

Aenar, carrying a basket on his back, looked doubtful. "I already have a dragon egg," he said, bouncing the basket slightly as he spoke.

"Dragon eggs are hard to hatch," another voice interrupted.

Gaemon appeared, followed by a pale blue sub-adult dragon. Baela glanced back, her voice indifferent. "Gaemon."

Gaemon, with his delicate features, looked up proudly. "Father's back—he gave me a gift." With a flourish, he drew the Dragonbone dagger from his waist, waiting for his sisters to admire it.

"Oh," Baela responded, barely interested. She took Aenar's hand and began to lead him away. "Come, I'll show you Moondancer. Maybe Aemon has a gift for you and Rhaena somewhere."

They walked quickly, almost as if they were avoiding a nuisance. Rhaena hesitated, torn between her siblings, but eventually touched Gaemon's head in passing before following Baela.

Gaemon stood frozen, his hand slowly lowering the dagger as he watched them go.

This entire scene was witnessed by Daemon, hidden behind the bronze doors. His eyes narrowed, his voice low. "She still holds a grudge."

Baela, with her fearless and competitive nature, was so much like him. A true tomboy, brave and proud. But she had never forgiven him for Laena's death in childbirth, blaming it on him as if it were his "masterpiece." And to her, young Gaemon, born on that same tragic day, was the unwitting accomplice.

"She doesn't truly hate Gaemon. She just doesn't want to confront it," Rhaenyra explained softly from the sidelines.

Visenya stood by, clutching the hem of her skirt, her small hands gripping her younger brother Aegor tightly.

Daemon took a deep breath, feigning indifference. "Let her be. She's already gotten what she wanted."

Baela still held the right to inherit Tyrosh, even though he had two sons—Gaemon, his firstborn, and Aenar, his second—both carrying the Targaryen name. Gaemon was being raised by his cousin Rhaenys and had the young dragon Thunderstrider by his side, securing his future. Aenar, meanwhile, had his mother, Mysaria, and the care of his two older half-sisters. As long as the children didn't clash too often, Daemon thought, that was all that mattered.

Rhaenyra nodded, well-acquainted with her foster daughter's nature. Baela was a good girl, one who despised intrigue and manipulation—but fate had made her a girl in a world ruled by men. Taking care of her half-brothers was her way of defying Daemon.

"You've raised quite the fine group of children," Daemon remarked, shifting the conversation. His gaze fell on Visenya. "You only have one daughter. Why not find her a companion who's been by her side since childhood?"

"Gaemon?" Rhaenyra was caught off guard, not expecting him to bring it up.

Daemon nodded. "Yes. He's the last piece of Laena left behind."

"I'll consider it," Rhaenyra replied carefully, unwilling to commit. "But Maekar is very protective of his sister. We should wait until the children are older before discussing such things."

"Maekar?!" Visenya perked up at the mention of her half-brother's name, still tugging at Aegor's face. Aegor, looking like a rag doll, drooled helplessly as his sister manhandled him.

"You misheard," Rhaenyra sighed, gently prying her son from Visenya's grip. She gave her daughter a playful nudge. "Go have a look at Morghul. You might like it."

A newly hatched dragon was undeniably valuable, and for a girl without one, there was hope in taming such a creature.

"That ugly dragon?" Visenya wrinkled her nose, glancing over at the young, earth-colored dragon tearing into its meal. It looked more like a winged desert lizard, its sharp scales and horns leaving marks on the Dragonstone floor.

"I'll go!" Visenya's eyes lit up as she pounded her chest excitedly and ran off.

The dragon might be ugly, but it looked fierce—just like the villainous beast in her storybooks, the one that always stole the princess away. And she liked it. Fierce and ugly was just her type.

(Word count: 2,038)