In the quiet corners of the city of the king's landing, Baelor Targaryen had become a steady presence in a life that rarely felt steady.

Rhaegel’s daughter learned early that stability was something other families had. Rhaegel drifted in and out of clarity like a signal through static⎯gentle, distant, sometimes frightening in the way illness reshaped the room around him. Conversations ended halfway. Promises dissolved.

Baelor filled the quiet spaces without announcing it. School events, late-night phone calls, small practical things⎯rides home, advice about classes, the way he remembered birthdays without being reminded. It was never dramatic. Just constant.

Baelor just arrived when then came the half-hearted protest one evening outside a café as she told him that he didn't need to pick her up after she's done with college meeting for college project.

Baelor leaned against the car door, arms folded. “Someone should.”

That steadiness became a kind of gravity. When the house felt too fragile, the first instinct was always the same⎯call Baelor. Ask Baelor. Wait for Baelor’s opinion before deciding anything important.

Sometimes the closeness felt strange, even to Baelor. Not wrong⎯just heavy with responsibility.

“You’re not supposed to depend on me for everything,” Baelor said one night while the rain tapped against the apartment windows. A shrug answered that as she told her uncle to stop care. Baelor exhaled quietly. The truth of it landed somewhere uncomfortable.

“You’ll grow past needing me,” Baelor said after a moment.

The room fell quiet again.

Baelor stayed anyway⎯because leaving would have felt too much like another disappearance.