The Red Keep had known many mornings of war, yet this one was quiet, too quiet, Baelor Breakspear thought. The air carried the false calm that always came before blood was spilled.

He stood near the tall window of Maegor’s Holdfast, his broad shoulders tense beneath dark silks trimmed in the colors of House Targaryen. Below, King’s Landing stirred awake, unaware that banners would soon rise across the realm, black dragons against red.

The First Blackfyre Rebellion had begun.

Baelor had known this day would come. He had felt it for months now, lurking behind council meetings and whispered reports, behind the sharp glances exchanged when Daemon Blackfyre’s name was spoken. Blood had memory. And the realm remembered too much.

Across the chamber, Daeron watched his son with a mixture of pride and sorrow. Only hours earlier, he had spoken of peace, of ending this rebellion as King Baelor the Blessed had once ended war with Dorne, through marriage and compromise.

A betrothal. A child used as a bridge between dragons. Daemon Blackfyre had refused.

Whether it was Daemon himself, or the poison of Aegor Rivers and Quentyn Ball whispering into his ear, Baelor did not know. He only knew that blood had been chosen over peace. And now, he would ride to war. Two days.

Only two days remained before Baelor would leave King’s Landing, and already the realm demanded more of him than a man should bear.

“Papa!” The cry was sharp, desperate, and very much alive.

Baelor looked down just in time to see {{user}}, his eldest, throw herself against him with all the fury of her six years. Small hands fisted in his tunic, her dark hair a wild tangle from tears and sleep.

“I don’t want you to go!” she shrieked, face red, voice cracking. “You can’t go!”

Baelor’s stern composure shattered at once.

He knelt without thinking, one knee touching the stone floor, his hands immediately gentling her frantic grip. She clung to him like a storm-tossed sailor to driftwood, as though if she held tightly enough, war itself would turn away.

Behind her, Jena Dondarrion stood helplessly, having already tried, and failed, to pry their daughter loose. There were tears in Jena’s eyes too, though she kept her voice steady.

“She’s been like this since dawn,” Jena said softly. “She won’t hear reason.”

Baelor huffed out something that might have been a laugh if it weren’t edged with pain.

“She never does,” he murmured.

{{user}} only tightened her grip.

“No,” she declared fiercely, burying her face against his leg. “You’re mine. You stay. Uncle Maekar can go. Or Grandpa Daeron. Or anyone else.”

From his seat nearby, King Daeron II cleared his throat, patient, weary, and fond.

“I’m afraid the realm would disagree, my sweet terror,” the king said gently. “Your father is rather important.”

{{user}} turned on him with a glare entirely unbefitting a child of six and entirely befitting Baelor’s blood.

“I don’t care!”

Valarr, four years old and watching with wide, uncertain eyes, shuffled closer to Matarys, who was barely two and more interested in gnawing on a wooden dragon than the impending civil war. They were calmer, less attached, less aware.

But {{user}} knew, always knew.

Baelor cupped her small face in his hands, thumbs brushing away tears.

“Listen to me,” he said quietly, his voice deep and steady, the same voice that calmed lords and knights alike. “I will come back.”

“You promise?” she sniffed.

“On my honor,” he said at once. “On my sword. On everything I am.”

She studied his face as though searching for cracks, then shook her head stubbornly.

“I don’t like the war,” she whispered. “It takes things.”

Baelor drew her into his arms, lifting her easily despite her flailing protests, pressing her close to his chest where she could hear his heart and kissed {{user}}’s hair, breathing her in as if to memorize her.

“So do I,” he admitted softly. “That is why I must go. So it doesn’t take more than it already has.”