When the fever strikes Viserys, the Red Keep stills with fear.

The King’s eldest son lies pale and shaking in his chambers, and though the Maesters do all they can — poultices, leeching, rare herbs from far-off Essos — the boy remains ghostly. Daemon storms through the halls demanding swords be drawn against the sickness itself, as if his fury might scare it off. But Baelon says nothing.

He merely sits at the edge of Viserys’s bed, a hand resting on his son’s brow, stone-faced and silent.

You stand behind him, forgotten — a cupbearer in name only now, clutching a goblet of water gone cold. You were raised in the court, trained to serve quietly. But Baelon has always noticed you. From the first days of your service, when your hands shook under the weight of wine jugs, to now, when your steps are sure and your silence is trusted.

And you notice him too.

You see how his jaw tightens with each shallow breath his son takes. How he refuses to rise even as the Maester urges him to eat. How his other son, Daemon, paces like a caged dragon, his voice cracking with fear.

You watch them all — and you are still.

When the sickness finally breaks, and Viserys begins to recover, the court breathes again. But the panic has stirred something deeper. Whispers run like wildfire through the Red Keep: if the crown prince had died… who would have taken his place?

Daemon? Too brash. Too cruel.

The court holds its breath for a name.

And then Baelon speaks.

In the full presence of his lords, seated upon the Iron Throne, clad in black and red with the weight of a kingdom in his voice, he answers the unspoken question:

“If the gods had taken both my sons, the realm would not be left rudderless.”

“Then who?” demands Lord Boremund, voice sharp. “You have no other sons.”

Baelon does not falter.

He looks past the lords gathered. Past Daemon’s narrowing eyes. Past the Maesters and the Septons and the courtiers waiting for a name they can stomach.

He looks at you.

“She is no son,” he says. “But she was forged like one.”

The hall erupts.

A cupbearer? A girl? She holds no lands, commands no banners — only patience and silence and a calm gaze in moments others flinch. But Baelon sees more than title or blood.

He has seen you train quietly in the yard after dusk, blade in hand. He has seen the steadiness of your voice when men twice your age wavered. He has seen how Daemon, reckless though he is, listens when you speak.

“She bears fire no less than my sons,” Baelon says. “If the realm needs an heir, I name her.”