Chapter 621: Baelon and the Children of the Forest

Chapter 621: Baelon and the Children of the Forest

The Riverlands: High Heart.

A towering hill in the Riverlands, nestled between Riverrun, Harrenhal, and Pinkmaiden Castle. Halfway up the hill, a group of three banners bearing the red dragon pitched camp.

"Kermit, it's your turn to play," said one of the tentmates as the three half-grown boys sat in a circle, playing cards.

The red-haired boy whose name was called looked torn, his eyes darting back and forth between the other two.

"Hurry up and play, we're going to eat dinner soon," Baelon urged with a smile, nudging his new friend.

"Yes, yes, play," chimed in the other boy, a short one with black hair and dark eyes, his face breaking into a bashful smile. If you looked closely, you could see that beneath the harmless doll-like face, there was always a hint of restlessness.

"Don't rush me, Ben!" Kermit threw a card down and kicked his best friend.

Benjicot yelped in pain and innocently hid behind the heir prince.

"Don't bully him, you sly fish," Baelon teased, clearly fond of the introverted Benjicot, as he playfully chided Kermit, who shared his interests.

Of the three boys, the eldest was already nineteen. His grandfather had been the late Lord Tully, and his father, Elmo Tully, was now the current Lord of Riverrun.

Benjicot, standing next to Baelon, was no slouch either. He hailed from the ancient House Blackwood, his father being Samwell Blackwood. He was two years older than Baelon and had just turned twelve that year.

As the three finished their round of cards, Harwin Strong, known as the "Breakbones," lifted the tent flap and laughed, "Time to eat, boys."

"Okay," Baelon said, rising and clapping his hands. He took the lead as Kermit followed on the left. "I'll go find Oscar. We'll continue playing cards later," Kermit added.

Oscar was his younger brother, who had just turned sixteen. Their father, Elmo Tully, had left orders that Kermit was to make friends with the heir prince. However, Kermit thought it unnecessary—the heir prince was certainly worth befriending. Oscar would agree.

...

That night.

The moon shone brightly, though dark clouds veiled much of the sky. Inside his tent, Baelon lay with his head resting on someone's thigh, drifting into a deep sleep. The boys had played late into the night, and after dinner, they had gone hunting together. Exhausted, they fell into slumber quickly.

Whoosh.

A cool night breeze swept through the tent, brushing against Baelon's cheeks like a gentle hand. He frowned, turning over to avoid the draft coming from the entrance.

But that wasn't enough.

Suddenly, the air around him felt unnaturally still. Baelon stirred, opening his eyes groggily, his senses tingling with unease.

"..."

His vision was still blurry, but an odd murmur echoed in his ears. The sound was both near and distant—loud and soft, thick and thin—like the whispers of 10,000 voices all at once.

"What’s that noise?" Still half-asleep, Baelon sat up, rubbing his eyes, and climbed out of the tent.

"Quack, quack, quack..."

Complete silence greeted him, save for the rasping call of a lone crow perched high in the treetops. The world around him felt distant, as if he were walking between dreams and reality.

Compelled by something he could not name, Baelon began to move, stepping slowly up the hill, unaware of how much time had passed.

At last, his surroundings opened up, revealing a strange sight. At the top of the mountain stood 31 weirwood stumps, arranged in a perfect circle—an eerie, ancient altar.

"Run, someone is coming..."

"Someone, with a sword..."V/\IssịT n0(v)eL/b(i)(n).co/m for the b/est novel reading experi/en/ce

"..."

As soon as Baelon took in his surroundings, the whispers in his ears grew louder, as if they were being screamed.

Whoosh.

The next moment, a piercing night wind blew, completely dispelling his sleepiness. In the distance, through the darkness, clusters of firelight suddenly appeared.

"Who's there? And who are you?" Baelon called out.

He couldn’t open his eyes against the wind, so he shielded his face with his arms, peeking through the gaps. Torches and figures were gradually approaching the foot of the mountain.

Tapping, tapping, tapping...

Light footsteps sounded behind him. Baelon quickly turned, eyes wide. In the dark, the stumps of the Weirwoods, arranged in a circle, resembled wordless tombstones, giving off an eerie, strange atmosphere.

“You’re Ironborn!” Baelon muttered, retreating slowly, his eyes wide with realization.

“So what?” The Ironborn laughed maniacally, licking his cracked lips.

“No more talk. Just do it,” the second Ironborn growled, stepping forward with sinister intent, eager to claim his prize.

Baelon’s breath was ragged as he gripped Dragon Claw hilt strapped to his back. Just one opening, he thought, waiting for the moment to strike.

“Say goodbye to your king, boy,” the Ironborn sneered, extending his filthy hands—fingernails caked in dirt—towards Baelon.

It was a critical moment.

“Get out of the way, you stinking fish-eating Ironborn!” Benjicot, who had been trembling, suddenly snapped. His face went pale, but his eyes flared with a near-mad, red glow as he charged forward.

As soon as the shout left his mouth, Benjicot hurled a stone and leapt.

Bang!

The Ironborn swung his sword to block, but the next second, the stone smashed into his head, leaving his cheek a bloody mess mixed with brain matter. Benjicot rolled across the ground, a curved knife lodged in his shoulder blade. Despite the injury, he sprang up like a wounded beast.

“Damn you, Ironborn!” he spat, blood dribbling from his mouth. His baby face twisted into a fierce expression, a bloodthirsty grin curling at the corners.

Like a monster unleashed after too long in chains, Benjicot lunged at another Ironborn soldier.

“Freak boy,” the Ironborn muttered, shocked, scrambling to grab his bow and arrow.

Pop—

A sharp sword pierced his groin. With a brutal twist and tug, Baelon removed the root of his agony.

“Ahhh!” The Ironborn’s eyes bulged, his scream echoing as blood spilled.

Without hesitation, Baelon drove Dragon Claw blade into the man’s tilted chin. Blood sprayed as the water-rippled blade sliced through bone, protruding from the back of the soldier’s skull.

“Let’s go help Lord Sam,” Baelon called out to Benjicot, his voice trembling as he took in his first kill.

“No!” Benjicot’s eyes widened as he yanked Baelon, dragging him further down the mountain.

“What are you doing? We have to help!” Baelon protested, panic rising in his chest.

“No!” Benjicot growled through gritted teeth, panting hard. “We need to get to Harrenhal.” His eyes were still wild with rage, but somehow, he’d regained his senses.

Baelon struggled, breaking free from Benjicot’s grip. He took advantage of the darkness, slipping into the undergrowth and heading downhill.

Glancing back, he saw the fire spreading across the hilltop. The distant clash of steel on flesh still echoed in the night.

Then, through the smoke, a tiny flicker of fire appeared in the distance. The whinny of a warhorse followed, and at the front of the approaching cavalry, Baelon spotted a silver trout banner, rippling with red and blue stripes.

As the first light of morning broke through, dispersing the cold and dark clouds of the night, Baelon stood transfixed. He swallowed, trying to moisten his dry throat.

Reinforcements had arrived.

...

A month later.

King's Landing, Dragonpit.

"Roar!"

Syrax crouched low, stretching its neck as a deafening roar reverberated through the cavernous pit.

“Quiet, Syrax,” the Dragonkeepers murmured, gathering on either side of the massive golden beast, their hands outstretched in calming gestures. Syrax, emotionally sensitive, trembled but gradually lowered its head, the roar subsiding into a deep growl.

A short distance away, in the shadows of a dark dragon pit...

Cough...

Rhaegar emerged, covered in dust, coughing as he shielded his nose and mouth with his hand.

"How was it?" Rhaenyra asked, crouching beside the pit, her voice laced with nervous anticipation.

“Good,” Rhaegar panted, a grin spreading across his face. “Six eggs in total, and two have already cracked.”