– Baelor Flowers' POV –
My mother was a peasant maid from the Reach, or so I've been told. I never knew her—she died giving birth to me. I was raised in a crumbling orphanage outside Oldtown, a place meant for unwanted children, though truthfully, it felt more like a place built to forget us.
I stood out. Silver hair. Green eyes. Too strange for the Reach, too pale for the street, too different for the other orphans to leave me alone.
They called me names. "Ghost." "Witch-spawn." "Freak." I used to think those were just what boys like me were called. When you're raised without a name, you wear the one you're given. Even if it cuts.
I must have been three—though I didn't know my age back then—when a man came to the orphanage. He wore the grey robes of a maester, but he walked like he wasn't born into them. There was something proud and bitter in his stride. He had the same silver hair as me, though his was combed and clean.
He spoke to the orphanage head first. Then he looked at me.
"Come here," he said, pointing.
I remember my knees shaking. I was scared. But I obeyed. That's what orphans do.
He looked at me long and hard, like he was trying to see through my skin.
"What's your name, boy?"
I stared down at my feet and said, "Freak."
He frowned. "Freak? Who named you that?"
"That's what they call me," I said. "I thought it was mine."
He was quiet a moment. Then asked, "How many times do you eat in a day?"
"I eat once... maybe twice. Not every day."
He exhaled like something heavy had landed on his chest. "Haa... and I thought my father was cruel and negligent , guess apple doesn't fall far from the tree " he muttered. I wasn't sure if he was speaking to me, or to himself.
Then he looked me straight in the eye and said, "You're coming with me."
I thought I was going to die. Or be sold. Or punished. But I just nodded. What else could I do?
He took me to the Citadel. I remember the first time I saw its towers, rising like spears over the fog. I became a scrivener under him. A scribe's assistant. He never coddled me. Never said the word father. But over time, we came to understand each other.
He was a man of few comforts, but he gave me one thing no one else had: a name. Baelor. Baelor Flowers.
He told me once, not unkindly, "I cannot give you anything else—no inheritance, no claim. But I can give you knowledge. If you're clever, it will be more than a name."
I still remember the night I read my first book in High Valyrian aloud. His lips didn't smile, but his eyes did. That was enough.
We never spoke directly of our blood, but the truth was always there. In our hair. In the way he paused when someone called me his ward. In the way he once said, "You are not like the rest of them. That will make life harder. But it may also make you great."
I told myself I didn't need more. That I was content just to serve. To learn. To be near him.
But late at night, when I studied by candlelight, I would catch myself wondering:
Did he love my mother ?
What's my family like in Kingslanding ?
Do they know about me ?
I never asked.
But the questions still live in me.
When I first learned that a prince and princess were coming to live among us at the Citadel, I was strangely excited. Maybe it was childish curiosity, or maybe some unspoken yearning to see what my family might've looked like in another life. But my father—Arch Maester Vaegon—warned me to stay away, to not present myself before them. As always, I obeyed.
I first saw Prince Aemon when he stood before the gathered archmaesters and acolytes, delivering a short but striking speech to mark his arrival. He was only four namedays old, but carried himself with the poise of a man thrice his age. He spoke with conviction, grace, and a kind of calm strength I could never summon—not even if I had ten times the courage.
I did my best to avoid him after that. I didn't belong in his world. I couldn't help but watch him, though—how he commanded attention, how people listened. I was just... Baelor. Too awkward. Too quiet. Too unsure of where I stood.
Then one day, I was organizing scrolls in my father's private study when he suddenly appeared at the door.
"Where is Grand Uncle Vaegon?" he asked, eyes sweeping the room.
"He went to the summit of the Archmaesters—it's held this time each year... my prince," I replied, trying to keep the nerves out of my voice.
"Thank you. What can I call you?" he asked.
"Baelor, my prince," I said quietly.
"Oh, Baelor. Do you learn under Grand Uncle?" he asked.
"Yes," I nodded.
"Well then, Baelor, we'll be seeing each other quite often. I'll be learning under him too. And when it's just the two of us, you can call me Aemon." He smiled.
I returned a small, shaky smile. "Yes... Aemon. Let me know if you ever need help."
From there, somehow, we became fast friends. He was sharp, always thinking ahead, but never looked down on me. He once called me his brother, and other times called me his "Uncle" just to tease me. I didn't mind. It was the first time in my life someone made me feel seen.
Aemon even confronted my father once, saying outright, "You should call him your son. At least admit you got laid once in your life." Father's face turned to stone, but I saw the flicker in his eyes. He didn't deny it.
Now, I work with Aemon and our friends from the Citadel to build something no prince before him ever attempted—a company. A real one. One with factories, workers, and innovations that could change Westeros.
"We'll need to place the factories somewhere close to raw materials and labor," said Perestan, ever the logical one. "That'll cut down on both costs and transport time."
"And the buildings themselves need to be affordable and durable," added Alister. "If rainwater leaks through the roof, it could ruin not just the goods, but worker morale."
"Yes, that makes sense," Aemon said, nodding. "So I'm thinking we use mudbrick and timber for the walls and roofing, with lime plaster on top to seal everything. As for location... the area between House Darklyn's lands, Crackclaw Point, and King's Landing seems ideal. Kingswood provides timber, Crackclaw gives us stone and steel, and the city offers labor. And it's close enough that we can protect it, if needed."
"Leave the accounts and records to me and Alister," said Theon. "We'll manage production costs and wages."
"I'll stay with you, Aemon," I said without hesitation.
He looked at me, his expression softened. "Then let's talk about how to train the workers—and how to keep the real secrets behind our production methods... safe."
I nodded, a small smile creeping onto my face. Around us, the others leaned in— Theon, Perestan, and Alister—all who had once been nobodies like me, and now sat around a map like lords at council.
We weren't just building pens and paper.
We were building something bigger—something that might outlive all of us.
Factories that would teach people how to work with their hands. Towns that would rise around those factories. Paper that would carry ideas across the realm. Pens that would write history.
Maybe one day, a boy in Flea Bottom would learn to read with something we made. Maybe a girl in the Reach would write a song that changed hearts. Maybe even dragons couldn't burn ideas once they'd been written down.
I looked out the window. The sun was setting over the distant treetops of the Dragonstone. The sky glowed like fire, but instead of burning, it felt like a beginning.