CaveLeather On the final night of the royal hunt, King Viserys himself raised his cup and announced to every lord present that his firstborn son, Baelor, had been restored to full health by the blessing of the white hart, king of the Kingswood.
To leave no room for doubt he summoned the two most respected maesters in the camp and had them repeat the judgment in open hearing.
The declaration was more than celebration.
It was a warning to every ambitious house: the succession belonged to Baelor Targaryen alone.
Throughout the feast Baelor sat at the king’s immediate right, accepting the stream of congratulations with polite calm.
After the third round of toasts the mingled reek of perfume and wine became unbearable.
He slipped away alone and rested beneath a tree outside the pavilion.
Larys Strong approached on his cane, voice low and sincere.
“My prince, I congratulate you.
The position of heir is now as solid as the Stone of the Red Keep itself.” Baelor sipped his grape juice without hurry.
“I accept the blessing, Ser Larys.
I recall that your skill at interrogation is exceptional.
Flea Bottom has produced more than its share of criminals of late.
I intend to recommend you to my father as chief interrogator.” Larys’s hands tightened on the cane.
“You honor me beyond measure, my prince.
In return I will place every scrap of intelligence from the Stepstones in your hands.” He bowed and limped away at once to begin the work.
Baelor leaned against the trunk, tapping the glass with one finger.
Larys was capable and hungry—exactly the sort of man worth keeping.
A man without ambition was nothing more than a dull, stubborn stone.
Once Larys believed he had found a true patron, he would learn that personal loyalty must always rank higher than private desire.
… When the hunt ended, Viserys brought his family back to King’s Landing.
The greatest prize of the journey was the restored health of the crown prince.
In a realm that still measured a man’s worth by the sword, the heir to the Iron Throne could not remain only a scholar.
Viserys ordered Ser Harrold Westerling, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, and the formidable Ser Criston Cole to train the boy in earnest.
For the next month Baelor’s days were reduced to three essentials: study, food, and sleep.
Every remaining hour belonged to the sword.
Rhaenyra fared little better.
Her private boar hunt, though done for her brother’s sake, had been reckless.
Viserys punished her with additional lessons in the history of Westeros, delivered by two senior maesters.
Brother and sister saw each other only at meals.
… A month and a half later the Small Council convened.
The question before them was simple and dangerous: whether the Crown should send open aid to the Stepstones and make war upon the Triarchy.
Besides the king and his councillors, both the firstborn son and the firstborn daughter were present.
Rhaenyra served as cupbearer as usual.
Baelor attended by special leave as a second cupbearer.
Protocol was strained, yet no one dared object.
He was the heir; the king wished him to hear the governance of the realm.
“Begin,” Viserys said from the head of the table.
Tyland Lannister, Master of Ships, rose first.
“Your Grace, the latest reports from the islands.
Sixteen or eighteen ships remain seaworthy.
Seven hundred men, perhaps sixteen knights.
Provisions dwindle fast.
Fishing cannot fill the gap.
House Velaryon begs the Crown to intervene at once.” Viserys turned to Otto.
“What else does Velaryon do besides beg?” Otto answered with careful precision.
“Lord Corlys has already called upon his own fleet.
Those ships will not reach the Stepstones for at least two weeks.
Meanwhile the combined forces of Prince Daemon and Lord Corlys hang by a thread.” Lyonel Strong stood at once.
“The war has dragged on too long, Your Grace.
It is time to end it with open force.” Lyman Beesbury followed.
“I agree with the Hand.
If Velaryon commits its fleet, the Crown cannot afford to lag behind.” Both men had long proven loyal to the blood of the dragon.
Lyman in particular had served since the days of Jaehaerys.
Otto laid both hands flat on the table.
“If the realm commits troops, the Triarchy and Dorne will fight to the last.
Better to seek terms and abandon the islands for now.” Jasper Wylde, Master of Laws, sided with him.
“Once Dorne and the Triarchy enter the field together, our position becomes grave.” What had begun as discussion fractured into open conflict—war party against peace party.
Viserys’s brow tightened.
Rhaenyra moved quietly among the cups, long accustomed to the daily theater of the council.
Baelor sat still, committing every argument to memory.
Half an hour later the king chose.
He accepted the counsel of Lyonel Strong.
Ten ships and seven hundred men would sail at once.
The Hand himself would write to Prince Daemon with the news.
The councillors filed out.
Only Viserys remained, pouring wine to ease the residual tension.
Baelor stepped forward and patted his father’s back with quiet care.
“You should drink less, Father.
It is not kind to your body.” Viserys set the cup aside and rested a hand on the boy’s shoulder.
“Tell me, my son—after everything you heard today, what do you understand?” Baelor did not answer at once.
When he spoke, the words were precise and cold.
“Even if you send the ships, the war will not end.” Viserys’s eyes sharpened.
“Why?” Baelor pointed to the map still spread on the table.
“The Stepstones control the eastern approaches.
Whoever holds them gathers endless tolls and keeps both the Triarchy and Dorne in check.
Drive them out today and they will return tomorrow.
The attacks will never truly cease.”
CaveLeather