“Even if we surrender the Stepstones or take them back,” Rhaenyra said, “the Triarchy and Dorne will keep harassing us.” She cared little for politics.
History and riding Syrax above King’s Landing interested her far more.
Viserys nodded; he did not deny it.
Yet he looked at Baelor with open expectation, waiting for the next surprise.
“You see the importance of the islands, my son.
How would you end the trouble?” Baelor had anticipated the question.
He hesitated only a moment, wondering whether the answer he carried—conquest of the Triarchy and Dorne—would anger a father who had always preferred peace.
Years earlier, before Baelor’s birth, border friction with Dorne had been constant.
Viserys had even considered marrying Rhaenyra to a Martell prince to quiet the marches.
The king saw the hesitation and spoke first.
“Speak your true mind.
Your father will not fault you.” Baelor answered without further delay.
“Dragons.
Use them to crush the Triarchy and sever their link with Dorne.
Only then will the Stepstones stay secure.
If the chance comes, gather every rider of our house and cleanse Dorne of those who still resist the Iron Throne.
Fold it fully into the Seven Kingdoms.” The cold precision of the plan startled Rhaenyra.
The gentle, courtly brother she knew spoke with the same ruthless clarity as their uncle Daemon.
Yet Viserys showed no anger.
Delight lit his face.
He cupped Baelor’s cheeks and kissed the left one.
“Your wit and political eye exceed every hope I held for you.
You have answered only half the question, however.” “Half?” Baelor blinked.
Rhaenyra stared.
“Father, that answer was perfect.
How can it be only half?” Viserys smiled and gestured for both children to sit beside him.
“Do you know why I have delayed sending aid to the Stepstones for so long?” “Because you hoped to settle the war with the Triarchy through negotiation,” Rhaenyra said at once, certain she understood her father.
Viserys gave a soft affirmative.
That thought had lived in him, but it was not the final purpose.
“Baelor—what do you see?” Baelor’s brow furrowed.
Since the king had not rejected open war, the true obstacle must lie elsewhere.
Across all Westeros only one house could still threaten the Targaryens in earnest: the Velaryons of Driftmark, wed to the uncrowned queen, masters of three dragons, ruled by the Sea Snake himself.
“You mean to use this war to bleed House Velaryon,” Baelor said slowly.
Viserys patted his shoulder, pleased.
“And your uncle—my damned, useless brother Daemon.
He has coveted my throne for years.
On the very day you were born he called himself ‘the heir for a day.’ That alone was grounds for a headsman’s axe.” The bitterness in the king’s voice was unmistakable.
In his eyes Daemon remained a child of thirty-odd years, still committing the same fatal, childish errors.
Baelor spoke quietly.
“On a distant continent I once dreamed a proverb: when the snipe and the clam fight, the fisherman benefits.
It fits my uncle and the Sea Snake perfectly.” Viserys considered, then laughed.
“Eight short words, yet they hide deep water.” Rhaenyra sat frozen.
The mild father she knew had just revealed a design far colder than she had imagined.
Baelor felt no surprise.
A man who had ruled the Seven Kingdoms in relative peace for more than a decade was never simple.
Viserys turned to his daughter.
“You have poured wine at this table for nearly three years, yet your political eye is not half as sharp as your brother’s.
You must do better.” “My brother is special,” Rhaenyra answered, already reaching out to pinch Baelor’s cheeks with careful force.
“Blessed by the white hart, a dreamer of our house—of course he is stronger than I am.” At the word “dreamer” Viserys’s tone grew solemn.
“Remember this, Baelor.
Our blood produces many dragonriders, yet few true dreamers.
Every vision may carry the future of House Targaryen.
You must face them, understand them, and take their warnings to heart.” He tilted his head back and drew a long breath.
“Long ago I chased a dream of my own and lost your mother because of it.
Prophecy and vision can give unexpected gifts.
Cherish them.” “I will, Father.” The weight of the conversation left Viserys visibly drained.
He closed his eyes, leaned against the wooden back of the chair, and waved them both away.
… Outside the council chamber the siblings walked the corridor without destination.
Rhaenyra broke the silence.
“Do you think Father was right to withhold support from the Stepstones?” Baelor nodded at once.
“Of course.
One of them tried to steal the succession.
The other is the richest house in the realm and commands three dragons.” He glanced left and right, confirming they were alone, then lowered his voice.
“I am colder than Father.
I hope both of them die in this war.” No wonder the king kept them at arm’s length.
They had launched a private war against the Triarchy without leave, caring nothing for the dignity of the Crown—simply because they possessed dragons and believed themselves invincible.
The thought left Baelor with a sharper understanding.
The royal family’s own strength was too thin.
To hold both Daemon and the Sea Snake in check he would need a dragon of his own—one great enough to overmatch Caraxes the Blood Wyrm and Meleys alike.