The tale of the Fourteen Flames ended quickly.
Baelor closed the book, looked at the sleeping Helaena, and shook his head with quiet resignation.
He lifted her carefully onto his own bed, slipped out, and closed the door without a sound.
Then he went to Rhaenyra’s chambers to sleep.
… Two months passed in a blink.
Baelor was dressing for the morning council when Larys Strong—now elevated to Master of Whisperers—limped into the room.
“My prince, fresh word has arrived.
Prince Daemon used himself as bait, drew out the Crabfeeder’s captains, and struck with Lord Corlys from both sides.
The Stepstones are taken.” Baelor showed no surprise.
Inwardly he only noted that his uncle remained a useful blade.
“His Grace asks that you join him outside the city to welcome Prince Daemon’s return.
Princess Rhaenyra has already gone ahead.
The victory feast within the Red Keep will be arranged by the queen.” Baelor walked back to the hearth and held the report over a candle flame until the paper curled to ash.
“Larys—any word of the Cannibal?” The returning uncle interested him far less than the wild dragon he had hunted for two months.
“My eyes report the black wild dragon was sighted three days ago in the waters near Dragonstone.
The exact range is still being mapped.” Larys produced a rough chart of the places the beast most often appeared and offered it with both hands.
Baelor took it, glanced at the wall clock, and nodded.
“Time grows short.
Come.
We will greet my dear uncle together.” … At the Dragon Gate the king stood at the head of the waiting party.
On his left were the son and daughter he loved best; on his right the Small Council led by Hand Lyonel Strong.
They had been in place since sunrise, ready to receive the man who had driven the Triarchy from the Stepstones—the first hero of the war, the prince once called the Prince of the City.
“Your Grace, a full hour has passed,” Jasper Wylde muttered to Otto.
“Even by carriage the prince should have arrived.” Lyonel Strong’s face was equally dark.
No victory, however great, outranked the dignity of the king.
“Shall I ride ahead and learn what delays him?” Viserys answered with courtly patience.
“I trust my brother.
Something on the road must have held him.” In truth he had already cursed the impulsive, eternal child a thousand times in silence.
A harsh, metallic cry split the morning air.
A vast red shape hurtled out of the eastern sky, wings like curved scythes, long serpentine body, horns sharp as spears.
“Caraxes!” Rhaenyra cried first, excitement bright in her voice.
Every lord present took an involuntary step backward.
Only Baelor and the king remained unmoved.
“Be easy,” Viserys said, voice calm and royal.
“A dragon of the blood attacks only the enemies of the realm.” The words steadied the council.
They watched the red beast sweep low over their heads and circle once above the city.
In the streets the gold cloaks and the common folk roared.
“Caraxes!
The Blood Wyrm returns!” “The Prince of the City is home—King’s Landing will sleep safe again!” Daemon guided the dragon through a sheet of its own crimson flame, then brought it down directly before the waiting king.
He vaulted from the saddle, a double-bladed axe in one hand, a crude crown of vines and twigs on his brow, and strode toward his brother.
Ser Harrold Westerling’s sword cleared its scabbard at once.
“No man approaches the king armed!” Daemon ignored the steel and kept his eyes on Viserys.
The king answered in kind, Blackfyre already in his grip, face cold as he measured the theatrical arrogance before him.
The two brothers locked stares.
Neither spoke.
The assembled lords held their breath; this was Targaryen business, and any uninvited word might draw the Rogue Prince’s lasting hatred.
After a handful of heartbeats Daemon stepped back and cast the axe onto the stones at Viserys’s feet.
“A trophy.
Add it to the Iron Throne.” Viserys’s gaze never left the vine crown.
“My brother wears a crown.
Do you name yourself king?” Daemon folded his hands in a parody of humility.
“When the Triarchy’s alliance broke, the men began to call me King of the Narrow Sea.” He met Viserys’s eyes again.
“But I know there is only one king beneath the sky.” Before Baelor, Rhaenyra, and every councillor, he sank to one knee, removed the crude crown, and held it out.
“My crown and the Stepstones are yours.” Shock rippled through the ranks.
The proud, untamable Rogue Prince had just given his brother the full measure of royal respect.
Only then did Viserys’s expression warm.
He looked past Daemon.
“Where is Lord Corlys?” “He has sailed home to Driftmark.” “And the islands?
Who holds them now?” “The tides, the crabs, and two thousand Triarchy pirates nailed to the beaches as a warning.” Daemon understood perfectly: if he wished to return to the bosom of the royal family, the fate of the Stepstones mattered more than any title he had claimed.