The feast stretched deep into the night.
Baelor had reached the end of his endurance and was about to take his leave when Daemon suddenly remembered something and beckoned him closer.
“Nephew.
I hear you were fond of books even in Oldtown.
I found this on the battlefield—an old volume.
Take it as a meeting gift and a blessing.
May you grow into a prince of great learning.” The words were carefully chosen.
Amid the general haze of wine Daemon had slipped his true meaning between the lines without drawing notice.
Viserys, seeing his brother show such concern for the boy, looked thoroughly pleased.
“Baelor, do not waste your uncle’s kindness.
Study hard, and become an heir strong in both mind and body.” “I will not fail him, Father.” Baelor accepted the book with a smile and offered Daemon a formal bow of thanks.
“We are family, my child,” Viserys said gently.
“There is no need for such ceremony between us.” Rhaenyra tapped Baelor lightly on the forehead and whispered, “You are the future of the Iron Throne.
Show a little of a crown prince’s pride.” She loved her uncle, yet her deeper loyalty remained with the brother she had raised.
Baelor sidestepped.
“Sister, stop hitting my head.
What if you turn me into an idiot?” “Then I will lock you in the Red Keep and keep you for the rest of your life.” She pinched his cheek, smiling.
“No thank you.
You forget things half the time.
One day you would leave me somewhere and never remember where.” Rhaenyra’s smile turned sweetly dangerous.
“Dear brother, leave your door unlocked tonight.
Your loving sister will teach you what the wrath of the Sleeping Dragon feels like.” Baelor decided survival was uncertain.
In the end Viserys rescued him, sending the boy off to rest with his new book.
… Back in his chambers Baelor, fluent in High Valyrian, opened the volume at once.
It contained the accumulated knowledge of an ancient Valyrian dragonlord family concerning the nature of dragons.
Decades of observation had taught them that prolonged confinement crippled a dragon’s growth.
Dragons were creatures of magic; they required combat, open sky, and abundant food if they were to reach their full strength—much as the Dothraki demanded only the strongest horses of the grass sea for breeding.
Even grievous wounds, so long as they were not mortal, could be healed with startling speed once the beast was allowed to feed.
The text went further: methods for training hatchlings through simulated hunts, the surest ways to forge the bond between dragon and rider, the precise diets that forced rapid growth in youth, and notes on individual temperament.
Page after page of hard-won insight opened before Baelor like a new continent.
He was forced to admit that these long-dead dragonlords had understood their charges far better than House Targaryen did now.
The knowledge was not merely useful; it touched the very foundation of the family’s power over its dragons.
“A pity the final pages are too faded to read,” he murmured.
Yet the central lesson was clear.
Nearly every dragon of the royal house slept chained in the pits of the Red Keep or Dragonstone.
The Citadel’s scholars had insisted the chains were necessary to prevent the beasts from fighting and endangering eggs or one another.
One path was the hard-won wisdom of a thousand-year dragonlord line.
The other was the advice of a Citadel that had always looked on House Targaryen with quiet hostility.
Baelor required no debate.
“Confinement slows them.
I must find a moment to urge Father to strike the chains and let the dragons range free.” He slipped the precious volume beneath his pillow.
As a scholar he knew that true knowledge could not be bought.
The only regret was that the book was unique.
If more such volumes could be found, House Targaryen would inherit not only living dragons but the ancient craft of the Valyrian dragonlords themselves.
“Tomorrow I will ask my uncle,” he decided.
“If he found one, there must be others.” Satisfied, he slept.
For once the night brought no nightmares, yet the dark circles beneath his eyes remained unchanged.
“No wonder my uncle looks at me with contempt,” Baelor muttered to his reflection in a water glass.
“Half-dead is exactly how I appear.” The circles would have to wait.
The knowledge in his head, however, was already greater than it had been the day before.
Closer reading had revealed further details.
Dragons were not simple magical beasts; they possessed intelligence close to that of men and could be as particular about food.
Some attacked any blood of the claimant’s house without distinction.
Others deliberately threatened in order to test the rider’s resolve.
Against each temperament the old dragonlords had developed their own methods—paid for in blood and failure.
None of it was written in plain summary.
Only careful study had uncovered the patterns.
Had Baelor read less carefully, the most valuable lessons would have been lost.
He returned the book to its hiding place, dressed, and went down to breakfast.
Viserys sat at the head of the table, Rhaenyra at his left.
Alicent and her children occupied the right.
Daemon faced the king.
“Good morning, Father.” Baelor took the seat beside his sister.
“You look pale, my boy,” Viserys said, setting down his knife.
“Are you well?” “Only late reading, Father.
Nothing more.” He turned to Daemon, who was working through a piece of bread.
“Uncle, the volume you gave me—was it the only one?” Daemon looked up, eyes carrying a faint, assessing glint.
“Of course not.
Provided you can actually read them.” Baelor shook his head with mild innocence.
“I found some of the drawings interesting.
I should like to see the rest.” A small smile touched Daemon’s mouth.
“Very well.
I will send a raven to the Sea Snake.
He can dispatch a merchant ship with the remaining volumes to King’s Landing.”