Baelor inclined his head in thanks, then returned to the generous breakfast on his plate.
Viserys worked through roast mutton and cream cakes, smiling at the peaceful family around him.
He was glad his firstborn could set aside old grievances and accept Daemon, and gladder still that his wayward brother seemed at last to have learned a measure of restraint.
Rhaenyra spoke up.
“Father, Daemon and I have agreed.
Once the council ends we will fly together to Dragonstone.” Daemon added smoothly, “I promised her that when the Stepstones were settled I would take her there and share what I know of dragonriding.” Viserys beamed.
“It warms me to see you care for your niece and nephew, brother.
You have truly grown.” Daemon raised his wine.
“Men do not remain the same forever, brother.” The king answered the toast with open pleasure.
The breakfast table felt unusually warm—yet Baelor found the bread in his hand suddenly hard to swallow.
Long years in Oldtown had taught him that true kinship, for him, existed only in Rhaenyra’s fierce care.
Every other hour had been spent either atoning before the Seven or fencing with House Hightower, the Citadel, and the anti-dragon faction inside the Starry Sept.
Daemon’s layered words set every warning bell ringing.
When the meal ended Viserys called the Small Council to discuss the defense of the Stepstones.
Otto spoke first, as usual.
“Your Grace, the islands are the chief port between the Triarchy and Dorne.
Endless defense will only drain the treasury.
I propose we send envoys, lower certain harbor dues, and purchase the peace we need.” Viserys nodded; the suggestion suited his nature.
Negotiation and marriage had always been his preferred tools.
Daemon’s voice cracked across the table.
“Otto, are you saying we should hand the enemy half the meat before we have even tasted it?” “I offer only my counsel, Prince Daemon.
The realm’s coffers cannot bear further war.
Peace is the first necessity, even if it costs us something.” Otto knew the king’s heart better than most; that knowledge had carried him far.
Viserys turned to the Hand.
“Lyonel?” “I do not reject peace, Your Grace.
But if we surrender too much, what was the point of taking the islands at all?” Lyman Beesbury agreed.
“Peace is required, yet we cannot let the Triarchy and Dorne grow bolder with every concession.” Jasper Wylde answered sharply.
“Your hopes are too pure.
We already know the sort of men who rule Dorne and the Triarchy.
A measured sacrifice of interest is the price of lasting quiet.” Noon arrived with no workable plan.
Daemon and Otto faced each other like men who had desecrated each other’s ancestral tombs; neither would yield.
The council broke in open rancor.
Daemon rose first, gestured to Rhaenyra, and left.
She set down the wine flagon, embraced her father, and followed.
Baelor caught her hand.
“Sister, take me with you.
I want to see your dragons.” Rhaenyra looked to the king.
Viserys, already weary, waved them on.
“Go.
Baelor, keep clear of any danger.” “Yes, Father.” They rode together in a carriage under Ser Erryk’s escort to the Dragonpit, a vast and quiet structure built into the hills.
A mailed guard halted them at the gate.
“Which prince or princess honors us?” Erryk rode forward.
“Baelor Targaryen, firstborn of Viserys the First and heir to the Iron Throne.
Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen.
And Prince Daemon Targaryen, brother to the king.” The Dragonkeepers opened the way at once.
Erryk rode ahead to order the chains struck from Syrax and Caraxes.
By the time the carriage reached the inner yard Caraxes had already climbed into the light and was nuzzling Daemon with rough affection.
Rhaenyra touched Baelor’s arm.
“Watch how your uncle handles him.
It will serve you when your own time comes.” “I am watching.
And remember what I asked of you—tell no one.” He meant the quiet search for the Cannibal.
“Your concerns are always mine, little brother.” While the siblings spoke, Daemon vaulted into the saddle and guided Caraxes out of the pit.
From the height he looked down at the close pair below; a flicker of private amusement crossed his face.
“Nephew, you wished to see Caraxes.
Come closer.
Touch him if you dare.” Baelor waited until he saw the reins firmly held, then stepped forward.
A sudden roar split the air.
Syrax’s jaws snapped open without command, the sound raw and uncontrolled.
Only Baelor’s careful distance saved his right shoulder from the bite.
Rhaenyra was at his side in an instant, pulling him behind her.
“Quiet, Caraxes!” Daemon hauled on the reins, speaking rapid High Valyrian.
The Dragonkeepers closed in with their own calming phrases.
Caraxes ignored them all.
The great red head remained fixed on Baelor, wary and aggressive, as though the slight child before it were another dragon of equal size.
Rhaenyra rounded on the chief Dragonkeeper in High Valyrian, fury bright.
“What is the meaning of this?” “Princess, we fed and soothed him before release.
We do not know the cause.” “You dare make excuses?
This looks like an attempt on the heir’s life!” She signaled Erryk to seize the man.
A younger keeper dropped to his knees.
“Princess, we are sworn to the blood.
We would never harm the king’s firstborn.
And the dragons themselves—” Baelor cut him off.
“Sister, Caraxes has always been the fiercest of our beasts.
A show of temper is no great surprise.
I am unhurt.” “But—” “If you and Uncle delay any longer you will not reach Dragonstone before nightfall.” Rhaenyra sighed, cupped his face, and relented.
“You are impossible.” She mounted Syrax.
Moments later both dragons lifted into the sky and vanished toward the east.
Only when they were gone did Baelor turn, eyes sharp with interest, toward the young Dragonkeeper whose words he had interrupted.