“Stand up.
Tell me your name.” Baelor spoke fluent High Valyrian.
The young Dragonkeeper dropped to one knee.
“My prince, I am Aston Waters.” “Thank you for speaking when you did.
You saved both my life and the captain’s.” Baelor recognized the name.
Waters was the surname given to bastards born in King’s Landing.
Every region of Westeros marked its natural children differently—Snow in the North, Rivers in the Riverlands, and so on.
He sat on a nearby stone.
“Explain why Caraxes tried so hard to attack me.” Aston kept his eyes lowered.
“My prince, our ledgers record every known habit, diet, and temper of the dragons.
Environment and food are the chief concerns.
Meet those and a dragon rarely turns on a man.” “There is one exception.
When a dragon senses danger from a rider—or from one who might become a rider—it will change its stance.
Dragons feel the emotions of those who claim them.” Baelor frowned.
“You mean Caraxes attacked because of Daemon… or because I myself felt like a threat to it?” He found the idea hard to accept.
His only meetings with the Cannibal had been in dreams.
He had never even sat a dragon’s back.
If that counted as a claim, the notion was more frightening than any prophecy.
“Yes, my prince.
I have not served long among the Dragonkeepers, yet I know the warnings by heart.” Baelor said nothing more.
He ordered the captain to bring every ledger the Dragonpit had kept since its founding.
He intended to read them all.
“Does your family live in King’s Landing?” he asked Aston.
“No, my prince.
They remain on Dragonstone.
I have not seen them in more than two months.” “If you wish it, I will have them brought here to live with you.” Baelor smiled faintly.
He never wasted a chance to bind a useful man.
Aston dropped to both knees at once.
“You honor me beyond measure, my prince.
What can a lowly keeper do in return?” “Become my eyes.
And answer only to me.” Baelor liked the speed of the boy’s understanding.
Aston knew that gifts demanded payment.
“It would be my greatest honor.” Serving the king’s firstborn—the future sole heir to the Iron Throne—was worth more than a hundred gold dragons.
Baelor nodded, satisfied, and turned to the captain.
“Train him well.
Your own family will receive the same consideration.” The captain bowed low.
“I will not fail you, my prince.” Baelor handed the ledgers to Ser Erryk for safekeeping and looked deeper into the pit.
“Besides Dreamfyre, what other dragons remain here?” “There is a hatchling called Sunfyre,” Aston said eagerly.
“If you wish to test the idea you spoke of, it would be a safe choice.” Baelor rested one hand on the hilt of the dragonbone dagger.
His smile never reached his eyes.
“Aston.
Who told you I meant to test anything on a dragon?” The young keeper froze.
Every observation had told him that was exactly the prince’s intent.
Why the denial?
“My prince—?” “Ser Erryk.
Hold him.” Erryk moved with the speed expected of a Kingsguard.
Before Aston could react, one strong hand pinned him against the stone wall.
“At your command, my prince.” Baelor drew the dagger, stepped close, and with a single clean motion severed the little finger of Aston’s left hand.
The scream that followed rang through the entire Dragonpit.
Every other keeper kept his head bowed and his mouth shut.
Baelor turned to the captain.
“Aston’s little finger has somehow come off.
Do you know how that happened?” The captain’s face had gone white.
“It—it was burned by dragonfire while he cleaned the pit, my prince.
To keep the wound from festering, a maester was forced to take the finger.” He had not expected the soft-spoken, courteous firstborn of the king to be a six-year-old who could cut without blinking.
The thought of what such a child might become when grown was almost more frightening than the blade itself.
Baelor patted the man’s shoulder.
“I will send a skilled maester so the scar is not too ugly.
And I trust nothing like this will need to happen a second time.” The meaning was plain: the matter ended here, and it would never be repeated.
“You have my word, my prince.” The rest of the Dragonkeepers dropped to their knees at once, desperate to prove their loyalty before the prince decided another finger was unnecessary.
“I believe you.” Baelor and Erryk returned to the carriage and left the pit behind.
On the road back to the Red Keep the white cloak kept glancing at the boy, clearly troubled.
“Speak freely, Ser Erryk.
You are my sworn shield.
There is nothing you cannot say.” Erryk chose his words with care.
“My prince, cutting the finger yourself may plant lasting hatred in the boy.
I do not think the trade a good one.” In truth the decisive stroke had shocked and impressed him.
Yet Aston, bastard or not, still tended the dragons.
A grudge held in silence could one day see chains unlocked at the worst possible moment.
Erryk had understood none of the High Valyrian spoken earlier.
Baelor tapped the wooden armrest, voice calm and certain.
“Shall we make a wager, Ser?
By this afternoon Aston will deliver a full report of everything that happened in the pit—written by his own hand.
If you lose, you will swear on your white cloak and the honor of the Kingsguard that you will never speak of today’s events to anyone.”