20: Chapter 20: CaveLeather “I accept, my prince.” Erryk agreed without hesitation.
Refusal would have been an open slight to the future king.
More importantly, he simply did not believe Baelor could win.
Bastards were the lowest of the low—grasping, desperate creatures.
In the gambling dens of King’s Landing one could watch them wager fingers, toes, even their lives for a single chance at sudden wealth.
Such men did not forgive the loss of a finger.
Erryk’s reasoning was sound.
He lost the wager anyway.
That afternoon, while Baelor studied the Dragonpit ledgers, Aston Waters appeared at the door.
The missing little finger was already bound.
He knelt, presented a neat written account of everything that had occurred in the pit that day, and waited in perfect silence.
There was no anger in his eyes—only respect edged with deep, lasting fear.
The shadow Baelor had left on him was so heavy the boy could not even raise his head.
“You may go,” Baelor said, never looking up from the page.
Aston bowed and withdrew with careful precision.
Baelor closed the ledger and finally allowed a child’s small, victorious smile.
“Well, Ser Erryk?
You lost.” Erryk still looked baffled.
“My prince, I do not understand.
You took his finger.
Why does he still serve you with such deference—and without a single word of resentment?” Baelor answered as though explaining something obvious.
“In Westeros a bastard stands little higher than a Free City slave.
The only paths upward are war or the favor of someone powerful.
In Aston’s eyes I am the king’s firstborn, the future sole heir.
So long as I still have use for him, he will keep serving—even if the next price is a leg.” Six years in Oldtown had sharpened Baelor’s mind into something cold and exact.
It told him, moment by moment, what must be done and how far it must be taken.
Human nature was simple: give a man a desire and he will sacrifice anything to keep it.
Erryk felt a chill of sweat on his brow.
He had thought the clean stroke of the dagger in the Dragonpit was already remarkable.
He had not expected that the true edge of the six-year-old prince was not the blade, but the precise control of another man’s hunger.
At an age when other highborn children still brawled over toys and sulked over lessons, Baelor already turned people like pieces on a board.
The white cloak dropped to one knee, right hand pressed to his heart.
“My prince, I am convinced.
I swear by the white cloak of the Kingsguard and by my own life: nothing spoken or done today will ever leave my lips.” He could not offer private oaths of fealty while he wore the white, but he could give the most solemn promise a Kingsguard possessed.
Baelor raised a hand, smiling.
“I believe you, Ser Erryk.
Rise.” With that, the Small Council, the Dragonpit, and the Kingsguard all possessed ears that answered to him.
The next step was the claiming of a dragon.
… That evening the family gathered at the table.
Baelor spoke formally.
“Father, I ask leave to travel to the Dragonpit of Dragonstone and claim a dragon of my own.” Viserys set down his knife, face serious.
“Claiming a dragon is no child’s game, my son—especially a grown one.
Vermithor and Dreamfyre are both fierce.
A single breath of their fire could end you.
The pit here in King’s Landing holds a hatchling near your own age—Sunfyre.
The keepers say it is gentle.
That would be the wiser choice.” He had only just regained a healthy firstborn.
He would not risk crippling him for pride.
Baelor took the king’s rough hand in both of his own.
“Targaryens do not shrink from trials.
And I do not seek a dragon for myself alone.
The royal house needs one strong enough to cow every enemy who would test our rule.” Rhaenyra’s voice rang out first.
“Well said, brother.
I stand with you.
If any dragon harms you, Syrax and I will burn it from the sky.” Daemon’s expression was harder to read—admiration mixed with a reluctance to see the boy succeed so young.
Across the table the Hightower faces told their own stories.
Alicent smiled while her thumbnail scraped the flesh of her other fingers raw.
Aegon visibly relaxed, relieved that Baelor had no interest in Sunfyre.
Helaena alone looked up from her jar of insects and offered her brother a quiet, sincere word of encouragement.
Faced with a rare united front, Viserys sighed.
“This is a disaster.” He yielded at last, but on his own terms.
“Very well.
You may claim a dragon—but you will begin with Silverwing.
She is the gentlest of the great ones, and second only to Vhagar and Vermithor in size.” “I accept, Father.” Baelor nodded.
Dragonstone was only a pretext.
His true quarry remained the Cannibal—the wild dragon never claimed by any rider, unmatched in strength, size, and cunning.
With patience he believed he could raise it into a second Balerion for House Targaryen.
Viserys squeezed his shoulder.
“Rest well tonight.
We leave at noon tomorrow by ship for Dragonstone.” “Thank you, Father.” Baelor embraced him briefly.
When the meal ended the family scattered to their chambers.
Baelor remained awake, reading by the cool summer wind that drifted through the open window.
He marked the ledgers carefully: Food… devour… grow strong… A raven landed on the sill, a sealed scrap tied to its leg.
Baelor recognized Larys’s bird at once.
He untied the message.
The paper held only a single line.
Prince Daemon has gone in disguise to Queen Alicent’s chambers.