Back in his chambers, Baelor found Larys’s raven perched on the windowsill, the familiar scrap of paper still tied to its right leg.
He crossed the room without hurry.
The moment he read the single line, the calm surface of his mind finally stirred.
Confirmed.
The Cannibal has circled Dragonstone for seven days.
Vermithor and Silverwing are both on edge.
Baelor’s face remained expressionless.
The acting lord’s earlier guess had already pointed him in the same direction.
The Cannibal was the strongest wild dragon alive, true enough.
Yet Vermithor and Silverwing stood as the greatest fighting power House Targaryen still possessed—and they were a mated pair.
Even Vhagar would have found herself hard-pressed against the two of them together.
“A pity,” he murmured.
“Still no exact location.” He held the paper to the candle flame until nothing remained but ash, then scattered the powder through the open window.
A firm knock sounded at the door.
“My prince,” Ser Erryk’s voice came through the wood, “Prince Daemon is here.
He says he comes by the king’s command, to share his knowledge of dragon-claiming.” Baelor glanced at the wall clock and chose refusal.
“The hour is already late.
Tell him tomorrow will serve better.” Erryk relayed the answer in the same measured tone.
Daemon did not move.
He simply folded his hands over his midsection.
“This is a direct order from the king, Ser Erryk.
Will you disobey it?” A Kingsguard’s first loyalty belonged to the king.
To ignore a royal command was to stain the white cloak itself.
Yet the same king had also ordered the white cloak to guard the young prince with his life.
“Let him in, Ser Erryk.” Baelor had no wish to force the knight into an impossible choice.
“As you command, my prince.” Erryk opened the door—but held out a hand, demanding every weapon first.
Daemon laughed.
“So cautious?
Do you truly believe I would harm my own nephew?” Erryk’s answer was cold and exact.
“I do not know what manner of man you are, Prince Daemon.
My duty is to keep this prince safe.
Every weapon that might threaten him will be treated as the highest risk.” Daemon made no further argument.
He surrendered Dark Sister without ceremony and stepped inside.
Baelor sat with an open volume of history written in High Valyrian.
“Read fewer books,” Daemon said.
“I doubt your father wishes another Archmaester Vaegon in the family.” For once he sounded almost like a proper uncle.
Baelor did not look up.
“How else am I to know both myself and my enemy, good uncle?” The phrase had come to him in a dream.
It fit both battle and study with perfect sharpness.
Daemon knew the boy’s tongue was as quick as any blade.
Otherwise the ever-smooth Alicent would never have needed to seek an alliance with him.
“Your father sent me to teach you how a dragon is claimed.
You are tired.
I am tired.
Let us finish this quickly.” Baelor nodded once and gestured for him to begin.
“To claim a dragon you must first understand its nature and its habits.
Take Vermithor.
His temper is restless and fierce—a true test of a rider’s courage.
If you mean to claim him you cannot show fear.
You cannot turn away.
“Silverwing is different…” Baelor listened without interruption.
He had to admit it: for all Daemon’s wildness and constant rebellion, as a dragonrider the man deserved the name.
The knowledge was clean, practical, and hard-won.
A pity, Baelor thought.
If only the same uncle had never met Alicent in secret, and had never once called a newborn nephew “the heir for a day.” They might have been something closer to true kin.
… When the lesson neared its end, Daemon rose to leave.
Baelor did not remain seated.
Courtesy demanded he at least see the man to the door.
Daemon waved him back.
“Stay.
Remember what I told you and claim your dragon well.” “I will.” Daemon’s hand closed on the latch—then stopped.
Whether from some flicker of conscience or something colder, he turned and looked back at the boy.
“Be careful when the time comes.
Tomorrow the Dragonkeepers will bring fresh reports on the beasts.
If anything feels uncertain, wait.
Or dig deeper.
It will cost you nothing and may save your life.” Baelor’s eyes narrowed a fraction.
He already knew of the night meeting between Daemon and Alicent.
He had expected them to use this journey to block his claim—or arrange a convenient accident.
Yet the warning sounded almost genuine.
Was the good uncle truly trying to protect him… or simply planting seeds of doubt?
Baelor kept the polite smile in place.
The suspicion in his voice and gaze remained naked.
“My good uncle, since when do you show such concern?
It hardly matches your usual style.” Daemon answered without heat.
“Does it not?
I rather think I care for my nephew a great deal.
After all, you are the firstborn my brother waited ten long years to hold.
Had you been healthy from the start, that Hightower bitch would never have found so many crooked paths to walk.” The meaning was plain: every problem began with Baelor’s frail body.
Baelor’s stare turned colder still.
“And you are so much better than the queen?” “You called a newborn nephew ‘the heir for a day.’ Is that the care you speak of, good uncle?” Baelor had never forgotten the words.
He still carried the grudge like a whetted blade.
Had kinslaying not brought its own curse, he would have been more than willing to end the uncle himself and gift Caraxes to some member of the blood he could actually trust.
Daemon met the accusation without flinching.
“I apologize.
I do not take the words back.
What is said is said.
There is no undoing it.” That was the man he was—complicated, rebellious, yet still loyal to the family and to Viserys in his own twisted fashion.
He had not taken the Stepstones purely for ambition.
Had the Triarchy been allowed to push farther, Dorne across the Narrow Sea would have become a direct threat to Targaryen rule.
And Viserys had always preferred negotiation and peace over the pressure of open war.
That preference was precisely why the Triarchy and Dorne dared to scheme in the dark.