“You mean to set dragon against dragon?” Alicent could not keep the disbelief from her voice.
“Do not be absurd.
You are nothing more than a common witch who knows a few tricks.
You could not even approach a dragon, let alone touch one.” Dragons belonged to the blood of the dragon alone.
That was the simplest truth in all Westeros.
That an Asshai’i witch did not understand it made Alicent wonder whether the woman was reliable at all.
The black-robed figure only smiled.
“Fire will show the way.
Be patient, Your Grace.
Witness the miracle.” She stepped backward into the deeper shadow behind her—and vanished as though she had never stood there.
… Inside the volcanic caves that served as Dragonstone’s Dragonpit, the keepers called to the newly awakened Silverwing in High Valyrian.
Rhaenyra and Daemon had already mounted their own dragons and waited at a careful distance.
A long, irritable roar rolled through the stone.
Silverwing had flown the whole night and clearly resented being disturbed.
She climbed into the light with restless movements, yet only gave two warning cries.
No flame followed.
The keepers were long accustomed to her temper.
They did not retreat.
They only continued the soft Valyrian calls.
“My prince,” the captain said at last, bowing, “Silverwing has come to the upper ledge.
You may approach.” He gestured for Rhaenyra and Daemon to draw their mounts farther back so the irritated she-dragon would not be further provoked.
When everything was ready, the captain nodded to Baelor.
Silverwing truly deserved her place as the second greatest of the living dragons.
Her silver scales caught the light like polished steel; every line of her body was elegant, unbroken by the ragged holes that marked Vhagar’s ancient wings.
“A beautiful creature,” Baelor murmured.
He drew a slow breath and walked forward for the first true contact.
“Look at me, Silverwing.” The High Valyrian left his lips—and at the same moment a strange, sweet scent touched his senses.
He had no time to wonder.
The dragon stood before him.
He simply raised one hand and continued forward.
Silverwing noticed the silver-and-gold-haired boy at once.
She sensed the same blood that had once belonged to her first rider, Alysanne, and lowered her great head in curious inspection.
Rhaenyra’s shoulders loosened.
“Good.
She does not reject him.
The first approach is clean.” Daemon’s eyes never stopped moving.
“Lack of rejection is not the same as a successful claim.
Stay sharp.” Alicent’s schemes had not yet shown themselves.
That only meant the bitch was either waiting for a better moment or had already set something else in motion.
The captain’s sudden shout cut the air.
“Danger!
Silverwing’s temper is breaking—get the prince clear of the pit!” The she-dragon that had been calm a heartbeat earlier reared her head and locked her gaze on the space directly beneath Baelor, jaws already opening for flame.
Daemon reacted first.
Caraxes swung into an aggressive stance, body and wings placing themselves between Silverwing and the boy, drawing the she-dragon’s attention.
Rhaenyra dropped from Syrax’s back and ran.
“Brother—come with me, now!” She seized Baelor’s hand, ready to drag him out.
Baelor stopped her with a quiet pressure of his fingers.
“I am fine, sister.
If I run, a dragon fight becomes certain.” He had already seen Dreamfyre lose control once before.
He understood at once: Silverwing was not angry because he was unworthy.
She was angry because she already sensed the Cannibal on him—the infamous wild dragon that had long raided Dragonstone for food and eggs.
A debt needed a debtor.
Unable to catch the cunning Cannibal itself, the she-dragon was ready to take her rage out on its new master.
Baelor patted Rhaenyra’s hand once in reassurance, then raised his right palm and spoke again in High Valyrian, voice cold and level.
“Calm yourself, Silverwing.
Obey.” A restless, twisting roar answered him.
Yet the fire that had been gathering died in her throat.
Slowly, warily, she lowered her head and drifted closer, testing.
Any other soul would have fled.
The dragon had already shown clear intent to kill.
Baelor did not move.
His gaze stayed locked on hers—confident, unyielding.
He stretched out one hand and laid it against the great silver snout that had come within reach.
For a few heartbeats both closed their eyes, as though something passed between them that needed no words.
When Silverwing opened her eyes again the fury was gone.
In its place lingered only a strange, almost human regret.
She turned without further sound and climbed back into the deeper darkness of her cave.
Baelor opened his eyes a moment later and lifted a hand to show those behind him that he was unharmed.
The keepers stared, frozen.
None of them had imagined the prince would dare such a thing.
None dared approach now, for fear of disturbing the newly calmed dragon.
Rhaenyra pressed a hand to her chest, heart still hammering.
“You little bastard.
Wait until we are back—I will deal with you properly.” Yet beneath the scolding lay open relief and a fierce, private pride.
She had always known her brother was no ordinary Targaryen.
He was the prince the Song of Ice and Fire had promised.
From the rear, safely ringed by guards, Helaena’s voice rang clear and unsurprised.
“Brother is so strong!” Baelor took one step toward Rhaenyra, then immediately retreated.
“Mercy, sister.
I only just managed to come back alive.” “Fewer words.
Come here and let me look at you.” He obeyed without argument.
Rhaenyra checked him from head to foot, only truly exhaling when she found no injury.
Then one finger tapped hard against his forehead.
“Listen well.
The next time you let go of my hand, I will lock you inside the Red Keep and never let you out again for the rest of your life.” “Yes, sister.” Baelor kept his head down and offered not a single word of protest as she steered him away.
“Uncle,” she called over her shoulder, “I am taking Baelor to the maesters.
The pit is yours.” “Understood.” Daemon’s gaze stayed fixed on the departing boy.
He had to admit it: the nephew’s nerves were iron.
Faced with a great dragon’s sudden rage, the child had never once lost composure.
Whether that made him great or simply mad remained an open question.
Daemon looked down at the keepers from Caraxes’s height.
“Besides the sheep, what else did you feed her?
Or has anyone else come near the pit today?” While Baelor faced the dragon, Daemon too had caught that strange, sweet scent.
Years of wandering the Free Cities told him it could be perfume—or a sharp and dangerous poison.
Either way, it had no place in a dragon’s cave.
The keepers glanced at one another in confusion.
No one spoke.
Daemon swung down from the saddle, drew Dark Sister, and planted the point against the stone.
“Very well.
If none of you will talk, we will question you one by one until someone does.”