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CaveLeather When the formal welcome ended, Viserys led his family into the royal camp.
The Small Council waited in a respectful line, headed by Hand of the King Lyonel Strong and Master of Coin Lyman Beesbury.
“You have all worked hard,” Viserys said, smiling.
“Come, let us go inside.” The lords stepped back to allow the king and queen to pass first.
Only then did they turn and offer formal greetings to the prince.
Lyonel Strong presented a black-steel sword.
“May Your Grace grow as strong as any knight of the Vale.” Lyman Beesbury followed with a small casket of rare healing herbs from the Free Cities.
“May these restore Your Grace’s strength.” The remaining councillors, caught unprepared, could offer only words.
Baelor accepted every gift with a polite nod and ordered the servants to take them away.
He and Rhaenyra entered the great pavilion together.
Tables laden with cakes, fruit, and wine waited for the lords and ladies of the realm.
Viserys mounted a raised seat and greeted each noble in turn, drawing Baelor forward so the entire gathering might see the son he still called his greatest pride.
The lords bowed.
Many, noting the prince’s frail frame, silently doubted whether the boy would live to manhood.
That, they thought, depended on how much mercy the Seven still possessed.
Across the pavilion Rhaenyra sat among a circle of ladies, picking at pastries while the women traded gossip about the war in the Stepstones.
“I heard Lady Joanna was taken when Lord Swann’s ship passed the islands,” one elderly woman said.
“A dreadful fate.
They say she may be sold in the Free Cities and put to work as a common whore.” “My husband insists no king has ever held the Stepstones for long.
A barren place fit only for savages.” “Rather than talk in circles,” another suggested smoothly, “why not ask the princess her thoughts?” Rhaenyra’s answer was flawless.
“The war in the Stepstones is a matter for the king and the Small Council.
I offer no opinion.” She and Baelor had already prepared for conversations of this kind.
Lady Gylard’s voice cut in, sharp as a dog’s bark.
“Perhaps the princess does not know that her own uncle is the true architect of this war.
Without Prince Daemon the Crown might have sent envoys to the Triarchy and settled the matter in peace.” Rhaenyra found herself momentarily without reply.
The ladies’ tongues were sharper than any maester’s quill.
Baelor arrived before the silence could stretch.
His voice was calm, almost conversational.
“Lady Gylard, in your estimation how many times each year do the ships of the Triarchy prey upon Westerosi merchants?” The woman opened her mouth, then closed it.
She could not give a number, and they both knew it.
The Stepstones controlled every eastern sea-lane; the tolls alone could double the realm’s yearly income.
Baelor continued without haste.
“The Triarchy has repeatedly plundered our ships and sold my father’s subjects into slavery.
Even if my uncle began this war without leave, he did so for the peace of Westeros and the authority of the Crown.
My father will send aid.
The islands will be brought under the Iron Throne.
Do you still believe the entire matter is my uncle’s fault?” He looked straight at her, waiting.
The circle of ladies shifted uncomfortably.
Lady Gylard’s face darkened to the color of burnt bread.
She could not answer a six-year-old without risking her entire house.
At last she bent in a stiff, formal bow.
“Forgive my foolish words, Prince Baelor.” She fled the pavilion at once.
After that the conversation among the women turned safely domestic.
No one dared mention the war again.
Rhaenyra watched her brother with open admiration.
“Well done.
I thought you were still with Father.” “He feared too much company would tire me.
He sent me out for air.” “Don’t go far.” “I’m not a child.
And Ser Erryk is with me.” Baelor waved and left the scented, crowded tent.
Outside he walked slowly, considering how best to use the coming days of the hunt to harden a body the realm still called weak.
Pride would not allow the title “frail heir” to cling to him forever.
A limping figure approached—Larys Strong, second son of the Hand.
“Ser Larys.
Have you tired of the ladies’ conversation?” Larys leaned on his cane and executed a careful, deferential bow.
“Meeting Your Grace matters far more than any idle talk.” Baelor’s interest stirred.
He inclined his head, inviting the man to continue.
“I know something of Your Grace’s misfortunes,” Larys said carefully, “and of the ugly whispers spoken today.
Such things must weigh heavily.” Baelor heard the offer beneath the words: a man like me can remove that weight for you.
He smiled.
“This is the first time we have spoken, Ser Larys.” Larys understood the test.
“Might Ser Erryk step a short distance away?
I have words meant for Your Grace alone.” Baelor nodded and gestured.
Erryk’s face remained suspicious of the Clubfoot, but he moved far enough to give the illusion of privacy while still remaining within a single stride of intervention.
“Speak,” Baelor said.
Larys’s voice dropped.
“Tonight a certain lord will meet an unfortunate end.
I will cut out his tongue myself and lay it at your feet.” He drew a rolled paper from his sleeve, smoothed it on the ground between them, and stepped back into shadow.
“Everything is written there—the method, the disposal of the body, the payment of the men.
All of it under your control.” Baelor drew a white handkerchief, lifted the paper, and scanned the careful script.
A quiet, almost amused breath left him.
“Interesting.”
CaveLeather