Baelon intended to find himself strong guards, as well as knights who truly embodied the spirit of chivalry.
Since the people of Westeros revered knights, perhaps he had the makings of a King Arthur himself!
He could form his own Company of the Round Table.
A band of legendary, righteous knights would gather around him, their deeds immortalized in the songs of bards.
Baelon thought that ought to hold some appeal in Westeros.
As for Ser Swann, even before Baelon knew anything about his character, the man’s sheer size had already caught his attention.
Even if the fellow turned out to have a character like The Mountain, that did not necessarily mean he would be useless.
So Baelon happily approached him.
“Swann? You’re from the Stormlands, aren’t you?”
Ser Swann hurriedly swallowed the food in his mouth, visibly flustered.
He had never expected such an honor.
Baelon Targaryen was actually speaking to him of his own accord.
Among a hall filled with nobles, he was so insignificant that he had been relegated to a corner near the doors.
Yet the Prince of Dragonstone had noticed him.
“N-no. I’m from the Marches.”
“What?” Baelon was certain he had remembered the house sigil correctly.
Black and white, with two swans fighting one another.
Ser Swann stumbled through an explanation.
“Well, Lord, you are right. I come from Stonehelm in the Stormlands.”
“But I’m only the second son of my house. I grew up in the Marches.”
That thoroughly piqued Baelon’s curiosity.
“Stonehelm’s liege lord is a Baratheon. Even if you were only going there as a squire, shouldn’t you have gone to Storm’s End?”
Ser Swann hesitated, unable to give a clear answer.
Seeing this, Baelon considerately changed the subject.
“Will you be taking part in tomorrow’s tourney?”
“This time, every contestant, whether a noble knight or a hedge knight, will have both their place in the lists and their opponent decided entirely by lot.”
“Lord, I don’t intend to enter the joust,” Ser Swann said, lowering his head.
Baelon looked over Ser Swann’s powerful, ox-like build.
With a body like that, he had no desire to win glory through martial prowess?
How unusual.
“I intend to enter the archery contest!”
Baelon stared at him in surprise.
“So you’re a longbowman?”
The martial traditions most favored in Westeros centered on swords and lances.
He also needed to study High Valyrian in preparation for dragonriding, learn history and culture, and memorize the genealogies of Westeros’s noble houses.
At the same time, he had to oversee his simulated town outside King’s Landing and make time to spend with Viserys and Rhaenyra.
With only so much time and energy to spare, he knew little about archery.
He had assumed archers were all lean, nimble men who relied on speed and agility.
After they exchanged a few more words, Ser Swann gradually relaxed.
A mild smile appeared on his face.
“My lord, a longbowman needs a strong body to draw the bowstring.”
He opened the long bundle of black cloth beside him and drew out a longbow nearly two meters in length.
“Look. This bow has a draw weight of one hundred and seventy pounds.”
“One hundred and seventy pounds?” Baelon had no real sense of what that meant.
Curious, he asked, “Then how heavy a bow could I draw right now?”
Ser Swann carefully studied his build before answering, “Perhaps eight or nine pounds.”
Excellent!
Now he understood exactly what one hundred and seventy pounds meant!
It was at that moment that Baelon’s curiosity drove him to ask a question he would regret for the rest of his life.
“Then… may I see your muscles?”
Ser Swann hesitated before slowly rolling up his sleeve and revealing an arm thicker than Baelon’s head.
An arm could never be thicker than a thigh?
Ser Swann had clearly never heard that saying.
Baelon praised him sincerely and, following proper etiquette, politely thanked Ser Swann for all his efforts in defending the realm.
Then he felt his own arm and compared it with Ser Swann’s.
Those muscles.
Those enormous arms.
Now that was what a real man looked like!
Baelon was deeply envious.
Ser Swann had never received much attention.
Perhaps the Prince’s undisguised admiration and praise went straight to his head, because he casually added, “My back muscles are even better!”
Baelon’s curiosity could no longer be restrained.
Westeros had always operated by two sets of standards.
One for nobles, and another for commoners.
When commoners ate too much, it was gluttony, a sin to be condemned.
When nobles held extravagant feasts, however, it was a reflection of their status and character.
Only lavish food was considered fitting for their station.
The same distinction existed between the Targaryens and the rest of the nobility.
Westeros forbade marriage between siblings, but the Targaryens stood above that law and were treated as an exception.
Baelon’s upbringing followed much the same pattern.
The people around him taught him restraint, kindness, and forgiveness while simultaneously indulging his every desire.
The treasures of the Seven Kingdoms were laid open before him.
There was almost nothing in the world he could desire and not obtain.
Even the Maesters and the senior members of the Small Council approved of this.
If the Prince’s desires caused no harm to the realm or its people, then there was no reason to deny Prince Baelon an innocent wish.
Doing so would merely be needlessly harsh.
As for Viserys, he spoiled Baelon excessively and believed his son had been born with the right to enjoy everything the world could offer.
Everything except Vermithor, of course.
Baelon had originally set his sights on Vhagar, the largest and oldest living dragon since the death of Balerion the Black Dread.
But after the death of her rider, the previous Baelon, Vhagar had refused to return to the Dragonpit.
Instead, she had found some distant forest and made her home there.
It was said that the people living near that forest often heard the dragon’s cries, long and mournful.
At that point, Viserys’s excessive protectiveness became an obstacle.
Baelon was not allowed to leave King’s Landing and venture into the forest in search of Vhagar.
Then one day, news arrived.
Vhagar had been claimed by Laena Velaryon.
From then on, whenever ships passed Driftmark, if fortune granted them clear skies with neither cloud nor mist, those aboard might look up and see a dragon whose wings could cast an entire ship into shadow soaring across the bright blue sky.
With Vhagar lost to him, Baelon still had Vermithor.
But Vermithor had been kept within the inner grounds of the Red Keep during the reign of the Old King rather than in the Dragonpit.
After the Old King’s death, Vermithor left King’s Landing and settled alongside Silverwing among the volcanic slopes of Dragonstone.
Baelon: …
In short, aside from Vhagar and Vermithor, there was very little Baelon could not have.
Growing up in such an environment made learning virtue difficult, while picking up bad habits came frighteningly easily.
A harmless curiosity, naturally, ought to be satisfied.
Ser Swann could not bring himself to refuse the Prince’s request.
Outside the feast hall, he showed Baelon the muscles of his back.
Baelon immediately cried out in amazement and showered him with even more praise.
As he praised him, Baelon asked how Ser Swann trained.
He even took the opportunity to teach him several modern poses commonly used to show off one’s muscles.
Ser Swann awkwardly imitated the bodybuilding poses.
One praised while the other showed off.
Both host and guest had a splendid time.
By the end of it, Baelon had gained an archery instructor along with a wealth of advice on diet and training, while Ser Swann had been praised until he was practically floating.
But as it turned out, there was wisdom in not indulging every desire.
Otherwise, one could never know what sort of door one had just opened.