Aemond Targaryen had lost his eye.
Baelon learned of it only when he returned to Dragonstone at dusk, the sea wind still clinging to his cloak as the torches along the causeway were being lit one by one. The news reached him not in shouts or cries, but in the grave stillness that settled over the castle like a funeral shroud.
The maester had already finished his examination by the time Baelon arrived. The verdict was final and merciless. The left eye had been ruined beyond saving. No poultice, no prayer, no art known to the Citadel could restore it. The wound had been savage, torn by claw and flame alike, and whatever light had once lived there was gone forever.
When Baelon was told the full account of what had transpired within the Dragonmont, he closed his eyes and breathed out slowly. The sound was halfway between a sigh and a lament.
Aemond's misfortune was appalling, but not inexplicable.
Under ordinary circumstances, once a hatchling had been soothed with the old tongue and allowed to accept a man's presence, the next step was patience. Stillness. Allowing the dragon to approach in its own time. Bonding was never seized. It was granted.
Young dragons were creatures of raw instinct and deep unease. Long before they were large enough to fly, they sought to hollow out lairs of their own within the mountain, cramped caverns of stone and shadow where they might feel safe from the world. That need for safety was what allowed a bond to form.
Aemond had done the opposite.
He had pressed inward. Advanced further into the lair. Forced himself into Arrax's refuge rather than inviting the dragon outward. To a hatchling, that was not courage. It was threat.
Fear had answered fear.
Baelon kept these thoughts to himself. There was no need to speak them aloud. The damage had already been done.
Because of Aemond's ruined eye, Queen Alicent's temper toward Princess Rhaenyra curdled into something sharp and poisonous. It did not matter how many times the Dragonkeepers explained the circumstances. It did not matter that King Viserys himself confirmed Syrax had been far too large to enter the cavern, or that Aemond had ordered the guards to remain behind. Reason found no purchase in a mother's grief.
The moment Alicent saw her son carried back, bloodied and broken, all restraint deserted her.
She gave voice to her fury in the great hall, pacing before the Iron Throne with rigid steps, her hands clenched so tightly that her knuckles whitened beneath the candlelight. Her words came swift and cutting, each accusation sharpened by pain.
Yet for all her vehemence, not a single voice rose to support her.
Not one lord. Not one knight. Not even Baelon.
When the realization finally reached her, it struck like a blow. The strength drained from her posture. Her shoulders sagged, and for the briefest moment her gaze drifted, unfocused, toward the tall windows that looked east, as though she could see beyond them.
If Father were still here.
The thought burned and vanished just as quickly.
Alicent's hands tightened again, nails biting into her palms. Her mouth thinned, and whatever softness remained in her expression hardened into resolve.
"Enough."
King Viserys' voice cut through the hall, weary but unyielding.
He sat forward on the throne, both hands resting upon the armrests, his fingers stained faintly with ink from the papers he had abandoned. His face bore the weight of years and sickness, but his eyes were clear.
"Aemond was injured because he failed in dragonbonding," Viserys said. "Such injuries are part of the risk. They always have been."
He turned his head slightly, addressing the gathered court as much as his queen.
"When my brother Daemon first sought to claim Caraxes, do you know how he returned? His armor was torn, his skin cut to ribbons. He was nearly covered in gashes. Even now, his body bears those scars."
Viserys drew a slow breath before continuing.
"And when I bonded with Balerion, the Black Dread did not accept me gently. I suffered wounds that took moons to heal."
His voice lowered.
"Dragonriding is the sword of House Targaryen. And sometimes, a sword cuts the hand that wields it. I told you this before we ever set out for Dragonstone."
He looked directly at Alicent then, his gaze steady.
"Princess Rhaenyra bears no fault in this. I will not hear her name dragged through the mud."
Alicent's body trembled, the fury still there, coiled and restrained. Her lips parted as though she might argue further, but no words came. At last, she turned her head away.
She knew better than anyone that under Viserys' protection, she could not touch Rhaenyra. Not even by a hair.
And in the quiet of her own heart, she knew the truth.
Aemond's injury had been his own doing.
"Negligence by the Dragonkeeper," Alicent said at last, her voice gone cold and precise. "Negligence that resulted in grievous harm to a prince of the realm. Such failure borders on treason."
Her gaze dropped to the old man kneeling at the foot of the hall. The Dragonkeeper's back was bent with age, his white hair bound neatly despite the circumstances. He did not raise his eyes.
"Sentence him to death."
A hush fell.
"Wait," Viserys said, lifting one hand.
For a moment, it seemed he would stop her. Then his hand lowered again. His shoulders slumped, and he said nothing further, allowing her the outlet she so clearly sought.
Before the sentence could be carried out, Baelon stepped forward.
"Execution is unnecessary," he said evenly. "Exile will suffice."
All eyes turned toward him.
"Harrenhal lacks experienced Dragonkeepers," Baelon continued. "Send him there. Let him serve where his skill is still of use."
He did not look at Alicent as he spoke. His attention remained on the kneeling man.
This Dragonkeeper had served House Targaryen all his life. To end such service with the headsman's sword, to make him pay with his life for a prince's error, would be nothing short of cruelty.
And it would be a waste.
A man fluent in High Valyrian and learned in the care of dragons was not easily replaced.
"Go to Harrenhal," Baelon said. "Your duty is to tend dragons, nothing more. Keep your head down and involve yourself in no courtly matters."
He lifted his hand in dismissal.
The Dragonkeeper bowed deeply, his forehead touching the stone, then rose and departed without a word.
"You," Alicent began, her voice sharp, then stopped herself. She drew in a breath through her nose and turned away. "Hmph."
Out of respect for Baelon, she swallowed whatever she had intended to say.
"Aemond's eye is already lost," Baelon said, his tone calm but firm. "No number of executions will change that. Your efforts would be better spent helping him succeed where he failed."
He glanced toward the benches where the children sat.
"Do not forget why Aemond came to Dragonstone in the first place."
Alicent followed his gaze.
Aemond sat upright despite the bandages wrapped around his head. His face was pale, his jaw clenched, but his posture had not wilted. There was no surrender in him.
Even now.
"He is right, Mother," Aemond said, his voice hoarse but steady. "If I succeed in bonding a dragon, then trading one eye for such a prize is worth the cost."
His remaining eye burned with fierce intensity, bright as a drawn blade.
Losing the left had been agony. It had been terror. But it had also taught him a truth no lesson could impart.
Even a newborn dragon could kill.
"Forget Arrax," Baelon said quietly. "The hatchling has marked you as a threat. You will gain nothing by pressing the matter further."
Aemond nodded once. "I will heed your counsel, cousin."
Alicent exhaled slowly.
"Very well," she said. "But I will not have Princess Rhaenyra riding in protection of my children. I want Baelon guarding Helaena and Aemond."
"That suits me," Rhaenyra replied, her voice cool as frost. "I had no desire to guard your children."
She turned on her heel and left the hall, her skirts whispering against the stone.
For a moment, no one spoke.
Baelon exchanged uneasy glances with the others.
"Let her go," Viserys said quietly.
The rest of the evening passed in subdued discussion. Plans were made for the morrow. Helaena made it clear she would not attempt another bond. Baelon's sole charge would be Aemond.
At dawn, they set out once more.
Aemond's head was wrapped in fresh bandages as he rode toward the Dragonmont, flanked by guards. This time, no caverns were barred to him. He was permitted to roam the mountain freely, to seek any dragon he dared.
He tried again and again.
Skullion.
Vermithrax.
He even returned to Arrax's lair, standing at its threshold, heart pounding, before retreating.
None accepted him.
At last, exhaustion overcame pride. Aemond sank to the stone floor, his back against the cavern wall.
"Is it truly impossible," he murmured, "for me to claim a dragon of my own?"
The loss of his eye had not broken him.
Repeated failure did.
"Giving up already?" Baelon's voice came from behind him.
Aemond looked up as Baelon dismounted, the great dragon beneath him shifting with a low rumble. Envy flickered across the boy's face before he mastered it.
"I have tried every hatchling born here in recent years," Aemond said. "None will accept me. Should I attempt a wild dragon instead?"
He knew the risks. The Cannibal. Sheepstealer. Grey Ghost. Their names were spoken in whispers for good reason.
"They are beyond you," Baelon replied. "For now. Wild dragons are death to the unprepared."
He paused, then tilted his head slightly.
"Did not one of the Dragonkeepers mention another dragon still dwelling on Dragonstone?"
Aemond frowned. "You mean Morghul?"
Baelon inclined his head.
"Why not try him?"