Compared to Grey Ghost, Sheepstealer was never a creature inclined toward clinging affection.
The wild dragon was fully grown, his body vast and scarred, his presence carrying the calm weight of age and survival. There was a steadiness to him that Grey Ghost utterly lacked. He did not follow Baelon arounf, nor did he crowd close at every opportunity. Yet Baelon could still feel the dragon's contentment clearly enough.
It showed in the slow, unhurried sway of Sheepstealer's tail as he settled upon the open plain. It showed in the way the great head occasionally dipped, brushing lightly against Baelon's shoulder or neck, not demanding attention but acknowledging his presence. There was no urgency in the gesture. Only quiet acceptance.
When a dragon you had raised was at ease, Baelon thought, it was impossible not to feel satisfied in return.
This, he decided, must be the simple pleasure of keeping a pet.
He lifted his hand and rested it against Sheepstealer's cheek, fingers pressing into the warm, rough scales. Sheepstealer rumbled softly, eyes half-lidded, the sound vibrating through Baelon's arm.
"Rest well," Baelon said. His voice was low, steady. "If you grow hungry, hunt on the plains beyond the walls. I will have sheep and game released there for you."
Sheepstealer snorted, a brief puff of warm breath washing over Baelon's face. The dragon did not move again, settling deeper into the grass as if the matter were decided.
Everything on Baelon's end was proceeding smoothly.
Far away, in King's Landing, matters were anything but smooth.
"No," King Viserys shouted, his voice echoing through the great hall. "You will marry this year. That is my command as your king and your father."
Rhaenyra stood rigid before the Iron Throne, her hands clenched at her sides. Viserys' face was flushed, his breathing labored, his eyes blazing with a fury she had rarely seen directed at her.
She opened her mouth to argue again, then stopped herself. The words lodged in her throat. There was no reasoning with him now.
"If you continue to defy me," Viserys went on, jabbing a finger toward her, "I will choose your husband myself. I will not have my heir flaunting her duty before the realm."
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Rhaenyra bowed stiffly, more from instinct than respect, then turned and fled the hall.
She locked herself in her chambers and remained there for hours, pacing, trembling, anger giving way to dread. At last, unable to bear it any longer, she changed into riding leathers, stormed for the Dragonpit, and mounted Syrax.
Viserys stood by the window long after she had gone, watching her dragon become a shrinking speck against the sky.
"…Sigh," he murmured, his shoulders sagging.
At Harrenhal, the evening meal was already underway.
Baelon sat at the long table with Daemon and Laena. The hall was quiet, the shadows deep, torchlight flickering across black stone walls.
"This lamb chop is excellent," Daemon said, lifting his fork. He took a deliberate bite, chewing slowly, eyes narrowing in appreciation. "That blend of spices. Tyroshi work, I would wager."
"The cook came as tribute from Aegos," Baelon replied, setting down his goblet. "Along with a shipment of Myrish carpets. He arrived bearing a request as well. Aid from Craghas, the Triarchy's supreme commander."
Daemon snorted softly. "Has the Crabfeeder finally found himself cornered?"
"He sent his entire family with the cook," Baelon continued, folding his napkin with care. "A show of sincerity. He has learned something of my preferences."
Daemon's brow lifted. "Craghas was always stubborn. During the Stepstones, it felt as though he would rather die than bend."
"He is formidable," Baelon said evenly. "Holding out this long with remnants alone is no small feat. But Volantis remains Volantis. Not long ago, he used what strength he had left to destroy the Tiger Cloaks."
Daemon's expression darkened. "One of Volantis' few true elite forces. With them gone, the so-called Daughter of Valyria will not sit easy."
Baelon took a sip of milk, unhurried.
"And what of us?" Daemon asked, setting his fork aside. He leaned back in his chair, fingers drumming lightly against the table. "The Triarchy bleeds. Volantis weakens. We have rebuilt for years. Is it not time to move?"
Since the onset of his strange ailment, Daemon's appetite for women had withered. In its place, his hunger for war had only sharpened.
"Not yet," Baelon replied. "We still have time. Our priority remains the same. We build strength."
Daemon's lips twitched. "Still?"
The three of them alone could already unmake the realm.
Laena Velaryon, rider of Vhagar, stood behind House Velaryon. Daemon rode Caraxes. Baelon held Harrenhal, Crackclaw Point, and Tyrosh. Rhaenys and Meleys would not oppose Laena. Laenor and Seasmoke were allies. Jason Lannister stood close besides.
"How could we lose?" Daemon seemed to be asking. "By smashing our heads against the walls of the Red Keep?"
Baelon set down his cup.
"Please doo not forget," he said quietly, "that aside from the Westerlands, no kingdom has openly declared for me. The Riverlands, the Vale, the Stormlands. Any of them could choose Rhaenyra."
He paused.
"And even if they do not," he went on, "they may choose Aegon. Never forget, father. Neither you nor I will ever be their first choice."
Daemon's gaze sharpened. Then, slowly, he nodded.
"…I know."
Laena said nothing. She listened politely, but politics had never stirred her blood.
"My lord," a servant announced from the doorway. "Princess Rhaenyra has arrived."
Baelon frowned. "Rhaenyra? Why?"
He rose at once. "I will greet her."
He could not imagine what had driven her here so suddenly.
Outside the Black Heart Tower, he found her waiting.
She wore an ornate court gown rather than riding leathers, its skirts dusty and creased. Her hair had come loose from its braids, strands clinging to her damp cheeks. Her eyes were red.
"What happened?" Baelon asked softly.
She looked at him, and her composure shattered.
"My father," she said, voice shaking. "He has ordered me to marry this year. If I refuse, he will choose for me."
She pressed a hand to her mouth, breathing unsteadily.
"I have never seen him so angry," she whispered.
Baelon listened, expression grave.
"You should choose a husband," he said at last, gently. "Rhaenyra, you are no longer a girl."
Her head snapped up, eyes flashing.
"I know that," she said sharply, then faltered. "I know."
He met her gaze steadily. "I do not speak of politics. I speak of legacy. If you are to rule, the throne must pass to your children. If you wait too long, when will those children be ready to rule?"
Her jaw tightened. She turned away, arms wrapping around herself, staring out across the darkened yard.
"I wanted time," she said quietly. "Time to breathe. Time to choose."
Baelon stepped closer, his tone softening. "Time is a luxury few heirs are granted."
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