Hot soup

The Red Keep's inner courtyard

Three Targaryens stood in the damp mud, while three dragons of different sizes crowded into the courtyard, getting reacquainted.

"He really is strong."

Rhaenyra pressed her hand against Vermithor's warm skin in wonder.

Syrax cautiously, slowly edged closer to Vermithor.

Caraxes stared straight at the enormous Vermithor, his eyes bright.

Daemon studied Baelon and suddenly asked, "Can Vermithor grow any bigger?"

Baelon was telling the attendants that the king would return to the Red Keep tomorrow. At the question, he shook his head.

"He'll keep growing slowly, but not like this."

They had already reached their limit.

He and Vermithor had already reached the limits of what a dragon in Westeros could achieve.

Clearing each stage of the Trial Space for the first time granted a percentage boost.

Vermithor had been the second-largest dragon. With that enormous starting size and the percentage boosts from the earlier stages, they had every advantage, yet could only make it through thirty-odd stages.

Only by combining that with the inventory, a trick outside the rules, had they stumbled their way to Rodan, the king of the skies.

Rodan could produce sonic booms in flight and weighed over thirty thousand tons. Before that monster, Vermithor was like a hollow paper shell. His density and defenses were on an entirely different level, and he was gone in a single encounter.

Even working together with Vermithor and using the items in his inventory, he still could not win.

Now the Trial Space served as Vermithor's pasture, where he could easily farm meat in the earlier stages.

Baelon patted Vermithor's large scales.

At his current size, Vermithor had quite an appetite.

An endless, free pasture was a pretty good thing to have.

Thinking of the thousands upon thousands of pterosaurs, he realized he might not even need to worry about food supplies.

Daemon dispensed with pleasantries. "I want that too."

"I want Caraxes to..."

"No." Baelon refused without hesitation.

Daemon would not give up. No dragonriding Targaryen lacked confidence or arrogance.

Whatever Baelon and Vermithor could achieve, he and Caraxes would be no worse.

He gave a cold laugh.

Caraxes, the Blood Worm, suddenly opened his jaws. Ignoring the vast difference in their size, he roared a challenge at Vermithor.

Vermithor instantly snapped back in anger. He could not tolerate a little dragon's provocation.

Seeing things take a turn, Syrax wisely flapped her wings and retreated to a corner.

"Caraxes," Daemon called.

Baelon patted Vermithor soothingly.

A few seconds later, the two dragons stared fixedly at each other, reluctantly settling down under their riders' soothing.

"Uncle," Baelon said, "every time you went to the Free Cities and brought exquisite gifts back for Father and Rhaenyra, you never once forgot to toss me some worthless scrap to insult me."

"So I'll give you a serious answer. As the Seven are my witnesses, there will never be another miracle like this."

He said solemnly, "There will never be another miracle like this in Westeros."

Daemon stroked Caraxes and rested his head against the dragon's scarlet skull without answering.

Caraxes still stared defiantly at Vermithor.

"He's too aggressive." Baelon sensed Vermithor's anger.

"You'd better keep Caraxes under control," he said. "Vermithor isn't a forgiving dragon."

Daemon casually glanced back at Vermithor's enormous bulk and scoffed. "Are there any dragons that aren't aggressive?"

"Now I remember." He gave Baelon a teasing look.

"Doesn't a certain nephew of mine always like to provoke me over the succession to the Iron Throne?"

Baelon: ...

Baelon thought back to the past.

It had only been after Daemon had stolen the fine Dornish horse he had bought at great expense, then "accidentally" melted his collection of commemorative gold coins from the Kingdom of the Vale into a lump with dragonfire.

He had casually asked whether Daemon was taking his anger over losing his position as heir out on him.

Had he still not let go and accepted reality after six whole years?

But Daemon had played dirty and actually tried to slap him across the face.

How could Baelon stand for that?

He had darted behind Viserys and said softly, smiling, "It's not as though Uncle would draw his sword and kill me."

"I just love seeing you unable to stand me but unable to get rid of me, Uncle, seething helplessly."

"My nephew wouldn't let Vermithor kill me." Daemon's voice pulled Baelon out of his memories.

Right in front of Baelon, he curled his lips into an amused smile and spread his hands.

"I just love seeing my nephew unable to stand me but unable to get rid of me, seething helplessly."

Caraxes let out a hiss.

Baelon frowned at those words, and Vermithor blew two streams of hot air from his nostrils.

That was the trouble with blood ties: impossible to sever, impossible to untangle.

He had once relied on that to dance all over Daemon's limits, and now Daemon had actually learned to do the same.

But losing a war of words to Daemon was the one thing Baelon refused to do. He chuckled. "Not necessarily."

"What if I decide to challenge the gods' authority one day?"

Kinslaying was the most terrible sin, the most unforgivable crime in the Seven Kingdoms. The Old and New Gods would all lay down their curses.

"How would the gods kill a Targaryen who was prepared? Send down a meteor? Spread disease?"

Daemon's gaze abruptly sharpened.

"Enough!" Rhaenyra shouted.

"Uncle, Baelon, if you keep arguing, I'll tell Father!" Rhaenyra threatened.

She struck the killing blow, ending their argument in a single sentence. "Let's see whether Father makes you hug each other and exchange a courtly kiss, cheek to cheek, to make peace."

Daemon: ...

Baelon: ...

Baelon exhaled and wrung out his dripping cuffs. "I'll go back to my bedroom and change, then return to Dragonstone."

"See you tomorrow."

After saying goodbye to Rhaenyra, he greeted the hastily approaching Corlys Velaryon with proper courtesy.

As master of ships, Corlys Velaryon naturally lived in the Red Keep as well, but his wife Rhaenys frequently traveled between Driftmark and King's Landing.

She did so to spend time with their daughter, who lived on Driftmark.

"Vermithor-he's even bigger than Vhagar now," Corlys Velaryon said in astonishment. "How did you do it?"

"Perhaps because I'm the prince who was promised," Baelon said with a smile.

"Incredible. Can you make other dragons..."

"Lord Corlys," Baelon interrupted him outright, "I'm going back to my bedroom to change."

Corlys paused.

He fell into step with Baelon and brought up Laena instead. "Prince, Laena has already set out for King's Landing to attend the Landing Day celebration."

"She can stay in the Red Keep until you marry. Then the two largest dragons will be stationed in King's Landing."

I'm only six! Baelon thought.

He looked down at himself and said tactfully, "Lady Laena loves flying on dragonback. I don't want marriage to tie her down, and I'm still too young."

He certainly did not want to leave Laena with the impression that he was a little child.

"Why not ask Lady Laena what she wants?"

Corlys burst into hearty laughter, the sound blowing through the corridor like a howling sea wind. "Of course she's willing!"

"Laena really liked the gift you gave her, that Dragonbone Dagger."

"She absolutely loves it! What made you think to give her a dagger? Rhaenys guessed it would be a bottle of perfume."

"I'm glad she likes it," Baelon said admiringly. "Lady Laena is brave and strong, just like Visenya!"

"Unfortunately, I don't have a Dark Sister to give her, only a Dragonbone Dagger."

Corlys Velaryon's smile widened. Baelon's fondness for Laena benefited the Velaryons, both publicly and privately.

He said frankly, "She too will become a queen celebrated like Visenya."

Over the past six years, Baelon had long since grown accustomed to this world's culture. He knew royal power was not absolute, and people did not tremble over every word and action.

Baelon returned to his bedroom and changed. The maids brought him white bread and pudding, along with a plate of fully ripe figs.

Baelon stuffed down the bread and pudding in a few bites, leaving the figs untouched.

Before returning to Dragonstone, Baelon summoned Ser Uther and told him, "Ser, I have something I need you to do."

He dried his hair. "It rained today, and I saw many people simply standing there in the rain instead of taking shelter."

"Take some gold dragons from my private treasury, buy some herbs and ginger from Maester Mellos, and make soup to hand out free to the people of King's Landing."

"After all, I brought this rain."

Ser Uther grinned, exposing the row of teeth sharpened in his childhood in Flea Bottom, when he had fought for others' entertainment.

"Yes!"

His eyes shone as he stared at Baelon, eager to turn around and get to work immediately.

Whenever Baelon performed such foolish acts of kindness, Ser Uther would look at him that way, then take out his shriveled purse and happily pay out of his own pocket as he worked.

Baelon casually thrust the soft, overripe figs into Ser Uther's hands and walked toward Vermithor without looking back.

He still had things to do.

He took stock of his life.

Power, standing, a righteous cause, strength, wealth, even love...

He lacked nothing.

Very few people made trouble for him, so the Iron Islands had truly left a deep impression on him.

And so the merciful Baelon was rather eager to have a go.

The Landing Day celebration was approaching, and the Iron Islands had a duty to offer gifts to the king.

He was considering whether to discuss it with Viserys, then visit the Iron Islands to see what difficulties they were having.

Could it be because the Iron Throne had failed to observe the Ironborn's customs?

The "merciful" Baelon was quite willing to respect the Iron Islands' traditional culture: "We Do Not Sow."

He also needed to visit the maester's tower and check the records to see which parts of the Seven Kingdoms had been prone to rebellion over the past century.

After all, what good would it do to fight at the front while his own backyard burned?

Baelon mounted Vermithor and sighed helplessly.

There really was a great deal to do next.

Elsewhere

Humming a hoarse, unpleasant song, Ser Uther excitedly changed into boiled leather armor, put a coat of black mail over it, and threw on a black cloak.

He assembled the forty-four knights Prince Baelon had left in the Red Keep, along with a large crowd of squires.

Before long, steaming cauldrons were set up along the streets of King's Landing.

Knights rode through the streets shouting that everyone could have a free bowl of hot soup.

Heads poked out of the densely packed houses.

Gradually, one figure after another poured out of the cramped alleys and gathered in the streets.

Barefoot children shrieked, their smiles undiminished even when sword-bearing squires ordered them to line up.

One ragged figure after another joined the queues.

Ser Uther felt as though boundless strength surged through his chest, making him grin.

Rather than stand to one side giving orders, he preferred ladling out the soup himself.

A sturdy child of twelve or thirteen stared straight at his pointed teeth.

The people ahead of him dwindled one by one. When he received his hot soup, the boy asked quietly, "Can rats become knights too?"

Ser Uther froze.

The boy raised his head, revealing a pair of cold, hard black eyes and a mouthful of pointed teeth.

In Flea Bottom's rat pits, children's teeth were sharpened so they could bite and tear at one another for rich people's amusement.

But as they grew older, those sharpened teeth would hurt more and more.

Ser Uther took the remaining five or six figs from the small pouch at his waist. After a moment's hesitation, he pressed them all into the boy's hands.

"No," he said honestly.

He paused. "To become a knight, first you need a knight to choose you as his squire."