The courtyard was heavy with silence.
The fishermen stood in small clusters, whispering to one another, but none dared to make the first move.
The aroma of freshly baked bread wafted temptingly through the air, curling around them like a siren's call. It was enough to make their mouths water, yet the gleam of the knights' swords kept every hungry hand firmly at its side.
No one wanted to be the "first bird" — the first to step forward, the first to risk catching the attention of steel.
Baelon stood on the steps, watching the crowd. The tension he had carried earlier had long since faded, replaced by a cool, measured calm. His gaze swept over the weathered faces, seeing only exhaustion and dull obedience in their eyes.
It was strange. He had expected the people of Dragonstone to be like the restless, rebellious commoners of King's Landing — quick to speak, quicker to act. Yet here they stood, unmoving, their spirits seemingly worn down by the endless grind of survival.
Then, among the sea of weary faces, a pair of eyes caught his attention.
They were different — bright, unclouded, brimming with life. Like the gaze of a young university student suddenly dropped into a room full of jaded office workers, these eyes still carried a spark, a stubborn anticipation for a better life.
Baelon's lips curved in satisfaction. There it is, he thought. The first bird… no, the breakthrough I've been looking for.
Raising his voice, he called, "You. Yes, you — step forward!"
The crowd shifted slightly, parting just enough for one man to be seen more clearly.
Billy — a fisherman by trade and name — froze. His heart leapt at Baelon's words, though his body hesitated.
The Prince's offer had been simple: collect oysters in exchange for bread. A task so straightforward it almost sounded like a trick.
Oysters were everywhere along the coast. You didn't need a ship to find them — just a bit of bending and prying on the mudflats or rocky shore. It was work Billy could do with his eyes closed. And the reward… warm, fragrant bread.
Billy's Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed hard, eyes fixed on the loaves. But he knew the sea, and the sea had taught him there was no such thing as free bait. If an offer looked too easy, something dangerous was lurking beneath.
Still, the smell was too much. It wrapped around him, pulling at the empty pit of his stomach.
Then Prince Baelon pointed at him directly.
Billy felt a dozen gazes turn his way. His legs trembled as he stepped forward, the faintest flicker of hope pressing him onward.
He bowed awkwardly. "Prince Baelon… g-good day."
"What is your name?" Baelon asked.
"B-Billy. Everyone calls me Billy the Fisherman."
It was worth noting — in this world, surnames were a luxury of the nobility. Most commoners had no family name at all; to be known by one's trade was enough.
"Good, Billy." Baelon's eyes locked on to his, reading the quiet hunger there. "Are you willing to work for me?"
His voice rang out, clear and full of promise. "If you work hard, you will never go hungry again."
Billy's face flushed crimson. "I… I am willing!"
Any lingering hesitation was gone. With the Prince himself extending the offer, it felt almost like a blessing.
"Very good." Baelon's tone softened. He reached into the barrel beside him and pulled out a loaf of bread, handing it over. "This is yours."
Billy took it carefully, as if the loaf might vanish if he gripped it too tightly. Even when he stepped back among the fishermen, he still felt as though he were dreaming.
The bread was real. And he had gotten it so easily.
That was all it took.
The fishermen erupted into motion, voices rising in a desperate rush. They pushed forward to sign their names — or at least, make a mark — on the list. There was enough bread for all, but the fear of missing out drove them to move faster, jostling one another despite the knights' intimidating presence.
Fortunately, the gleam of drawn swords was enough to keep things from devolving into chaos.
Baelon took the ledger from his steward, scanning the results. As he had expected, nearly everyone had chosen the oyster-gathering task. On an island like Dragonstone, surrounded by rocky shores and wild waves, this was the kind of work they knew best.
Money meant little to them; there was nowhere to spend it. But bread? Bread could keep a person alive.
When each fisherman received their loaf, some tore into it immediately, crumbs spilling down their chins, while others tucked it carefully inside their clothing to take home.
"Tomorrow," Baelon announced, "when the bell rings, bring your own tools and gather here at the castle. We will harvest oysters together along the beach. You will be paid in bread at the end of the day."
He paused, letting the promise settle in.
"Lunch and dinner will also be provided. And if there are others in your household who are able to work, send them. We need wood chopped, clothes washed, repairs made. It does not matter your age, gender, or status — if you are willing to work, you are welcome here."
The fishermen listened intently. On Dragonstone, tools were precious. But Baelon had no intention of supplying them himself. Knights brought their own swords and armor when they served their lords — why shouldn't the fishermen do the same?
The thought made him smile faintly. Perhaps I have the makings of a ruthless capitalist after all.
The crowd began to thin, fishermen heading back to their homes with a mix of excitement and unease. Whatever tomorrow brought, tonight they would eat well — something other than the endless taste of fish.
---
Night fell.
The dragon-shaped tower of the castle loomed in the darkness, its silhouette like that of a sleeping beast against the starless sky. The air was cool and still, broken only by the soft rustle of the wind through the courtyards.
Inside his chambers, Baelon was rummaging through a wooden chest, pushing aside folded cloth and trinkets until his fingers closed around what he sought.
A dagger.
Its hilt was made from polished dragonbone, warm and smooth beneath his fingers, its pale surface overlaid with delicate gilded veins. In its center gleamed a ruby, blood-red under the candlelight.
The dragonbone's luster was deep and rich, almost like obsidian yet somehow lighter. It was a material known for its rarity — and its danger.
Baelon drew the blade. A sharp, cold light flashed briefly, catching in his eyes. He smiled in satisfaction, sliding it back into its sheath before making his way down the hall.
He stopped at Rhaenyra's chamber door and knocked softly.
"Come in," came a faint voice.
When she saw it was Baelon, she turned her head away with a huff, her silver hair swaying slightly.
The maid in the corner glanced between them, then wisely slipped out, closing the door behind her.
"This is for you," Baelon said, holding out the dagger. "Do you like it?"
Rhaenyra's irritation faded into surprise. She took the weapon and examined it closely. "This is… dragonbone?"
"Shh!" Baelon pressed a finger to her lips, glancing toward the door. "Before we left King's Landing, I took a small piece from Balerion's remains and set it into this hilt myself."
He held up his thumb and forefinger to show how little he had taken — just a sliver.
The Targaryens' dragons were still alive, their bones treasures beyond compare. Since the day Torren Stark, the King Who Knelt, had presented a dragonbone crown to Aegon the Conqueror, few outside House Targaryen had ever dared to possess such things. Those who did kept them hidden.
Baelon had painstakingly shaped the bone, fitting it perfectly into the dagger's grip. The only flaw was the blade — it was not Valyrian steel. That would have been worthy of the hilt, but he had to make do with what was available.
"Baelon, you…" Rhaenyra's eyes widened. "You're far too bold."
"Don't you like it?" he asked again, watching her reaction.
She gripped the dagger, testing its weight. It was lighter than any blade she had held before. With a sudden motion, she slashed at the ebony bedpost.
The dagger slid in cleanly, almost effortlessly.
Dragonbone was an extraordinary material — light enough to support a dragon in flight, yet hard enough to scratch gold. It absorbed shock better than steel, making it ideal for weapons in skilled hands..
Rhaenyra pulled the dagger free, a slow smile curving her lips. "I like it very much."