House of the Dragon: Daemon’s Bastard Son Who Hatched a Dragon Chapter 142: Death, in countless forms

Baelon did not spare Otto a glance as the man lay crumpled upon the ground, blood bubbling from his lips in ragged, choking breaths. Instead, he stepped forward, his bearing composed, and faced the gathered smallfolk of King's Landing.

"The Trials of the Seven shall now begin."

His voice carried, calm and resolute, cutting cleanly through the murmuring crowd.

Yet not all hearts were unmoved.

Mattheus' gaze flicked toward Otto at once. Seeing the man hovering at death's threshold, he moved without hesitation. From a nearby septon, he seized a bundle of herbs and strips of gauze. Under the watchful eyes of ard soldiers, he knelt and pressed the makeshift dressing hard against Otto's wound, binding it as best he could.

It was a pitiful effort. The bleeding slowed, but only barely. No skill lay in the work, only urgency. This would not save him.

But that had never been the intent.

Mattheus did not need Otto Hightower restored to health.

He needed him breathing.

A few more hours would suffice.

Once the bandage was secured, Mattheus rose and gave a sharp motion of his hand. The soldiers stepped in imdiately, hauling Otto upright and tightening his restraints. Rope bit into flesh as they bound him fast, leaving no room for further defiance.

For a fleeting mont, Mattheus studied him.

There was sothing to admire in such resolve.

Few n, burdened with power, pride, and unfinished ambition, could bring themselves to the brink of self-destruction. To choose death with clear intent was no small thing. It required a grim and terrible courage.

Otto possessed it.

But admiration did not soften purpose.

Mattheus turned away.

Baelon's design would not fail.

"In my na, as a Septon of the Faith of the Seven in King's Landing, I declare that the Trials of the Seven, for Prince Baelon and Otto Hightower, do now comnce."

A murmur rippled through the crowd.

The Trials of the Seven were not recorded in the histories of the realm. They belonged not to kings or chronicles, but to the Faith itself. A ritual shaped by zeal and devotion, born of scripture and belief.

It was said that when chaos swallowed the world, the Seven would cast down their light upon mankind. Those who proved most devout would receive not only their favor, but a fragnt of their divine power.

To give flesh to such doctrine, the Faith had fashioned these trials.

Baelon stepped forward once more.

"In the na of the Father," he said, his tone unwavering, "my judgnt shall be just. For that, I submit myself to the Father's trial."

The Father's trial was known to be the harshest of them all.

Two ordeals stood between Baelon and proof of his righteousness.

The first was the pit of serpents.

In ancient tales, snakes were creatures of treachery and deceit, drawn to falsehood and corruption. Yet before true justice, they recoiled. When the Father himself had once walked among n, it was said that every venomous creature fled his presence.

Thus, if Baelon's heart was truly just, no serpent would dare strike him.

The second was the path of fla.

Legend told that the Father had once walked the world in the guise of a weary old man. In the lands of a certain lord, he ca upon rebellion born of injustice and cruelty. With but a thought, he summoned fire, a blazing sea that cut off all escape.

"Only the righteous may pass unhard," he had declared. "The wicked shall be consud."

Then he stepped forward, barefoot, and walked the burning path.

The rebels followed.

None erged alive.

"Follow," Mattheus called, raising his hand.

The crowd obeyed.

They were led into the rear courtyard of the sept, where the trials had been prepared.

At the northern end yawned a deep pit, twice the height of a man. Within it writhed a living mass of serpents, their scaled bodies coiling over one another in a restless tide. Greens, blacks, and mottled browns twisted together in ceaseless motion, their tongues flickering like whispers of death.

At the southern end stretched a narrow iron path, scarcely wide enough for a single man's stride. The tal had been heated until it glowed a furious red, its surface shimring beneath the heat. Flas roared beneath it, licking upward, warping the very air.

A hush fell.

The sight alone was enough to chill the blood.

Yet it was the pit that drew every eye.

Many present had lived their entire lives in King's Landing. Never had they beheld such a gathering of venomous creatures.

"So many snakes…" a man muttered, his voice low with unease. "Any one of them could kill a man."

He was a long-haired fellow, weathered by years beneath open sky. Once, he had hunted in the wilds and later served with the City Watch. Of all gathered there, he alone spoke with the authority of experience.

His gaze swept the pit, and what he saw tightened his throat.

Death, in countless forms.

"Look there," he said, lifting a hand, though he did not dare point too closely. "That dark green one, with the red crest. From the Sumr Isles. One bite, and you will bleed from the eyes and nose."

He swallowed.

"You would be dead before taking three steps."

Drawn despite himself, he edged closer to the pit.

Then, suddenly, he stopped.

The writhing mass below seed to drain the strength from his legs, leaving him rooted where he stood.

He was not alone in that.

Even those who had crept in from the gutters and alleys of King's Landing now shrank back, their earlier boldness faltering in the face of such naked terror.

"What do you know?" one man scoffed, though his voice rang hollow, bravado stretched thin over fear. "If Prince Baelon is truly righteous, if the Seven favor him, then not a single snake would dare strike!"

"The Seven?" another muttered, his face pale as he stared into the pit. "With that many? I can hardly bear to look at them. And he ans to go down there?"

Baelon paid them no mind.

He stood as he always did, composed and unmoved, as though the fear around him belonged to so distant world, far removed from his own.

At his side, Princess Rhaenyra stepped forward without a word. Her hands were steady as she helped him remove his outer garnts, her expression calm, almost serene.

Layer by layer, he was stripped of all excess.

Soon, he stood in nothing more than a simple shirt and short trousers. Even his boots were cast aside, left where they fell upon the stone.

Still, neither Rhaenyra nor those closest to him showed any trace of worry.

They knew him.

Baelon did not stake his life on uncertainty.

If he stepped forward, it was because he had already weighed the cost.

When all was ready, he reached for the rope.

His grip was firm.

Without hesitation, he began his descent.

The courtyard fell silent as he lowered himself into the pit.

Then,

A dull thud.

His feet touched the bottom.

The sound carried, low and heavy, like the tolling of a bell.

For a while , nothing happened.

Then the serpents stirred.

What had been a seething mass erupted into violent motion. Coils tightened and unwound in frantic succession, bodies sliding over one another in a living tide. Hissing rose in a chorus, sharp and furious, like steel drawn across stone.

To those above, it was a vision of horror made flesh.

A pit of death.

A place no man should survive.

And yet,

Baelon did not so much as flinch.

He lowered his gaze briefly, as if to mark his footing.

Then he began to walk.

One step.

Then another.

asured. Unhurried.

As though the countless venomous creatures at his feet were nothing more than shadows.

The crowd held its breath.

No one dared speak.

Then, all at once,

"Look!" a voice cried, breaking the silence. "They are retreating!"

The shout rippled outward, stirring the crowd into motion. n and won leaned forward, eyes wide, afraid to blink lest they miss what unfolded before them.

And it was true.

The serpents were drawing back.

Where once they had crowded thick as a living carpet, now gaps began to form. Their hissing faltered, growing uneven, uncertain. One by one, they recoiled, their bodies pulling away from the path before him.

From behind, Baelon's figure seed to rise above them.

Steady and Untouched.

He walked on, neither quickening nor slowing, his steps as calm as if he trod upon marble floors.

And before him, the sea of serpents parted.

Not in frenzy or in panic.

But in sothing that resembled… submission.

As though they had encountered a presence they could neither defy nor endure.