“Three hundred years, and this much blood and fire happened right here in Westeros.” The northern sky was unusually clear that day, a sharp, cloudless blue with no sign of snow.
Good weather this far north was rare enough to feel like a gift.
The book was The True History of the Dance of the Dragons by Maester Munkun.
Sherlock had pressed it into his hands back on the road with a serious look.
“If you want to understand the Targaryens, you cannot skip the Dance.” Aragorn took a sip of red wine and stared at the open pages again.
Even with his high Reading skill, the book was brutal.
In the game the skill had sorted and highlighted key information automatically.
Here the same skill only let him struggle through dense paragraphs full of similar names, tangled family trees, and old-fashioned phrasing that gave him a headache.
Still, one fact stood out clearly: after the Dance of the Dragons, the Targaryens never hatched another dragon.
The Dance had been a brutal civil war between Rhaenyra, Viserys the First’s daughter, and Aegon, the son of his second wife Alicent Hightower.
Both sides claimed the Iron Throne.
Most of the Targaryens died.
So did nearly all the dragons.
Only three remained in Westeros afterward—Silverwing, the Glutton, and Morning.
Sheepstealer had left with Nettles and never returned.
“Would’ve been smarter to keep the succession quiet,” Aragorn muttered.
The innkeeper came upstairs with his meal.
Two of his ancestors had been knights, and when he saw the book he brightened.
“If there’s anything you don’t understand, just ask.
I’ll help however I can.” After a short conversation it became obvious the man knew less about the Targaryens than Aragorn did.
Aragorn apologized for wasting his time.
“No need to feel bad,” the innkeeper said kindly.
“These things are for maesters, not regular folk.
You won’t find that kind of knowledge in an inn.” He hesitated, then added, “You could try asking at the Manderly court.
They hold open court today.
No guarantee they’ll help a commoner, but it’s worth a try.” Aragorn thought it over and decided to go.
White Harbor’s new castle was packed.
Merchants, farmers, craftsmen, and travelers stood in a line that stretched out the gate and down the street.
Aragorn joined the end and immediately realized he would still be waiting when the sun went down.
He slipped a few copper coins into his palm and started easing forward through the crowd, letting the coins clink softly.
People turned to look.
Just as he reached a tighter spot, someone shoved him from behind.
Aragorn shouted on cue.
“My coin!” The coppers scattered across the stones.
The line exploded into chaos as people dropped to their knees, grabbing and shoving.
Guards pushed forward to restore order.
In the confusion Aragorn slipped through the gate and into the castle.
The great hall was bright and warm, built of thick wooden planks.
Lord Manderly sat on the throne, a huge, heavy man in his sixties with thick sausage fingers resting on his belly.
Beside him a maester in gray robes wrote steadily in a thick ledger, the chain of his office around his neck.
Aragorn stepped forward and bowed.
“My lord, I was hoping for a moment of your maester’s time.
I have questions about The True History of the Dance of the Dragons that I can’t answer on my own.” Lord Manderly blinked, then laughed.
“Well?
Do you have time to play teacher today?” The maester looked up slowly and studied Aragorn with cold eyes.
“You have the look of a maester’s apprentice.” “I’m far from that.” “What’s your name?” “Aragorn .” The maester noted it down, then pointed at a bench along the wall with his quill.
“Sit.
Wait until court ends.” Lord Manderly leaned forward.
“The maester serves the North.
For a commoner to take his time, there is a cost.
Knowledge is valuable.
Three silver stags per question.” Aragorn agreed without argument.
“Sit down,” the maester said again.
“I will call you when I’m free.” Aragorn sat.
Sunlight came through the high windows but did nothing to ease the knot in his stomach.
The hall stayed loud with petitioners.
Every so often someone glanced his way with open curiosity.
An hour passed.
He was starting to regret coming.
He already knew the broad strokes of the book.
The rest had been half curiosity, half a way to kill time on the road.
A young man’s voice broke into his thoughts.
“I heard you came to ask the maester questions.” Aragorn turned.
The speaker was a well-dressed young man, maybe twenty-five.
“That’s right.
There are a few things I don’t understand.” “Interesting.
You’re the first person I’ve seen come here for that.
Most people want favors or justice for petty squabbles.” “To them those squabbles are the whole world,” Aragorn said.
The young man looked surprised.
“I didn’t expect a noble to think that way.” “I’m not a noble.
Just a traveler.” The young man looked him over again.
“Even so, your purse must be heavy if you’re willing to pay three silvers for answers.” “Are you here to ask something too?” “I’m Daryn Hornwood.” “Aragorn .” “Pleasure.
So what exactly do you want to know from Maester Seomor?” “Three things.
After the Dance, why were no new dragons ever hatched?
How did dragons reproduce in the first place?
And what happened to Nettles and Sheepstealer in the end?” Daryn Hornwood shrugged with a half-smile.
“Save your silver.
Scholars have been arguing about those exact questions for over a hundred years.
There are whole towers of scrolls and still no clear answers.” Aragorn let out a quiet breath.
“Understood.” “Don’t look so glum.
At least you’ll keep your coin.” Court finally ended.
Someone called Aragorn’s name.
He walked back to the dais and repeated his three questions.
Maester Seomor stared at him in silence for a long moment, then simply looked away and began gathering his papers.
Aragorn walked out of the castle feeling worse than when he arrived.
Saving three silver stags didn’t feel like a victory.
The next morning the sky was heavy with dark clouds.
Snow began falling before noon.
Aragorn left White Harbor and rode hard for three days.
On the evening of the third day he finally saw the great walls of Winterfell rising against the gray sky.
He found an inn near the market square.
The sign above the door read The Smoky Hearth.
He paid for a room and went inside.
Outside, the snow kept falling.
It snowed for three straight days.