Northwest of Driftmark, the Rocky Pastures, 120 AC, late autumn.
The seawater was cold.
Aeron knelt in the knee-deep shallow water, his right hand pinned under an iron-studded boot.
Blood seeped from the back of his hand, swirling into the murky seawater.
“Have you counted them yet?”
Daeron Velaryon crouched down, his golden curls fluttering in the sea breeze.
He was Lord Corlys’s cousin, in his early twenties.
“Four sheep.” Daeron held up four fingers.
“Four more lost last night.
How many times has this happened this month?”
Aeron looked up.
His seventeen-year-old face was sharp and angular, but the most striking feature was his silver-gold hair—the colors of House Targaryen, standing out like a lighthouse in the crowd of black and brown hair on Driftmark.
And his eyes.
Deep violet.
“It is a dragon,” Aeron said.
“A dragon?” Daeron sneered.
“With that silver mane of yours, have you burned your brain to a crisp and actually started thinking you are dragonseed?”
The surrounding attendants burst into laughter.
Aeron’s origins were an open secret on Driftmark: an “orphan from a distant Targaryen branch,” “mercifully” adopted by Lord Corlys.
But everyone knew what silver hair and violet eyes meant—especially when the mistress of High Tide, Princess Rhaenys, possessed the exact same features.
More secretive rumors circulated among a select few: the timing of this “orphan’s” birth was too convenient.
Years after marrying Lord Corlys, Princess Rhaenys had claimed to be ill and “recuperated” at a coastal villa for an entire year.
Upon her return, an infant was sent to the most remote fishing village.
No one dared to speak of it openly.
But Daeron knew, and Lord Corlys knew as well.
“Grey-brown, with an injury on its right wing,” Aeron continued, his gaze fixed on the sea to the northwest.
“It came from the direction of Ghost-Tooth Rock.”
Daeron narrowed his eyes and slowly lifted his foot.
“Fine,” he said.
“I will give you three days.
Either bring forty silver stags to High Tide, or by the laws of Driftmark, a thief loses a finger.”
He turned to mount his horse and shouted to the attendants: “Report to the Lord: there is a wild dragon causing trouble in the northwestern waters.
Request the dragon-hunting squad!”
The sound of hooves faded away.
Aeron stood up from the water, the wound on the back of his hand deep.
He walked back to his dwelling—a shelter made of a few broken planks and the wreckage of a fishing boat.
Pushing open the door, he saw a small linen package on the straw mat.
There was no note.
There never was.
But Aeron knew who it was.
On all of Driftmark, there was only one person who would use this salve mixed with spices unique to Dragonstone, and who would secretly leave silver coins without daring to sign her name.
Rhaenys Targaryen.
His mother.
The woman who gave birth to him in secret in the third year of her marriage, only to be forced to send him away.
The “Queen Who Never Was” who chose her House over her own blood.
Aeron applied the salve and changed into a new tunic.
He hid his old clothes and the silver coins, walked outside the shelter, and looked towards Ghost-Tooth Rock in the northwest.
He had indeed seen it that evening three days ago.
A massive grey-brown shadow had skimmed the surface of the sea, its right wing twitching visibly as it flapped.
The dragon had turned its head, its amber slit pupils flashing in the twilight, meeting the eyes of Aeron, who was hiding behind a rock.
At that moment, a burning sensation surged in his chest.
His blood was roaring.
The sheep outside the window suddenly began to bleat in terror.
Aeron rushed to the window—
The grey-brown dragon shadow appeared again, almost brushing against the crests of the waves.
The imbalance in its right wing was even more pronounced.
The dragon circled above the pasture for half a turn, then suddenly veered and dove straight toward the wooden shelter!
Aeron instinctively retreated, but the dragon pulled up at the last moment, soaring over his head.
The massive gust of air flipped the planks of the roof, and the salty, fishy wind was mixed with the stench of rotting meat and sulfur.
And… the smell of salt.
A heavy scent of sea salt radiated from the dragon’s wound.
The dragon struggled as it flew toward Ghost-Tooth Rock, disappearing into the twilight.
The burning sensation in Aeron’s chest lingered for a long time.
He looked down at his hand; the area around the wound was slightly red—not from infection, but from his blood responding.
“Salt crystal wound…” he muttered to himself.
Aeron had a great secret: he was a transmigrator.
Unfortunately, while other transmigrators possessed the bearing of great emperors, he had opened his eyes in this world as a bastard, suffering the cold glares and mockery of others.
Moreover, his memories from his previous life were incomplete, with fragmented recollections only occasionally surfacing in his dreams.
The fragmented medical knowledge from his past life surfaced now: when a wound is in contact with seawater for a long time, the salt crystallizes into a shell, preventing healing.
The dragon’s right wing was likely suffering from exactly that.
He had to go to Ghost-Tooth Rock.
High Tide, Council Chamber.
Corlys Velaryon stood by the window.
The sixty-seven-year-old “Sea Snake” had completely white hair, but his figure remained as straight as a warship’s mast.
“Daeron has confirmed it,” his voice was aged but powerful.
“There are indeed abnormalities near Ghost-Tooth Rock.
There are claw marks on the rocks and the smell of sulfur in the air.”
Rhaenys Targaryen set down the letter in her hand.
She was forty-six, her silver-gold hair styled in a bun, her deep violet eyes still bright.
“So what Aeron said is true,” she said.
“Perhaps,” Corlys turned around.
“But that is not the issue.
The issue is, how did that silver-haired boy know so clearly?”
Rhaenys’s fingers tightened slightly.
Seventeen years.
This thorn had never truly disappeared.
She had married Corlys and given birth to Laenor and Laena, but in those most desperate days after the failure of the Great Council, she had committed a mistake—a mistake that led her to give birth to Aeron.
Corlys had never pointed it out.
But he knew.
A bastard born after marriage was more shameful than one born before.
Once exposed, House Velaryon would become the laughingstock of The Seven Kingdoms.
Therefore, he chose silence, allowing this child to live as an “orphan,” but never allowing him to enter the core of the family.
“Corlys, spare him,” Rhaenys said.
“Spare him?” Corlys walked to the sea chart.
“A bastard with dragon blood growing up on Driftmark—if he goes to contact the dragon, if he is accepted by the dragon…”
“Then let him contact it,” Rhaenys stood up.
“House Velaryon needs dragons.”
“Absolutely not,” Corlys interrupted.
“I tolerate his survival and I tolerate you secretly providing for him because I love you, and because… I need to maintain the dignity of our House.”
He summoned an attendant: “Send word to Daeron, mobilize the’Sea Snake’s Fangs’ fleet, and depart at sunrise tomorrow for Ghost-Tooth Rock.”
“Corlys!” Rhaenys’s face turned pale.
“Drive it away,” Corlys said.
“If the dragon cooperates and leaves, all the better.
If it resists… Daeron knows what to do.”
The attendant took the order and left.
Only the two of them remained in the Council Chamber.
“Will you hurt Aeron?”
Corlys closed his eyes: “As long as he does not get in the way.”