The Hawk-eyed Man lived in a two-story stone house on the edge of the docklands.
The house was better than the surrounding shacks, with iron-reinforced doors and windows, and a windproof oil lamp hanging under the eaves.
Aeron lurked in the shadows of the roof opposite, watching the man open the door and go inside.
The window on the first floor lit up, casting the man’s silhouette—he poured a glass of wine, sat at the table, and seemed to be writing something.
About an hour later, the light went out.
Aeron waited another quarter of an hour to confirm there was no more movement before sliding off the roof like a cat and crossing the street.
The back door was locked, but the lock was old.
Aeron carefully prodded it with the tip of his dagger; the sound of the latch clicking open was almost inaudible.
He squeezed inside to find a kitchen, permeated with the smell of leftovers and grease.
The first floor was empty.
He felt his way toward the stairs.
There were two rooms on the second floor.
One door was ajar, from which came heavy snoring.
Aeron peered through the crack in the door—the Hawk-eyed Man was lying on the bed, with a woman lying next to him, her back to the door.
Now is the time.
Aeron pushed the door open, his footsteps as light as falling leaves.
He walked to the bedside, raised his dagger, and aimed it at the man’s throat—
Just then, the woman turned over.
Their eyes met.
The woman’s eyes widened suddenly in the darkness, and a piercing scream erupted from her throat: “Ah——!!!”
The Hawk-eyed Man woke up with a start, rolling off the bed in an instant.
Aeron’s dagger missed, plunging deep into the pillow.
“Someone, come here!!” the man roared, grabbing the short axe by the bedside.
Heavy footsteps came from the stairs, more than one person.
Aeron turned, and a figure as sturdy as a bear blocked the doorway, almost filling the entire frame.
It was a bald giant, his face covered in fat, his exposed arms covered in scars, holding an iron-clad wooden club in his right hand.
No nonsense.
The giant stepped forward, the club sweeping across with a whistling sound.
Aeron ducked, stabbing his dagger toward the opponent’s ribs, but the giant’s reaction was astonishingly fast—he smashed his left elbow down, hitting Aeron’s wrist precisely.
The dagger slipped from his hand and clattered to the floor.
A sharp pain shot from his wrist, and Aeron stumbled back.
The giant’s second strike followed immediately, the club thrusting straight at his chest.
Aeron barely turned to the side, the end of the club grazing his ribs, leaving a burning pain.
He was no match at all.
Strength, speed, experience—he was completely overwhelmed.
The giant’s third strike was a grapple—his large hand grabbed for Aeron’s neck like an iron pincer.
Aeron retreated rapidly, his hood slipping off in the movement.
Moonlight slanted in through the window, illuminating his disheveled hair.
Silver-gold.
The color of Targaryen.
The giant’s movements froze abruptly.
His hand stopped in mid-air, his eyes locked on Aeron’s hair, then shifted to his face, staring at those deep purple eyes.
Time seemed to freeze.
A few seconds later, the giant slowly lowered his hand and stepped back.
The fat on his face twitched, his Adam’s apple bobbed, and his voice was as hoarse as sandpaper rubbing together: “…Silver hair.
Aeron panted, saying nothing, watching him vigilantly.
“My name is Brandon,” the giant said suddenly, with a strange repression in his voice, “Brandon Rivers.
My grandfather…
was a knight of Harrenhal, Edwin Rivers.
He swore an oath before King Harren the Black, to serve The Iron Throne and the Targaryen for generations.”
He stared at Aeron with complex eyes: “He said, no matter the change of dynasties, no matter if a wise king or a tyrant sits on the throne…
the swords of House Rivers shall never be pointed at the blood of the dragon.”
“By my father’s generation, the family was ruined.
The lands were gone, the titles lost.
I ended up in White Harbor, making a living with my fists.” Brandon twitched the corner of his mouth, as if in a bitter smile, “But my grandfather’s oath…
I still remember.”
The room was dead silent.
The Hawk-eyed Man held the short axe, his face pale, but he dared not move.
The woman on the bed huddled in the corner, shivering.
Aeron slowly straightened up and picked up the dagger from the floor.
He looked at Brandon: “Are you going to stop me?”
Brandon was silent for a moment, then stepped aside to clear the way to the door: “My fists will not touch you.
My eyes have seen nothing tonight.”
Enough.
Aeron turned, his dagger pointing at the Hawk-eyed Man.
The man’s face turned deathly pale, and the short axe clattered to the floor.
“Don’t kill me!” he said, his voice trembling, “I…
I can tell you something!
Something important!”
“Speak.”
“It’s King’s Landing!
The Hand of the King, Otto Hightower, is looking for you!” The man was slurring his words due to extreme fear, “He knows you are Rhaenys’s son, knows you have a dragon…
He cannot allow The Blacks to have one more dragonrider, nor can he let ‘The Queen Who Never Was’ have a legitimate descendant!
He sent word through bankers in Pentos, offering a sky-high price of three thousand golden dragons to have your head and news of the dragon delivered to King’s Landing!
I…
I am just a link in the middle!”
The room fell into a dead silence.
Only the man’s heavy breathing remained, along with the suppressed sobbing of the woman in the corner of the bed.
Aeron’s hand holding the dagger did not move, but a storm was gathering in his eyes.
Three thousand golden dragons.
Otto Hightower.
The Hand of the King.
The news had spread faster and farther than he had imagined.
From Driftmark to King’s Landing, from family scandal to the game of thrones—he was now not just a stain that Corlys wanted to erase, but a thorn that The Greens wanted to pull out.
Seeing Aeron silent, the Hawk-eyed Man thought there was a chance for survival.
He moved his body cautiously, his eyes glancing toward the door, his voice softening further:
“I…
I can help you.
As long as you let me go, I will tell you everything—”
“Brandon.”
Aeron interrupted him.
His voice was calm, yet like an undercurrent beneath the ice.
He turned his head and looked at the silent giant.
Moonlight slanted in through the window, illuminating the complex lines on Brandon Rivers’s face—the marks of the winds of the North, the fists of the docks, and an ancient oath intertwined.
“You said you remember your grandfather’s oath,” Aeron stared into his eyes, “You said the swords of House Rivers shall never be pointed at the blood of the dragon.”
Brandon’s Adam’s apple bobbed.
He nodded, his voice hoarse: “I remember.”
“Then now,” Aeron slowly raised the dagger, the tip pointing at the Hawk-eyed Man, “prove it.”
Three words, like three blocks of ice hitting the floor.
The Hawk-eyed Man’s face turned ghastly pale in an instant.
He lunged suddenly toward the short axe on the floor—
But Brandon moved.
The giant’s movement was faster than should be possible for his size.
He stepped forward, his large hand gripping the man’s neck like an iron pincer, pinning him to the floor.
His other hand snatched the short axe, the blade carving a cold arc in the moonlight.
“No——!!!”
The plea only managed half a syllable.
The short axe fell.
A dull thud, the crisp sound of bones shattering.
Blood splattered onto the wall, blooming like a dark red flower in the dim light.
The woman let out a hysterical scream, but Brandon struck her on the side of the neck with a hand blade, and she collapsed softly.
Only two people remained standing in the room, along with a gradually cooling corpse.
Brandon let go, and the short axe clattered to the floor.
He looked down at his hands, those hands that had been shaking just moments ago and were now covered in blood, his voice low, as if talking to himself:
“My grandfather’s oath…
was to protect the dragon, not…”
“To kill one man, to save one dragon.” Aeron sheathed his dagger and walked to the window, pushing it open a crack.
The night wind poured in, blowing away some of the smell of blood.
“Otto Hightower wants my life.
This man was the hand he extended.
You cut off that hand.”
Brandon looked up, and for the first time, a look of near confusion appeared in those eyes, hardened by life at the docks: “Why me?”
“Because an oath needs to be tempered with blood.” Aeron turned back, his deep purple eyes like two burning coals in the darkness, “And also because you have no choice now.”
He walked to the corpse, crouched down, and searched it quickly.
From the inner pocket of the man’s coat, he pulled out a few things: a small pouch of golden dragon coins, a scroll of parchment sealed with wax, and a badge—not the merman of House Manderly, nor the three-headed dragon of Targaryen, but a pure gold seven-pointed star, with tiny Valyrian runes engraved on the edge.
The badge of The Citadel?
Or a token of some secret society?
Aeron unfolded the parchment.
It was covered in coded symbols that he could not understand, but he could recognize variants of a few keywords—”Silver hair,” “Dragon,” “White Harbor,” “Three days,” “Delivery.”
Three days.
The delivery time they had agreed upon was three days later.
At that time, someone of a higher rank would come to collect the “results.”
Time was running out.
“What are you going to do?” Brandon asked.