The sea breeze in the Council Chamber always carried a salty tang.
Corlys Velaryon stood before the floor-to-ceiling window; outside, The Narrow Sea was shrouded in grey mist, and waves shattered into white foam beneath the cliffs.
His fingers tapped against the window frame, the rhythm slow and heavy, like the prelude to a war drum.
He did not turn when the door was pushed open.
“A raven from Dragonstone.” Corlys’s voice was like rock soaked in seawater, heavy and cold.
“Princess Rhaenyra wants to know why Driftmark has ‘lost’ a dragon, along with a dragonrider.”
Rhaenys Targaryen walked into the room.
The Queen Who Never Was maintained her upright posture, her silver-gold hair pulled back into a severe bun, her violet eyes filled with a bottomless calm.
She wore a gown in the deep green and silver of House Velaryon, but pinned to her chest was a small Targaryen three-headed dragon brooch—a symbol of the identity she had never truly abandoned.
“Sheepstealer is a wild dragon, Corlys.” Rhaenys’s voice was steady.
“Wild dragons do not belong to anyone, so one cannot speak of ‘losing’ one.”
Corlys finally turned around.
His eyes were the blue of seawater, but at this moment, they were like the surface of the sea before a storm, turbulent with hidden currents.
Rhaenys’s fingers paused over the location of Dragonstone.
She looked up, her deep violet eyes meeting her husband’s gaze: “What are you trying to say, Corlys?”
“I want to say,” Corlys walked step by step to the long table, resting his hands on the surface, his white hair covered in a layer of frost in the morning light, “that your bastard, riding Sheepstealer, has vanished.
Daeron’s fleet lost the trail at The Three Sisters, and the dragon-hunting party is a joke.
Now Dragonstone is demanding answers, King’s Landing is spying, and the entire Narrow Sea is whispering—about the’Silver-Haired Dragonrider’ of Driftmark.”
He paused, his voice dropping low: “Where is he, Rhaenys?”
Rhaenys did not avoid his gaze.
Her fingers curled, nails digging into her palms, but her voice remained steady: “I do not know.”
“You do not know.” Corlys repeated, a cold, mirthless smile tugging at his lips.
“Seventeen years, you sent people to deliver medicine and coin every month, hiding in the high tower of High Tide watching him with a spyglass, and now that he has run off on a dragon, you say you do not know?”
“I know as much as you do.” Rhaenys stood up, the hem of her gown sweeping across the floor.
“Daeron’s fleet lost the trail, and the dragon-hunting party failed.
As for where he went…
perhaps he was fed to the sharks, or perhaps he flew to the other side of The Narrow Sea.
Who knows?”
Corlys stared at her for a long time.
So long that the sound of the waves outside became sharp and piercing.
“Do you know what I hate the most, Rhaenys?” He finally spoke, a strange exhaustion in his voice.
“Not your bastard, not your lover from before our marriage, not even that you betrayed our marriage to bear him.
What I hate the most is…
that you are still protecting him.”
Rhaenys’s breath hitched for a moment.
“Every day he lives out there is another day the shame of Driftmark continues.” Corlys straightened up, walked to the window, and turned his back to her.
“Rhaenyra needs dragons, Otto Hightower also wants dragons, and we…
we only need him to disappear.”
“And so?”
“So if I hear news of him again,” Corlys’s voice sounded as if it came from the deep sea, “I hope it is news of his death.
Yours, mine, or anyone else’s—as long as it proves that the dragon and that bastard have vanished from this world.” This chapter was taken from g.com without permission.
Rhaenys did not speak.
She walked to the door and placed her hand on the bronze door knocker.
When the door closed, it made a heavy, dull thud, like the stone slab of a tomb sealing shut.
…
“…What are you going to do?”
Brandon Rivers’s question hung in the air, still thick with the scent of blood.
Aeron did not answer immediately.
He walked to the Hawk-eyed Man’s desk, flipping through scattered ledgers, scribbled notes, and several maps marked with information about dock warehouses and ships.
This man was not just an informant for The Greens, but a hub for the underground trade in the White Harbor docklands.
His “inheritance” was far richer than expected.
“His men,” Aeron asked without looking up, “how many are there?
Who do they listen to?”
Brandon wiped the blood from his hands with a rag, his movements stiff, as if he were not yet accustomed to this sudden pledge of loyalty sealed in blood.
“About a dozen or so who can fight, and some children who run errands.
They recognize coin, and they recognize fists.” He paused.
“Now, both the coin and the fists have no master.”
“Then give them a new one.” Aeron pulled a thick register from a pile of documents, which recorded protection money, smuggling cuts, and bribes for various parties.
“From tomorrow on, the business of ‘Grey Eyes’ will run as usual.
But seventy percent of the money collected will be brought here, and you will split the remaining thirty percent among yourselves.
The rules remain unchanged, but the master has changed.”
Brandon looked up, his expression complex.
“You want to take over the dock gang?”
“Not me.” Aeron finally stopped what he was doing and turned to face the giant.
“It is you.
Brandon Rivers, from today on, you are the one in charge of ‘Grey Eyes’.”
Brandon’s pupils constricted slightly.
“Why?
I am only…”
“I need a pair of eyes, a pair of ears, and a shadow that can move freely in White Harbor.
And you need a fulcrum, a chance to let you and your sword rise again from the mud of the docks.” Aeron’s tone was unquestionable.
“The honor of House Rivers should not be buried here, but you and I both know that empty talk of honor cannot fill a belly, nor can it buy loyalty.”
He reached into his tunic and took out a heavy deerskin pouch, untied the cord, and poured—clinking, thirty brand-new gold dragons rolled onto the table under the dim oil lamp, shimmering with an enticing luster.
Brandon’s breathing grew heavy for a moment.
This was almost two or three years of his income from the docks.
“This is part of the money my mother…
left for me.” Aeron’s voice had a faint, subtle pause, then returned to calm.
“Take it.
Tomorrow, gather the men of ‘Grey Eyes’.
Tell them the old master is dead and a new master has ascended.
The rules remain the same, but the monthly tribute will be twenty percent higher than before.”
He pushed the gold coins toward Brandon.
“This is a settling-in fee, and also a toll.
What I want is simple: intelligence—about any strangers entering or leaving White Harbor, about spies from King’s Landing or Driftmark, about any rumors mentioning ‘dragons’ or’silver hair’.
Brandon looked at the pile of gold coins, then at Aeron’s deep, inscrutable violet eyes.
His grandfather’s oath burned in his blood, and the opportunity before him shone in reality.
He reached out his large hand, covering the coins; the coldness of the metal seeped through his skin, as if quenching and shaping his chaotic fate.
“Intelligence and loyalty…” Brandon slowly clenched his fist, his voice as low as a grinding stone.
“I will give them to you.”
Just then, a clear, forceful, and rhythmic knocking came from downstairs—not the rude pounding of gang members, but with a certain official air that could not be ignored.
Both men became alert simultaneously.
Brandon rose quickly, moved to the window, and lifted a crack in the curtain.
Under the streetlamp stood three men wrapped in thick woolen cloaks; the leader had a small but exquisite silver mermaid badge pinned to his chest.
In the shadows a bit further behind them, several guards in armor holding spears stood quietly.
“Men from House Manderly.” Brandon lowered his voice, his brows furrowed.
“They came quickly.”
Aeron’s eyes sharpened.
He quickly swept the documents on the table into his arms, gestured to Brandon, and slipped toward the back window like a wisp of smoke, blending into the deeper darkness outside.
Brandon took a deep breath, composed himself, and rubbed his face hard, letting his expression return to the rough and wary look typical of a dockhand.
He kicked at the scattered debris on the floor to cover the most obvious bloodstains, then strode down the stairs.
He opened the door, his massive frame blocking most of the entrance, and asked in a muffled voice: “Who are you looking for?
It’s so late.”
The middle-aged man leading the group outside had a gaunt face and sharp eyes.
His gaze passed over Brandon, seemingly wanting to look into the room, but his tone remained consistently steady: “By order of Lord Manderly, I have come to invite a guest.
A guest…
who may have just arrived in White Harbor, a young guest with silver hair.
Is he here?”
Brandon was shocked inside, but his facial muscles tightened, showing no ripple.
“Silver hair?
Haven’t seen any.
There are only me and a few brothers here; the boss of ‘Grey Eyes’ just went out on business.
You’ve got the wrong place.”
The middle-aged man looked at him quietly for a few seconds; that gaze seemed capable of piercing through skin and flesh to see the marrow.
He did not insist on barging in, nor did he question him, just nodded almost imperceptibly.
“If that is the case, apologies.” His voice betrayed no joy or anger.
“Please tell your ‘brothers’ that White Harbor welcomes friends but dislikes trouble.
Especially trouble that can fly.
If that guest changes his mind, or if you have news of him, the doors of House Manderly are always willing to open for…
‘Dragonblood’.”
Having said this, he said no more, turned, and left with his guards, their footsteps steadily fading into the damp, nocturnal darkness of the docks.
Brandon closed the door, leaned against the panel, and slowly exhaled a turbid breath tainted with the smell of blood.
He knew this was far from over.
In the shadows of the back window upstairs, Aeron heard every word of the Manderly envoy.
He leaned against the cold stone wall, his fingers unconsciously stroking the dagger in his hand.