The Old Anchor Inn.
Aeron dreamed of blood.
Not the splashing, warm blood of the stone houses on the docks.
It was cold, slow-flowing blood that soaked into luxurious velvet and cold stone tiles.
In the first vision, there was a woman with silver hair and purple eyes.
She lay on the ground, beneath her a shattered black dragon sigil, her long hair spread out like melted silver.
Her eyes were open, staring at an unseen sky, the purple being swallowed by the grey-white of death.
Aeron wanted to get closer, to see her face clearly, but the dream felt as if it were behind a veil of blood, conveying only her final, silent sigh, as heavy as a dragon’s wing falling.
The scene shifted abruptly.
The second was a man, with equally dazzling silver hair and equally deep purple eyes.
He stood on a high platform, seemingly taking an oath, or perhaps saying goodbye, his posture as straight as a spear.
Then, without warning, a dagger struck from the closest shadow beside him, plunging precisely into his ribs.
The man stumbled back, his face showing more shock than pain, looking at his assassin, his lips moving as if asking “Why”.
Aeron desperately tried to see the traitor’s face, or the dying man’s features, but the dream shook violently at this moment, like a small boat in a storm, leaving only those fading purple eyes—identical to his own—branded into the darkness.
“No—!”
Aeron bolted upright from his simple bed, cold sweat soaking his linen shirt, clinging to his skin and bringing a bone-chilling cold.
He gasped heavily, his fingers unconsciously gripping the dragon scale at his chest, the rough edges stinging his palm, which finally confirmed he had returned to reality.
The room’s alcove was filled with the scent of salted fish and rotting wood, moonlight leaking through the cracks in the boards to cut pale lines across the floor.
And, a quiet figure that did not belong there.
The person stood three steps from his bed, as if they had always been one with the shadows.
Only when Aeron woke up did he move slightly, letting the moonlight slide over his silhouette: medium build, wearing an nondescript dark travel cloak, his face so plain it was instantly forgettable, save for a pair of eyes as calm as two ancient wells, reflecting no emotion.
“Good evening, Lord Aeron Tidespawn.
Or, should I address you as…
Eron Targaryen?” The visitor spoke, their voice neutral, their tone steady, with no Northern accent or Southern lilt, a deliberately polished Common Tongue that carried no sense of belonging.
His hand had already reached for the dagger hidden under his mattress.
“Who are you?” His voice was hoarse from dryness.
“A messenger.
Bringing greetings and a proposal from the Hand of the King, Otto Hightower.” The man nodded slightly, his movements polite but devoid of warmth.
“You may call me ‘Crows Eye’, as everyone does.
The name is not important; what matters is my message.”
“Speak.”
“Lord Otto Hightower knows your situation and your value well.” Crows Eye spoke unhurriedly, as if discussing the weather, “You bear the blood of the true dragon, yet it is tarnished by your birth; you possess a master of the skies, yet you are trapped in the mire of the land.
This is unjust.
The Greens—we who support King Aegon II and Queen Alicent—are willing to correct this injustice.”
He took half a step forward, the moonlight illuminating his nondescript mouth, which seemed to curl into the faintest of arcs.
“Support the Queen’s eldest son, the future King Aegon II.
In the new era to come, you will receive a public decree of legitimization, washing away the stigma of bastardy, and gaining the ‘Targaryen’ name and corresponding lands.
You and your dragon will become the glorious sword of the new dynasty, rather than a rumor hiding in the shadows.
Lord Otto Hightower promises that you will attain a position far more esteemed than at Driftmark, or even Dragonstone.
After all, Princess Rhaenyra…
she already has her own sons, doesn’t she?”
Aeron’s fingertips were cold.
Behind the bright prospect of the proposal lay a cold reality: betraying his blood (The Blacks), pledging loyalty to the enemy camp (The Greens), and binding himself and his dragon completely to the chariot of Otto Hightower.
“What if I say no?” Aeron stared at Crows Eye, trying to discern something from those eyes like ancient wells.
Crows Eye smiled.
The smile was faint, yet it caused the temperature in the alcove to plummet.
It was not a smile of threat, but one of pure, factual statement, carrying a chilling sense of ‘it is only natural’.
“Then,” Crows Eye’s voice remained steady, “the next person to knock on your door will not be a polite messenger like me.
Lord Corlys’s fleet might show an extraordinary ‘interest’ and ‘cleansing’ enthusiasm for some small port on the northern shipping route that hides a ‘family shame’ and a precious dragon. Find the original chapter at novelping.com.
The navy of Driftmark is unparalleled, and as for House Manderly of White Harbor…
would they stake their entire family’s ports and fleet for a dragonseed of unknown origin, to defy the wrath of the’Sea Snake’?”
He tilted his head slightly, as if listening to the sound of waves that did not exist in the distance.
“Think about it, a silver-haired boy dragged back to Driftmark in the chains of House Velaryon, while your dragon might become the new mount of some young Velaryon lord, or…
simply slaughtered to prevent future trouble.
That scene would certainly be less pleasant than the proposal I bring.”
Silence spread through the cramped space, leaving only the sound of Aeron’s as-yet-unsettled breathing.
Crows Eye waited patiently, as if he were merely a clerk waiting for a signature.
Aeron’s mind raced.
A flat refusal meant potentially inviting the thunderous strike of Driftmark.
Playing for time?
The other party was no fool.
“I need time to consider,” Aeron finally said, his voice regaining its cold hardness.
“Of course.” Crows Eye seemed entirely unsurprised, “a wise choice.
But time waits for no one, and the storms of war even less so.
Three days.
Three days from now, at the ‘old place’ where ‘Grey Eyes’ originally arranged to meet, our people will be waiting for your final answer.
I hope by then, we can call each other allies.”
He nodded again, his movements as elegant as a court chamberlain.
Then, just as he had arrived, he retreated silently, his figure melting into the shadows of the wooden wall, as if he had never existed.
Only a faint, lingering scent in the air, foreign to the room, proved that what had just happened was not another nightmare.
Aeron sat alone on the edge of the bed, the cold sweat dried, his back icy cold.
The blood from his dream seemed to still be spreading before his eyes, while the blade of reality was already pressed against his throat.
The net of three forces (The Greens, Driftmark, and the potential House Manderly/The Blacks) was tightening, and that ‘three-day appointment’ was no longer a simple exchange of intelligence for The Greens, but had suddenly become the first fork in the road of his destiny.
Outside the window, the night in White Harbor was as deep as ink, the light from the distant lighthouse sweeping across the sea with a rhythmic pattern, as if guiding someone’s course, or perhaps indifferently counting down.