Aeron had hardly slept all night.
After “Crows Eye” vanished, the silence of the night had grown exceptionally heavy.
In his dreams, those two pairs of dim purple eyes appeared repeatedly in the darkness, interwoven with the cold words of Otto Hightower.
He curled up in the rough blanket, his fingers unconsciously stroking the dragon scale amulet; its coarse edges pricked his fingertips, reminding him that none of this was a dream.
In the eyes of those great figures, he was already transparent.
This realization poured over him like ice water.
A dragon could not be hidden; silver hair and purple eyes were a walking banner.
Before the scent of blood at the docks had even dissipated, the blade from King’s Landing had already reached his bedside.
Hide?
In this city pierced by the gazes of three parties, where else could he possibly hide?
He thought of the messenger from House Manderly last night.
There had been a warning in those words, but at least the door hadn’t been kicked in.
How did the master of White Harbor, this sole harbor lord of the North, truly view him—the trouble that had suddenly intruded?
Rather than being pulled in three directions while in the shadows, it was better to step into the light and see what shape the chessboard had taken.
At the first light of dawn, before the harbor mist had cleared, Aeron rose.
He took off his coat, stained with the grime of the docks, and changed into a relatively clean set of dark wool clothes—Brandon had found them somewhere; they were a bit loose, but at least they had no patches.
He scrubbed his face vigorously with clear water and carefully tied his messy silver hair back.
Finally, he took one last look at the bag hidden in the corner, which contained the money pouch his mother had left him, as well as a piece of wing membrane from Sheepstealer.
There was no turning back.
New Castle, shrouded in morning mist, loomed tall and damp, with water droplets condensing on its grey stone walls.
The white merman sigil on a blue-green field was carved above the lintel, gleaming with a cold, hard metallic luster in the thin morning light.
The guards wore the blue-green uniforms of House Manderly, with the merman mark on their armor, and they watched this young man approaching alone in the early morning with vigilance.
Aeron stopped ten paces from the gate and pulled down his hood.
In an instant, the gazes of all the guards froze.
Silver hair, purple eyes—this appearance meant trouble anywhere in The Seven Kingdoms, and even more so in White Harbor.
Meeting those scrutinizing, suspicious, and even implicitly hostile gazes, Aeron walked forward.
His steps were steady, planting firmly on the wet cobblestone road, until he was only five paces away from the nearest guard captain.
“Inform your lord,” he said, his voice startlingly clear in the silence of the early morning.
He did not raise it intentionally, yet it carried an undeniable weight.
“Aeron of Driftmark requests an audience.”
He did not say “begs for an audience,” but “requests an audience.” The subtle difference in phrasing implied a sense of equality, or at least, not begging.
The guard captain was a stubble-faced middle-aged man with a scar on his cheek.
His gaze swept sharply over Aeron’s face, especially those eyes, before landing on the empty street, as if confirming whether this was a trap.
The silence lasted for the duration of three breaths.
The guard captain ultimately asked no further questions, simply nodding briefly: “Wait here.” He turned and pushed open the heavy side door, his figure disappearing into the shadows of the castle.
The wait was not long, but every second seemed to be stretched out.
Aeron could feel the gazes of the remaining guards pricking his back like needles; he could hear the faint sounds of chanting from the direction of the harbor, and he could smell the salty tang of the sea in the air and the cold dampness of the castle’s stone walls.
He stood straight, his hands hanging naturally at his sides, showing no signs of impatience.
At this moment, his calmness was a weapon in itself.
When the side door opened again, it was not the guard captain who emerged, but a tall, thin man who looked like a steward, wearing a dark blue coat with a silver merman pin on his chest—it was the messenger from last night.
Please follow me.”
Aeron stepped forward and followed him into the gates of New Castle.
The stone passageway was wide and somewhat dimly lit, with tapestries depicting naval battles and scenes of abundance hanging on the walls, and the floor was covered with thick carpets that absorbed the sound of their footsteps.
They did not head toward the main hall but turned into a side corridor and passed through an archway, where the air suddenly became warm and rich—it was the mixed scent of roasted meat, hot soup, spices, and freshly baked bread.
They arrived in a messy but comfortable room.
It looked more like a private living room than a parlor; firewood crackled in the massive fireplace, and the long table was scattered with half-gnawed bones, silver goblets, and several rolls of open ledgers.
Several decorative battle axes and a huge House Manderly flag hung on the walls, and the shelves in the corner were stuffed with various bottles and jars.
The master of the room was sitting in a specially made, oversized chair.
Lord Wylis Manderly’s bulk nearly filled the chair; he wore a magnificent dark blue brocade robe embroidered with gold thread at the cuffs, though there were inevitably a few spots of grease on his chest.
He was using a silver knife to tackle a large rib covered in dark sauce, his movements practiced, with juices dripping down his thick fingers.
Hearing footsteps, he looked up, and those blue eyes buried in his round, chubby face looked over, sharp enough to scrape meat off the bone.
The steward silently retreated to the door.
Aeron stood still in the center of the room, not bowing, but calmly returning his gaze.
Lord Wylis leisurely cut off a piece of meat, popped it into his mouth, chewed a few times, and then took a large gulp of ale, only then wiping his hands with a napkin embroidered with a merman—his movements were as casual as if he were in his own kitchen.
“Aeron of Driftmark,” his voice was deep and resonant, carrying a Northern accent yet strangely clear in its enunciation.
“The’silver-haired bastard’ who made the’Sea Snake’ lose a dragon, kept the green-robed Hand of the King in King’s Landing awake at night, and has now run to my harbor to kill people on my docks.”
He threw the napkin onto the table and leaned back into his chair, which let out an overwhelmed groan.
“My people invited you last night, and you didn’t come.
Now that it’s daylight, you’ve delivered yourself to my door.” Wylis grinned, revealing teeth stuck with shreds of meat, his smile devoid of warmth.
“What is it?
Have you come to your senses and decided to seek my protection, or are you tired of living and seeking a quick end?”
The air in the room seemed to freeze.
The firelight from the fireplace danced on Aeron’s face, his violet eyes shining startlingly bright in the shadows.
“I came,” Aeron began, his voice steady, “to know if the master of White Harbor considers me a guest, prey, or a bargaining chip.”
Wylis stared at him for a few seconds, then suddenly burst into loud laughter, his thick shoulders shaking with the sound.
“Direct!
I like direct!” He laughed until he was finished, grabbed his goblet, and took another gulp.
“A guest?
You killed the rats on my docks—although those rats were stealing my grain, it was still an act committed on my territory.
Prey?
You certainly are; several nets have been cast for you, and the sharpest one is likely from your own kin.
As for a bargaining chip…”
He set down the goblet, leaned forward, and narrowed his shrewd eyes.
“Boy, what do you think you’re worth?
A Targaryen bastard of unknown origin, with a history of blood debts and trouble.
There is a saying in the North: When the winter comes, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives.
You are that lone wolf right now, and you carry the scent that will attract hunters.”
Aeron did not back down: “A lone wolf can choose which pack to join.
It can also choose to bite the throat of the nearest hound before the hunter arrives.”
He picked up the knife again, twirling it between his fingertips, the silver light flashing.
“Otto Hightower’s people have sought you out,” this was not a question.
“The fleet of Driftmark may already be on the way.
Dragonstone…
Princess Rhaenyra hasn’t officially stated her position, but she surely knows.
Three winds are blowing toward my harbor, and you are standing in the eye of the storm.” He pointed the tip of the knife at Aeron.
“Tell me, Aeron of Driftmark, what can you bring to my harbor, besides trouble?”
“A dragon,” Aeron looked him straight in the eye.
“Not one that circles above your harbor and invites war, but one that appears on your enemy’s trade routes when needed.
The trade in the Gullet, the pressure on Driftmark…
A wild dragon, unbound by oaths, can do many things.”
Wylis silently cut the remaining meat on his plate, the blade scraping against the porcelain with a faint sound.
After a long while, he spoke again, his voice much lower: “You have guts.
But have you ever thought that the safest course of action is actually to tie you up and send you, along with news of your dragon, to Driftmark or King’s Landing?
That way, all the trouble would leave my harbor.”
“You can try,” Aeron’s voice turned cold.
“But before that, I will let the entire North know that House Manderly of White Harbor, in order to avoid trouble, handed over someone carrying the blood of Princess Rhaenyra’s aunt to The Greens, or sent him back to Driftmark, where they want him to disappear.
Guess how Lord Stark of Winterfell, the Arryn family of the Vale, and the Princess of Dragonstone…
will view this ‘gift’?”
The room fell into a deathly silence.
A spark suddenly burst from the fire in the fireplace.
Lord Wylis slowly set down the knife; his blue eyes were like a frozen sea.
He stared at Aeron, as if re-evaluating the weight of the young man before him—not just the weight of the dragon and his bloodline, but this near-reckless sharpness that grabbed the opponent’s weak point to strike back.
After a long while, he exhaled heavily and leaned back into his chair.
“Boy,” he said, his tone complex.
“You’ve got guts.”
Wylis waved his hand, seemingly not wanting to discuss this topic further.
“I haven’t seen you,” he said.
“I will find you when I need you.
I will tell the people from Dragonstone and Driftmark that I haven’t found you, and as for the people of the Hand of the King…”
He paused, his eyes becoming fierce and pragmatic.
“Then you must prove that you and your dragon are worth the risk for House Manderly.
Otherwise,” he grabbed a piece of bread and tore it apart forcefully, “I will personally tie you to the first ship leaving White Harbor and send you to Corlys Velaryon.
I might not like The Greens, but I hate having my harbor turned into a mess even more.”
He took a big bite of bread, chewing, and added indistinctly: “Make The Greens disappear from White Harbor from now on.
Go now, and prove yourself.”
The conversation was over.
Lord Wylis returned his focus to his breakfast, as if the conversation just now had been nothing more than idle chatter during a meal.
Aeron turned and left the room, with the steward silently leading the way ahead.
The shadows of the corridor swallowed him again, but this time, he held a fragile permit in his hand.
The morning light finally pierced through the mist, shining into the high windows of New Castle and casting pale spots of light on the floor.