When Aeron returned, the sun had already climbed high into the sky.
Sunlight leaked in through the gaps in the dilapidated roof, carving pale streaks onto the dust-covered floor.
He stood in the center of the workshop, yet he could not feel any warmth.
His fingertips were still icy; the bone-deep chill he had brought back from New Castle refused to dissipate.
Lord Wylis Manderly’s final words echoed repeatedly in his mind: “…I will personally bind you to the first ship leaving White Harbor and send you to Corlys Velaryon.”
No protection.
No promises.
Only a cold transaction.
Prove yourself, or be sold.
Like a piece of cargo, a head of livestock.
Aeron slid down against the cold stone wall, burying his head in his knees.
His silver hair fell, obscuring his face.
The exhaustion from a sleepless night finally surged up, mixed with something deeper—that overwhelming, suffocating sense of transparency.
He was a pawn on the chessboard of King’s Landing, a stain within the shadows of Driftmark, and a bargaining chip in the transaction at White Harbor.
Everyone could see him, and everyone could reach out to manipulate him.
Silver hair, violet eyes, dragons…
these things that should have been symbols of power were now like chains, pinning him firmly in the center of everyone’s sight.
He could not hide.
He could not escape.
He recalled the dim violet eyes in his dreams, the silver-haired woman who died silently, and the man stabbed in the back by his own kin.
Was that a prophecy?
Or was it the fear of a similar fate lurking within his bloodline?
Mother…
Rhaenys.
What is she doing now?
Is she on the high tower of High Tide, looking toward the north in vain with a far-eye?
Or is she under the cold gaze of Corlys, feigning composure while her nails are already dug into her palms?
“You must survive.” This was her hope.
Survive.
But how?
Like a rat hiding in the docklands, waiting to be dragged out by The Greens, Driftmark, or any other party?
Or gamble everything to fight for that fragile “proof”?
Memories of his past life were vague, leaving him unable to grasp any clues.
“Ha…” Aeron let out a short, almost self-deprecating laugh.
“My Lord?”
A raspy voice came from the doorway.
Aeron looked up.
The massive frame of Brandon Rivers almost blocked the entire doorway; he was holding a coarse earthenware bowl that was steaming.
“Got some fish soup.” Brandon walked in and placed the bowl on the wooden crate beside Aeron’s feet.
“Old Craster’s wife made it; she said it would drive away the cold.”
Aeron did not move.
He continued to look at the ground, his voice muffled: “Brandon, if you were me…
what would you do?”
Brandon did not answer immediately.
He found a relatively flat stone block opposite Aeron and sat down; his bulk almost completely covered the block.
The workshop quieted down, with only the faint sound of distant waves.
After a long while, Brandon spoke, his voice lower than usual:
“I do not know what happened after you met the Lord of White Harbor.
I also do not understand the twists and turns between those great figures.”
He paused, his eyes, hardened by life at the docks, now revealing a strange clarity.
“But when my grandfather was still alive, he told me many stories.
About Aegon the Conqueror, about Jaehaerys the Conciliator, about the Old King…
and about those Targaryen who rode dragons and soared through the sky.”
He looked at Aeron, his gaze landing on the silver hair that faintly glowed even in the dim light.
“My grandfather said that dragon blood is fiery, proud, and never lost.
They may be angry, sad, or calculating, but they would never cower in a corner like a stray dog.”
Brandon’s voice grew increasingly firm.
“Because they are true dragons.
True dragons do not need to prove themselves to anyone—their very existence is the proof.”
Aeron slowly raised his head.
Sunlight happened to shine in from the side, landing on his face.
In those deep violet eyes, something was shaking violently.
Brandon stood up and walked over to Aeron.
The giant bowed his head slightly, a gesture that was almost a rough form of etiquette, but his words were like a hammer, striking Aeron’s heart word by word:
“Your Grace.
You have a dragon.
You should not…
and cannot be this lost.”
“Your Grace.”
Aeron looked at him, remaining silent for a long time.
In the workshop, only the sound of their breathing and the eternal accompaniment of the waves remained.
A shock.
A small yet sharp shock, like a needle, pierced through that layer of thick fog wrapping around him, named “lost” and “helplessness.”
Indeed.
What was he afraid of?
What was he hesitating about?
He was Eron Targaryen.
In his veins flowed the blood that conquered The Seven Kingdoms and rode dragons.
He possessed Sheepstealer—the master of the sky.
He also had Brandon, this unexpectedly acquired descendant of a knight who remembered ancient oaths.
In what kind of humble position had he been placing himself?
Begging for House Manderly’s protection?
Fearing the pursuit of The Greens?
Escaping the shadows of Driftmark?
No.
True dragons should not beg.
True dragons should conquer, or at least, fight.
Aeron slowly stood up.
He was not as tall as Brandon, but as he straightened his spine and lifted his chin, something intangible began to radiate from him.
“You are right, Brandon.” Aeron spoke, his voice still somewhat raspy but no longer wavering.
“Old Wylis can grant me protection in White Harbor, on the condition that I clear out the people of the Hand of the King from the docklands.”
He walked to the bowl of fish soup that had already gone lukewarm; he did not drink it, but merely traced the coarse rim of the bowl with his finger.
“House Manderly has lived too comfortably,” Aeron’s voice was very soft, yet it was like the first crack in an ice sheet.
“They actually asked me to prove myself…
Very well.”
He turned around, the sunlight gilding the edges of his silver hair with a cold halo.
“I will prove myself.
However, I will do it in my own way.”