Aeron’s footsteps echoed through the empty corridors of New Castle.
He carried the still-bleeding burlap sack, following the steward through archway after archway.
The House Manderly sigils on the walls flickered in the torchlight, as if silently watching this uninvited guest carrying “cargo” that felt like a severed head.
When the door opened again, Lord Wylis Manderly was standing before a massive map of the North.
But this time, he was not alone.
There were two other people in the room.
An old man in the grey robes of a maester, his gaunt face like a dried apple, with chains clinking at his neck—that was the Maester of White Harbor.
A burly officer with a scarred face, wearing the blue and green studded leather armor of House Manderly—the Captain of the Guard.
Three pairs of eyes turned toward the door simultaneously.
As Aeron walked into the room and dropped the dripping sack onto the center of the long table with a thud, the air froze.
A suppressed gasp escaped the maester’s throat.
The Captain of the Guard placed a hand on his sword hilt and narrowed his eyes, sizing up the silver-haired boy.
Only Lord Wylis remained motionless.
His gaze shifted from the sack to Aeron’s face, then back to the sack, and finally, he spoke slowly, his voice as low as stone rolling over ice:
“You are very bold.”
Aeron did not answer.
He untied the cord of the sack and poured out nine severed hands.
Pale, stiff fingers spread across the polished table, some still maintaining the grasping posture from before death.
“Good heavens…” the maester murmured.
The Captain of the Guard stepped forward, looking down at the severed hands: “Did they all die today?”
Aeron said, “Three strongholds, nine people.
All their right hands are here.”
“Why cut off their hands?” The Captain of the Guard’s voice was hard.
Aeron said, “Proof.
Proof that I have done what you asked—made the people of the Hand of the King disappear from White Harbor.”
“I asked for them to ‘disappear’.” Lord Wylis finally turned around, his face showing only cold, suppressed rage, “Not to’start a fire and kill people in my harbor with such fanfare, leaving corpses on the street for everyone to gawk at, letting all of White Harbor know that a massacre occurred on House Manderly’s territory’!”
The last few words were almost roared.
The sound exploded in the room, making the map on the wall tremble slightly.
Aeron looked at him calmly: “If they disappeared silently, what would Otto Hightower think?
He would wonder if it was you, or Driftmark, or someone else.
Suspicion leads to investigation, and investigation leads to more eyes.”
He paused, his gaze sweeping over the severed hands on the table: “But now, they know who did it.
They know that a bastard they wanted to recruit cut off their nine hands and burned down their nest.
They won’t suspect you, my lord.
They will direct all their fury, all their schemes, and all their vengeance—at me.”
Lord Wylis stared at him, his chest heaving.
You think Otto Hightower is a fool?
He certainly knows it happened in my harbor!
He knows I didn’t stop it, and perhaps…
even provided help.”
“You didn’t stop it, that is a fact.” Aeron said, “But provided help?
Where is the evidence?
Did your guards maintain order in the harbor today?
They did.
Did you send people to put out the fire?
You did.
Did you order a manhunt for the killer?
I believe you have already issued the order.
Everything is normal; you did everything a responsible lord should do.”
He stepped forward, locking eyes with Lord Wylis: “The only thing that is not normal is that the killer was too ruthless, too fast, and left no survivors.
And the killer is standing before you now, carrying these ‘pieces of evidence’, telling you: the job is done.
You can hand me over to curry favor with King’s Landing.
Or you can…”
He did not finish.
“Or what?” the Captain of the Guard took up the conversation.
“Or you can accept this ‘gift’.” Aeron said, “And then tell King’s Landing: a madman appeared in White Harbor and cut off the Hand of the King’s men, and I am searching for this madman, but haven’t found him yet.
As for whether this madman will continue to go mad…
who knows?”
The room was quiet enough to hear the crackling of the torches.
The maester shifted his feet uneasily: “My lord, this is no small matter.
Nine lives, openly provoking the Hand of the King…
this is no longer a dockside gang brawl.
This is…”
“This is a declaration of war.” Lord Wylis interrupted him, his voice having returned to calm, but beneath that calm was a deeper chill, “This boy, with nine severed hands, has declared war on Otto Hightower.
And the battlefield—” his finger tapped heavily on the table, “—is my White Harbor.”
He walked up to Aeron, the distance between them less than a foot.
Lord Wylis was half a head taller than Aeron and twice as broad, looking down at the boy now like a bear staring at a wolf cub that had trespassed into its territory.
“You think you are very clever?” Lord Wylis’s voice was very low, yet every word was like an ice pick, “You think that by using this self-destructive method, you can force me to protect you?
Let me tell you, boy: House Manderly has existed for three hundred years not because we like taking risks, but because we know when to bow our heads, and when to…”
“When to hide behind the Wall and wait for the storm to pass?” Aeron continued, his voice equally calm.
Upon hearing Aeron’s words, Lord Wylis’s expression did not show the rage of someone whose secret had been exposed; instead, it settled into a deeper, more complex coldness.
He walked around the long table, the pressure brought by his massive frame causing the torchlight to dim.
“Hide?” Lord Wylis’s voice sounded like it came from the bottom of the sea, heavy with the weight of tangled seaweed, “Boy, what do you think ‘hiding’ is?”
“At the Great Council at Harrenhal—the place that truly decided the fate of the kingdom—my grandfather, Lord Walder Manderly, supported with the loudest voice he could muster, your mother Rhaenys’s son, Laenor Velaryon.”
Aeron’s breath hitched for a moment.
“Why?” Lord Wylis asked and answered himself, his voice devoid of pride, filled only with bone-deep exhaustion, “Because House Manderly believes in the legitimacy of bloodlines.
Your mother was the daughter of Prince Aemon, the eldest grandchild of the ‘Old King’ Jaehaerys.
When the throne passed to her uncle Baelon, we remained silent.
But when Baelon died and the throne was vacant again…
we thought the kingdom should correct this error.”
He gave a short laugh, devoid of any warmth: “We thought, if a woman could not inherit, then at least her son should.
It was the most basic justice.”
“And then?” Aeron asked softly.
“Then?” Lord Wylis’s voice suddenly turned cold, “Then the kingdom chose the’safest’ path—your mother’s uncle Viserys.
And everyone who supported Laenor Velaryon…
wrote their own names in the future king’s notebook, on the page marked ‘not on our side’.”
“That page itself does not kill.
But it makes people remember.
Remember which side you stood on at a critical moment.
Remember that when the new king ascends and power is reshuffled, you were once a supporter of a ‘wrong’ option.
House Manderly exchanged that failure for the most precious lesson: in the game of choices, picking the wrong side once can turn the reputation and trust accumulated over generations into a deep pit that needs to be refilled.”
He walked to the window, turning his back to the room, his voice becoming distant: “So, when you stand here and flippantly say ‘hide behind the Wall’…
you had better understand that you are accusing a family that once gambled everything for your mother’s bloodline.
You are accusing us of the only thing we have left, bought with blood: the wisdom to know when to remain silent.”
He stepped back, increasing the distance, his gaze sweeping over the pale severed hands on the table, then returning to Aeron’s face: “Now tell me, how should I treat you?
You are the son of Princess Rhaenys; in your body flows the blood she and my grandfather once cried out for.
But you have also brought fire, blood, and a dragon that will draw the eyes of the entire Seven Kingdoms.”
Every word of Lord Wylis’s speech was like a whip cracking through the air.
The room was deathly silent.
The maester’s face was deathly pale, and cold sweat beaded on the Captain of the Guard’s forehead.
Aeron stood where he was, and for the first time, in those purple eyes, a look bordering on shock appeared.
“I did not come here to ask you to repeat history, my lord.” Aeron finally spoke, his voice having less sharpness and more calm, “My mother…
never gave me that qualification.”
He took a deep breath: “I only came to prove that her bloodline is not so cowardly that it only knows how to flee, nor so insane that it only knows how to destroy.
I cut off these hands, not to force you to choose, but to let you see everything I have done.”
His gaze turned to the thickening night in the courtyard outside the window.
“You have seen it now.
So, what is your answer?”