“You see it now.
So, what is your answer?”
Aeron’s question hung in the stagnant air of the map room, and the nine severed hands on the table cast grisly shadows under the candlelight.
Lord Wylis Manderly did not answer immediately.
He walked slowly back to the other end of the long table, leaning his hands on the edge, his deep, sea-like eyes lingering on Aeron’s face for a long time, as if scrutinizing an unearthed ancient artifact covered in rust and inscriptions.
The silence in the room was pulled taut, to the point where one could almost hear the slight trembling of the Maester’s chains.
Finally, Wylis spoke, his voice calmer than before, yet harboring a sharper edge:
“Then tell me now—are you ‘Aeron Tideborn’, or are you ‘Eron Targaryen’?”
The question was like a precise scalpel, cutting directly through all the appearances of blood and violence, pointing to the core mystery of identity.
Aeron looked at Wylis, watching the undisguised probing and calculation in the eyes of this shrewdest lord in the North.
He did not answer in words.
Aeron took the grey-white conch shell from his bosom and, amidst the shocked gazes of Wylis, the Maester, and the Captain of the Guard, walked to the arched window.
Outside the window, the inner courtyard of New Castle was immersed in the deep night, with only sporadic guard torches flickering in the distance.
He brought the conch to his lips.
This time, the people in the room could hear it—not a sound, but a sensation.
A low vibration, as if coming from the earth’s core, caused ripples in the wine glasses on the table and made the edges of the map on the wall tremble slightly.
The Maester’s eyes widened, and the Captain of the Guard’s hand pressed against his sword hilt again, but Wylis raised his hand to stop him.
The conch sound stopped.
Waiting.
At first, there was only the sound of the wind.
Then, in the direction of the distant sea horizon, a shadow cut through the low-hanging clouds.
It came extremely fast, so fast that the moment the sentinel on the guard tower let out the first exclamation, the shadow had already swept over the harbor, and the gale from its wings made the cables of the ships moored in the harbor rattle.
It flew toward the inner courtyard.
It was the first time Lord Wylis Manderly had seen a dragon at such close range.
Salt Wind—Aeron silently recited its name in his heart—revealed its full form under the moonlight.
It was larger than rumored, with a wingspan of fully fifteen yards.
Grey-brown scales were the primary color, but under the reflection of the moonlight and torches, the edges of the scales refracted a unique, grey-white luster like congealed sea salt, with deep blue, near-black patterns winding between them, like the dark undercurrents of the sea before a storm.
Its head was long and narrow, with sharp lines on its snout, and its pale yellow vertical pupils were like two cold ghost fires in the night.
Most striking was the base of its right wing—there was a huge, diamond-shaped scar there, lighter in color now that it had healed, but its flight posture was steady and powerful, making that scar look like a medal of war.
The dragon did not breathe fire, nor did it roar.
It landed in the center of the inner courtyard with an almost elegant composure, its front claws making a dull thud as they gripped the stone slabs.
It folded its wings, its massive body filling nearly a third of the courtyard, and then it lowered its head, those pale yellow vertical pupils locking precisely onto Aeron behind the arched window.
A low, almost satisfied purr rumbled from deep in its throat.
The entire New Castle fell into a deathly silence.
All the guards froze in place, the archers’ fingers stopped on their strings, and no one dared to move.
This was not the dragon from stories, not the dragon on a coat of arms; this was the real, breathing, strongest force capable of crushing a warhorse with a single bite. The source of this chapter is novelping(.)com.
Lord Wylis Manderly stood by the window, his fat hands gripping the windowsill tightly, his knuckles turning white.
He watched the dragon for a long time, then, extremely slowly, shifted his gaze back to Aeron.
The complexity in that look transcended the categories of shock, fear, or calculation.
It was a realization—a realization of something ancient, dangerous, and irreversible.
“I think…” Wylis finally spoke, every word crystal clear, “…I know.”
He turned around, no longer looking at the dragon in the courtyard, but facing Aeron directly:
“You shall have my protection.
In White Harbor, within the reach of House Manderly.”
This was not a warm welcome, but a cold political commitment.
Protection meant responsibility, and it also meant a price.
“Maester,” Wylis said, not waiting for Aeron’s response, issuing an order directly, “prepare ink and parchment.
Write two letters.”
The Maester hurried to the desk and spread out high-quality parchment.
“The first, to the Red Keep in King’s Landing, addressed to the King.” Wylis’s voice returned to the steady tone characteristic of a lord, as if the shock from just moments ago had never happened.
“The tone must be respectful, the wording cautious.
Write: ‘A young knight capable of riding a wild dragon has been discovered, silver-haired and violet-eyed, calling himself Aeron.
He is with me now, and I hereby petition His Majesty and the Hand of the King—how should the Kingdom handle a wild dragonrider who possesses the blood of the true dragon?
What status should be granted, and what rights and responsibilities should he enjoy?'”
Aeron’s pupils contracted slightly.
He understood—this was not a simple report; this was an extremely exquisite chess move.
Wylis was throwing the problem back to King’s Landing, while simultaneously placing the fact that “Aeron has a dragon” before the public in the most formal way, and implicitly requesting an official status.
King’s Landing must acknowledge this as a Targaryen with a dragon.
“The second,” Wylis continued, his gaze looking toward the east, as if he could pierce the stone walls and see Dragonstone across The Narrow Sea, “to Dragonstone, addressed to Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen, one of the Kingdom’s legitimate heirs.”
His phrasing changed subtly here, carrying a hint of appropriate respect belonging to a supporter of The Blacks.
“Write: ‘Your Highness, a young knight named Aeron is now in White Harbor, silver-haired and violet-eyed, and has tamed a wild dragon.
He claims to be the son of The Queen Who Never Was, Rhaenys.
Now The Greens want to buy him to use against you, and Driftmark wants to resolve this scandal.
If you recognize this brother, you may offer him some status and assistance.'”
A more brilliant move.
This letter placed Aeron directly on Rhaenyra’s chessboard, not as a beggar, but as a bargaining chip delivered to her doorstep—’You have a brother out there who can ride a dragon; he is with me now.
If you need him, we can talk.’ At the same time, it cleverly pushed the responsibility of “granting status” to Dragonstone.
And House Manderly positioned itself as a “faithful reporter” and a “potential intermediary,” maintaining maximum initiative and safety.
The Maester’s quill scratched on the parchment, recording these words that might change the fate of The Seven Kingdoms.
Wylis finished his instructions and looked at Aeron again, his face devoid of any extra expression:
“The Lighthouse is yours.
I will have men set up a post on the cliff road; no one is to enter or leave without your or my permission.
Whatever you need—food, intelligence, or quiet when you don’t want to be disturbed—tell Brandon, or go directly to my steward.”
He paused, then added:
“As for the fleet from Driftmark…
if Lord Corlys truly comes, I will negotiate with him in the name of the Lord of White Harbor.
But the result of the negotiation will depend on many things.
One of them is how much interest King’s Landing and Dragonstone truly have in you and your dragon.”
The words were clear: Manderly’s protection was limited; true security had to be exchanged by Aeron with his own value.
Aeron nodded.
He put away the conch.
Salt Wind seemed to sense it in the courtyard, letting out a low purr, spreading its wings, and the massive figure slowly took off, soon disappearing into the night sky toward the harbor.
The dragon had left, but the shock it left behind was already deeply branded in the hearts of everyone in this castle.
Wylis took one last look at the empty courtyard outside the window and waved his hand at the Captain of the Guard:
“Keep tonight’s events under wraps; tell everyone not to speak of it.
Just say…
it was a merchant ship testing new fireworks.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Aeron knew it was time to leave.
He nodded slightly to Lord Wylis Manderly—a gesture of acknowledgment that the old lord had decided to help him—then turned and followed the silent steward back into the deep corridors of New Castle.
After his footsteps faded, the Maester spoke with a tremor:
“My lord, these two letters…
might they be too risky?
This is tantamount to simultaneously…”
“Shut up.” Wylis interrupted him, his voice weary but firm, “When a dragon lands in your courtyard, you no longer have the option of ‘not being risky’.”
Outside the window, the night was like ink.
And on the cliff of the Lighthouse, Aeron pushed open the creaking wooden door and walked into this temporary shelter.
He looked out the window at the pitch-black sea, where the silhouette of Salt Wind occasionally swept past the waves lit by the moonlight.
The conch in his bosom felt slightly warm.
He knew that the game had entered a new phase.
He had gone from a hunted fugitive to an asset waiting to be evaluated and contested by all sides.