The wind at High Tide carried the scent of herbs and brine.
Laena’s room remained just as it was—the sheets were freshly changed, but a few strands of pale golden hair still lingered on the pillow; on the windowsill sat the seashells and conchs she had collected since childhood, each polished until they gleamed; in the corner stood the life-sized wooden seahorse Corlys had given her when she was twelve, its lacquer already peeling in places.
Rhaenys sat on a low stool by her daughter’s bed, holding a comb in her hand.
A few long strands of hair were still tangled in the teeth of the comb, left behind from the last time Laena had brushed her hair three days ago.
She removed them one by one, holding them in her palm; the sensation was so light it felt weightless.
The door was pushed open gently.
Corlys Velaryon stood in the doorway.
He did not enter, but merely leaned against the doorframe, his gaze sweeping over every corner of the room before finally resting on the comb in Rhaenys’s hand.
The “Sea Snake’s” back remained straight, but the light in his eyes had dimmed by half, and every wrinkle on his face seemed to have been etched deeper by the sea wind.
“A letter from House Manderly has arrived,” he said, his voice hoarse.
Rhaenys did not look up, but carefully gathered the hair in her palm together.
“What does it say?”
“Your son has established a foothold in White Harbor,” Corlys said, his tone flat and devoid of emotion.
“Lord Wylis has written to Dragonstone and laid the matter out for Rhaenyra.”
The comb paused for a moment in Rhaenys’s hand.
“Lord Wylis wants to buy favor,” she said softly.
“Using Aeron to trade for Rhaenyra’s goodwill.”
“Intelligence from King’s Landing,” Corlys paused.
“The King has given the boy a surname.
‘Eron Targaryen’—he is now an officially recognized Targaryen bloodline, though it is merely an empty title.”
The room was quiet for a moment, save for the sound of the waves outside the window.
Rhaenys finally looked up at her husband.
“Where is your fleet?”
“Past The Bite.
Two days at most until it reaches White Harbor.”
“What do you intend to do?”
Corlys did not answer immediately.
He walked into the room, went to the window, and cast his gaze toward the gray northern horizon.
He held this posture for a long time, so long that Rhaenys thought he would not answer.
“When Laena was small,” he suddenly began, his voice very soft, “she always loved to pester me for stories about the other side of the sea.
She said she didn’t want to marry; she wanted to be a captain, wanted to see Pentos, Braavos, and Volantis across The Narrow Sea…
I told her, ‘When you grow up, I will buy you a ship, and you can go wherever you please.'”
His fingers traced the edge of the windowsill, where there was a shallow notch—carved by Laena with a small knife when she was seven.
“She didn’t even manage to…
hold her own children.”
Rhaenys gripped the comb in her hand, her knuckles turning white.
“Now,” Corlys turned and looked at her, “your other child—the one we have hidden for seventeen years—is in the North, riding a dragon, making the entire The Seven Kingdoms talk about the secrets of Driftmark.
And I, a father who has just lost his daughter, must take the fleet to White Harbor to face him.”
His voice held no anger, only a profound, seawater-soaked weariness.
“People will say, ‘Poor Corlys Velaryon.
His daughter is dead, and his wife’s bastard is out causing trouble.’ They will pity me, and they will mock me.
And the last thing I need,” he paused, “is pity and mockery.”
Rhaenys stood up and walked to his side.
They stood shoulder to shoulder before the window, looking out at the same sea.
“I am sorry, Corlys,” she said, her voice calm and firm.
“Aeron’s father…
that was many years ago.
Bearing him was my decision alone.
Sending him to Driftmark was my plea to you to give a motherless child a chance at life.”
Corlys remained silent.
“For these seventeen years,” Rhaenys continued, “I visited him once a month, hiding behind the reefs, using a looking glass.
Watching him tend the sheep, watching him get bullied by other children, watching him sit alone by the sea, gazing in the direction of the ocean.
I never gave him any promises.
Because I knew that promises mean expectations, and expectations…
often lead to destruction.”
She turned to look at Corlys; there were no tears in her violet eyes, only a bottomless calm:
“Now he has grown up.
He has a dragon, he has stepped into the sunlight, and he has forced everyone to see him—he only wants to survive.”
The sea breeze blew into the room, stirring Laena’s seashell wind chime, which gave off a crisp sound.
After a long time, Corlys let out a long sigh.
The sigh contained too much—the pain of losing his daughter, the helplessness in the face of shame, the complex feelings toward the woman he had spent twenty years with, and some unspeakable emotion regarding the boy far away in White Harbor.
“King’s Landing gave him a surname,” Corlys finally said.
“House Manderly pushed him to Rhaenyra.
Even if my fleet reaches White Harbor, I cannot touch him—at least not openly.
To do so would be to slap the King in the face, to make an enemy of the future Queen.”
He looked at Rhaenys:
The face of Driftmark, the dignity of House Velaryon…
Laena has just passed, I cannot let the family suffer further shame.”
“Do you want me to write to Rhaenyra?” Rhaenys asked.
Corlys nodded: “In your name.
Tell her the boy’s origins, tell her he is not an enemy, but neither is he…
a completely reliable friend.
Tell her that Driftmark remains an ally of The Blacks, but if that boy becomes a problem…
we may need to reconsider some things.”
This was not a threat; it was a statement.
It was the most restrained position a lord who had lost his daughter and was facing a family crisis could take.
Rhaenys pondered for a moment.
“I will write the letter,” she said.
“But I will write it truthfully.
I will write that he is my son, how he has lived these seventeen years, why he tamed a dragon, and why he resisted.
As for how Rhaenyra views him or uses him…
that is her affair.”
Corlys looked at her for a long time.
Then he reached out—not to embrace her, but to gently pat her shoulder.
“Very well.”
This simple gesture contained all the understanding, compromise, and shared burdens of the past twenty years.
He turned and left the room, stopping when he reached the doorway:
“The fleet will continue to sail for White Harbor.
Once there, I will speak with Lord Wylis Manderly.
We will talk about the boy, about trade, about shipping routes, about…
the future.”
The door closed gently.
Rhaenys remained alone in her daughter’s room.
She walked to the bed, carefully placed the lock of golden hair from her palm into a small velvet pouch, tied it shut, and then walked to the window.
Aeron stood before the window of the lighthouse, watching the Salt Wind swirl over the surface of the sea.
He did not know that on Driftmark, his mother was writing a letter for him.
He also did not know how this letter would change his destiny.