Rayder, by status, was now more than a mere guest of the Targaryens—he was a lord with a city of his own, and behind him trailed three dragons whose very existence symbolized a kind of power Westeros had not seen for generations. To the nobles of King's Landing, those three beasts—Kidora, Im, and Yigen—were not only a reminder of old Valyria's glory but also a declaration that this outsider stood on equal footing with kings.
Inevitably, such power drew all manner of sycophants and schemers. Lords, merchants, minor knights, and wandering flatterers all sought him out. Some wished to tie themselves to the Targaryen dynasty through him; others thought to curry favor in hopes of coin or titles. Their words were honeyed, their bows precise, but beneath the polish was hollowness. Rayder saw through them as one might see through the glassy surface of a still pond.
To him, these people were like faceless products on an assembly line—arriving with bright smiles, leaving with empty hands, leaving behind only noise. They had no weight, no substance. He could not even remember their names after the first introduction.
By contrast, Kidora's three great heads gave him far more satisfaction than a dozen noble flatterers. The dragon's scales were warm beneath his hand; its breaths rumbled with life. When he rested against its massive shoulder and felt the subtle tremors of its breathing, he knew at least there was something real in this world he could touch.
Yet not every encounter was tedious. Corlys Velaryon's visit the previous night had been a rare exception—one that stirred Rayder's curiosity.
Corlys, known throughout the realm as the Sea Snake, was not an ordinary lord. Head of House Velaryon, master of Driftmark, husband to Princess Rhaenys Targaryen, and father to Laenor, his reputation as a seafarer and adventurer stretched from Braavos to Qarth. He had built his fortune not by inheritance but by daring voyages into unknown waters. His name carried the scent of salt, the promise of distant horizons, and the respect of sailors and kings alike.
Rayder had never spoken with him before, though Rhaenys had mentioned her husband often. She described him as fearless, proud, and endlessly ambitious. In person, he matched the tales—upright, steady, with eyes that had weathered storms both literal and political.
Yet beneath that calm exterior Rayder sensed something else. His eyes, seasoned by two lifetimes of betrayal and hardship, caught the subtle tension in Corlys's tone, the faint hesitation behind his humility. A man of Corlys's stature did not bow his head lightly. He had come because he had struck a wall.
Perhaps his ambitions had clashed with King Jaehaerys or Queen Alicent. Perhaps his plans for Driftmark or the Velaryon fleet had been hindered. Whatever the cause, the great Sea Snake found himself forced to seek help from an outsider who commanded dragons.
Rayder was not fooled. Rhaenys surely knew her husband's plight, and it was likely she herself had a hand in nudging him toward this meeting. Still, the conditions Corlys offered left Rayder unimpressed. Vague promises, grand titles with little substance, and bargains that demanded much but gave little in return—it was the sort of deal a seasoned merchant offered when testing a green boy at his first market stall.
The truth was clear: Corlys was probing, seeking to measure Rayder's ambition and limits.
Yet one remark lingered with Rayder long after the Sea Snake departed. Near the end of their conversation, Corlys had said quietly: "When it is done, you shall be named Prince."
The word struck him like a stone in a still pond, sending ripples through his heart.
The title of Prince in Westeros was no small matter. It carried prestige even higher than that of most lords, a sign that one stood within arm's reach of the Iron Throne itself. To lesser men it would be irresistible.
But Rayder was not lesser men. He weighed the offer and found it wanting. A title, however glittering, was only paint on the surface. He sought iron beneath, not gilded words. Real power meant soldiers, fleets, wealth, and the freedom to bend history itself. An empty name held no worth if it could not change the course of kingdoms.
Still, Corlys's visit proved one thing: the tendrils of Targaryen politics had begun to curl toward him. The game of power was opening its gates, and he—an outsider with dragons—was now a piece on the board.
The thought did not sour his mood. In fact, he awoke the next morning with a strange sense of exhilaration.
Days within the Red Keep had wearied him. Courtiers came and went, each with the same empty smiles and careful phrases. The walls were stone, the halls cold, the air filled with whispers. He longed for something real. So he resolved to escape the palace's suffocating embrace and walk among the living heart of King's Landing.
The city, after all, was the shell that housed the Seven Kingdoms. If the Red Keep was a throne, then the streets were veins, pumping life into the realm. He wished to hear the clamors of hawkers, the laughter of children, the cries of beggars—things that reminded him of worlds he had once known and lives he had left behind.
Kidora, as though sharing his eagerness, rumbled softly. Her three heads twisted this way and that, nostrils flaring at the unfamiliar scents of the city. Im and Yigen trailed behind, wings folding tightly as they moved. The people of King's Landing scattered at their approach, eyes wide with awe and terror, but Rayder barely noticed.
For a while, the streets lifted his spirits. He saw fishmongers haggling loudly at the harbor, smelled the tang of fresh bread wafting from a baker's stall, heard the distant bells of septs calling the faithful to prayer. Life in all its messy, vibrant fullness.
But his respite was short-lived.
On a broad road leading toward one of the city's larger markets, a man stepped directly into his path. Middle-aged, broad-shouldered, dressed in the rich furs of the North despite the southern heat, his posture was straight as a spear. His face carried the hard lines of one long accustomed to command.
The man bowed with perfect noble courtesy and introduced himself: "Erlad Stark, King in the North, Lord of Winterfell."
Rayder studied him coolly. This was no chance encounter. Erlad had been waiting. The calculation in his gray eyes betrayed it.
When had the Starks grown so hasty?
After a few exchanges of pleasantries about the weather and the hardships of travel, Erlad's tone shifted. His voice was steady, but Rayder heard the weight behind his words:
"I am told you once proposed to the King that you should be made Lord of the North. Is this true?"
Ah. So that was it.
Rayder's mind turned swiftly. Either Corlys or Rhaenys had spoken of his earlier words, or else whispers had twisted through court until they reached Winterfell's ears. The North was no trifling prize—it was an ancient stronghold, older than most kingdoms, vast in land if not in wealth. The Stark family had guarded it for thousands of years. To hear that a dragonlord from across the sea dared lay claim to it must have stung like salt on an open wound.
Yet Rayder did not flinch. He had spoken such words before King Jaehaerys, testing the old monarch's reaction, and he felt no shame in admitting it now.
He inclined his head slightly and said evenly, "I did say so. Do you object?"
The bluntness struck Erlad like a blow. For a heartbeat, the Northern lord's pride bristled. Here was an upstart—an outsider, a man who had not endured a single Northern winter—speaking as though he could dictate the fate of Winterfell. The arrogance was staggering.
But then his eyes slid past Rayder to the massive forms behind him. Kidora's three heads loomed like mountains of scales and teeth, each one glancing restlessly at the crowd. Im's tail lashed the cobbles. Yigen's wings twitched with irritation. The air itself seemed to shimmer with heat from their bodies.
The fire of Erlad's indignation faltered. In its place came something far heavier: awe.
Dragons were the truth of this world. Whatever words men spoke, whatever banners they waved, all of it burned to ash when a dragon opened its jaws. And here stood not one, but three.
Yes, he told himself, perhaps arrogance was forgivable when backed by such power. Even a Stark, even a king of the North, must bow his head before living fire.
Erlad had seen hardship. The North was a crucible that tempered men into steel. He had faced winters that killed by the thousand, rebellions that shattered castles, wildling raids that bled the Wall. He had known hunger, war, and grief. He had seen dragons in his youth when the Red Keep's menagerie still boasted several.
But never like this.
Before him stood the living reminder that all his struggles, all his victories, could be undone in a single day if this man chose it.
And in that moment, Erlad Stark was forced to admit to himself that fear was a language even kings understood.
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