Erlad Stark had seen dragons before—or so he told himself. He had read the sagas, studied the annals of Targaryen conquest, even glimpsed them once from afar when he was a child visiting King's Landing. But those memories were faint and distant, like smoke from an old fire.
None of them prepared him for this moment.
Standing in the shadow of three living, breathing dragons was like standing at the edge of the world. The Black Dragon, Im, shifted restlessly, and with a cavernous yawn exhaled a wave of air hot enough to scorch the flesh from bone. The blast carried the bitter tang of sulfur, a burning stench that clung to the back of the throat. It struck Erlad full in the face, and for an instant he thought his beard had caught flame.
His skin prickled, his vision swam, and his heart hammered so violently against his ribs he feared it would tear itself free. He caught a glimpse of Im's maw—dark as an abyss, teeth like molten daggers, a throat wide enough to swallow horse and rider whole.
It was terror in its purest form, the primal terror of prey standing before the unchallenged master of the food chain. No rank, no bloodline, no centuries of Stark pride could shield him from it.
For the briefest moment, Erlad regretted everything. Coming here, testing Rayder's patience, imagining he could bargain with a dragonlord—it was madness. He was no wolf of the North, but a rabbit that had strayed into a lion's den. Every fiber of his being screamed to turn, to flee, to abandon pride and dignity and run until he could no longer smell the fire.
Rayder noticed it all—the twitch in Erlad's jaw, the unsteady step backward, the sudden pallor beneath his weathered skin. More striking still was what his dragons perceived. Kidora, Im, and Yigen moved almost as one. Their bodies lowered, their necks arched, and a chorus of low growls rippled through the street. It was as if they had plucked Erlad's unease directly from the air, sensing him as a threat, however slight.
In the sunlight their muscles rippled like living steel cables, every sinew coiled for violence. The crowd scattered in a frenzy of screams and falling baskets, but Erlad stood frozen, staring into the abyss of dragon eyes.
Rayder's command cut through the tension like a knife.
"Stop."
His voice was steady, but behind it lay the iron thread of command that bound him to the beasts. Instantly, the dragons halted. Their growls faded to low rumbles, though their eyes never left Erlad. Backs still arched, claws still flexed, they obeyed, but their hostility lingered in every twitch of their tails.
Rayder stroked one of Kidora's three heads, as though soothing a restless hound, then turned back to his guest. His expression was calm, but his tone carried the weight of stone grinding against stone.
"Tell me plainly—are you here to demand an explanation, or to provoke me? Speak directly."
Erlad's stomach knotted. His mouth went dry, and for a heartbeat he thought he might cough blood. Say it? Here? Now? His mind reeled. Did Rayder not see those dragons' teeth, each one taller than a man? Did he not understand that Erlad's entire body was worth less than the meat that would stick between their fangs?
Yet he could not retreat. The memory of Corlys Velaryon's promises burned in his mind—the tempting whisper of the Prince's title, the grand prize of reclaiming the New Gifts for House Stark. These offers had seemed monumental when spoken in the safety of a candlelit hall. Now, in the presence of fire and death, they felt fragile as paper.
Still, Erlad forced himself to breathe, to stand upright as a Stark must. He thought of the upcoming Great Council, the gathering that would decide the fate of the Targaryen succession and, by extension, the balance of all Westeros. It was not only his pride at stake but the future of the realm.
Slowly, painfully, like a man forcing words from a throat choked with thorns, he spoke.
"Corlys Velaryon promised me… that if I could persuade you to support Laenor's claim at the Great Council, then—" he paused, every syllable heavy as lead—"then the New Gifts would be restored to my house."
The confession hung in the air, thin and fragile.
It was a gamble, a desperate attempt to buy survival with honesty. Perhaps, if Rayder believed his candor, the dragons' hostility might soften.
Rayder's lips curved into the faintest smile. Not warm, not kind—rather the amused curl of a man watching a cornered beast perform tricks.
"And how," he asked softly, "do you propose to persuade me?"
The question struck Erlad like a lash. His pride burned, his cheeks flushed. Still, he forced his voice steady.
"Originally, I thought to offer trade concessions. The North's timber, its furs, its iron ore—" He faltered as Rayder's gaze slid past him, indifferent, and the dragons' throats rumbled again with impatience. Hastily he changed course, grasping at anything that might seem weightier.
"Half," he blurted, "of the tax revenues from the New Gifts. If they are restored, I will see to it that half flows to you."
There. A larger piece of bait, one worthy of a dragon.
It was clever, in its way. The North's resources were meager compared to the wealth of Oldtown or the Reach, but taxes from the reclaimed New Gifts—fertile land once abandoned to the Watch—would be substantial. Or at least, they might be.
In truth, it was an empty promise. No one knew if the New Gifts could be fully reclaimed. The Night's Watch still held authority, and Laenor's succession was far from assured. Even if every piece fell into place, the notion of funneling half the taxes to an outsider was tenuous at best.
It was a gamble, nothing more. If fortune favored him, they would both profit. If not, the words would be forgotten in the ashes of failure.
Rayder listened, and for a heartbeat something like respect flickered in his eyes. Not for the promise itself—he cared little for taxes or empty parchment—but for the boldness it took to stand before dragons and still attempt to bargain.
Clever, yes. But not enough.
Rayder turned his gaze away, his eyes distant as though peering past the streets of King's Landing into realms unseen. His voice dropped, soft and measured.
"Tell me, Lord Stark… how much does your family know of the lands beyond the Wall? The Land of Eternal Winter."
The words struck Erlad like a blow. Of all the directions this meeting might have taken, this was one he had not anticipated. He had expected demands for wealth, perhaps land, perhaps marriage alliances. But this? The frozen wastes where no man lingered, where wildlings roamed and Others whispered in the dark?
For an instant, Erlad's instinct was to scoff. Nothing lies beyond but ice, snow, and death. But Rayder's eyes—those deep violet eyes that seemed to pierce through skin and bone—held him silent. This was no idle curiosity. Behind the question lay purpose, and behind the purpose lay something Erlad could not grasp.
He hesitated, then chose caution.
"Our vaults," he admitted slowly, "hold some ancient records. Maps, tales passed down from forebears who wandered further than most. But whether those writings are truth or fable, I cannot swear."
He paused, letting his words weigh heavy, before adding with a tone edged in warning:
"In my understanding, the Land of Eternal Winter is a dead realm. All who journey deep into it vanish. None return. It is not a land for men to covet, only a graveyard of ice."
It was meant to temper Rayder's curiosity, to pour cold water on whatever dangerous ideas he might harbor.
But Rayder's expression did not change. He did not scoff, nor argue, nor relent. His attention remained fixed, sharp, as though Erlad's words were not discouragement but confirmation of something he already suspected.
And in that silence, Erlad Stark realized something far more terrifying than the dragons behind him.
Rayder was not playing at titles, nor at taxes, nor even at the Great Council. His eyes were set beyond kings and thrones, on a land where even history dared not tread.
And that thought chilled Erlad more than all the fire in the world.
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