Erlad sat stiffly in his chair, a bitter taste on his tongue that had nothing to do with wine. The "conditions" he had promised Rayder before the Council now seemed far too generous. It felt as though he had been outplayed before the game even started. Leaning closer, he lowered his voice until it was almost a whisper.
"Rayder," he murmured, "those terms we discussed earlier… can they still be changed?"
The man opposite him, tall, silver-haired and cold-eyed, swirled his drink with deliberate calm. "Changed?" Rayder's tone was almost pleasant. "Of course. We can always agree on another condition."
The answer, so casual, made Erlad's stomach tighten. Another condition? Is this how negotiations work with him? He almost laughed at himself. Perhaps he really was mad for even asking.
For a moment he toyed with the thought of reneging entirely—tearing up their private bargain and walking away. But then he met Rayder's eyes. In that pale gaze flickered a glint of steel, as cold and hard as a dragon's claw. A shiver went down Erlad's spine. Instantly the image formed in his mind: three dragons, their wings blotting out the sun, rampaging through his northern holdings. The vision was enough to crush any notion of betrayal.
Across the hall of the Great Council, Corlys Velaryon was still making his last, desperate efforts to gather support. But the numbers were too lopsided. By the time the votes were called, Viserys Targaryen stood as the sole, overwhelming heir to the Iron Throne.
Corlys's face, carved usually from confidence and sea-salt arrogance, now showed only disappointment and anger. He understood, perhaps for the first time, that he had lost this political struggle. His eyes flicked to his son Laenor. Guilt rose like a tide. He had failed to secure the rightful position for his child.
Yet even in defeat Corlys's mind worked. This was not the time to burn bridges. If he and Rhaenys could endure, another opportunity might come. But it would require patience—and allies.
Then King Jaehaerys, with that maddening mixture of serenity and calculation, proposed a change to the succession law. From this moment, neither women nor their male descendants could inherit the Iron Throne. The words fell into the hall like stones into a still pond, sending ripples of outrage through the Targaryen family.
Rayder's lips curved in a faint smile. To the nobles it might have looked like polite interest. Inside, however, he was almost gleeful. This decision would ignite controversy like dry tinder. The Targaryens prided themselves on dragon's blood and unbroken tradition; to deny Rhaenys and her line so openly was to invite rebellion.
Perfect, Rayder thought. All I need now is to make Corlys and Rhaenys determined enough to start a civil war. Once the dragons turn on each other, my goal will be achieved.
His purpose in Westeros was simple: gather energy points. And nothing, he had discovered, generated energy like war—especially war among dragon-riders.
He even let his mind drift to darker possibilities. Should I remove Laenor or Viserys myself? One strike, one "accident," and the realm will burn. But almost as quickly he dismissed it. Murdering them openly would not produce the desired chaos. It would paint a single villain, not spark a family feud. No—he needed the powder keg to light itself.
From across the chamber he spotted Rhaenys. She stood with Laenor, her expression grim, her knuckles white where they clutched her gown. Jaehaerys's decree had cut off her children's path to the throne, as if he had spoken aloud: Do not hope for power again. Her face told Rayder everything.
He felt a thrill of opportunity. If he could channel Rhaenys's bitterness and Corlys's humiliation, if he could nudge them at the right moment, the realm would tear itself apart. But he had to be careful. Push too hard, too soon, and they would suspect manipulation. Timing and method were everything.
Rayder's gaze drifted to Erlad once more. I'll start with him. Through him, the North can be my lever. In his private "system space" he still held numerous dragon eggs, and his knowledge of taming them was unmatched. An audacious plan took shape in his mind.
When the Council dispersed, Rayder did not linger. He caught Erlad by the elbow before the Stark lord could retreat to his chambers. "Walk with me," he said. "We'll find somewhere quieter."
A short time later they sat in a dim tavern off a crooked alley, the kind of place where dockworkers drank and no one asked questions. Rayder had rented the entire common room for the evening. Only empty benches and sealed barrels surrounded them.
Erlad eyed the isolation warily. In the time he had known Rayder he had learned one truth: the man never rose early without profit. If Rayder was paying for this privacy, the subject must be grave indeed.
Rayder poured a glass of strong liquor and slid it across the table. He could feel Erlad's watchful eyes. Enough games, he told himself. Be direct. Setting his own cup down, he leaned forward, his expression turning serious.
"Erlad," he began, "you're no fool. You know I'm not here for idle drinking. I have a proposal for you—an important one."
The Stark's brows drew together. "What proposal?"
"About dragons," Rayder said softly. "About power. About our future."
Erlad's heartbeat quickened. Everyone in Westeros had heard whispers: Rayder with three dragons at his command, Rayder at Dragonstone, Rayder who had survived battles no man should survive. For a lord of the North, dragons were more than legend—they were a temptation, a promise of unassailable power.
"What do you want?" Erlad asked.
Rayder's smile was slow, almost feline. "The same as you. Power. Status. Freedom."
The words landed like a thrown dagger. Erlad felt his shoulders stiffen. This man's ambition was dangerous, his intelligence sharper than a Valyrian blade. Yet the offer shimmered like heat on snow. If they truly cooperated, what goal could not be reached?
Rayder studied him, sensing the struggle. He needed to sweeten the bait. "Erlad," he said, "I know your ambitions in the North. I can help you achieve them—if you're willing to work with me."
The lord of Winterfell's blood ran cold. Rayder's timing was no accident. He smelled war in the man's words, just as he smelled it in the Council chamber. As head of the Stark family, he had to tread carefully. Yet curiosity gnawed at him. What reward could he possibly offer?
He picked up his wine, swirling it slowly before meeting Rayder's eyes. His voice was deep and steady. "What can I get?"
Inside, Rayder exulted. That question meant the battle was half won. The reward he had in mind was irresistible. Even if it cost the Stark family dearly, Erlad would not be able to say no.
Rayder's smile widened, tinged with playful arrogance. "How about this," he said. "I help you hatch a dragon—one that belongs to the Stark family alone."
For a heartbeat Erlad sat frozen. Then his fingers slipped. Wine splashed across his lap but he did not notice. His eyes went wide as shields. "You… you can do that?" he stammered.
Rayder savored the reaction. The look on Erlad's face was almost comical, like a boy glimpsing the gods themselves. Ecstasy swelled in Rayder's chest. He had hooked him.
"Of course," Rayder said, voice low and sure. "What I say always counts."
The tavern seemed to shrink around them. Outside, the city hummed with rumors of the Great Council, of new laws and old grievances. Inside, two men plotted something far older and far more dangerous: the return of dragons to the North, and a partnership that could topple a realm.
Erlad wiped his hands on his cloak, trying to steady himself. A dragon for House Stark—the very idea was madness. But then, so was Rayder. And madness, in Westeros, was often just another word for destiny.
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