Erlad drew in a long, steadying breath, forcing his racing heart to calm. The dim tavern smelled of damp wood and roasted meat, but none of that mattered; the weight of Rayder's proposal pressed on him like an anvil. Owning a dragon was a temptation no lord could easily dismiss. For the Stark family it was more than a temptation—it was the promise of power enough to change the balance of the realm.
He studied the man across from him. Rayder's composure never wavered; a faint smile played at his lips, but his eyes were dark and watchful, gleaming with a dangerous light. Erlad spoke at last, his voice low but sharp with caution.
"What is it you truly want?"
Rayder's smile deepened, as if he had been waiting for this question all along. He leaned back in his chair, hands folded loosely, and replied with quiet certainty.
"What I want is simple—your support and your loyalty."
The words landed like stones in Erlad's chest. Support was one thing; loyalty was another, a chain that once clasped could not easily be broken. He felt the conflict tighten inside him. The Stark family had weathered centuries of storms by acting with caution, and yet here was an offer that could make them greater than they had ever been. The risk, though, was immense.
He did not answer immediately. His gaze drifted to the window where late-afternoon light slanted across the tavern floor. After a long pause he murmured, "I need some time to think."
A flicker of disappointment crossed Rayder's face. He had clearly expected a quicker capitulation. Yet he schooled his expression and gave a gracious nod.
"Of course. Take the time you need. I trust you'll make the wise choice."
Erlad said nothing. Inside, however, his mind spun. This was indeed a great opportunity—but also a snare, and he could feel the teeth of it closing. As head of the Stark family he bore responsibility not just for his own ambitions but for the lives of every bannerman, every servant, every child who carried his name. One reckless bargain could doom them all.
Silence settled between the two men, thick and oppressive. Erlad stared at the dark wood of the table, weighing possibilities, running through consequences again and again. At last he looked up, eyes hard.
"Your terms are tempting," he said slowly. "But I must refuse."
Rayder blinked. For a moment he seemed genuinely taken aback. Then, with a predator's quickness, he adjusted.
"How about two?" he asked lightly.
Erlad shook his head. "No."
"Five," Rayder said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
The number hit Erlad like a blow. His instinctive refusal caught in his throat; he nearly choked, eyes watering as he struggled to mask his reaction. Five dragons. Not one, not two, but five living engines of fire and terror—enough to make any House a match for the Crown itself.
Rayder saw the tremor in him and pressed his advantage. Yet Erlad managed, with effort, to hold his ground. He drew a slow breath, forced his voice steady.
"The Stark family can try to help," he conceded at last. "But loyalty is out of the question."
Rayder's brows rose in mock surprise. "Five dragons cannot even buy the loyalty of House Stark?" he said with a thin, cold smile.
A shiver ran through Erlad. He recognized the mockery for what it was: a warning. Rayder was no ordinary schemer. His ambition burned like wildfire, and his madness was not far behind. Yet the lure remained—the chance to reshape the realm, to rise higher than any Stark had dared.
Enough, Erlad told himself. He straightened, meeting Rayder's gaze squarely. "Tell me plainly. Are you trying to ignite a civil war within the Targaryen family?"
Rayder did not even blink. "That's right," he said calmly. "And it must be brutal—dragging in as many noble houses as possible."
The bluntness chilled Erlad to the bone. This was not merely a rebellion; it was an attempt to plunge the Seven Kingdoms into chaos, to drown the land in blood for some inscrutable end. He felt a surge of grim gratitude that he had not let greed blind him completely.
He pushed back his chair and stood. "You're mad," he said under his breath. "Utterly mad." He turned to leave.
But before he could take a second step, a shadow loomed. Kidora—the monstrous creature that never left Rayder's side—shifted to block his path. Three massive heads arched above him like serpents. Sparks of golden lightning flickered between rows of daggerlike teeth, casting eerie glimmers across the tavern walls. The air smelled of ozone and burnt metal.
Erlad froze, every muscle locking. Slowly he turned back to Rayder, his face ashen. "You would kill me over this?" he asked hoarsely. "Isn't that going too far?"
Rayder's expression was carved from ice. "You have no choice now," he said softly. "You know my plan. That knowledge binds you. Either you cooperate—or you die."
Erlad searched the man's eyes and found no trace of jest. This was no bluff. A single command and the beast would reduce him to a charred husk. His knees weakened; he lowered himself back into his chair, heart pounding in despair.
Rayder's demeanor shifted again, a smile returning as though nothing had happened. "I will give you a dragon egg about to hatch," he said. "Your house still carries Targaryen blood. If you raise the dragon from birth, you stand a good chance of taming it."
But Erlad did not share the man's excitement. The promise of a dragon no longer glittered like gold; it felt like a shackle tightening around his wrist. He stared at Rayder, voice trembling. "What exactly do you want me to do?"
Rayder studied him for a long moment. He understood perfectly well that a man coerced was a man who might betray. He needed to anchor Erlad more firmly—fear alone would not suffice.
He reached into a plain cloth bag at his side. To Erlad it looked like an idle gesture, but in truth Rayder was drawing the egg from a hidden store. He made it seem effortless, almost casual, as though such treasures were no rarer than apples.
The egg he produced gleamed darkly, scales mottled with gold and crimson. Heat radiated from it in soft pulses, like a living heartbeat. Rayder slid it across the table. "Consider this a deposit," he said. "All I ask is that you support Corlys and Rhaenys when the time comes. How you do it—what methods you choose—is entirely up to you. Even if you walk out that door and betray me, that too is your choice."
Erlad stared at the egg. It was heavier than it looked when he lifted it, the warmth of it seeping into his palms. He felt as though he were holding not a gift but a verdict. Slowly he said, "I will do my best. But whether a civil war truly erupts—that I cannot promise."
His voice carried helplessness and hesitation. He knew he was treading the edge of a blade.
Rayder only smiled, unfazed. "Whether it succeeds or not," he murmured, "it doesn't matter."
That answer unsettled Erlad more than any threat. If the outcome did not matter, then what exactly was Rayder's aim? He could not decipher it, and that made the man all the more dangerous.
Clutching the egg, Erlad rose. This time Kidora did not move to stop him. Yet as he walked toward the door a storm of resistance swelled inside him. He despised the sense of being manipulated, of being drawn into a web whose center he could not see. The dragon egg felt like a brand burning against his chest.
He stepped out into the cool evening air. Behind him, in the dim tavern, Rayder watched with the faintest of smiles. The game had begun.
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