Chapter 395

The hot breath expelled from the massive nostrils quickly condensed into white mist in the frigid air. Beneath its claws, the snow melted rapidly into slush from the heat radiating from its immense body. The dragon shifted its forelegs and hindquarters, adjusting its posture to a more comfortable position, while its head turned, alert eyes fixed warily on the black-clad figures approaching through the snow. Its rider, however, remained on its back, wisely refraining from dismounting in case a quick escape was needed at the first sign of danger.

Daenerys Targaryen had learned her lesson the hard way. After narrowly avoiding a scorpion bolt while showcasing her dragons above King’s Landing, she now understood the truth: while dragons were a fearsome show of power, they were far from invincible against a prepared enemy.

Aegor, standing before the massive beast, was utterly awestruck by its sheer size. Its eyes alone were as large as his head, its gaping maw could swallow an entire horse, and the scales covering its body were so vast that even a single one, if pried off, would dwarf his hand. Perched on a hillock, the dragon’s colossal stature made it necessary to crane one’s neck to see its rider. From this vantage, Daenerys looked every bit the goddess descending from on high, commanding reverence and awe.

Every legend has its roots in reality. Standing before a dragon and its rider, it was impossible not to understand why the Targaryens were thought to be closer to gods than mortals.

...

Aegor halted several meters away from the hillock, keeping a safe distance from the dragon. As an ordinary man, he neither could nor needed to suppress the fear that such a creature inspired.

“Good afternoon, Your Grace. As Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, I welcome you to the Gift.”

“It’s good that you’re here. Otherwise, I would have had to chase down the locals to find out where their commander was hiding.” Daenerys had chosen an open and defensible spot to land, wary of potential ambushes, and it seemed she had picked wisely. She was pleased with the view and the nervous expression on Aegor’s face, and couldn’t help but wonder if she should have released her dragons back at Dragonstone to impress him. Perhaps then, the Night’s Watch would already be at her back. “You may approach. Drogon won’t harm you as long as you mean no ill.”

“No, thank you, Your Grace,” Aegor politely declined. “I trust your dragon is well-trained, but I can hear you perfectly from here.”

It reminded him of those dog owners who swore, “My dog doesn’t bite,” only for someone to get bitten. Except, in this case, the stakes were infinitely higher. A dog bite might mean a few stitches and some vaccinations, but a dragon bite? There wouldn’t even be a body left to bury. Aegor had no dragonlord blood, and taking foolish risks was not his style.

“As you wish.” Daenerys didn’t press further. Unlike their last meeting, where she had been warm and friendly, her gaze was cold this time, her expression detached. “The book you gave me, or part of it, was excellent. You said in your letter that the full version is stored in the Night’s Watch’s library. I’ve come to retrieve it. In return, I offer you this promise: the Targaryen family will not attack the industrial holdings of the Night’s Watch outside King’s Landing.”

Even from nearly ten meters away, Aegor could feel the heat radiating from Drogon’s body, warming his face like an open flame. It reminded him of Melisandre’s unnaturally high body temperature, though the dragon’s was thousands of times more intense. He made a mental note: without the resilience of true dragonblood, ordinary people would find it nearly impossible to endure prolonged contact with a creature of such heat.

“Your Grace,” Aegor replied carefully, masking the dual trials of fear and the strange pull he felt toward Daenerys, “I believe I was clear in my letter: the book is ancient and fragile, unfit for transport. It can only be read on-site. The library of the Night’s Watch is always open to you. I swear by all the gods, old and new, that your safety in Crown's Rest will be guaranteed.”

Daenerys hadn’t forgotten Aegor’s description in the letter, but she had hoped it was an excuse, one she could challenge. Now, faced with his insistence, she hesitated. If the book truly couldn’t be moved and she forced its transportation, leading to its destruction, it would be an unforgivable waste.

She scrutinized Aegor’s face for any signs of deceit, waging an internal debate. Eventually, she sighed, resigning herself to the cautious voice in her heart. Swinging her leg over Drogon’s side, she prepared to dismount. “Lord Commander, I must warn you: should anything happen to me in this town, whether or not you are complicit, my three children will reduce this place to ashes.”

At least she knew to lay down her terms upfront. Bold and reckless as this young queen might be, she wasn’t entirely foolish.

Aegor exhaled quietly, relieved. The fragile manuscript Daenerys sought didn’t exist, and the sequel she assumed was written hadn’t even been started. If she had insisted on seeing the book, he would have been in an impossible position. Admit he had lied to a queen atop a dragon? Aegor knew exactly what the word “death” meant. But now that she was dismounting and entering Crown's Rest, the advantage was his. Even if she grew furious later, she’d have to listen to his explanation first.

“I will ensure your safety at all costs.”

Daenerys gestured at Drogon, who shifted its massive body, folding its wings in and lowering itself into a crouch. Using its wing joints as steps, Daenerys descended gracefully onto the snow-covered mound. Once she had reached a safe distance, Drogon snorted a blast of hot air, reared back, and took off, its powerful wings stirring a gale that scattered loose snow as it joined its siblings in the sky.

...

Instead of the dark attire she had worn before, Daenerys was dressed entirely in pearl-white winter garb. Her fitted coat, trousers, gloves, and pointed boots all gleamed with an almost ethereal brightness. Yet even without dark clothing to contrast it, her skin still appeared smooth and radiant. Her delicate, strikingly beautiful face seemed almost unreal, framed by flowing silver hair and lit by her piercing violet eyes. Combined with her deliberately aloof expression, she radiated an ice-cold beauty far more stunning than the warmth she had displayed at Dragonstone.

Aegor noticed the faint sound of his guards behind him—quiet gasps and gulps as they reacted to her presence.

The young queen descended the mound with deliberate elegance, her every step measured. It wasn’t a display of arrogance but rather a necessity. The "mound" Drogon had landed on wasn’t solid ground but a heap of coal slag left behind by Crown's Rest’s industrial activities, covered by a thin layer of snow. The surface, deceptive in its appearance, shifted underfoot. Though Daenerys moved with care, she still stumbled slightly as a piece of slag crumbled beneath her weight.

Aegor instinctively reached out to steady her. For the briefest of moments, their hands met, and a wave of inexplicable intensity surged through him. It took every ounce of his willpower to release her before she noticed his hesitation. In that fleeting instant, a part of him, primal and terrifying, had considered keeping her here, making her his.

“Careful, Your Grace. The North is nothing like the South,” Aegor said, masking the turbulence within. He turned to retrieve a tray from one of his guards. “Please, accept the hospitality of Crown's Rest.”

The tray held a modest assortment of pastries and snacks, originally prepared for Arya and Myrcella to nibble on during the tournament. Aegor now offered them to Daenerys as a gesture to ease tensions. According to Westerosi tradition, once a guest accepted the host’s hospitality under their roof, both parties were bound by the sacred laws of guest right: neither could harm the other for the duration of the stay.

Strictly speaking, bread and salt were the proper symbols for guest right, but the snacks contained flour and salt, so the spirit of the law was upheld.

Daenerys hesitated for a moment, unaccustomed to being treated as a guest rather than a conqueror. After a brief pause, she removed her gloves, selected a piece, and ate it.

The coldness in her expression softened slightly as she swallowed.

Much of her earlier frostiness had been due to fatigue from the long journey and lingering frustration from their last encounter, where she had felt slighted. But now, after being welcomed and steadied when she stumbled, it felt foolish to remain icy toward someone who showed her nothing but respect.

“Very well, Lord Commander. Lead the way.”