"Can you guarantee the Silver Dragon's snakes hasn't discovered him?"
The silver-haired man with a face full of stubble still couldn't feel at ease. This wandering nobleman, named Morola Ulnar, was the brother of the now-dead Ben Ulnar. After Ben's death, House Ulnar lost its most promising heir, and within the Black Walls, they were further crushed by the nobles of the Elephant Party. Several "Dragon Lord Houses" who had been obsessed with stealing dragons plummeted in status. Some of the more unfortunate families were nearly erased from the Black Walls altogether.
These Dragon Lord Houses eventually chose to go all in.
Morola Ulnar was the swan song of House Ulnar. He brought the most beautiful girl of his family to this barren little island and joined with companions from House Bellerys in a plan that was neither secretive, nor meticulous, and had absolutely no backup.
And so the years passed.
The collaborators from House Bellerys had left—not because they had abandoned the plan, but because, on their way off Ghaston Grey, their ship was caught in a battle between the royal fleet and pirates. Of the twelve merchant ships involved, only one limped back to Ghaston Grey. If not for the stable supplies sent from Silvercrown City, their plan would have failed long ago.
Now, Morola had completely integrated into the Westerosi life of Ghaston Grey. Even the man who had once been his slave, the supposed owner of the tavern above, was now practically his family and friend.
"I can't guarantee it," said Ayar, once a slave, now Morola's right-hand man, as he wiped clean the cup Morola had just drained. He shook his head. "I can only promise that neither the acting castellan Hurd Cobb nor Maelor himself knows whose blood runs in that boy's veins. The Silver Dragon's snakes may be everywhere, but the current 'Arbiter' in power is not the former 'Silver Prince'. He won't slaughter the innocent without proof."
"You dyed the boy's hair?"
Morola suddenly understood.
"In fact, he's never known his true hair color, not since the day he was born," Ayar said as he poured another cup of thick ale. He needed to conserve what little ale remained in the tavern. After so many years on this island, both Ayar and Morola knew its dynamics all too well.
The current lord of House Cobb was Lady Melora Cobb, the eldest daughter of the late Lord Cobb. She had borne twelve children. Greyghast castle's output could not support so many heirs, but she managed to get by, thanks to the occasional maritime trade from Ghaston Grey—mainly with the ships of ambitious Volantene adventurers.
Now that trade had resumed across the Stepstones, Melora's surviving children were gradually finding their places in the world. Of course, aside from those who married out, her children could only wed into one of the other two remaining "noble" houses on the island—mostly the thoroughly decayed House Hightower.
The current head of House Hightower, Ser Galen Hightower of Farwatch Keep, had both his mother and wife hailing from House Cobb. Lady Melora once considered marrying her daughter to Maelor, but wary of his identity and bloodline, she ultimately abandoned the idea.
House Hightower, however, had no such reservations. Things were already bad enough—how much worse could it get?
So, Galen's sister married Maelor Sunfyre and became his lawful wife. They had one legitimate son—a boy with golden hair—but he perished shortly after birth due to a terrible cold.
Neither House Vaelarys nor House Targaryen responded to this. It seemed both families had forgotten about Maelor. And yet, the Silver Fleet's blockade of Ghaston Grey made one thing clear:
The two Dragon Lord Houses had not forgotten.
From that day on, until the quiet and reserved Lady Hightower passed away, Maelor and his wife never had another child.
"Maelor really likes this kind of ale from the North. Unfortunately, we never had much of it," Ayar said as he watched Morola drain another cup of thick beer. He couldn't help but sigh. Thirty years ago, this former master of his would never have touched such coarse swill—grain liquor so rough that only slaves and barbarian foreigners would drink it. But now, Morola could sip it like the Volantene wine or green wine he once adored, treating it as part of his daily routine.
Ayar didn't know what that said about the man.
"Any news lately?" After gulping down another beer, the anxiety in Morola's heart finally began to settle, soothed by alcohol and mouthfuls of grainy dregs.
"Which kind of news do you want—dragons or politics?" Ayar set down his cup and leaned on the counter. "I don't hear things much faster than you."
"Tell me about Dragon's Nest and King's Landing," Morola sighed. It had been months since he'd received any word from the outside. His last piece of news came four months ago. Morola had no idea what had happened to his informant, but there'd been no contact since.
"The Targaryen heir has tamed a great dragon."
"Which one?" Morola perked up instantly. The last news he'd received was that Dan Vaelarys of House Vaelarys had tamed Sendros, the "Beast of the Woods", that Valenna Vaelarys had bonded with Silverwing, Prince Aemon of House Targaryen with Seasmoke, and Prince Aegon with Syrax.
"Caraxes or Vermax?" Morola, unusually animated, began to guess.
"Neither." Ayar shook his head calmly. "It was Dreamfyre."
"Dreamfyre?" Morola paused, then quickly recalled the name of this old dragon—renowned among their circle of "dragon seekers". Perhaps it wasn't the most powerful, but it was undoubtedly one of the most important. Not just because Dreamfyre was the oldest living great dragon—its size no longer matched its younger kin, but it was still a colossal beast—but more importantly, because it was a female dragon capable of laying eggs.
Dragon eggs—something every one of them dreamed of.
"Then congratulations to Prince Daeron."
Morola sighed, raising his cup to Ayar, signaling for another. Any drink would do.
As long as it was alcohol.
Ayar shook his head and poured him a full glass of strong wine.
"This one's the good stuff, from the last shipment," Ayar said, shaking the cask and listening to the rich glug of the wine. "Take it slow."
There wasn't much of the Valantis wine left.
"Been a long time since I had the real stuff." Morola downed the cup in one go, bitterness in his eyes.
"Word from King's Landing is that Dreamfyre is the fiercest dragon in the pit. They say it's killed no fewer than five dragons that tried to approach its lair. And for some unknown reason, it even crushes its own eggs."
Morola winced and gestured for another cup. He couldn't bear to hear such waste.
Ayar refilled his mug with thick beer. "You should drink less."
"It's not much," Morola sighed. "Won't even be enough to get me to sleep tonight."
"But Prince Daeron walked straight up to the beast, they say. Dreamfyre was enraged when she saw him. But the prince held nothing but a shield and a rope. He weathered her flames and climbed onto her back. She tried to throw him, but he used the rope to anchor himself."
"When he came down, unscathed, the wild she-dragon had already submitted."
"Whoever wrote that ballad for Prince Daeron deserves a reward. Did the crown at least throw them a coin?"
Ayar shrugged. Only the gods knew.
"Anything else?"
"There is," Ayar said, more serious this time. "The Arbitrator's wife is pregnant."
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