Rayder listened to the old king's carefully measured words and almost laughed aloud. Inside, the thought burned through him like wildfire: Do you take me for a fool?
But experience, as sharp as dragonfangs, held his tongue. He had not survived exile, betrayal, and the chaos of dragon battles by speaking every truth that leapt to mind. So he masked the sneer that curled in his heart with the calm, almost indifferent face of a negotiator.
Across the sands, King Jaehaerys stood with his queen at his side, their dragons bruised and bloodied yet still proud. Behind them, the unconscious form of young Lannael lay cradled against her mother's chest, her life uncertain, her future a thread that might snap at any moment.
To Rayder, the picture was clear enough. The king's strength was waning. His dragons were scarred. His family was shaken. These were people he could not destroy outright—not yet—but they were people he could bend, people whose weakness might grant him what he truly desired.
There was no sense wasting words. So Rayder went straight to the heart of the matter.
"I will not be your puppet," he said, his voice low but firm, every syllable like an iron stake hammered into the earth. "Nor will I bow to be manipulated at your whim. I will be a free lord in Westeros, my own master, ruling by my own will. That is the price for peace. Surely, King, that should not be difficult?"
The words fell heavy in the salt air.
Jaehaerys's jaw tightened. Fury rose in his chest like a tide against the rocks, threatening to break loose. The demand was brazen—an insult dressed as diplomacy. Did this stranger truly believe he could seize a kingdom's prize with a few words?
Yet when the king's eyes drifted over his injured dragons, the pale face of his daughter, and the weary shapes of his allies, his anger found no release. Rage would change nothing. He had no strength to enforce his pride, not here, not now.
Drawing in a long breath, he swallowed the heat within and forced calm into his tone.
"If it is only a title you want," he replied, "then that can be given. I can raise you to lordship, grant you the honors of a noble house, a seat at court. That much I will bestow."
Rayder shook his head slowly, a smirk tugging at his mouth. "A title is nothing but parchment. Wind and words. I want substance. I want land, men, power that cannot be taken away with a stroke of a quill. The North, vast and fertile, will do. Give me that, and I am content."
The words struck like an arrow to the heart.
Jaehaerys could no longer hold his composure. He rose, fury flashing in his eyes. His voice, when it broke from his throat, was edged with steel:
"Impossible! The North is the foundation of this realm, the heart of Westeros. You dare demand we surrender it? That land is bound in blood to this crown—it cannot be yours!"
The waves crashed louder against the rocks, as if echoing his wrath.
But Rayder only smiled, as though the king's anger was a fire he had already predicted. Indeed, it was. He had known all along the North was beyond reach. No man, however weary or desperate, would simply gift away half a kingdom. But the demand had served its purpose: to shake the king, to test his resolve, to force him to reveal what price he would pay.
His voice dropped, sly and deliberate, as he laid forth his second move.
"If not the North, then the Wall. The Night's Watch, and a swath of land south of it to serve as buffer. A small kingdom of my own, far from your southern squabbles. That would be enough."
The suggestion was spoken as if it were nothing more than barter over grain or timber. But the implications were heavy as stone.
The Night's Watch. The shield of men against the North's mysteries. To grant it away would be no mere gift, but the surrender of the kingdom's last defense.
Jaehaerys stiffened. Within his mind, whispers of prophecy stirred—dark words passed from king to king, warnings older than their dynasty itself. Winter is coming. The blade of Valyrian steel, forged to end the Night King's reign of ice, still lay in King's Landing as silent witness to those truths.
He could not give the Wall away. Not to this stranger. Not to anyone.
His refusal came swift, his voice cutting as a blade:
"No."
Rayder's eyes narrowed. Annoyance flickered across his face.
"No? The Night's Watch bleeds your coffers and drains your strength. It is a burden no crown should bear. I offer to take it, and still you refuse? Do you enjoy carrying a curse on your back?"
But Jaehaerys would not reveal the truths that bound him. His gaze hardened. He shifted his words to another path.
"Rayder. The realm is vast. You have three dragons, yes, but three dragons cannot rule a continent. Even if I granted you the North, even if I surrendered the Wall, how would you hold it? You have strength enough to destroy, but not to govern. What you ask is folly. What I can give you is a city—a stronghold to call your own. Nothing more."
The refusal was clear. The limits were set.
Rayder's expression chilled. His voice was a whisper of frost:
"And if I insist on the North?"
The king did not flinch.
"Then know this: you have three dragons. We have ours as well. If we are driven to the last breath, we will take one of yours down with us. Perhaps more. Is that a price you are willing to pay?"
For a long moment, the beach was silent save for the crash of waves and the hiss of wounded dragons breathing.
Then Rayder laughed softly, though there was no mirth in it. "You underestimate my dragons too greatly, King."
"And you," Jaehaerys replied firmly, "underestimate ours." His voice rose, strong despite the weariness. "Vermithor and Silverwing still live, and they are not beasts to be dismissed. Caraxes you have seen with your own eyes. We are not so weak as you would believe."
The two men locked eyes, unyielding wills clashing as fiercely as their dragons had only hours before.
For a moment, Rayder's hand twitched toward the hilt at his side. His mind flashed with images of Immolation unleashing black flame, of Jaehaerys burned to ash on the shore. The temptation was raw, hot, nearly irresistible.
But reason cut through desire.
This was not the time. Not yet.
A final clash here would bleed him dry. And if he bled, others would swoop like vultures to claim what he had built. The North was sweet, but no fruit was worth plucking if it meant snapping the branch beneath him.
So he forced his fury down. His lips twisted, and he exhaled sharply through his nose.
"Very well. A city, then. But mark me, King—I will have one of worth. Strong enough to defend, rich enough to sustain. Do not insult me with scraps."
Relief flickered in Jaehaerys's eyes, though he kept his composure. His voice carried the dignity of his crown:
"You shall have it. A city, and with it, my word of peace. But in return, you will swear—by blood, by dragon—that you will not bring threat against my house or this realm."
Rayder gave no immediate assent. He leaned forward in his saddle, his voice still firm, demanding.
"I want the city near the North. Do not cast me aside to Dorne or some barren stretch of sand. If you would buy my peace, pay it properly. A city by the Neck, where I may stand as sentinel. Fulfill this, and I will not trouble your family."
The king frowned. The request carried danger. Rayder still coveted the North, though he cloaked it in subtler terms.
Silence stretched. Jaehaerys's eyes swept the field: the battered dragons licking their wounds, the pale face of Lannael, his queen's drawn expression. His realm needed peace, however fragile. His family needed respite.
At last, with the weight of duty pressing hard upon him, he spoke.
"Maidenpool. It is yours. The city, its walls, its garrison, its people—all shall pass to you. You will take it, and you will hold it. No more."
Rayder's eyes flickered. Maidenpool. A small city, a name he barely knew, a speck on the map.
Yet it was land. It was a foothold. A beginning.
He let a thin smile creep onto his lips. Enough, he thought. For now.
He would take their gift, use it, strengthen himself. Westeros was no home to him—it was only a staging ground, a place to gather strength for wars yet to come. One city was enough for the mask he wore today. Tomorrow, the mask could fall.
For now, he inclined his head, a gesture that might almost be mistaken for respect.
"Then so be it. Maidenpool will serve."
---
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