74. Wylis

Daeranyx POV

Daeranyx was making his way through the hallway of the Maegor’s Holdfast.. Viserys, true to his word, had granted Daeranyx a chamber within the royal quarters. The king had grown more easygoing and jovial in recent moons—and notably less reliant on his advisors—since claiming Vermithor. Even now, Viserys refuted every request to chain the Bronze Fury, who had made a habit of sleeping just outside Maegor’s Holdfast.

Daeranyx had even heard talk of the Gold Cloaks’ barracks being repositioned just to give the great beast more space to breathe. If anyone was pleased by Viserys’s newfound boldness, it was Daemon—who had been all too happy to drunkenly share his amusement with Daeranyx the night before.

As he approached the drawbridge—the only entrance to Maegor’s Holdfast—Daeranyx nodded to Ser Cargyll, standing at alert.

“Good morrow, Ser Arryk—or is it Ser Erryk?” Daeranyx asked with a faint smile.

“Good morrow to you, too, Your Grace,” the knight replied, matching the smile. “I’m Erryk.” But the amusement in his eyes betrayed the mischief.

“Oh! I was hoping you were Ser Arryk, as Lord Commander Harrold asked me to pass a message to him. By chance, do you know your twin’s whereabouts, Ser Erryk?” Daeranyx asked, hiding a snort with a feigned cough. The knight gave him a dubious look, but seemed too deep in thought to notice the teasing fully.

“You could just relay the message to me, King Daeranyx. I’ll make sure my—” He stopped, realizing the jest. “You’re jesting, Your Grace. You know who I am.”

Daeranyx chuckled and raised a hand in apology. “Come now, Ser Arryk. You were the one who first started this game. And of all the White Cloaks, you should know better—I’d recognize Ser Erryk from posture alone. We’ve sparred often enough.”

“You’re right, Your Grace. I should have known better,” Ser Erryk said with a sheepish smile. “Ah, I almost forgot—I shouldn’t keep you. A man from the North came by a short while ago asking for you. Said you had a meeting with Lord Stark over breakfast. I told him I’d pass along the message, but he insisted on waiting—so I told him to do so, but outside.” He jabbed a thumb toward the large gates beyond the drawbridge.

Daeranyx nodded in thanks and made his way to the gate.

The scene that greeted him was oddly amusing. The “stubborn Northern man,” as Ser Erryk had called him, stood just outside, eyeing the Bronze Fury himself—Vermithor—who was lounging contentedly in the lower bailey. Daeranyx had to admire the man’s nerve. The dragon stared back at the man with molten gold, reptilian eyes. Most would have fled, or at least found a different spot to wait. But not this one.

Daeranyx approached. “What is your name, brave man of the North?” His voice startled the man, but he quickly composed himself and bowed stiffly—though he couldn’t help keeping one eye on the dragon.

“No harm shall befall you while I’m here. Be at ease,” Daeranyx said gently.

The man gave him a look of thinly veiled doubt but tried his best to focus on Daeranyx. “Forgive me, Your Grace. I’m Wylis of Wintertown. I’m here to guide you to Lord Stark, King Drakonar. Beg your pardon, but I can’t return without fulfilling the task my lord set me.” Wylis lowered his head.

“No need to ask forgiveness, Wylis. You’ve done nothing wrong. Quite the opposite, in truth. Standing here in the presence of a dragon takes great courage. Your lord is fortunate to have loyal men such as you—men who face even this without turning from duty, when many others would.” Daeranyx said with sincere respect.

Wylis nodded, visibly grateful for the words.

“Now, Wylis of Wintertown, led the way,” Daeranyx said lightheartedly. As the man nodded and started making his way toward serpentine steps. 

~*~

Daeranyx was led outside the Red Keep and toward one of the finer-looking establishments in the city. After dismounting his grey stallion, he followed Wylis to a corner of the inn, which had only three doors. Four guards stood nearby, dressed in boiled leather and plate armor of grey and black, their hands resting on their sword pommels. Upon seeing Wylis and Daeranyx, the guards lowered their heads and opened the door on the left side of the room.

Daeranyx didn’t miss the quick glances two of Stark’s men gave him, their eyes scanning for any weapons. But finding none, they allowed him to pass. He smirked inwardly—as if he needed a sword to kill their lord.

The room he entered was nearly empty, save for a few wooden furnishings and a long table laden with food. Four chairs surrounded the table, three of which were already occupied by members of House Stark. Daeranyx greeted Lord Stark, his wife, and his brother politely before taking his seat.

“Do you happen to take part in the melee, King Drakonar?” Bennard Stark asked abruptly. Daeranyx, mid-chew, finished his bite before replying.

“No, Lord Bennard. I haven’t put my name in the melee. Though I’d be eager to see how you fare in one. You will be partaking in the melee, yes?”

Bennard nodded, his expression just as frozen and stoic as his brother’s.

“I’m sure you’ll perform splendidly—judging by your showing in the joust.”

For only a heartbeat, Bennard’s face faltered. Disappointment. Shame. But Daeranyx saw it all the same.

“There is no need to be disheartened, Lord Bennard. Your opponent was Ser Cole, whose skill far surpasses someone of his age. I’ve heard only praise for him from the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. And Ser Harrold is not one to praise lightly. He even said that Ser Criston would surpass all of them soon enough—perhaps becoming the greatest sword in the realm.”

Bennard gave a slow nod in agreement and returned to his meal.

Daeranyx turned to Lord Stark. “My lord, what are your thoughts on King Viserys granting me Skagos? I’ve heard the North is quite different from the South, so I’d appreciate your honest opinion.”

The smile had vanished from Daeranyx’s face. His tone turned serious. He could use Legilimency to get his answers—but there was no need. Not yet.

Lord Stark studied him for a few moments before speaking. “Skagos is a unique matter in the North. Though sworn to House Stark, the Skagosi rarely involve themselves in Northern affairs. Their reclusive behavior has only deepened since Aegon the Conqueror forged the Iron Throne and united the Seven Kingdoms.

“So if you ask me how I feel about losing that land to a complete stranger—King Drakonar—you’ll find no hostility from me or mine. Though I can’t say the same for all my bannermen. What irks me is His Grace’s decision to return the New Gift without so much as asking whether I wanted it back. Nearly five decades have passed. People from that land have begun to abandon their homes due to frequent raids. The Night’s Watch—though in better condition—is still too short-handed to patrol all of the Gift. And the Wildlings beyond the Wall have taken full advantage of that. Raids have grown more frequent than they were even a decade ago.”

“First, I’m glad to hear House Stark bears no animosity toward me,” Daeranyx said evenly. “As for the issue you raised—it can be resolved over time. Those men could be brought back once you promise them protection, which Night’s Watch wasn’t able to provide. That was the reason they left, wasn’t it? If it is resolved, I don’t say, why wouldn’t they agree to return to their previous home?”

“Aye,” Rickon replied, unamused, “but resolving it would require men and gold—resources House Stark could have spent elsewhere.”

Daeranyx’s smirk returned, the food before him all but forgotten.

“Well, manpower might not be something I can offer… but gold—” Rickon Stark’s brow arched, his gaze sharpening, clearly listening more intently now.

“Let’s say,” Daeranyx continued, “I have a proposition. One from which both the North and Skagos could prosper… if we were to ally ourselves. And lack of gold would be the least of worries for House Stark in the future.”