After both sides ate the tea cakes before them—thereby sealing the sacred guest right—Aedric got straight to the point.
"I understand why you're here," he said calmly. "But I can't agree to it. You can't afford what it's worth."
"Then may I ask," Daenerys said softly, "what the Sword Saint's price is?"
"Five hundred thousand gold dragons," Aedric replied coolly. "Or, if you'd rather—defeat me in battle. That's the same offer I gave the Golden Company."
"That's outrageous!" Ser Jorah Mormont nearly leapt to his feet. "Half a million gold dragons! Even the entire North couldn't muster that kind of wealth!"
Indeed, this once-honorable knight had been exiled for selling poachers into slavery—for only a few thousand gold dragons.
"You're welcome to try taking it by force, Ser Jorah," Aedric said with a shrug. "Or perhaps when Her Grace's three dragons are grown, she can send them to claim it.
I wouldn't mind adding 'Dragonslayer' to my title after 'Storm Sword Saint.'"
Daenerys, whose dragons were her children, flared with anger. Her chest rose and fell as she struggled to contain her fury.
After a long moment, she forced herself to speak evenly.
"Might the Sword Saint at least allow me to see the blade? I wish to behold my family's ancestral treasure with my own eyes."
"You may."
Aedric gestured lazily. A servant disappeared into the inner room and soon returned with a long wooden case, which he set carefully before Daenerys.
He had expected this request.
With trembling hands, Daenerys lifted the lid. Her violet eyes shimmered with emotion as her fingers traced the black steel blade of Blackfyre—lost for a century, now finally before her.
"You may draw it, if you like," Aedric offered.
Privately, he couldn't help but mock Euron Greyjoy in his thoughts—what a schemer the man had been. Judging from Daenerys's entranced expression, if Euron had managed to meet her in the show with this sword in hand, she might indeed have been swayed by it.
Unable to resist, Daenerys unsheathed the sword. She swung it a few times—clumsy and untrained, but her joy was pure, almost childlike.
When at last she sheathed it again, she closed the box gently and met Aedric's eyes with renewed resolve.
"Sword Saint," she declared, "I will reclaim this blade. Whether through gold or through strength, I swear it."
"Is that so?" Aedric smiled faintly. Taking the case back from the servant, he opened it, drew the sword once more, and shook his head.
"I don't think you can even wield it properly, Daenerys."
He raised Blackfyre—and as he channeled dragonfire into it, the sword burst alight with seething black flame, like the burning depths of the Abyss itself.
"What—what is that!?"
Everyone in the room gasped. Even Daenerys could only stare, frozen, as the infernal fire danced along the blade, devouring light and air alike.
"So," Aedric said quietly, withdrawing the energy, the flames vanishing in an instant, "not even the blood of Targaryen remembers what this sword truly is."
He handed Blackfyre back to her.
"Try again. See if it will answer your call."
Daenerys lifted the sword with both hands, whispering ancient Valyrian words, summoning all her will—but no flame appeared. Not even a spark.
"Th… this is impossible…" she whispered, her voice trembling.
Aedric took the sword back, ignited it once more with effortless command, then sheathed it again and closed the box.
"This sword shares no bond with you, Daenerys," he said, his voice calm but final. "Your destiny lies with your three dragons. Raise them well—and stop reaching for things that aren't yours.
Those who grasp at everything… only bring about their own ruin."
Daenerys lowered her gaze. For a long moment she stood motionless. Then, slowly, she rose.
"Whether it's the dragons, the sword, or the Iron Throne itself," she said coldly, "I will take them all back.
Let's see whose destiny prevails in the end, Storm Sword Saint Jon Snow."
With that, she turned and swept from the room, Jorah and the rest following.
Aedric watched her go, sighing softly.
"You still don't understand the darkness in people's hearts, my little aunt," he murmured. "If you did, you'd already know how cruel the gap between dreams and reality can be."
Then his gaze hardened.
"And as for that pig-faced merchant, Xaro—his ambition is getting dangerous. Trying to crown himself King of Qarth? Not on my watch. If he kills the Thirteen, who'll fetch me all those rare herbs?"
He shook his head, then pulled a letter from his pocket—the one that had arrived that morning from the North—and began to read.
Renly Baratheon is dead.
But unlike the show, this Renly had never married the Rose of Highgarden—no Catelyn Stark had visited his camp to witness the murder.
When the shadow struck, Renly had been in bed with his lover, Ser Loras Tyrell. The "Knight of Flowers" had seen everything with his own eyes.
Thanks to that, Brienne of Tarth, long accused of the deed in another world, was spared suspicion—though her grief nearly consumed her.
Given how well-known Renly and Loras's relationship was, and how strong the alliance between Highgarden and Storm's End remained, few doubted Loras's account.
The news of a king struck down by dark sorcery spread like wildfire. All Westeros trembled, lords whispering in fear, wondering who might be next.
There were three obvious suspects—Joffrey in King's Landing, Tywin in Casterly Rock, and Stannis on Dragonstone.
But when Stannis made no effort to investigate and instead moved swiftly—greedily—to absorb Renly's bannermen, the conclusion became obvious to all:
The shadowborn murderer of his own brother could only be Stannis Baratheon, the dour Lord of Dragonstone.
(Though, of course, Stannis himself would deny it to his dying breath.)
At the end of the letter, Eddard Stark wrote that he intended to withdraw Northern support from Stannis's claim entirely.
Aedric smiled faintly, summoned a wisp of dragonfire to his fingertips, and burned the letter to ash.
"Everything I planned," he murmured, "was to keep the North out of this ruinous War of Five Kings—to preserve our strength for the true war to come."
Now that his goal was achieved, what happened to the other four kings no longer concerned him.
"May the gods they trust… watch over them," he said softly.
"Amen."
~~--------------------------
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