Watching Arya take down the Golden Company envoys in just a few swift, fluid moves—grabbing each by the collar and tossing them out of their rented courtyard—Aedric spoke coldly,
"Go back and tell your commander this: Blackfyre was taken from Euron Greyjoy by me.
If you want it back, you can either pay five hundred thousand gold dragons, or try your luck against me.
This time was just a warning. Next time you come bothering me again, I won't hold back.
Now—get out."
The battered mercenaries scrambled away in terror. Aedric shut the gate, turned to the grinning "little wolf," and went back inside.
"Jon," Arya asked with bright curiosity, "if that dragon queen finds out you have Blackfyre, do you think she'll come looking for you?"
Of course Arya already knew about the legendary sword. Aedric had even demonstrated its power before her more than once.
He had also helped infuse a trace of dragonflame energy into her inner core and gifted her one of the two dragonbone daggers capable of igniting the divine flame.
After all, in the original story, Arya had used that very dagger to kill the Night King himself.
It was fate—the dagger and the girl were clearly bound by destiny.
Unfortunately, with her limited cultivation and lack of dragon blood, Arya could only sustain the flame for a few seconds, nowhere near Aedric's effortless control.
For her, dragonfire was still a trump card—a sudden, devastating strike, not a sustained power.
At her question, Aedric shrugged.
"If she does come, so what? You think I'll just hand Blackfyre over for free?"
"Even if I weren't a Targaryen myself, there's no way I'd just give away a weapon that valuable."
"Jon, Jon!" Arya's eyes sparkled. "Can you show me Blackfyre's black flames again? It looks so awesome—so powerful!"
"Go look at your own blue fire," Aedric replied impatiently. "You've already pestered me ten times in the past few days. I'm getting tired of it."
"That was an hour ago," Arya muttered, pouting. "It'll take me hours to recover again. I'm not a real dragon like you—I can't just breathe fire whenever I want."
"Then you should spend that time training instead of whining," Aedric said, gently ruffling her hair. "Once your cultivation deepens, you'll be able to convert your inner energy into dragonflame directly. The longer you can sustain it, the stronger you'll become."
"Jon… do you think Father's sword, Ice, could ignite divine flame too?"
"How should I know?" Aedric spread his hands. "I've never tried it."
Seeing the gleam in Arya's eyes, Aedric instantly knew she was plotting to "borrow" the ancestral Stark greatsword for an experiment.
With a helpless shake of his head, he pulled out a small bottle of pills and handed it to her.
"Don't get distracted. The Golden Company won't give up so easily. Focus on your cultivation instead.
Thankfully, those merchant princes managed to gather such rare herbs, or it would've been impossible to refine these elixirs."
"You mean the ones that cost money," Arya retorted, grabbing the bottle. "Between these and that new ship, you've spent nearly two hundred thousand gold dragons. Those leeches wouldn't lift a finger without payment."
"It's fair trade—value for value." Aedric smiled, patting her head again. "Now go train. Once you reach the fourth level of Inner Core Refinement, I'll ignite Blackfyre for ten full minutes—let you enjoy the show to your heart's content."
"Old Gods above! It's a deal!" Arya clapped her hands excitedly and bounded off to her meditation chamber, tail practically wagging.
"That girl…" Aedric chuckled fondly, then went to his own cultivation room.
There, he pulled the black dragon egg from his spatial storage and began absorbing the dragonfire energy within once more.
Although he could now freely convert his internal power into dragonflame, the dragonfire inside the egg still greatly nourished his inner core.
Thus, meditating with the egg had become a daily routine—a vital part of his progress.
After months of experimentation, he had discovered the optimal ratio between qi and dragonflame, maximizing his gains while minimizing depletion.
But just as he was deep in meditation, drawing out several streams of crimson-gold flame from the egg, a servant knocked at the door, interrupting his focus.
"My lord," the servant said nervously, "a guest has arrived… the silver-haired queen, Daenerys Targaryen."
Aedric froze briefly.
By bloodline, that made her the aunt of the man he was currently impersonating—Jon Snow.
And since her mother was also his father's sister, she was technically his cousin-aunt.
Considering the centuries of inbreeding within House Targaryen, that family tree was more tangled than a dragon's tail.
"Gods, what a messy lineage," Aedric muttered wryly.
Pushing aside such thoughts, he entered the receiving hall.
He gave a polite nod to an old acquaintance—Ser Jorah Mormont—before fixing his gaze on the silver-haired young woman standing before him.
"So," he said bluntly, "the last scion of House Targaryen herself. You're here for the sword Blackfyre, aren't you?"
Ignoring the faint irritation in his tone, Daenerys raised a graceful hand to still Jorah, who had instinctively reached for his weapon.
Then she stepped forward and introduced herself with all the regal pride she could muster:
"A pleasure to meet you, Jon Snow, the Storm Sword Saint.
I am Daenerys Targaryen, of the blood of the dragon—Stormborn, the Unburnt, Mother of Dragons, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, the Silver Queen, the Dragon Queen."
Aedric's eyes glazed slightly halfway through the recitation.
Inwardly, he added a few future titles of his own—Breaker of Chains, Queen of Meereen, and so on—then took a long breath and gestured for the servants to bring refreshments.
This was the Guest Right—a sacred custom observed across the continent.
Once a guest entered your home and partook of your food, it signified a mutual oath of peace: neither host nor guest could harm the other while under the same roof.
To break this vow was to incur the wrath of every god, old and new alike.
(As for those Golden Company envoys earlier—well, he hadn't offered them any food.)
As soon as the tea and snacks were placed on the table, even the ever-vigilant Ser Jorah visibly relaxed, his hand slipping away from his sword hilt.
As a Northerner himself, he knew full well:
The honor-bound Starks of Winterfell would never violate the sacred Guest Right.
~~--------------------------
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