Chapter 78 Price

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Chapter 78: The Dragon's Price

Smoke drifted on the wind like the spirits of the dead.

Howland Reed stood atop the crumbling remains of the walls of Moat Cailin, eyes fixed on the horror unfolding below. The Ironborn had broken. What had been a host of nearly eight thousand—hardened raiders from the isles, proud and arrogant—was now a scattering of black specks across the bloodied land, desperately trying to flee.

Above them soared death itself.

Lyrax dove low once again, fire erupting from her jaws in a sweeping arc. Trees caught like torches, men screamed and vanished into flame, and earth turned to cinder. She moved with terrifying purpose, no hesitation in her flight, no mercy in her wrath. The dragon was hunting—not for survival, not for defense—but to destroy.

It was a punishment.

Howland's heart trembled at the sheer power of it. He had seen battle, had faced men and monsters both in the Neck, but nothing had ever humbled him quite like this. The dragon was Daeron's wrath, given form. This was what it meant to have Targaryen blood.

It was only once the Ironborn survivors—what few remained—vanished into the dense northern woods that Lyrax wheeled around and climbed the sky. She circled once, then descended gracefully, wings slowing like sails against the wind, landing just north of the keep with a rumble of earth and air.

A cheer rose from the battlements.

Howland was already descending the hill before the cries even faded, his retainers following swiftly behind. Mud clung to his boots as he crossed the land, the ancient stones of Moat Cailin still warm with the aftertaste of dragonfire.

Lyrax stood still, calm and silent now, like a great cat lounging after a feast. Her eyes burned like embers. And then the rider dismounted.

Daeron Targaryen slid down from the dragon's back with fluid grace, boots landing softly against the stone. His raven-black hair was tousled from the wind, his black armor marked with soot and smoke. The crimson cloak billowed behind him, clasped with a three-headed dragon wrought in gold.

Howland dropped to one knee at once, his men following suit without hesitation.

"Your Grace," he said, bowing his head.

Daeron stepped forward, his voice clear and steady as it cut through the smoky air.

"Rise, Lord Reed."

Later that day, in the solar of Moat Cailin

The room smelled faintly of marsh herbs and old paper. Sunlight filtered through the narrow windows, the rays casting long shadows across the rough-hewn table between them.

Howland Reed sat across from Daeron, a cup of water in hand. The King had refused wine, despite Howland offering it twice. There was clarity in Daeron's eyes, a sharpness that unnerved and reassured in equal measure.

"I still find it hard to believe," Howland said softly, voice hoarse from smoke and fatigue. "Your Grace came… just in time."

Daeron shook his head. "I came late, Lord Reed and you still held the Moat." He leaned forward slightly. "You should be thanked, not me."

"I would be dead. All of us would be," Howland replied. "If not for your arrival."

"And I would be riding to retake the Neck if you hadn't slowed the Ironborn long enough for me to get here," Daeron answered, tone steady but edged with steel. "If they had taken Moat Cailin…" He exhaled slowly. "It would have been a disaster. You knew that. You held long enough to prevent it. How?"

Howland allowed himself a small smile, a flicker of pride surfacing for the first time. "My Crannogmen," he said. "Two hundred of them. Stalked the Ironborn from the moment they landed. Strangled their sleep. Bled them dry. Delayed their march by three whole days."

Daeron's grey eyes lit with understanding. "I'd heard the legends about your people, Lord Reed. But now I've seen what you're truly capable of."

"You haven't seen them yet," Howland said with a knowing glance. "They're not done."

Daeron tilted his head. "Where are they now?"

"Hunting," Howland said simply. "Following the survivors into the trees. Ironborn don't know the Neck like we do. They'll learn what it means to draw blood here."

Daeron's lips curved into a smile. "Then the Iron Price will be paid in full."

Howland said. "They'll regret ever setting foot in the Neck. They may have landed with eight thousand—by the time they reach their ships, they'll be lucky to count half that."

The moment lingered in silence—two men of very different worlds, united by duty and bloodshed.

Howland sipped from his cup, the tension beginning to ease from his shoulders for the first time in a week.

"You would like to meet them?" he asked.

Daeron turned to him. "I would. Brave men deserve to be seen and thanked. Their king owes them that much."

"They are shy around strangers," Howland said with a faint smile. "But I'll see what I can do."

The knock on the door came then, soft but urgent.

"Enter," Howland called.

A young Northern soldier stepped inside, breathless from running.

"Forgive the interruption, Your Grace… my lord. Ser Marlon Manderly has arrived. He brings two hundred mounted men from White Harbor."

Howland raised his brows. "I sent word to White Harbor after I sent my letter to you. Knew they likely wouldn't arrive in time—but I had to try."

Daeron gave a single approving nod. "Wise. You planned for the worst, and hoped for the best. That's what good commanders do."

Daeron smiling reached for his cup and raised it to Howland.

"To the crannogmen," he said. "And to the Neck that swallowed the kraken."

Howland clinked his own cup to Daeron's.

"To the Dragon that guards the North."