They took off at dawn the next day.
Salt Wind carried Aeron away from Seagulls Nest, flying towards the northeast.
The northern wind was colder and harsher than that of The Narrow Sea, and flying against the wind placed a heavier burden on Salt Wind’s right wing, but it flew steadily.
The support bandages Aeron had made for it were working; although long-distance flight was still exhausting, at least the wound was no longer tearing.
They flew low, skimming the surface of the sea to avoid any potential line of sight from above.
After flying for nearly an hour, Aeron saw a few black specks on the horizon—a fleet of ships.
His heart tightened, and he immediately guided Salt Wind to veer inland, utilizing the curve of the coastline and a patch of low-hanging sea mist as cover to bypass that area from a distance.
Not until the ship silhouettes had completely disappeared behind him did Aeron let out a half-breath of relief.
He did not know whether they were merchant ships or patrol vessels from Driftmark, but he knew that caution was his only option.
After flying for another hour or so, the “Nameless Bay” marked on his map finally appeared ahead.
It was a small bay surrounded by black reefs, with a hidden entrance and calm water inside.
There were several caves on the cliff walls, the largest of which was about twenty feet above the sea surface.
Salt Wind landed on the gravel beach inside the bay, this landing being much smoother.
Aeron slid off the dragon’s back and carefully instructed Salt Wind to hide there and wait for the signal of the conch shell.
After a reluctant farewell, he shouldered his pack and turned to walk toward the exit of the bay.
After walking a dozen steps, he couldn’t help but look back.
Salt Wind was still standing in the same spot, its pale yellow eyes watching him quietly in the dimming light.
Aeron gritted his teeth, turned back, and continued walking toward the outline of that massive port city in the north.
From Nameless Bay to White Harbor, a distance of thirty miles on the map, Aeron walked for an entire day.
There was no road, only the reefs of the coastline and the occasional shrubbery.
His boots were soon soaked through, and his feet were aching from the gravel.
A light rain fell at noon; his cloak barely kept it off, but the clothes underneath were damp, sticking to his body, cold and heavy.
By evening, White Harbor finally appeared in his field of vision.
The first thing he saw was the lighthouse—a stone tower standing on the headland at the entrance to the port, its flame already lit in the twilight, casting a blurry halo in the thickening sea mist.
Only then did he see the city itself.
White Harbor was built against the mountain, extending from the coastline to the hillside.
The city walls were made of gray stone, tall and thick, and the battlements resembled the teeth of a giant beast in the twilight.
Inside the walls, the roofs of dense stone houses were layered one upon another, and smoke rose from thousands of chimneys, congealing into a low-hanging gray mist in the cold air.
The most conspicuous part was the port.
Dozens of ships of various sizes were moored inside the breakwater, their masts like a forest.
The docks were brightly lit and bustling with figures; the chants of stevedores, the hawking of merchants, the clanging of blacksmiths…
all kinds of sounds mixed together, drifting on the sea breeze.
Aeron stood on the dirt slope by the coast, looking at all this, and suddenly felt a wave of dizziness.
It was too big.
Too noisy.
Too…
real.
He had lived on Driftmark for seventeen years, and the largest “city” he had ever seen was High Tide and the surrounding fishing villages.
But White Harbor, the port area alone had more people than the entire population of Driftmark.
He took a deep breath, pulled his hood lower to cover his dyed black hair more thoroughly, and then walked toward the city gate.
The road leading to the city gate gradually began to show signs of life.
Wagons loaded with goods creaked past, shepherds drove flocks of sheep, farm women carried firewood on their backs, and there were travelers on foot just like him.
Most people wore thick fur or coarse cloth clothing, their faces roughened and reddened by the northern wind, speaking with a hard, clipped accent.
Aeron kept his head down, blending into the crowd, and approached the city gate step by step.
On the main gate of White Harbor, the Merman crest of House Manderly was carved into the archway.
The gate tunnel was deep, lit by torches, and the light was dim.
There were four guards standing on either side, wearing leather armor trimmed with fur, holding spears in their hands.
The people entering the city formed a loose queue, passing through one by one.
The guards did not carefully check everyone, only occasionally stopping those who looked suspicious, or wagons carrying goods, to ask a few simple questions.
When it was Aeron’s turn, a young guard glanced at him.
“Where are you from?”
“The eastern coast,” Aeron replied in the accent he had practiced, his voice deliberately lowered to sound exhausted, “My ship sank, so I walked.”
“What are you doing in the city?”
“Looking for work.
The guard looked him up and down—the tattered cloak, the worn boots, the dirty face.
A typical stranded sailor.
“Do you have any relatives in the city?”
“A distant cousin, works at the fish market, but we haven’t been in touch for years, I don’t know if they are still there.”
The guard seemed to lose interest and waved his hand: “Go on in.
Don’t cause trouble.”
Aeron nodded and walked quickly through the gate tunnel.
Just as he was about to step out of the shadows and into the city streets, the voice of another guard came from behind:
“Wait.”
Aeron’s footsteps faltered.
He turned around slowly.
It was an older guard who had called him, with a scar running from his brow bone to his chin.
The Scar-faced Guard walked over, his eyes fixed on Aeron’s hood.
“Take off your hat.”
Aeron’s heart contracted violently.
But he did not hesitate and raised his hand to pull down his hood.
His dyed, messy black hair was revealed, its original color indistinguishable under the dim torchlight.
The sand and seaweed smeared on his face had not fully worn off, making his skin look dark and rough.
The Scar-faced Guard stared at his face for a few seconds, his gaze lingering on his deep purple eyes for an instant.
“Your eye color is quite unique.”
“My mother was from Lys,” Aeron said, this being the prepared explanation in his story.
The Scar-faced Guard didn’t speak, looked at him a while longer, then waved his hand: “Alright, go.”
Aeron pulled his hood back up and turned into the street.
He could feel the gaze on his back following him until he turned into the first alleyway, at which point it vanished.
The streets of White Harbor were more crowded and noisier than Aeron had imagined.
The flagstone road had been worn smooth by countless feet, and on both sides were rows of shops and stalls—sparks flew in the blacksmith’s shop, the smell of wheat wafted from the bakery, and noisy voices and off-key singing came from the tavern.
The air was filled with the scents of salted fish, horse manure, cooking smoke, and the sweat of the crowd.
Aeron followed the flow of people toward the docklands.
The closer he got to the port, the narrower the streets became, and the more people there were.
Sailors, dockworkers, merchants, prostitutes, thieves…
all kinds of people were squeezed together, and the shouting, bargaining, and greetings in various accents buzzed in his ears.
Aeron kept his head down, clutching his pack tightly, weaving through the crowd.
He needed to find a place to spend the night.
On the edge of the docklands was a row of inns that looked the most dilapidated, their signs creaking in the wind.
Aeron chose the one in the middle—the “Old Anchor Inn”—because its windows were the dirtiest and there were the fewest drunks at the door.
Pushing the door open, a wave of air mixed with cheap ale, sweat, and moldy odors rushed toward him.
There were a few greasy wooden tables in the lobby, a few sailors were throwing dice in the corner, and a bald, burly innkeeper stood behind the bar.
Aeron walked up to the bar.
“Staying the night?” The innkeeper didn’t even look up, busy wiping a glass with a dirty rag.
“Yes.
The cheapest room.”
“Five coppers a night.
Pay first.”
Aeron fished out a silver stag from his chest—this was the smallest denomination of silver coin, worth ten coppers.
The innkeeper took the money, squinted to check its quality, then counted out five coppers from the drawer to give him in change, and tossed over a rusty key.
“The last room on the second floor.
The privy is in the backyard.
The door is locked at ten, find somewhere else to sleep if you’re late.”
Aeron took the key and turned to go upstairs.
The room was smaller than he had imagined.
The sheets looked like they hadn’t been washed in a long time and gave off a suspicious odor.
But at least there was a roof and a door that could be locked.
Aeron put down his pack and walked to the window.
The window faced a narrow alley filled with trash, and opposite was the back wall of another inn.
In the distance, the lights of the port connected into one in the night, and the beam of the lighthouse slowly swept across the sea.
He stood by the window for a long time.
Then he heard a commotion from the lobby downstairs.
Some newly arrived sailors were loudly ordering drinks, the sound of dice rolling on the table, someone telling a joke loudly.
Aeron pricked up his ears.
“…Is that business about Driftmark true?” a gravelly voice said.
“My cousin runs a ship in The Three Sisters, he said he saw the fleet leave port with his own eyes, a dozen ships, all carrying ballistae and fishing nets.”
Another voice replied, “They say they’re chasing a wild dragon, and a madman riding it.”
“A madman?”
“They say it’s a bastard of the Sea Snake’s house, silver hair, went mad and stole a dragon and ran off.
There’s a bounty of one thousand gold dragons, wanted dead or alive.”
A chorus of whistles and gasps erupted in the lobby.
“One thousand gold dragons…
enough to buy a ship.”
“Enough to buy ten!
But you have to live to collect it.
That’s a dragon, brother, it breathes fire.”
“I heard that bastard’s mother was a Targaryen, that ‘The Queen Who Never Was’…”
“Hush!
Keep it down!
Can you say things like that?”
The voices lowered, turning into whispers.
Aeron stood in the darkness, his hand gripping the window frame tightly.
The news had spread.
It had been distorted, exaggerated, but the core hadn’t changed—Corlys was hunting him, there was a bounty, someone remembered his silver hair, and someone had connected him to his mother.
White Harbor was not safe.
Not safe at all.
He left the window and sat on the bed, taking out the last hard biscuit from his pack, chewing it mechanically.
It tasted like sawdust.
But he needed food, he needed strength.
After finishing the biscuit, he blew out the candle and lay down on the hard bed frame.
The lights of the port outside the window were reflected on the ceiling, swaying slightly with the rhythm of the waves.
Bells rang in the distance—was it the curfew bell of the port, or the evening prayer bell of some temple?
Aeron couldn’t tell.
He closed his eyes, but he couldn’t sleep.
His mother’s face appeared in the darkness.
Corlys’s cold gaze.
Daeron’s ferocious smile.
The way Salt Wind was quietly waiting in Nameless Bay.
And tomorrow.
Tomorrow he had to go to the fish market, go to the docks to find work, ask for news, and judge whether this city was a sanctuary or a trap.
He had to survive.
The bells outside the window gradually ceased.
The noise of the port also quieted down, leaving only the eternal sound of waves lapping against the breakwater.
Aeron opened his eyes in the darkness, his hand reaching for the valyrian steel dagger under his pillow.
The dragon scales on the hilt were as warm and smooth as ever.
He gripped the dagger tightly and closed his eyes again.
The night was still long.
And the first night in White Harbor had only just begun.