Aeron left the “Seaman’s Home” and did not take the main road.
He turned into the alley beside the tavern, moving quickly along the base of the wall.
The night was deep; only a few windows in the alley emitted a dim, yellow oil-lamp light, with most of the area swallowed by shadows.
His footsteps were light, but his heartbeat was heavy—the Scar-faced Guard’s half-second gaze felt like a thorn pricked into his mind.
He had to figure out who they were and what they were doing at the tavern.
He circled to the back alley of the tavern.
It was piled with wine barrels and trash, and the air was filled with a stench.
The tavern’s back door was ajar, a sliver of warm yellow light leaking from the crack, mingled with the clatter of the kitchen.
Aeron slipped behind a pile of empty barrels and held his breath.
A few seconds later, the back door was pushed open.
The Scar-faced Guard and the Hawk-eyed Man walked out, stopping less than ten paces from where Aeron was hiding.
The two stood with their backs to him, speaking in low voices.
“…
There are three more on the list.” The Hawk-eyed Man’s voice was dry and cold.
“The bookkeeper at the South Wharf warehouse, that spice merchant from Widow’s Watch, and…”
“And the kid in the corner of the tavern just now,” the Scar-faced Guard continued, his voice carrying a certain familiar, tail-end accent belonging to Driftmark.
“Gray cloak, sat in the very corner, drank the cheapest wine.
His eye color is very distinct, deep purple, like…”
Like a Targaryen.
Aeron’s blood nearly froze.
They were not ordinary House Manderly guards.
The accent from Driftmark, the description of his eyes—these were Corlys’s men.
The Sea Snake’s net had already been cast to White Harbor, and it had been cast deep.
“Are you sure he’s suspicious?” the Hawk-eyed Man asked.
“Not certain, but worth checking,” the Scar-faced Guard said.
“His story when entering the city had holes; he claimed to be a survivor of a shipwreck, but his hands didn’t have the wrinkled skin of someone soaked in seawater for a long time, and his gait didn’t look like someone who had just suffered a disaster.
Most importantly, those eyes…
the North rarely sees that color.”
“Then check him.
Meet at the usual place at this time tomorrow night and report the detailed movements of these three people.
“Understood.
As for Driftmark…”
“You don’t need to worry about that.
Do your job, and your bounty won’t be short.”
The two spoke a few more words in low voices that Aeron couldn’t hear clearly, then separated.
The Hawk-eyed Man walked into the depths of the alley, while the Scar-faced Guard turned and headed back in the direction Aeron had come from—he was likely returning to the guard barracks by the city wall.
In the shadows behind the barrels, Aeron remained motionless.
His brain was racing.
Corlys had planted secret lines in White Harbor, and not just one layer.
The Scar-faced Guard was a low-level informant, responsible for identification and initial screening.
The Hawk-eyed Man was his superior, responsible for aggregating and transmitting intelligence.
Where would this line eventually lead?
The upper echelons of House Manderly?
Or directly to Driftmark?
No matter where it led, it had to be severed.
Now.
The Scar-faced Guard was already suspicious of him and would report it tomorrow night.
Once his name and the characteristic of “purple eyes” were recorded and cross-referenced, exposure would only be a matter of time.
He could not let them live until tomorrow night.
Aeron slid out from behind the barrels silently, sticking to the wall like a shadow.
He watched the Hawk-eyed Man disappear around the corner of the alley, then turned and followed in the direction the Scar-faced Guard had left.
Following required distance and patience.
Aeron kept thirty paces away, concealing his figure with shadows and stacked debris.
The Scar-faced Guard did not walk fast; he seemed very familiar with this neighborhood, occasionally stopping to nod and greet passing vendors or drunkards.
This gave Aeron time to observe.
The Scar-faced Guard was about twenty-three or twenty-four, with a sturdy build and a steady gait, his right hand habitually close to the hilt of his sword—he was an experienced warrior.
A frontal assault had no chance of success.
A sneak attack was needed, a single fatal blow.
Aeron’s hand reached for the valyrian steel dagger at his waist.
The scabbard was ice-cold, but the dragon scales on the hilt offered a faint, warm touch. This chapter is updated first at novelping.com.
They passed through the dock district and entered a relatively quiet residential area.
The streets here were narrower, the streetlights sparse, and most of the windows were already dark.
The Scar-faced Guard turned into a darker alley, which looked like a shortcut.
This was it.
Aeron quickened his pace, closing the distance.
Twenty paces, fifteen paces, ten paces…
The Scar-faced Guard seemed to sense something.
His footsteps paused, and his right hand pressed onto his sword hilt.
Too late.
Aeron sprang from the shadows, his left hand violently covering the Scar-faced Guard’s mouth from behind, while his right hand drove the valyrian steel dagger in from an oblique angle—not into the heart, but into the kidney, twisting the blade upward with a savage force.
The Scar-faced Guard’s body went rigid instantly, a muffled, suffocating wheeze escaping his throat.
He tried to struggle, but Aeron pressed his entire weight onto him, the dagger rotating inside his body, severing all strength.
A few seconds later, the struggle ceased.
Aeron slowly released his grip, and the Scar-faced Guard slumped to the ground.
Blood gushed from the wound, rapidly spreading across the cobblestone road.
Aeron crouched down and quickly searched the corpse—finding a small coin purse, an ordinary dagger, and a bronze badge engraved with the House Manderly crest.
No letters, no list.
He took the badge and coin purse, discarding the dagger.
Then he grabbed the corpse’s ankles, dragged it into a corner filled with discarded wood, and covered it with a torn canvas.
After doing all this, Aeron leaned against the wall, panting.
His hands were shaking.
Not from fear, but from the physiological reaction after the adrenaline faded.
This was his first time killing someone.
The smell of blood was pungent, sticking to his hands and seeping into the gaps under his fingernails.
But he had no time to feel.
There was one more.
The Hawk-eyed Man.
Aeron turned and ran toward the depths of the alley.
He had to find that man before he realized something was wrong, before he could pass on any information.
The night was still long.
And the shadows of White Harbor needed to be cleansed with blood.