At the third hour of the afternoon, the commotion at the White Harbor wharf district was shattered by a shrill scream.
The sound came from a dry goods shop on the edge of the fish market.
Passersby saw the shop’s back door burst open; a blood-soaked man stumbled out, collapsed after a few steps, a skinning knife embedded in his back.
Immediately after, thick smoke billowed from the second-floor window, and tongues of flame quickly licked at the wooden window frame.
Almost simultaneously, sounds of smashing and more shouting came from the direction of the harbor tax collector’s hut.
Three men wearing harbor clerk uniforms were dragged out, pinned to the stone road, and with a flash of blades, blood splattered everywhere.
The hut was soon set ablaze, the flames spreading rapidly in the salty sea breeze.
Only the dilapidated shrine deep in the warehouse district remained quiet—too quiet.
Someone gathered the courage to approach and found the cellar door open, empty inside, with only scattered papers and a trampled Seven-Pointed Star badge on the floor.
Three fire points, nine corpses.
When the White Harbor city watch arrived, they only saw burning houses and crowds of fishermen and dockworkers.
No one saw the killer, or rather, no one was willing to identify them.
When the corpses were hastily covered with leather cloths and dragged away, sharp-eyed people noticed that the victims’ right hands had been severed at the wrist.
The severed hands were missing.
At the same time, in the “Seal Rock” reef area.
“Crows Eye” stood on the black reef exposed by the low tide, his face ashen.
Scattered at his feet were several burst fish bladder bags, gray-white quicklime mixing with seawater, hissing.
Nearby, in the crevices of the reef, were sharpened iron hooks, and fishing net lines soaked in tar were tangled on the reef like a clumsy spider web.
“A trap…” he muttered, his voice trembling with anger, “It was all fake.
There was no ambush at all.”
He had brought six men, all capable fighters.
They had searched the reef area for nearly an hour, finding only these ridiculous “setups.” No ambushers, no archers, not even a shadow.
That silver-haired brat hadn’t intended to come at all.
“My lord,” a subordinate approached, lowering his voice, “Did we fall for a trick?
He lured us here on purpose, and then…”
“Crows Eye” turned abruptly: “The city!
He went into the city!”
Just then, in the distance toward White Harbor, three columns of smoke rose slowly, standing out starkly against the pale winter sky.
It was exactly the direction of those three strongholds.
“Crows Eye”‘s pupils constricted sharply.
He could almost imagine what had happened—while he took his main force to “Seal Rock” to set up defenses, that bastard had taken his crowd of wharf rats and raided his lair.
“Go back!” he roared, “Go back immediately!”
The group hurried onto the boat, rowing desperately.
The small boat bobbed on the sea, “Crows Eye” staring fixedly at the approaching port, his nails digging into his palms.
It was too late.
He knew it was too late.
Those three smoke columns explained everything—the strongholds were taken, the people were either dead or captured.
Letters, ledgers, codes…
everything that could prove the existence of The Greens in White Harbor might now have fallen into the hands of that bastard.
When the boat docked, the wharf was already crowded with onlookers.
The city watch was maintaining order, but no one was really investigating—in a place like this, gang warfare, feuds, and arson were too common; as long as it didn’t affect legitimate merchant ships and noble property, the guards were happy to mind their own business.
“Crows Eye” pushed through the crowd, rushing to the nearest stronghold—the dry goods shop.
Two city watchmen were poking at the embers with spears, and a charred corpse could be vaguely seen inside.
Onlooking fishermen pointed and whispered.
“Heard they were people from The Greens…”
“Serves them right.
The Hand of the King has overreached.”
“Don’t know who they provoked, but they were ruthless.”
“Crows Eye” stood behind the crowd, feeling ice-cold.
He recognized the clothes the corpse had worn before burning—it was the shopkeeper, an old hand who had followed him for three years.
He went to see the other two places as well.
The fire at the tax collector’s hut was larger, and three corpses were laid out on the roadside, covered in burlap, but the exposed wrists were empty.
The shrine cellar was empty, but that kind of emptiness was more chilling than a floor full of corpses—it was a thoroughly cleaned emptiness.
All evidence was gone.
Everyone, except him, was dead.
That bastard hadn’t left him any room to maneuver.
“Crows Eye” stumbled back into an alley, his back against the cold stone wall, gasping for air.
Anger and fear churned in his stomach; he almost vomited.
Nine years, he had managed the intelligence network in the North for Otto Hightower for nine years, never failing.
Now, everything was ruined by a seventeen-year-old bastard.
“Are you looking for me?”
The voice came from deep in the alley.
“Crows Eye” looked up abruptly.
A person emerged from the shadows, silver hair shimmering in the dim light, deep purple eyes like two deep wells.
It was Aeron.
He was alone, holding a coarse burlap sack, dark red blood seeping from the bottom.
“You…” “Crows Eye”‘s hand reached for the dagger at his waist.
“Don’t move.” Aeron’s voice was calm, “You have two subordinates guarding the alley entrance, right?
Tell them, if they don’t want to be burned to charcoal like those people in the shop, just stand still.”
“Crows Eye”‘s Adam’s apple bobbed.
He could tell this wasn’t a bluff.
This boy would really kill, and had already killed quite a few.
“What do you want?” He forced himself to calm down, “Kill me?
Then do it.
But Lord Otto won’t let you go, the fleet from Driftmark has already arrived at the Bite, at most three days —”
“I’m not killing you.” Aeron interrupted him, throwing the burlap sack at his feet.
The sack opened, and nine severed hands rolled out, the cuts neat, the blood already dry and black.
“These are a memento for you.”
“Crows Eye”‘s stomach twitched.
“I want you to take a message to Otto Hightower.” Aeron stepped forward, morning light falling on his face; that young face was cold as the frozen earth of the North now, “Tell him: What you gave was bait for a young dragon, but I have the blood of a true dragon flowing in me.
That is not enough.”
He stepped forward again, only three feet from “Crows Eye”.
“Crows Eye” widened his eyes: “You…
are you crazy?
Do you know who you are talking to?
That is the Hand of the King, that is —”
“I know.” Aeron interrupted him again, “I know who he is, I know what he wants, and I know what he fears.
So tell him —”
He paused, his voice dropping lower, yet it felt like a blade scraping against bone:
“— If he still wants to play this game, raise the stakes.
The status of a bastard?
The Targaryen name?
I will take those myself.
What I want is the thing he is truly reluctant to give.”
“Crows Eye” stopped breathing.
This boy knew too much, terrifyingly so.
“Now,” Aeron stepped back, clearing the alley exit, “Get out of White Harbor.
Take your two subordinates, take the first ship out, and go back to King’s Landing.
If you dare to look back, dare to stay a moment longer —”
He pointed to the bag of severed hands on the ground.
“The next thing sent back to King’s Landing will be your head.”
“Crows Eye” stared fixedly at Aeron, as if trying to carve him into his bones.
Then he turned abruptly, stumbling out of the alley, roaring at the two subordinates guarding the entrance: “Go!
Leave now!”
The footsteps of the three quickly faded away.
Aeron remained alone in the alley.
He bent down to pick up the blood-stained burlap sack, weighed it, the weight of the severed hands dragging heavily in his palm.
Blood seeped from the rough fibers, flowing slowly along his fingers, warm and sticky.
He didn’t head toward the drainage ditch, but turned and walked in the opposite direction of the wharf district—toward the New Castle standing on the hill.
He carried the sack, passing through the streets that were gradually returning to order.
The city watchmen were busy clearing the scene and dispersing the crowd, no one noticing the young man with his head down, carrying a bag that looked like “catch.” The dark red liquid seeping from the bottom of the sack dropped onto the stone road, drop by drop, like a broken bloody trail, but was soon covered and washed away by the footprints of pedestrians and street sewage.
Passing the fish market, Brandon raised his eyes from behind the fish stall, their gazes meeting briefly.
The giant saw the bag in Aeron’s hand and the direction he was heading, his pupils shrinking slightly, then nodded imperceptibly, and continued to bargain loudly with customers, as if he had seen nothing.
Aeron passed through the fish market and walked up the gentle slope leading to the noble district.
The streets became wide and clean, and the buildings on both sides grew taller.
There were more patrolling guards, but they only glanced at the plainly dressed teenager carrying a bag and did not stop him—in White Harbor, countless fishermen and peddlers sent fresh goods to the castle every day.
The huge Merman crest gate of the New Castle appeared before his eyes.
The guards were more elite than those at the city gate, their armor polished, spears like a forest.
Aeron stopped ten steps from the gate.
This time, he didn’t take off his hood, just raised his voice:
“Report to Lord Vylis.
Aeron Targaryen from Driftmark has come to deliver the ‘goods’.”