Ghost-Tooth Rock, western tidal pool.
Aeron waded into the waist-deep seawater.
The moonlight was bright, illuminating the water surface crystal clear.
He searched for blue-spotted starfish among the reefs.
Under the moonlight, he saw the first one—palm-sized, the blue spots on its back glowing faintly in the moonlight.
He carefully picked it and placed it into a wooden bucket.
The second, the third…
When he had gathered the seventh one, the sound of horse hooves and voices came from afar.
Aeron quickly hid behind a reef.
“…Move as soon as dawn breaks tomorrow,” a hoarse voice said, “The Earl has brought in ‘The Sea Snake’s Fury’.”
“‘The Sea Snake’s Fury’?
Can that thing really handle a dragon?”
“A giant ballista built by Lysene craftsmen, capable of firing barbed spears with iron chains.
As long as it hits the wings, the chains will entangle the dragon and drag it into the sea—dragons can’t swim; it will drown.”
Aeron’s heart sank.
This was Corlys’s plan—not with fire, but with the sea.
Dragons can’t swim; once dragged into the deep sea, even the strongest Dragonfire would be useless.
“But that bastard said the dragon is in the sea cave, and the entrance gets submerged at High Tide,” another man said, “How do we get in?”
“That’s why Young Master Daeron sent us to confirm,” the third voice said, “If the cave has another exit, or if the dragon isn’t inside at all…
tomorrow’s preparations will be for nothing.”
The three of them held torches and circled the tidal pool.
“Look, there are footprints here,” one of them crouched down, “Fresh ones, not yet washed away by the tide.”
“That bastard has been here,” another man said, “He must be with the dragon.”
“Go back and report to Young Master Daeron.
The plan remains the same, but bring more men—if the bastard dares to interfere, deal with him too.”
The three mounted their horses and left.
Aeron walked out from behind the reef, his palms sweating.
Not fire, but water.
Using iron chains to drag the dragon into the sea and drown it—this made much more sense.
Dragons could breathe fire but couldn’t swim; once their wings were entangled and they were dragged into the deep sea, their death was certain.
He carried the wooden bucket and walked quickly toward the sea cave.
The High Tide had not yet fully begun, and the entrance was still exposed above the water.
He waded in and lit a torch.
The dragon was still on the platform, eyes closed, seemingly asleep.
Hearing footsteps, it opened its eyes, its pale yellow vertical pupils contracting in the torchlight.
“Kavor darys (I have returned),” Aeron said in valyrian.
He walked to the dragon’s side, opened the bucket, and took out the blue-spotted starfish.
Using a knife, he sliced them open, squeezed out the milky marrow fluid, and mixed it into the prepared herbs.
The dragon sniffed it and let out a low rumble in its throat.
Aeron began to remove yesterday’s bandages.
The wound had improved a bit, there was less pus, but salt crystals were starting to form on the surface again.
He applied the ointment and re-bandaged it.
Throughout the process, the dragon remained very quiet, only twitching occasionally due to the pain.
“Zemys eni (What is your name)?” he asked softly.
The dragon turned its head, its pale yellow eyes watching him.
“Sheepstealer?” Aeron tried in the common tongue.
The dragon did not react.
“Salt Wind?”
The dragon let out a low growl and flicked its tail gently.
Aeron smiled: “Then I’ll call you Salt Wind.”
“Listen,” he said while bandaging, using the common tongue, but his tone was as if he were speaking to the dragon, “they are coming to kill you tomorrow.
Not with fire, but with the sea.
They have a type of ballista that can fire spears with iron chains to drag you into the sea and drown you.”
The dragon turned its head, its pale yellow eyes fixed on him, seemingly understanding part of it.
“You have to leave here,” Aeron said, “Leave tomorrow.
Your injury hasn’t healed yet, but it’s better than dying here.”
The dragon let out a low growl, and its right wing tried to move—it was still stiff, but more flexible than yesterday.
After applying the medicine, Aeron sat down beside the dragon.
He touched the scales on the dragon’s neck; they were rough but warm.
“Salt Wind,” he said softly, “if…
I mean, if I can help you fly, would you be willing to take me with you?”
The dragon turned its head, its pale yellow eyes looking at him in the torchlight.
After a long while, it lowered its head and gently touched Aeron’s arm with its snout.
Tacit approval.
Aeron smiled, but the smile quickly faded.
He looked toward the cave entrance—the seawater was rising, only a few inches away from the bottom of the entrance.
“The High Tide is about to begin,” he said, “Do you remember if this sea cave has an underwater passage?
One that leads outside?”
The dragon seemed to understand.
It raised its body, walked toward the lagoon deep in the cave, and looked back at Aeron.
It was leading the way.
Aeron followed.
The lagoon water was very clear, and some moonlight shone through the cracks in the cave ceiling, vaguely revealing a black hole at the bottom of the water—that was the entrance to the underwater passage.
“Good,” Aeron said, “Tomorrow morning, if the situation goes wrong, we will leave from here.”
He returned to the platform and leaned against the dragon.
The torch was about to go out, and the light was growing dimmer.
“Give me a little more time,” he whispered, “We can both survive.”
The dragon let out a soft guttural sound, as if in response.
High Tide, Rhaenys’s room.
Rhaenys stood by the window, holding that dragon scale in her hand.
Blood seeped from her palm, staining the scale red.
She had just passed by Corlys’s study and heard fragments of conversation—”The Sea Snake’s Fury,” “iron chains,” “deep sea”…
She understood Corlys’s plan.
Not driving it away, but slaughter.
Using the sea against the dragon, using the bastard’s death to cover up the scandal.
“Aeron…” she said softly, “this time, I will not back down again.”
She turned and walked to the wardrobe, taking out a set of old leather armor from the very bottom—it was the dragon-riding gear she occasionally wore when she was young.
The leather armor was a bit tight, but it could still be worn.
She took out a small iron box and opened it; inside was a badge carved from Dragonstone obsidian—the emblem of House Targaryen.
This was left to her by her father, and she had never worn it in public.
But tomorrow, if necessary, she would wear it.
The clock tower chimed—it was midnight.
Six hours until sunrise.