Salt Wind carried Aeron, gliding arduously over the sea surface.
Every wingbeat strained the wound on its right wing; dark red beads of blood constantly seeped from the gaps in the bandages, stretching into thin lines in the sea breeze.
The dragon flew lower and lower, almost skimming the crests of the waves.
Its breathing was as heavy as an old, broken bellows, and the muscles on its neck were pulled deathly tight.
Aeron lay prone on the dragon’s back, able to clearly feel Salt Wind’s trembling.
He knew that Salt Wind was reaching its limit.
“Hold on…” he whispered against the dragon’s neck, his eyes searching the sea surface anxiously.
“We are almost there, Mother said it was right around here…”
Thirty nautical miles to the northeast.
Seagulls Nest.
The sun had already climbed to mid-sky, its light so piercing that one could hardly keep their eyes open.
Aeron squinted, and suddenly saw a small black dot appear on the horizon ahead.
As the distance closed, the black dot gradually revealed its outline—a solitary rocky island, with white cliffs standing tall upon it, and thousands of seagulls circling around the cliff walls, emitting noisy cries.
That’s it!
“Over there!” Aeron shouted with all his might, while pulling on the canvas strip tied to his left wrist—that was the traction signal they had established in the underwater passage.
Salt Wind let out a weary response, exerting its last ounce of strength to adjust its direction and fly toward the island.
The landing was a disaster.
Salt Wind could no longer control its speed or angle; it was like a boulder thrown from above, slamming hard into a relatively flat reef beach on the east side of the island.
The immense inertia caused it to roll forward, its dragon wings scraping against the sharp rocks, producing a teeth-gritting grinding sound.
Aeron was thrown off, landing heavily on the sandy, rocky ground.
He felt the world spinning, his ears were buzzing, and his mouth was filled with the metallic taste of blood.
It took a long while before he struggled to sit up, his vision blackening.
He shook his head, forcing himself to stay conscious, then stumbled toward Salt Wind.
The dragon lay paralyzed on the reef beach, motionless.
The wound on its right wing had completely burst open, the bandages torn apart; a hideous gash extending from the shoulder blade to the middle of the wing membrane was fully exposed, raw and bloody, deep enough to see bone.
Blood gushed out like a spring, pooling into a large, dark red puddle beneath the dragon’s body.
“Salt Wind…” Aeron’s voice trembled.
He threw himself beside the dragon, frantically tearing off the hem of his clothes, trying to staunch the wound, but the fabric was instantly soaked through with blood.
No, it wouldn’t stop.
He needed medicine, he needed real bandages.
He remembered the words on his mother’s note: “There are supplies in the underwater cave.”
Aeron stood up abruptly and looked around.
The island was not large; one could see the end of it at a glance—jagged black reefs, cliff walls covered in white bird droppings, and cave entrances constantly battered by waves.
There were several entrances; which one was it?
He forced himself to calm down and recalled the description on the note: “Thirty nautical miles north of Driftmark, the underwater cave on ‘Seagulls Nest’ island…”
Underwater cave.
Not an ordinary cave.
Aeron’s gaze locked onto an entrance on the far east side.
The terrain there was the lowest; at high tide, the seawater would completely submerge the entrance.
That was it.
“Hold on,” he said, turning back to Salt Wind, though the dragon probably couldn’t hear him, “I will be right back.”
He rushed toward the entrance, waded through waist-deep, icy seawater, and crawled inside.
The cave was pitch black.
Aeron lit the last bit of resin tinder he carried, the faint light barely illuminating the path ahead.
This was a naturally formed karst cave; the passage first went downward, then turned upward.
After walking about twenty steps, the space suddenly opened up.
The firelight flickered, illuminating several wooden crates stacked beside the cave wall.
The crates were covered with thick tarpaulin, and although their edges were covered in dust, they were well-preserved.
Aeron’s heart began to pound wildly.
He threw himself at the topmost crate and lifted the tarpaulin—
Inside was food.
Hard biscuits, salted meat, dried beans, all packed in wax-sealed pottery jars.
He didn’t have time to look closely and quickly opened the second crate.
Clothing.
Several sets of sturdy coarse cloth clothes, as well as woolen cloaks and boots for cold weather.
Underneath the clothes lay a small leather pouch.
Aeron opened the pouch and poured out its contents—
Gold dragon coins.
Fifty in total.
But beneath the gold coins, there were even more important things.
Aeron’s hand felt several hard objects; he pulled them out and identified them by the firelight.
A sheathed dagger.
The scabbard was simple black leather.
Aeron drew the dagger, and the blade shimmered with a unique rippled luster in the firelight—valyrian steel.
Inlaid on the hilt was a deep purple dragon scale, identical to the one he had carried since childhood.
This was the heirloom of his father, Aerion.
Aeron gripped the dagger tightly, sheathed it, hung it at his waist, and continued searching.
Inside the leather pouch was also a folded piece of parchment.
He unfolded it; it was a hand-drawn nautical chart.
The handwriting was neat and forceful—it was his mother’s.
The chart marked several key locations: Driftmark, Dragonstone, The Three Sisters, White Harbor, Seagulls Nest…
and routes drawn with dashed lines.
One route went from Seagulls Nest to the northeast, bypassing The Three Sisters, and pointing toward White Harbor.
Another went to the southeast, pointing toward a coastline with complex terrain, with words written in valyrian beside it: “Crab’s Claw Peninsula—Easy to hide”.
There were a few lines of text on the edge of the chart:
“Remember: A dragon is power, but also a curse.
Before you are strong enough, hide it, and hide yourself as well.”
“Survive, Aeron.
By any means necessary.”
—Rhaenys Targaryen
She had thought of everything.
He carefully folded the chart and put it away, then opened the third crate.
Medicine.
Various bottles and jars, labeled: anti-inflammatory ointment, hemostatic powder, fever-reducing potion…
and a small jar of “dragon bone powder” said to accelerate wound healing.
At the very bottom of the crate, he found what he needed most—a large roll of clean linen bandages and a small jar of pungent disinfectant.
With these, Salt Wind could be saved.
Aeron picked up the medicine box and bandages, turned, and rushed out of the cave.
When he returned to Salt Wind, the dragon was already on the verge of death.
The blood was still flowing, but much slower—not because it had stopped, but because it was nearly drained.
“Hold on,” Aeron knelt beside the dragon, his voice trembling, “I have the medicine, hold on…”
He frantically opened the medicine box and took out the disinfectant.
When he used a clean cloth dipped in the solution to clean the wound, Salt Wind’s body convulsed violently, and a barely audible whimper escaped its throat.
The wound was worse than it looked.
The barb had not only torn the flesh but also damaged part of the wing membrane fascia.
If not treated properly, even if it healed, its flight would be affected.
Aeron forced himself to be calm.
He carefully cleaned the sand, gravel, and seawater from the wound, then applied a thick layer of anti-inflammatory ointment.
The ointment had a cooling scent, and as soon as it was applied, the rate of bleeding slowed significantly.
Finally, he carefully bandaged it layer by layer and tied a secure knot.
After finishing all this, Aeron was nearly exhausted.
He slumped beside Salt Wind, leaning his back against the dragon’s warm body, gasping for air.
Salt Wind’s breathing gradually stabilized.
Although still very weak, at least it was no longer the rapid, dying gasps.
“There…” Aeron said softly, “You will get better.”
The dragon half-opened its pale yellow eyes, looked at him once, then slowly closed them again.
For the next three days, Aeron and Salt Wind remained at Seagulls Nest.
Aeron changed Salt Wind’s dressings every day and fed it water—the dragon would lick rainwater from the hollows in the rocks, but Aeron still fetched cleaner water from a small freshwater spring he had found deep in the cave, pouring it into a depression beside the dragon’s mouth.
Food was not an issue.
The supplies in the cave were enough for a person and a dragon to eat for half a month.
On the evening of the third day, Aeron built a small bonfire on the beach and grilled two freshly caught sea bass.
Salt Wind lay nearby; the bandage on its right wing had been changed twice, and the wound was beginning to close, with new, pale pink flesh growing.
The fish was grilled, and Aeron handed the larger one to Salt Wind.
The dragon carefully took it with its teeth and chewed slowly.
The setting sun dyed the sea surface a golden red.
Seagulls returned to their nests on the cliff walls, and their cries gradually subsided.
Aeron ate his fish, his gaze resting on the nautical chart spread across his knees.
White Harbor.
Crab’s Claw Peninsula.
The Three Sisters.