Every choice implies a different path.
The terrain of Crackclaw Point is complex, mountainous, and forested, easy to hide in.
Mother marked it specifically.
But it is also a lawless place, a gathering spot for pirates, fugitives, and wildlings; there are no rules, only strength and weakness.
He and Salt Wind could survive there, but they might live in the shadows forever.
His gaze fell upon the words “White Harbor.”
The gateway to the North.
House Manderly.
Aeron remembered that House Manderly once owed a debt of gratitude to the Targaryens…
How long ago was that?
Does House Manderly still remember that debt now?
Even if they do, would they offend Corlys Velaryon of Driftmark for a Targaryen bastard?
Aeron did not know.
But he knew that hiding on a desolate island was not a long-term solution.
Salt Wind’s wounds needed time to heal completely; they needed a safer environment, they needed intelligence, they needed to understand what was happening in the outside world.
White Harbor is the largest port in the North, well-informed.
If he could hide his identity and blend in, perhaps he could find out about the situation on Driftmark, get news of his mother, and even…
find a real path to survival.
Aeron put away the sea chart and looked at Salt Wind.
The dragon was watching him quietly, its pale yellow eyes looking exceptionally deep in the firelight.
“Salt Wind,” Aeron said softly, using valyrian, “your wounds need a few more days before you can fly.
When you can fly…
we will go to White Harbor.”
The dragon let out a low growl, not knowing if it was agreement or a question.
The new flesh on Salt Wind’s wound had completely healed by the seventh day.
Aeron carefully removed the last bandage, revealing the dark red scar beneath.
The scar extended from the shoulder blade to the middle of the wing membrane, like a gruesome stitch, splitting the mud-brown scales in two.
He pressed it lightly with his hand; the tissue under the scar was harder than the surrounding area, but there was no more pus or swelling.
“Try it,” Aeron said in valyrian.
The movement was still a bit stiff, the skin over the scar pulled tight, but the wing opened completely.
It tried to flap once, and the wind it stirred ruffled Aeron’s hair.
The second flap was stronger.
The third, the fourth…
the frequency of the wing beats became faster and faster, and Salt Wind’s entire body lifted slightly off the ground, its dragon claws carving deep grooves into the reef.
But Aeron saw the problem.
By the tenth heartbeat, the movement of Salt Wind’s right wing began to distort.
It wasn’t a spasm caused by pain, but a deep, structural sluggishness—the scar tissue lacked elasticity, and every time it beat to the highest point and pressed downward, there was a tiny delay.
It was this delay that would make long-distance flying a torture.
Salt Wind would tire earlier than when it was healthy, needing more rest, and its speed would slow down.
Aeron’s heart sank, but he didn’t show it on his face.
He walked to the front of Salt Wind’s head and patted its cheek: “That’s enough.
Very good, it’s healed.”
Salt Wind stopped, its pale yellow eyes looking at him, and a questioning low growl came from its throat.
“You can fly,” Aeron said, “but we have to fly smart.”
He turned and walked back into the cave, took the last bit of linen bandage from the supply box, and cut a few strips of sturdy canvas.
Then he walked back to Salt Wind and began to wrap and tie them around the dragon’s right wing joint and chest ribs.
This wasn’t bandaging a wound, but making a makeshift support brace.
The bandages and canvas formed a mesh structure at the key stress points, which could slightly share the pressure on the scar tissue; although the effect was limited, it was better than nothing.
After doing this, Aeron began to pack his bag.
Food—hard biscuits and salted meat, enough for one person for half a month, but if you count the amount to feed the dragon, it was only enough for three days.
Medicine—only half a small jar of anti-inflammatory ointment and a little styptic powder left.
Fresh water—two waterskins.
The fifty golden dragons his mother gave him were hidden close to his body.
The valyrian steel dagger hung at the most convenient position on his waist.
Finally, he took out the most inconspicuous rough cloth clothes from the bottom of the box and put them on.
A dark gray top and trousers, worn-out boots, an old cloak with a hood.
He walked to the water’s edge and looked at his reflection in the water—the silver-gold hair was still glaring under the hood.
Aeron squatted down, grabbed a handful of damp sand and a few strands of dark brown seaweed, rubbed them into a slimy ball in his palm, and then smeared them on his hair.
Once, twice, three times…
He practiced the Northern accent a few times.
The Driftmark accent was soft and long, while the Northern accent was hard and short.
He said “excuse me,” “may I ask,” and “I’m not a local” to the seawater until his tongue began to feel stiff.
Then came the cover story.
A mixed-race orphan from Essos who lost his ship and father in The Narrow Sea trade, his mother was a Lysene dancer, his father was a Pentoshi merchant, the ship sank in a storm, he floated to the Northern coast clutching a wooden plank, and now he was going to White Harbor to join a “possibly still existing” distant cousin.
The story was full of holes.
But as long as it sounded reasonable and the details could withstand one or two questions, it was enough.
The real trouble wasn’t the story, but whether the person listening to the story believed it.
The biggest trouble was Salt Wind.
Aeron walked to the dragon, unfolded the sea chart his mother gave him, pointed to the location of White Harbor, and then pointed to a mark about thirty miles north of the coastline—it was a sketch of a small bay, with fine text annotated next to it: “Nameless Bay, rocky, has caves.”
“Here,” Aeron said in valyrian, his finger moving back and forth between the sea chart and White Harbor, “you wait for me here.
I go there, and then I come back.
Understand?”
Salt Wind lowered its head, its pale yellow eyes staring at the chart for a long time, and then let out a low, reluctant guttural sound.
“I know,” Aeron stroked its scales, “but you cannot go into the city.
It’s too big, too conspicuous.
You will be seen, attacked.
Wait here, I will return.”
He took out an old conch shell he found in the supply box and blew it near his mouth—it made a low, long buzzing sound.
“When you hear this sound, come to pick me up,” Aeron said, “if…
if I don’t come back after three days, and I don’t blow the conch, you fly away yourself.
Go to Crackclaw Point, go to the East, go anywhere, but don’t go back to Driftmark.”
Salt Wind suddenly raised its head, and a series of rapid gurgling sounds came from its throat, as if protesting.
“It must be this way,” Aeron’s voice hardened, “if I don’t come back, it means I’m dead, or I’ve been caught.
It’s useless for you to stay.
You have to survive, Salt Wind.
Promise me.”
The dragon stared at him for a long time.
Finally, it lowered its head and gently touched Aeron’s chest with its nose tip—a heavy and slow nod.