The road bled from frost into mud.
That was the first sign he was truly leaving the North behind — not the thinning snow, not the sparse trees, but the way every step his horse took sank deeper into wet earth. The air grew warmer with each mile. Damp. Heavy. Alive with insects instead of wind.
Aeryon nudged his horse forward as the King's Road dipped into the marshlands of the Neck. The distant croak of frogs echoed through the reeds, and somewhere far ahead he heard the faint, unmistakable creaking of wooden docks.
Then — gulls.
Gulls, this far inland.
He smirked.
"They kept that part out of the stories."
He followed the sound.
The trees opened suddenly, revealing a broken settlement he never would have noticed unless he knew exactly where to look. Crumbling stone foundations half-swallowed by moss. Shacks built from mismatched planks. Nets drying on leaning poles. A sagging tavern whose sign hung crookedly, swinging whenever the wind bothered to touch it.
And beyond it — a long, narrow river, dark as oil under the fading sun.
On its banks stretched a series of rickety docks, patched together with rope and stubbornness. Lean, sharp-eyed sailors haggled loudly over crates, while smuggler boats bobbed gently, loaded with goods no honest trader ever declared.
Aeryon slowed his horse.
This wasn't a real town.
Not on any map.
Just a place for people who wanted to go unseen.
Perfect.
He guided his horse through the muddy path as a few heads turned his way — curiosity sparking when the hood shifted enough to hint at silver hair. But no one here asked questions unless paid to.
He tied up his horse and approached the nearest vendor — a short man selling fish that smelled like they'd died twice already.
"Stable feed?" Aeryon asked.
The man grinned with too many teeth missing. "Coin first."
Aeryon reached into his cloak and discreetly pulled a pouch from his inventory. He had created it minutes ago — the coins were clean, gleaming, suspiciously new — but no one here cared where money came from.
The vendor snatched it and slapped a sack of feed onto the counter.
Aeryon took it, tucked it under his arm, and turned toward the tavern.
As he approached, voices carried through the thin walls.
"…the silver girl, yeah — the last dragon spawn, they're sellin' her east. Her brother, that pale rat, he's desperate for ships…"
Aeryon stopped.
The mud beneath his boots felt suddenly colder.
A silver girl.
Ships.
Desperate brother.
Daenerys Targaryen.
And Viserys.
He stepped closer to the tavern, listening without appearing to listen.
"She's not wed yet?" a voice asked.
"Nah. But won't be long. Some horse-lord's been sniffin' around. They say she's pure still."
Aeryon's jaw tightened under his hood.
Good. I'm not too late.
He pushed open the tavern door.
The place smelled like stale ale and river rot. Sailors filled every corner, hunched over dice or stew. No one looked up except one old woman who squinted at his hair, then shrugged and returned to her drink.
Aeryon walked straight to the bar.
"I need passage south."
The barkeep jerked his chin toward a man sitting at a table alone — boots muddy, cloak patched, beard wild and uneven, eyes sharp enough to cut rope.
"That's Captain Rog," the barkeep muttered. "If anyone's mad enough to sail this river at night, it's him."
Aeryon approached.
Rog looked up before he reached the table, squinting. "You're either a fool or wealthy. Sometimes both."
Aeryon lowered his hood.
Silver hair glinted in the dim torchlight.
Rog blinked once.
Then shrugged. "Wealthy, then."
Aeryon sat across from him. "I need to get downriver fast."
"Fast costs more."
Aeryon set a heavy pouch on the table.
Rog's eyebrows rose. He opened the pouch, stared at the gold, then whistled low.
"All right, silver-lord. Dawn. My boat's the one with the red sail patched like a rat's arse. We leave when the fog lifts."
Aeryon nodded. "Good."
He stood, walked outside, and moved down the dock. No one paid him any mind now. They were too busy counting his coin behind their eyes.
He stopped beside a stack of weathered crates, casually resting a hand on one as if leaning.
With a thought — subtle, quick — he switched one decaying crate with a disguised Ender Chest, wrapped in illusion like wood and nails.
A hidden supply point.
South of the Neck.
His first anchor.
He continued to the last dock, where the river stretched out in a long, black ribbon. Moonlight scattered across the surface like scales.
Aeryon stood there, letting the marsh wind brush his cloak.
Essos is closer.
Daenerys is waiting.
And Viserys has no idea what's coming.
A massive shadow passed over the water.
Silent.
Slow.
A hint of wings in the moonlight.
His dragon, circling.
Aeryon smiled faintly.
"Good," he whispered. "Stay close."
He turned and walked back into the warm glow of the port's lanterns.
The river would take him south.
And the world would soon learn what a true Targaryen looked like.
The fog moved like a living thing—slow, coiling, pale as milk—as Aeryon stepped back onto Captain Rog's battered riverboat. Lanterns swung overhead, smearing light across the mist in shifting streaks.
Rog grunted a greeting.
"You're early. Don't worry, boy. The river doesn't care."
Aeryon didn't respond. He simply stepped aboard.
The dockhands pushed off, boots thudding against wet wood, and soon the world narrowed to the gentle churn of water and the distant cries of unseen birds.
---
The River Moves South
Branches hung low enough to brush Aeryon's hood as the boat drifted through the overgrown channel. Sometimes the water was still; other times it dragged them forward with sudden force.
Aeryon stood at the bow, watching reeds fold away before the current.
He needed to reach Essos faster.
There was no more time for delays.
Not with the clock ticking toward Daenerys's wedding.
---
Rumors Not About Him—But Important
Two crewmen were tying down a crate nearby, speaking in low tones with that lazy, unhurried rhythm of men who assume no one cares to listen.
"…Pentos is a mess again," one muttered. "Magister Illyrio's throwing feasts every bloody night."
The other snorted. "Heard it's all for that silver-haired slip of a girl. The Targaryen one."
Aeryon's ears sharpened.
"Illyrio's trying to make her look valuable," the first said. "They say she's meant to wed some horse-lord."
"The Khal?" the other asked. "Drogo?"
"Aye. And soon. Illyrio's pushing for it. Wants the gold, wants the favor, wants the whole damn thing done before the girl loses her fear and her wits."
The men laughed and went back to their work.
Aeryon didn't move.
But the river beneath the boat suddenly felt faster.
---
A Changing Timeline
Drogo wanted her soon.
Viserys wanted the armies sooner.
And Illyrio wanted the deal sealed before she even understood what she was being traded for.
Aeryon exhaled slowly.
His window was shrinking.
He had expected weeks.
He now had days.
He reached behind a coil of rope and quietly summoned an Ender Chest. It appeared disguised as an old fishing crate—dull, chipped, harmless. From it he withdrew a small pouch of gold, the kind any merchant might carry.
He would need much more later.
But for now, subtlety mattered.
He stowed the pouch and shut the chest with a soft click.
---
A Shadow Above
As the fog thinned, the river widened, offering a sliver of pale blue sky. Something moved high above—silent, circling.
A dark shape.
His dragon.
It kept far enough away not to be seen by the crew, but close enough that he could feel its presence like heat against his spine.
Good. Stay there.
He didn't need more eyes on him.
Not yet.
---
Toward the Fork
Captain Rog pointed forward with a gloved hand.
"South fork ahead!" he barked. "Fast water, rough corners. Hold on to something or the river'll take you as a snack."
Aeryon stepped to the very front of the bow.
The movement pushed his hood back just enough for the morning sun to catch a streak of silver hair.
The crew didn't see.
But the river did.
The boat slid into the south fork, water curling around it, pulling it forward with hungry speed.
Toward the coast.
Toward a ship.
Toward Pentos.
Toward Daenerys.
His jaw tightened with silent resolve.
He would reach her before the wedding.
Before Drogo.
Before anyone else could touch her fate.