The river grew louder as the morning burned off the last of the fog.
That low, rolling sound—half-roar, half-whisper—echoed between the banks as Aeryon's boat surged deeper into the south fork. Spray licked the sides. The air tasted sharper.
Captain Rog planted his feet wide at the helm.
"Keep steady! These waters bite!"
Aeryon didn't move.
Didn't blink.
The speed suited him.
He needed fast.
---
The Wild Stretch
Trees thinned.
Marsh replaced forest—flat, wide, the reeds bending like tired soldiers.
The river here was deeper, darker.
Aeryon could feel the shift in the ground beneath it, a new kind of pulse—older, colder.
Two crewmen braced themselves near him as the boat jolted. One cursed when a wave slapped his boots.
"This stretch always feels wrong," the younger sailor muttered.
The older one shrugged. "Old wives say the river spirits drowned a whole clan here."
Aeryon ignored them.
But the feeling?
He noticed it too.
Like eyes watching from beneath the surface.
A trick of the place…
Or something else drawn to him.
---
Rog Tests Him
Captain Rog called out over the wind:
"Boy! You handle rivers much?"
Aeryon didn't turn. "I handle what I must."
Rog let out a low laugh.
"Spoken like a man with too many secrets. You ride with a hunter's shoulders, but your boots are wrong for the North."
A small smile tugged the corner of Aeryon's mouth.
"You watch carefully."
"That's my job." Rog leaned on the tiller. "I don't like passengers who hide more than they show."
Aeryon didn't answer.
The silence stretched.
Finally, Rog said, "But I do like gold. And you paid enough to make a king forget his name. So long as you don't start sending shadows after us, you and I won't have a problem."
"Shadows take no orders from me," Aeryon replied.
Not a lie.
Not the truth either.
Rog squinted at him, then barked, "Hah! Good. I hate poets."
---
The Scout Tree
Near midday they reached a sharp bend where the river curled around a massive dead tree—huge, pale, half-submerged. Its bark had peeled away long ago, leaving a bleached skeleton that jutted from the water like a broken spine.
Aeryon's eyes narrowed.
Someone had carved symbols into it.
Old ones.
Runes he recognized from the North.
Not the Children.
Not the First Men.
Newer. Human. A warning marker.
Rog saw his look and grunted.
"Bandits use that as a signal. Means someone was watching this stretch recently."
The deck tightened with unease.
Aeryon rested one hand near the dagger on his belt—not because he needed the dagger, but because it maintained the illusion.
The river around the dead tree slowed.
Too quiet.
---
Eyes in the Reeds
There—
A rustle.
A ripple.
Someone was moving along the bank.
Not following yet… but tracking the boat.
Aeryon kept his expression blank, but his senses sharpened.
His dragon was still far above, circling quietly.
Good.
Too much intervention would draw exactly the kind of attention he didn't want.
But if someone tried to board…
He would end it fast.
The reeds shifted again.
Rog spat into the river. "Ignore it. Rats with bows, or worse. They want an easy mark. We're not that."
Aeryon's voice stayed calm, quiet.
"If they try anything… I'll handle it."
Rog gave him a long side-look.
"You say that like you mean it."
"I do."
---
The Bend Breaks Open
The river straightened—and suddenly widened.
The air hit them hard, the world brightening as if they'd broken through a wall. Aeryon tightened his stance as the current dragged the boat forward faster than before.
"Hold!" Rog shouted.
The crew braced.
Aeryon didn't bother.
The spray soaked his cloak, pushing the fabric back enough for silver hair to flash briefly in the sunlight.
One of the sailors stared at him.
A little too long.
"...You're not from here," the man muttered.
Aeryon lifted his gaze to him.
Just enough pressure to make the man swallow and turn away.
He didn't need trouble.
Not today.
---
The Road Ahead
The land opened—rolling fields, sparse trees, faint smoke trails from distant farms. The change meant they were nearing the crossing where the river met the southern road.
Soon he'd reach the coast.
Find a ship.
Sail to Pentos.
Daenerys was close now.
Days away.
Maybe less.
Aeryon rested one hand on the railing, eyes fixed southward.
Captain Rog let out a low curse.
"That's the thing about this river. Shows you ghosts when it's in the mood."
The wind shifted, blowing colder across the deck. Aeryon stayed at the bow, his cloak fluttering behind him like a dark flag as the boat cut through the narrowing channel.
The world felt… still.
Too still.
The Choke-Point
The river pressed between two long ridges, the water tightening into a fast, muscular pull. Rocks jutted out like the ribs of a trapped beast.
"Hold your footing!" Rog barked.
The boat jerked violently. A wave slapped the bow hard enough to soak Aeryon from the waist down, but he didn't flinch.
A crewman glanced at him, murmured, "Gods save us… he's made of iron."
Aeryon didn't answer.
His eyes were on the banks.
Not because someone was there.
But because someone could have been.
This was the kind of place men chose for ambushes—
narrow, loud, hard to turn back.
But the banks were empty.
Just reeds bending in the wind.
Just distant crows tearing at something unseen.
Just the endless gray sky.
For the first time since he left Winterfell, Aeryon sensed an odd… vacancy.
No watchers.
No scouts.
No threats.
Almost as if the world was holding its breath.
The River's Voice
The current widened again, pushing them into a stretch so open it felt like a corridor carved by giants.
Water rushed around them, deep and dark.
Aeryon leaned on the railing, fingers tapping a slow rhythm.
He didn't like quiet.
Quiet was where thoughts crept in.
Thoughts he preferred to ignore.
Like the pacing of fate.
Like the tightening of Viserys's grip on Daenerys.
Like the ticking clock of Drogo's wedding preparations.
Every day he traveled was a day stolen from someone else's plan.
But the river didn't care.
It carried him without question.
And that was enough.
The Forest Line Breaks
Eventually, the forests faded into long, sweeping fields.
Smoke curled from distant farmsteads.
A few cattle grazed near the southern ridge, their silhouettes small and harmless.
Rog's voice rose above the wind:
"We're close to the exchange. Road runs near the river here. From there it's a straight line to the southern ports."
Aeryon nodded once.
He had calculated it already.
South.
Road.
Port.
Ship.
Pentos.
He would reach Daenerys before a Khal's hands ever touched her.
A Flicker in the Sky
A shadow passed overhead.
Not threatening.
Not close.
Just a dark curve moving lazily among the clouds.
His dragon.
Still watching.
Still loyal.
Still patient.
It banked right, disappearing behind the sunlight.
Aeryon allowed himself one quiet breath.
He was not alone, no matter how empty the banks were.
The World Resumes Its Spin
A gust of warm air rolled across the river, lifting the hair at his temples.
Aeryon looked south, the horizon split by a line of pale gold where the sky met the land.
That was where he was going.
Where he must go.
No one was following him.
No one stood in his way.
No one yet knew what he intended.
Good.
The more the world slept,
the faster he could reshape it.
He adjusted his cloak, stepped forward, and let the river carry him on.
The river widened into a glassy expanse, the water smoothing out into a calm, deceptive stillness. Captain Rog relaxed his shoulders for the first time in hours, muttering something about "finally leaving the river's damn teeth behind."
Aeryon barely heard him.
The horizon had taken on a different color—
less gray, more gold.
As though the South breathed a gentler light.
And there, carved into the right bank, came the first sign of civilization in miles:
a worn river-shore path, trodden by boots, hooves, and wagon wheels.
Rog gave a sharp nod. "That's your stop."
The boat drifted closer, scraping gently against the mud-and-rock bank. The crew tossed out a rope and secured it to a crooked wooden post that leaned like it had never stood straight in its life.
Aeryon stepped off.
Boots hit earth.
Firm. Solid.
No sway of current beneath him.
He felt the world settle around him like a cloak.
---
Rog Tries to Understand Him
The captain crossed his arms, squinting at him with a face like sun-dried hide.
"You never told me why you travel alone," Rog said.
Aeryon adjusted the strap of his pack. "Most enemies look for groups."
"Enemies, huh?" Rog snorted. "You've got the air of a man hunted, but the eyes of one doin' the hunting."
Aeryon didn't deny it.
Rog seemed to appreciate that more than any spoken answer.
"South road's half a mile that way," he said, jerking his chin toward the faint line of trampled grass. "You follow it, you'll reach the coast town in three days if your boots are good. Two if you walk like you're late for your own funeral."
Aeryon nodded.
The captain hesitated… then reached into his coat and pulled something out.
A small iron token.
Stamped with a ship's bow.
"Take it," Rog said gruffly. "If you need passage in the future, show that to any man under Rog Thrice-Drowned. Tell them you paid well and kept quiet."
Aeryon accepted it.
Weighty. Solid.
A small piece of reputation.
"Thank you," he said.
"Bah." Rog waved him off. "Just don't die stupidly. Bad luck for business."
Then the captain climbed back aboard and shouted for his men to push off.
Within moments, the river claimed the boat again, swallowing it into its slow-moving current. The lantern on its stern flickered once through the reeds—
and vanished.
---
Silence of the South Road
Aeryon watched the river a heartbeat longer, then turned toward the open land.
Wind rolled across the fields in long waves, bending the tall grass like shifting silver scales. Insects hummed. A hawk circled above. A solitary tree creaked somewhere down the bend.
He walked.
Step by step, until the worn footpath met the South Road—a broad dirt track packed hard by centuries of horses, carts, and travelers.
The road stretched endlessly to the southeast.
That was his route.
To the coast.
To a port.
To a ship.
To Pentos.
To Daenerys.
---
Trouble Smells Him Before He Sees It
He had walked barely fifteen minutes when the wind changed.
Not in temperature.
In scent.
Salt.
Smoke.
And something metallic.
Blood.
Aeryon slowed.
The road curved behind a cluster of boulders and a fallen tree. Crows perched on the branches, feathers glossy black, heads cocked as though waiting for him.
Their silence was wrong.
Crows were never quiet around carrion.
He approached slowly, eyes alert but face calm.
As he came around the bend, the scene revealed itself:
A broken wagon.
A dead mule.
And three bodies lying sprawled in the dirt—
not long dead, but long enough for the flies to start gathering.
Not bandit work.
Too clean.
Too efficient.
Aeryon knelt beside the nearest corpse.
A crossbow bolt protruded from the man's back.
He checked the fletching.
Black.
Short.
Professionally cut.
Not a highwayman's.
Mercenary work.
Or worse—
city-trained hands.
Aeryon rose slowly, scanning the surroundings.
Then he saw it.
Tracks.
Horse tracks.
Not wandering.
Not random.
Following the same road he was about to take.
Heading toward the coast.
His jaw tightened.
Whoever killed these travelers wasn't finished.
They were moving south.
Fast.
And if their timing matched his…
He might meet them before nightfall.
---
Aeryon Chooses Not to Hide
Most men would take the fields.
Most men would avoid the road.
Most men would wait for dark.
Aeryon stepped directly into the center of the road and kept walking.
Boots steady.
Back straight.
Shadow long.
He glanced up once.
High above, barely visible in the brightening sky, a dark shape drifted like a silent guardian.
His dragon.
It banked once, watching.
Aeryon let the wind carry his answer upward.
"Not yet."
The dragon veered away—obedient, patient, unseen.
Ahead, the road curved again, sloping down into a shallow valley where the sun glinted off metal.
Not sunlight.
Armor.
A group of riders.
He counted them by their shadows before he even saw their faces.
Six men.
Armed.
Fast-moving.
And heading straight toward him.
Aeryon didn't slow.
The moment tightened like a bowstring.
The first rider lifted his hand—
not in greeting.
In command.
"You there! Stop where you are!"
Aeryon inhaled once, calm and controlled.
He lifted his head.
And smiled.
Just a little.