As the morning light of Oldtown crept over the beacon of the Hightower, golden-red ripples spread across the surface of the Honeywine. Daemon stood at the prow of the Arbor Queen, his silver-gold hair lifted by the sea breeze. The three-headed dragon brand on his right shoulder still held the residual warmth from the hearth fire the night before.
The docks were already crowded with people seeing them off. Count Ormund Hightower wore a brocade robe of smoke-gray, the white tower sigil on his chest gleaming in the morning light. Beside him, Bethany and Garmund had changed into travel attire. Bethany wore a practical blue dress that allowed for easy movement, a small silver sword at her waist. Garmund was still in silver armor, but he had added a pauldron bearing the Hightower sigil and clutched a freshly bought nautical chart from the Citadel.
"When you head to King's Landing, Prince, if you pass through the Sea of Dorne, make sure the Redwyne fleet takes the inner channel," Ormund said, gripping Daemon's hand, his tone serious. "I've sent ravens to the coastal lords to watch for Dornish ships." He looked at his children beside him, reluctance hidden in his eyes as he smiled. "Bethany knows a bit about trade, and Garmund loves to play with swords. Letting them follow you to King's Landing for the tourney will certainly be more useful than keeping them studying in Oldtown."
Bethany stepped forward and curtsied to Daemon. "Rest assured, Prince. I've compiled Oldtown's trade records from the last five years. Perhaps they will be useful to the Small Council in King's Landing." Garmund, meanwhile, sidled up to the Cannibal. The black dragon was napping at the stern. He carefully touched the dragon's scales, earning a low rumble from the beast, but no anger—clearly, the dragon was no longer unfamiliar with this Hightower boy.
At the edge of the crowd, Beron Dustin stood in the gray robes of the Citadel, a newly issued copper link hanging on his chest. He was being led by another of Vaegon's assistants—a middle-aged man wearing an iron chain.
"Prince, I will study hard! When I finish my studies, I'll come find you in King's Landing!" The boy waved his arm, his voice clear. His silver-gray Northern curls danced in the wind, a stark contrast to the brown hair of the Reachmen around him. Daemon nodded with a smile and tossed him a peach from the Arbor. "Don't just bury your head in books at the Citadel. Practice your swordsmanship too. Lord Dustin entrusted me to make sure you don't forget the tools of the North."
At a signal from Daemon, Alyn Redwyne gave the order. The blue and white sails of the fleet rose slowly, the grape sigils unfurling in the wind.
The outline of Oldtown gradually receded. The beacon of the Hightower became a distant point of light. The current of the Honeywine pushed the fleet westward, and soon they entered Whispering Sound.
The wind in the Redwyne Straits carried the salt of the sea, snapping the sails taut. The Cannibal and Dreamfyre circled above the fleet, the black shadow and pale blue light intertwining like two protective clouds, causing the followers on the ships to look up frequently.
The deck of the Arbor Queen was already bustling. Rayford Rosby was organizing supplies with several newly joined young knights from the Reach. He wore the gray armor of House Rosby, the three red chevrons on ermine on his breastplate shining. As he checked the crates, he instructed, "These are the Citadel scrolls from Count Hightower for King's Landing. Be careful with them; don't let the seawater get them wet."
Beside him, Mace Florent hurriedly agreed. The fox sigil on his red-gold armor swayed with his movements. Though he had only come of age two years ago and his face still held a trace of boyishness, he was nearly the oldest among Daemon's followers. He carefully placed the scrolls into waterproof leather satchels with utmost seriousness.
In a corner of the deck, the burly Lucas Tyrell was learning to tie knots from Corwyn Celtigar. With his rugged looks, it was hard to believe he had Tyrell blood. Today, he wore a simple linen tunic, devoid of flashy decorations, his thick fingers clumsy with the rope. "Ser Corwyn, why does this double sheet bend always come loose?"
Corwyn demonstrated with a smile, the blue crabs on his silver armor flashing. "Don't rush. Pull tight when you loop it, steady as holding a lance."
Not far away, the youngest son of House Rowan held a sketchpad, trying to capture the silhouette of the Cannibal in the air. The youngest son of House Oakheart leaned over him, arguing about the pattern on the dragon's wings. "You drew the scales too dense. Last time I saw him at Highgarden, the scales were staggered!"
In the shade at the stern, Vaegon Targaryen sat on a wooden crate, holding a copy of New Theories on Celestial Orbits. Bernard the acolyte squatted beside him. Being only five feet tall, he had to crane his neck to look up. "Archmaester, look at the trajectory of the Dragon Star this year. Doesn't it look very similar to the year 54 AC?"
Vaegon didn't even look up, a sneer twisting his mouth. "It's off by three degrees. You haven't even mastered basic stellar angle calculations, and you dare discuss orbits with me?"
Bernard wasn't discouraged. He pulled a notebook from his robe and scribbled quickly. "I'll calculate it again. I'm sure I can find the error."
Gael walked over, holding a freshly baked oatcake, and handed it to Bernard. "Maester, eat something first. You'll get hungry calculating for so long." Bernard took it, flattered, and thanked her repeatedly. Vaegon glanced at them but said nothing—clearly, he gave Gael some face.
On the other side, Lyonel Strong and Larys Strong leaned side by side against the railing. Lyonel was burly, his bald head gleaming in the sun. He looked at the distant figure of Alys Rivers, keeping his voice very low. "Why is that woman following the Prince?"
Larys leaned on his cane. Unusually, he wasn't carrying "Mr. Longlegs." The hem of his black robe brushed the wood chips on the deck, and a flicker of panic passed through his dark eyes. "She asked me to introduce her to the Prince. But the Prince doesn't seem to dislike her. Her strange words always seem to resonate with him—" He paused, then added, "And she's very interested in the Prince's brand. Last time on the road, I saw her secretly touch the Prince's shoulder while he was resting in the carriage."
Lyonel frowned deeply and said no more, only staring heavily at Alys Rivers. She was leaning against the mast, her dark green dress swaying in the wind, her green eyes seemingly fixed on the Cannibal, mysterious as a fog that wouldn't disperse.
Mysaria and Bethany sat on a canvas sheet, looking through the trade records Bethany had brought. A dried flower from the Arbor was pinned in Mysaria's platinum curls. She pointed to a page. "Lady Bethany, does House Costayne of Three Towers really have a silver chalice sigil? I heard their chalices are made from Oldtown silver."
Bethany nodded with a smile, pulling a small silver sliver from her sleeve. "This is Costayne silver. It's softer than Arbor silver, suitable for tableware. Their chalice feasts are famous; whenever a distinguished guest arrives, they serve fruit wine in silver chalices."
Daemon walked along the deck, his gaze sweeping over everyone.
Talbot Crakehall was sparring with Myles River, his boar-sigil battle-axe sparking against Myles's Northern axe.
Lyn Corbray and the Royce twins were discussing swordsmanship, the hilts of their silver swords glinting cold in the sunlight.
Jarmon Waters and Harlan Hunter leaned against the prow, single eye and longbow both facing the sea, alert for anything unusual.
Alyn Redwyne was learning from his fleet captain how to direct the sailors to adjust the sails, his orange hair standing out in the wind.
The new followers from the Reach were gradually blending in. Some helped Rayford organize supplies, others gathered around Corwyn to learn navigation. Even the shyest among them, Oliver Redwyne, was encouraged by Rayford to try swinging a wooden sword.
As the sun began to set, the silhouette of Three Towers finally appeared on the cliffs ahead.
The seat of House Costayne was built on the cliffs of the southern shore of Whispering Sound. Three towers pierced the sky, facing the junction of the Redwyne Straits and Whispering Sound. The stone walls gleamed dark gray, looking as if they grew straight out of the cliff face.
Several small boats were already docked at the pier. Men of House Costayne wore surcoats quartered with their sigil—black silver chalice on yellow, black rose on gold—holding banners to welcome them.
"Prince, we've arrived at Three Towers!" Alyn Redwyne ran over with a spyglass. "Count Costayne is waiting at the pier himself. He says supplies and lodging are ready."
Daemon nodded and looked toward the Cannibal and Dreamfyre. The black dragon had landed on a flat area atop the cliff, and the blue dragon dove down to follow, drawing gasps of amazement from the Costayne people.
The fleet slowly docked. Count Costayne wore a black and yellow surcoat, the quartered sigil on his chest striking. He stepped forward quickly and bowed to Daemon. "Prince, Princess Gael, welcome to Three Towers! We have prepared bread, ale, fresh sea fish, and sheep for the dragons. Your followers can rest in the town below; supplies can be loaded tomorrow morning."
He pointed to the castle behind him. "The three towers are the Chalice Tower, the Rose Tower, and the Lookout Tower. The Lookout Tower offers a full view of the Redwyne Straits. If the Prince wishes to check the sea conditions, he may go up at any time."
Daemon followed Count Costayne off the ship. The evening wind blew from the straits, carrying the scent of grass from the cliffs. Gael and Mysaria walked behind, Bethany explaining the history of Three Towers to them. "House Costayne is sworn to Hightower. The last time Ironborn pirates raided the Reach, their Lookout Tower spotted them first, saving Oldtown's merchant ships."
Lyonel and Larys walked at the rear. Larys looked at the silhouette of Three Towers and whispered to Lyonel, "This castle is well-defended. There's only one path up the cliff. House Costayne knows how to pick a spot." Lyonel nodded, glancing at the guards on the pier. "Hightower men always understand defense."
Night fell gradually, and the lights of Three Towers came on, looking like stars scattered across the cliff face.
Daemon stood by the pier, looking at the blue and white sails of the Redwyne fleet. The Cannibal was eating a sheep on the flat ground nearby, while Dreamfyre curled up next to him, her pale blue breath condensing into white mist in the night.
This was just a brief rest on their voyage. Ahead lay the unknowns of the Sea of Dorne and the wait in King's Landing. But in this moment, the laughter of those around him, the lights of the castle, and the wind from the straits made the journey feel a little more secure—like the silver chalice and black rose of Three Towers, guarding the peace of Whispering Sound from atop the cliffs.