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While Gaemon was still enjoying the comforts of the Red Keep, the King's Landing beer merchant Bill was already aboard a trading cog bound for Oros.
Thanks to the royal fleet's constant patrols, Blackwater Bay stayed calm even in the height of summer. The double-masted cog rode a steady following wind, slipped through the mouth of the Wendwater, and began the easy upstream run.
The coming of high summer had smoothed the sea into a sheet of sapphire glass. White clouds drifted overhead; gulls wheeled and dove, snatching silver flashes from the water.
Bill stood at the rail, eyes sweeping the passing shores, quietly judging how far the Wendwater Domain had come in so short a time.
He had already caught sight of Snowsalt Town from the bay—long, orderly salt pans marching along the coast for miles. Even from a distance the sight had stunned him: neat rectangles of glittering white stretching into the haze, promising wealth on a scale he had never imagined.
Now, as the cog pushed farther upriver, the banks were no longer wild thickets. Mile after mile of fresh-plowed fields rolled past, heavy with ripening grain. The summer wind sent golden waves rippling across the wheat; the warm, sweet scent of harvest drifted out over the water.
Bill drew a deep breath and smiled. If the fields already looked like this, what in the Seven Hells would Oros itself be like?
The afternoon sun was sliding westward when the river bent in a wide, lazy curve. The cog swung around the bend, and the city suddenly filled the horizon.
First came the ships—dozens of them. Double-masters like their own, but also the bigger, deep-bellied three-masters built for the Narrow Sea trade. Some were still under sail, gliding upstream; others already lay alongside stone quays. Around them darted swarms of fishing boats and small lighters, ferrying cargo or dragging nets through the shallows.
Then the watchtower rose into view—twenty-odd feet of solid limestone crowned with a black banner bearing the red three-headed dragon. The sigil snapped and rippled in the breeze, announcing to every sailor who passed: This land belongs to House Targaryen.
Beyond the tower lay the docks.
Stone paving had replaced the old mud. Three-story timber warehouses stood in orderly rows just back from the water. Long wooden piers thrust out into the river like fingers, each one crowded with vessels. Dockhands—bare-chested, sun-browned, muscles gleaming with sweat—moved like ants, hauling crates and barrels ashore. Nearby, tall wooden cranes creaked and groaned, thick hemp cables lifting heavier loads high into the air.
Thump.
The cog kissed the pier with a solid, muffled thud. The captain barked an order; sailors swung the anchor over the side with practiced ease. A wide gangplank slammed down onto the pier.
"My lord," John said, coming up beside Bill, "we're tied up. Shall I see to the unloading while you wait ashore?"
John Baker—tall, black-haired, the ugly scar across his left cheek half-hidden by a fall of hair—was Bill's man through and through. Once a hedge knight turned sellsword, he had been left for dead on a roadside until Bill found him. A bit of coin, some bandages, and stubborn nursing later, John had sworn his sword and his life to the brewer. He had never regretted it.
"No need," Bill answered, rolling his shoulders. "I've been rocking on that deck for days. My legs want solid ground. I'll wait for you on the quay."
"As you wish, my lord."
John gave that crooked, scar-twisted grin of his and turned back to supervise the crew.
Bill stepped onto the gangplank, boots ringing on the weathered planks. The moment both feet touched the pier he let out a long, satisfied sigh.
"Gods, it's good to be on solid earth again. Shipboard life is for sailors, not honest beer merchants."
He stretched, working the kinks from his back, then strolled along the pier toward the main quay, careful not to wander too far while John was still busy with the cargo. The noise of the docks washed over him—vendors shouting, porters haggling, the slap of rope and creak of wood.
"Fresh-roasted fish! Five coppers!"
"Need a strong back, m'lord? I'll shift your whole cargo for you!"
"Rooms, good rooms! And fresh girls just arrived—come have a look!"
Bill smiled to himself, drinking it all in. This wasn't the sleepy river landing he had half-expected. This was a city already alive, already hungry, already growing.
And he was here to be part of it.
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