The road from Rosby to Maidenpool was longer than Daemon had anticipated.
By the time the party reached Duskendale, two more second sons of Crownlands nobility had joined them. One was even the bastard of some earl, riding a skinny horse with a dirty face, but his eyes were sharp as a hungry wolf.
Daemon pulled on the reins, looking back at the increasingly long line behind him. He suddenly felt this tour was snowballing—what started as a simple "matchmaking trip" had now become a rallying call for the young scions of the Crownlands.
"What are you thinking about?" Gael flew low on Dreamfyre, the magnificent dragon's shadow casting a patch of cool shade beside the procession.
She wore leather riding gear, her long hair tied with a ribbon, revealing her slender neck. Mysaria sat behind her, gripping the edge of the saddle tightly, her platinum-blonde curls flying in the wind.
Daemon looked up and smiled. "Just thinking, if this continues, by the time we finish touring the Seven Kingdoms, we might have formed an army."
Gael patted Dreamfyre's neck gently, and the dragon circled to land on the hillside ahead. "They all admire you." She walked to Daemon's side, her fingertips inadvertently brushing the Blackfyre sword at his waist. "After all, you are the one who tamed The Cannibal. The lads of the Crownlands treat you as a legend."
"Legend?" Daemon raised an eyebrow self-mockingly. "I'm just an unlucky fool dragged to a brothel by his brother."
Mysaria walked over too, unable to suppress a giggle at his words. Since the incident on the Street of Silk, she seemed a bit more cheerful, though she remained timid around Daemon. Instead, she grew closer to Gael, often following the Princess to learn the Common Tongue of Westeros.
When the group rested at Sow's Horn, Daemon sat by the campfire sharpening his blade, watching the young men crowd around Rayford asking what it felt like to be the Prince's first follower. He suddenly recalled scenes from the Blackfyre Rebellion in his past life.
Back then, he was also surrounded by such a group of young men, craving war merits and glory, yet most of them ultimately fell on Redgrass Field.
Rayford's profile flickered in the firelight, reminding him for no reason of a squire who had died in battle, making his chest feel blocked.
"Spacing out again?" Gael sat down beside him unnoticed, handing him a roasted hare leg. "You've been weird since Rosby. Do these people make you uncomfortable?"
Daemon took a bite of the meat. The aroma of grease couldn't dispel the gloom in his heart. "Just feeling... they are too much like me when I was young." He looked at the outline of Antlers in the distance, where the lord had sent a one-eyed bastard to be his squire. "Impulsive, hot-blooded, but not knowing what they want."
Gael was silent for a moment, then suddenly smiled, imitating Rhaenys's tone: "But aren't you only fourteen this year? My 'Little Daemon,' aren't you doing fine now? Perhaps you can guide them on the right path." She leaned closer, her voice very low. "Just like Brother Baelon taught you."
Daemon's heart trembled. He had truly never thought that the "failed" him could become a "guide" for others.
When the group arrived at Antlers, three more young men joined.
Daemon looked at the swords at their waists and the longing in their eyes—these second sons and bastards were like seeds hidden in the soil of the Crownlands, waiting for a gust of wind to break through. And he, perhaps, was that wind.
"By the way," Daemon suddenly remembered something and turned to Gael, "how did you catch up to me at Rosby that day? Even Dreamfyre shouldn't be that coincidentally fast."
Gael was letting Mysaria comb her hair. Hearing this, she turned back and blinked. "Because I knew you would take care of the retinue. While you stopped at Rosby, Mysaria and I took a shortcut on Dreamfyre, flying along the coastline of Blackwater Bay. We were a whole half-day faster than you."
"Aren't you afraid of danger?" Daemon's tone unconsciously hardened. "There are pirates along the Narrow Sea coast, and..."
"And you worry about me." Gael interrupted him with a smile, tracing her finger along her temple. "You've mentioned it eight times in the last few days." She pointed to smoke rising in the distance. "Look, Maidenpool is ahead. It was the first stop on Father and Mother's royal progress years ago."
"Grandfather and Grandmother?" Daemon's head instantly felt bigger.
He still couldn't forget the messenger from three days ago—riding a sweating fast horse, nearly knocking over Rayford when charging into the camp, then unfurling the King's scroll and reading the lecture loud enough for the whole camp to hear. The core message was: "Watch yourself and Gael. If you let her run wild on a dragon again, I'll throw you and Daemon Targaryen into the Dragonpit to feed the dragons together."
Gael saw his embarrassment and laughed even happier. "Don't worry. I didn't tell you beforehand this time because I was afraid you'd be nervous. Besides, it was a spur-of-the-moment decision."
Since taming Dreamfyre, this "Winter Child," who had always been fragile, shy, and simple-minded, had become bold. It seemed the rumor that a dragon changes any Targaryen was true.
When the group entered Maidenpool, Daemon finally understood why Jaehaerys chose this place as the first stop of his progress.
This town sitting beside the Bay of Crabs was like a pearl nourished by spring water—pale red stone walls surrounded scattered wooden houses, dozens of fishing boats were moored in the harbor, fishermen were unloading freshly caught crabs, and the salty sea breeze mixed with the sulfur scent of hot springs.
Most striking was Jonquil's Pool in the center of town. Beside the steam-shrouded pond stood a magnificent stone bathhouse. Several septas in white robes walked along the pool's edge with solemn expressions.
"Legend says this is where Florian the Fool peeked at Jonquil bathing." Gael pointed at the dome of the bathhouse, eyes shining. "Mother said the water has healing magic. When she was pregnant with Brother Aegon, she even wanted to bathe in it."
Daemon paused. He remembered that history—in 51 AC, Queen Alysanne was attacked by "Holy Sisters" here. If not for her handmaidens shielding her with their bodies, perhaps the later family wouldn't exist.
He looked at the bathhouse. Sunlight cast dappled shadows on the pool through the steam, beautiful like a trap.
The castle of House Mooton sat on a small hill. Lord Jonah Mooton and his lady wife were already waiting at the gate. The Earl was only in his thirties but already had a slight paunch. His smile was amiable, shrewdness hidden in the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. His wife, Lady Perianne, seemed much quieter, her pale black dress embroidered with the red salmon of House Mooton.
"Welcome, Prince Daemon, Princess Gael." Lord Jonah bowed, his voice resonant. "Maidenpool is honored to host the royal blood of Targaryen."
Dinner was held in the Maiden's Tower of the castle, the window facing the hot spring pond below.
Lady Perianne served them personally. When talking about Maidenpool's trade, her tone held pride: "Though not as luxurious as King's Landing or High Tide, the clams from our Bay of Crabs are the freshest."
Lord Jonah added with a smile, "When His Grace toured here, he loved our clam chowder. Queen Alysanne even said it was better than the royal chefs'."
He changed the subject, looking at Daemon. "I heard the Prince is accepting followers? I have a younger brother... well, my father's bastard. He is brave but hasn't read many books. Would the Prince be willing to take him in?"
Daemon looked at the youth standing by the door. He was about fifteen or sixteen, a bit older than himself, tall and sturdy with hands rough as a blacksmith's, but his eyes were sincere.
He remembered Lord Rosby's son. He regretted setting this precedent, but couldn't show favoritism, so he nodded. "I would be delighted."
The youth blushed with excitement and knelt on one knee immediately. "Thank you, Prince!"
The atmosphere at dinner was lively. When Lord Jonah talked about his past with Princess Saera, he didn't shy away from the absurdities of those years: "Back then, me, Red Roy Connington, Braxton Beesbury, and the Princess—the four of us were inseparable every day."
Noticing Lady Perianne's strange look, the Earl decisively corrected himself: "Oh, and Alys Turnberry and my wife. We were inseparable at almost all banquets and balls, hunting and hawking together. Once we even crossed Blackwater Bay to Dragonstone, thinking we were masters of the Seven Kingdoms. Until His Grace threw us into the black cells did we learn the height of the sky and the depth of the earth."
Finally, he looked at Lady Perianne, his eyes full of tenderness. "Fortunately, His Grace gave me a chance to atone, allowing me to marry Perianne."
Lady Perianne gave him a reproachful look. "How old are you, still bringing up those things?"
Daemon watched their interaction, suddenly feeling this kind of life wasn't bad. No killing for power, no disputes over bloodlines, only the warmth of family sitting together.
Late at night, Daemon lay in the guest room bed, sleepless. The bubbling of the hot spring came from outside, and the fishing lights in the distant harbor looked like scattered stars. The door was pushed open gently, and Gael slipped in holding a pillow. Moonlight fell on her face like a silver veil.
"I can't sleep," she whispered, skillfully burrowing into his quilt like a kitten seeking warmth. "Mysaria says she's scared alone, but I'm more scared you're overthinking things again."
Daemon smiled helplessly, reaching out to hold her. The girl's body was light, carrying a faint scent of hot springs. He could clearly hear her heartbeat, steady and strong. "Don't worry, I'm not overthinking."
"Liar." Gael rubbed against his chest. "Your brow hasn't relaxed." She paused, her voice soft as cotton. "Are you homesick?"
Daemon was silent. Yes, he was homesick. He missed the stone walls of the Red Keep, missed Prince Baelon's strict yet caring gaze, missed Viserys's clumsy jokes, and even missed Daemon Targaryen's punchable smile.
In his rebellious past life, he had never possessed such ties. Home then was just a cold castle, a group of "followers" who needed his benefits. But in this life, every face in the Red Keep had become a soft spot in his heart.
"Actually, I'm homesick too. After this tour, we'll go back." Gael's voice was sleepy. "Go back to see Rhaenyra, see Aemma, see Father and Mother... oh, and see if Big Daemon has cleaned the dung in the Dragonpit."
Daemon was amused by her, and his tight nerves finally relaxed. He looked down at the sleeping girl in his arms. Moonlight outlined her soft profile, long eyelashes like two small fans. The hot spring outside still bubbled, as if humming an ancient song.
Perhaps this was the meaning of his return to this era. Not to fight for the Iron Throne, but to rewrite the tragedy of the Dance of the Dragons, to protect this warmth he never had in his past life.
The night at Maidenpool was gentle as water, embracing this tranquility. Daemon closed his eyes, feeling the warmth in his arms, the corner of his mouth unconsciously curving into a smile. The road tomorrow was still long, but as long as these people were by his side, he was willing to walk it no matter how far.
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