The morning mist at Riverrun hadn't fully dispersed, but the current of the Tumblestone already shimmered under the Wheel Tower.
Lord Grover's third son Hoster and fourth son Brynden, along with other young members of House Tully, stood in the courtyard. The former wore a cloak with the silver trout sigil, while the latter had a short sword inlaid with turquoise at his waist, the red and blue waves carved on the scabbard echoing the colors of the castle walls.
"Prince, Princess, please follow us." Hoster bowed to Daemon and the others. His cloak hem swept over the moss on the flagstones, revealing the stone surface polished bright by countless footsteps. "Every stone of Riverrun is soaked in the breath of the river; you will find it more intriguing than it looks."
Daemon Targaryen's gaze swept over the Wheel Tower—ivy cascaded like a green waterfall, and the huge wheel turned slowly pushed by the current, water droplets refracting rainbows in the morning light.
He suddenly stopped his limping steps. In these few days, his violet eyes had lost their usual frivolity, gaining a rare seriousness. "Where is the best smithy in this city? I want to forge a new lance."
Hoster was slightly taken aback, then laughed loudly. "The Prince has a good eye! The 'Iron Anvil' smithy in the west city. The master smith's craft can make a lance tip pierce an oak shield from thirty paces. Fourth brother, take the Prince and Ser Corlin there, and let the master smith show off his skills."
Brynden's eyes lit up, clearly more familiar with street matters. "Leave it to me! That old man is most proud of his quenching skill, saying he can make steel tougher than a maiden's chastity."
Gael's gaze lingered on Daemon Targaryen's back for a moment, worry surfacing in her pale violet eyes.
Daemon nodded slightly, turning his gaze to Jarmen Waters—the one-eyed bastard understood immediately, reaching out to pat Mycah Rivers's shoulder. "Didn't you say you wanted to learn archery the day before yesterday? Let's go pick a handy bow and forge some new arrowheads." He then put his arm around the second son of House Hunter of Longbow Hall. "Come, let's show you how sharp Riverlands ironwork is."
When Jarmen turned, he deliberately looked back, giving Daemon a "rest assured" look. Sunlight fell precisely into his single eye, refracting sharp light, as if piercing through the mist of the streets.
Hoster led everyone toward the keep. The reflection of guards' armor was faintly visible in the arrow loops they passed. "This triangular keep was designed by our ancestor Axel himself." He pointed to the angular tower. "The study on the top floor has windows on three sides, allowing simultaneous views of the Red Fork and Tumblestone confluence. On rainy days, the water colors of the two rivers are distinct, like the Father overturned red and blue paints."
Just then, Daemon caught a glimpse of crimson from the corner of his eye—Lysa Tully, the third daughter, used the pretext of arranging her skirt to quietly leave the group. Her red hair flashed like a flame between the grey stone walls, then disappeared into the alley leading to the west city.
Almost simultaneously, Larys Strong's figure slipped into the corridor corner like a snake merging into shadows, the sound of his cloak sweeping the stone pillar light as a breath.
Rayford Rosby, chatting with Rupert Crabb and Leowyn Corbray, saw this and was about to speak up, but was stopped by a look from Daemon.
Daemon's gaze was calm and rippleless, as if he had long taken all this into control, simply tilting his head slightly to signal everyone to continue.
Rupert and Leowyn were still laughing, discussing the range of the trebuchet they just passed, oblivious to the undercurrents in this moment.
When the clang of the smithy was deafening at the end of the alley, Daemon Targaryen stood by the anvil, watching the master smith hammer red-hot fine iron into a lance tip.
Corlin Celtigar was selecting oak shafts nearby, fingertips tracing the dense grain. "This one is good; it can withstand my full-force strike."
"Need sigils added?" the master smith asked loudly. The force of his hammer blows made the ground vibrate slightly. Sparks splashed onto his calloused arms, burning tiny white scars he completely ignored.
Corlin shook his head, fingertips tracing the cooled lance tip. "No fancy stuff. I want the sharpest—able to pierce plate armor gaps, like a crab's sharp pincers." His voice held an inexplicable stubbornness, as if wanting to pour some gloom into the steel.
In the shadows of the alley entrance, Lysa Tully clutched her skirt hem hesitantly. Hearing laughter and cursing from inside the shop, she finally mustered courage, lifting her skirt and running in. Red hair danced in the firelight, contrasting interestingly with the sparks on the anvil.
Meanwhile, Jarmen Waters stood before the counter of the fletchery, watching the Hunter boy test draw a weirwood longbow. The boy's arm tensed with effort, the bowstring humming low, the arrow nailing steadily into the bullseye fifty paces away. Mycah Rivers, as a novice, picked through a pile of arrowheads, finger sliding gently over a barb. "This is good; hit someone and they can't pull it out easily."
"Careful not to hurt yourself." Jarmen glanced at the gleaming ironware, but his gaze went over the roof toward the smithy—the blue smoke rising there seemed mixed with a girl's laughter.
When Hoster led everyone to visit the godswood, the morning mist had just cleared. Dew accumulated in the eye sockets of the face carved on the slender weirwood in the center, as if watching silently. "This tree is older than Riverrun itself," Hoster's tone held awe. "When the First Men planted it, the Trident was still called the 'Great Water,' and our Tully ancestors, following the Andal warlords to Westeros, were once reduced to mere 'fishermen' guarding the crossing."
Gael reached out to touch the rough bark, suddenly remembering the weirwoods on High Heart. The faces there were older and sadder, as if having witnessed too much bloodshed and betrayal.
At dusk, when the retinue returned to the castle, the group from the smithy had returned first.
Daemon Targaryen carried a newly forged lance on his shoulder, the tip gleaming coldly in the sunset. He had forged one for himself too. The gloom on his face had dissipated considerably, and he was whispering and laughing with Lysa Tully—the girl's red hair was slightly messed by the wind, cheeks red as ripe apples, holding a silk handkerchief embroidered with a trout pattern, clearly just finished.
"Seems Prince Big Daemon is very satisfied with the new weapon." Lord Grover welcomed them at the banquet hall entrance, laughing loudly like a bell, but a trace of fatherly worry flashed in his eyes.
On the banquet's long table, grease from roasted trout dripped onto silver platters, and the foam on Tumblestone ale was abundant.
Passing Daemon, Jarmen Waters reported: "All is well. The Hunter boy shot through the bullseye at fifty paces; Mycah picked twelve barbed arrowheads." He paused, then added in a whisper only the two could hear: "The smithy was lively; Lady Lysa wiped sweat for Prince Big Daemon three times."
As Daemon nodded, he caught a glimpse of Larys Strong quietly returning to his seat, picking at a piece of bread with a silver fork, movements elegant as if manipulating a chess piece, as if he had never left.
"Was the tour today satisfactory?" Lord Grover raised his wine cup, pride shining in his violet eyes. "Speaking of our House Tully's history, it's long—starting from the age of the First Men, the first Edmure Tully followed Tristifer IV, the 'Hammer of Justice,' and won ninety-nine battles!"
After three rounds of wine, the Duke's chatterbox opened completely. He went from the legend of Axel Tully building the castle to the death of Lord Elston in the War of the Six Kings;
From how Tommen Tully endured to preserve strength, to how Lord Edmyn judged the situation and led the Riverlands lords to welcome Aegon the Conqueror.
"...Back during King Maegor's tyranny, our House Tully first helped him fight Prince Aegon, then followed King Jaehaerys to rebel against him." Grover downed a large gulp of wine, silver beard stained with liquid. "Some call us fickle, but the river water of the Riverlands taught us—turn when you must turn, or be shattered against the reefs long ago."
Daemon listened quietly, understanding more why House Tully could stand in the Riverlands for a thousand years. They weren't as tough as the Lannisters, nor as stubborn as the Starks, but more like the flow of the Red Fork, knowing how to find a way to live among hard rocks.
After the banquet dispersed, when Daemon returned to the guest room, the candles were dimmest. He had just unbuckled his sword when the door was pushed open gently—Larys Strong appeared at the doorway, playing with a piece of flint picked up from the corner of Riverrun's wall, still stained with Red Fork mud.
"The Prince seemed to expect my arrival?" Larys raised an eyebrow, smile carrying his usual cunning, as if having seen through human hearts long ago.
"The two hours you disappeared were enough to figure out most of Riverrun's defenses." Daemon sat in the chair, fingertips tapping the armrest lightly, wood grain leaving faint marks on his palm. "Tell me, what did you find?"
Larys walked to the table, placing the flint on the spread map, pressing exactly on the Tumblestone location. "The garrison is tighter than it looks. Arrow loops on the Wheel Tower can seal off the river surface; archers have fixed stances, clearly trained long-term. The secret door in the west wall leads straight to the Red Fork crossing; hinges are oiled, can hide about fifty soldiers, suitable for ambush. Lord Grover's personal guard has three hundred men, half are longbowmen, carrying fire arrows in quivers, likely to counter fire attacks." He paused, adding, "I also saw the Duke's eldest son checking crossbow parts; wear is low, seems frequently maintained recently."
Daemon's gaze fell on the outline of Riverrun on the map—the triangular castle like a wedge stuck at the confluence of two rivers, easy to defend and hard to attack. "This information might be very useful to others, but perhaps not much use to me for now..." He suddenly looked up, violet eyes flickering in the candlelight. "You seem particularly interested in House Tully's defenses?"
"Just interested in all lords' defenses." Larys shrugged, cloak sweeping the candlestick as he turned, light and shadow flickering on his face. "After all, knowing where the cracks are allows one to make the wall collapse faster when needed. You will have a use for it sooner or later."
When the door closed again, Daemon looked at the moonlight outside. Riverrun's water hummed low in the night, as if recounting the secrets this castle hid for a thousand years.
And he knew what Larys brought was not just intelligence, but a certificate of allegiance—a covenant of shadows written in the stone and steel of the Riverlands.
Night wind blew through the blades of the Wheel Tower, making whimpering sounds.
The distant smithy had long extinguished its lights. Only the new lance forged by Daemon Targaryen for Corlin leaned against a wall corner, the tip gleaming coldly in the moonlight.
---