The current of the Red Fork curved gently under the pier, soaking the grey stone foundation of the Inn of the Kneeling Man cold.
Daemon pulled up on The Cannibal and looked down. He saw only the inn's sign swaying in the wind—the kneeling king painted on the wood had been darkened by past rains, but the gold trim of the crown remained bright, as if silently recounting that twilight night a hundred years ago when Torrhen Stark bowed his head to Aegon.
"This place is more decent than rumored," Gael's voice held surprise. She looked at the row of long wings extending over the river. Ivy crawled over whitewashed wooden walls, and slate roofs glowed blue-grey in the setting sun. The braying of mules from the stables mixed with laughter from under the pavilion, creating a strange peace.
The innkeeper was a bald fat man wearing a wash-faded linen apron stained with ale. He bowed from afar to welcome them: "My heavens! True dragons of the royal family!" He rubbed his hands, wrinkles around his eyes crinkling with smiles. "That this humble one can host two Targaryen Princes and a Princess today is truly a blessing from the Seven! Please come in; the best wings are reserved for noble guests like you—though our 'small inn isn't big,' every traveler in the Riverlands knows our stables can hold fifty good horses and the pavilion can seat twenty tables!"
Then he led everyone through the vine-covered pavilion, wooden planks creaking underfoot. "Look at this wing, extended three yards over the river on purpose. In summer, it catches the wind from the Red Fork, cooler than the Water Gardens of Riverrun!"
Daemon's gaze swept over the carvings on the pavilion pillars—names and family crests left by countless travelers layered upon each other. One faded direwolf sigil was carved deeply, presumably a silent protest from a Northman against the word "Kneeling."
"The owner knows how to do business." Larys Strong rode his grey donkey at the end of the retinue. He had scouted the local situation in advance. His black robe swept over the moss under the pavilion. "Calling it an inn, but it's more like a small market."
Indeed, a dozen households were scattered around the inn. The clang of a smithy, the scent of wheat from a bakery, and tanned leather hanging outside a general store made this place look more like a small town built by the river.
The owner smiled until his eyes disappeared into creases. "Thanks to His Grace King Aegon, passing merchants, messengers, and knights love to rest here. Back then, His Grace's army crossed the river from here, stepping on stone piers in the water. You can still touch those stones now!"
Daemon Targaryen's cane tapped an impatient rhythm on the planks.
Having just recovered from his heartbreak at Pinkmaiden, his silver-white hair was messed by the river breeze. The melancholy from Riverrun was gone from his violet eyes, replaced by familiar restlessness: "Cut the chatter. Best rooms, strongest wine, and..." He paused, the corner of his mouth curling into that signature rogue smile. "Girls who know the rules."
Rayford Rosby coughed awkwardly. Rupert Crabb turned his back pretending to adjust his saddle. Even Gael couldn't help frowning.
Only the owner was used to it, nodding and bowing repeatedly: "Yes, yes, yes! The place is small, but our girls are as soft as river water..."
Before he finished, Daemon Targaryen was already leaning on his cane, limping toward the depths of the wing. The hem of his black robe swept past those pillars carved with names, leaving a fleeting shadow.
"Can't he behave himself?" Gael's voice carried helplessness, fingertips unconsciously twisting the reins.
Daemon watched the back disappearing at the end of the corridor, thinking of the eldest Piper daughter who rejected him at Pinkmaiden, and the handkerchief offered by Lysa Tully at Riverrun.
The seventeen-year-old heart of this namesake great-grandfather was like a pebble on the riverbed, polished round and heavy by the current, yet always painfully sharp at some turn.
"Let him be," he said lightly. "At least for now, he hasn't had Caraxes spray dragonfire on the inn's roof."
The long table for dinner was set on the terrace overlooking the river, quickly assembled from tables moved from the hall. The night view of the Red Fork shimmered in the candlelight.
The owner personally served the dishes. Roast boar in copper platters gleamed with grease. Ale foam spilled over cup rims, carrying the slight fishy smell of the Red Fork. Grease from roasted trout dripped onto silver plates, exceptionally fragrant mixed with the moisture brought by the river breeze. The owner brought a jar of treasured ale, patting his chest as he recounted the inn's history:
"...Back then King Torrhen offered his crown to His Grace the Conqueror right here! The northern great lords were so angry they hacked the table with swords; you can still see that sword mark in the backyard! Later King Maegor passed by and executed several rebellious knights here. Blood flowed through the cracks in the planks into the river, dyeing half the Red Fork red..."
Alys Rivers picked at a piece of fish with a silver fork, river lantern light reflecting in her green eyes. "So, this place has witnessed quite a few stories of kneeling and not kneeling."
Larys Strong was feeding his grey donkey an apple with his head down. Hearing this, he chuckled lightly. "Kneeling is sometimes wisdom, sometimes cowardice; it all depends on who stands on the opposite bank." His clubfoot tapped lightly on the flagstones. "Just like House Bracken, kneeling to dragonfire on High Heart a few days ago, and now probably setting up wedding banquets at Stone Hedge."
Daemon listened, but his gaze fell outside the window. Caraxes and Dreamfyre occupied the clearing by the riverbank, while The Cannibal lay on a distant hill. The shadows of three giant dragons shrouded the entire settlement in a subtle awe.
Larys Strong quieted down again in the corner, sketching something on parchment with charcoal, clubfoot tapping lightly on the wood as if calculating something.
"Prince, rooms might not be enough," the owner came in rubbing his hands again, apologetic. "Except for the suites for you and the Princess, others might have to squeeze, or... nearby villagers are willing to make space."
"No matter." Daemon waved his hand. "Let everyone arrange themselves, maintain vigilance."
After the meal, Daemon returned to one of the best rooms deep in the inn. Built facing the river, opening the window revealed the night view of the Red Fork, fishing fires on the water echoing the starry sky.
He had just unbuckled Blackfyre when he heard Daemon Targaryen's laughter from next door, mixed with women's giggling, piercing through the wooden walls exceptionally harshly.
"Truly incorrigible." Gael's voice sounded at the door. She walked in holding a roll of tapestry, Mysaria following behind holding an oil lamp. "We have to travel to Maidenpool tomorrow, and he's like this..."
"At least better than causing trouble with the Piper or Tully ladies, right?" Daemon looked at the fishing fires outside, thinking of the determined look in the eldest Piper daughter's eyes when leaving Pinkmaiden. Perhaps for the Rogue Prince, melancholy was only temporary. After being soothed by new affection, indulgence was his best way of healing.
Night deepened, and Daemon Targaryen never appeared again. Rayford asked for instructions to find him several times but was stopped by Daemon. "Let him play." He watched the reflection of stars and moon on the river. "We travel by water tomorrow; let him be quiet then."
More followers pitched tents by the stables or stayed with villagers. Corlin Celtigar and Leowyn Corbray sparred by the smithy, clangs interweaving with the sound of river waves...
At dawn the next day, mist still floated on the river. Daemon already stood on the pier, watching attendants load luggage onto the barge.
The direction of the Blue Fork was hidden in the morning mist. The outline of Maidenpool was like a blur of ink. Just following the current downstream would reach the confluence of the Trident.
"Go call him," Daemon told Rayford, a trace of imperceptible headache in his tone.
Just as Rayford turned, a knight wearing the crimson sigil of House Bracken walked up quickly, dew still on his armor. "Prince Daemon! Princess Gael!" The knight knelt on one knee, holding up a gilded invitation. "The wedding of our Ser Hendry Bracken is about to be held. We earnestly invite the Prince to grace us with his presence as a witness!"
Just then, the door curtain of the wooden house was lifted. Daemon Targaryen walked out yawning, silver hair messy, eyes bloodshot, left leg bandage changed again.
"What's the noise..." His words stopped upon seeing the Bracken knight, then he raised an eyebrow. "Wedding? Hendry moves fast."
Rayford and Rupert exchanged a look, both feeling it inappropriate—the grudge between Bracken and Blackwood wasn't settled, and Daemon Targaryen had an unclear relationship with the bride, the eldest Piper daughter. Going to Stone Hedge now might cause more trouble.
"Prince, we originally planned to go to Maidenpool today..." Rayford tried to dissuade.
But Daemon Targaryen waved his cane, smiling dismissively. "Maidenpool won't run away. They sent the invitation to the door; wouldn't it be disrespectful not to go?" He glanced at the invitation in the knight's hand, the gilded red stallion pattern shining. "Stone Hedge isn't a mountain of swords or a sea of fire. Besides, with Little Daemon here, what are you afraid of?"
He limped toward the riverbank. Caraxes sensed his master's aura, letting out a low roar.
Daemon watched his back as he leaped onto the dragon, then looked at the invitation in his hand, fingertips tracing the gilded red stallion sigil.
House Bracken inviting at this moment was probably not just for "gracing with presence"—perhaps they wanted to use the Targaryen prestige to show off to House Blackwood, or maybe there were deeper calculations.
Gael walked to his side, whispering: "He's right. Since the invitation is delivered, not going would make us seem timid." She paused, a trace of worry flashing in her pale violet eyes. "Just... Stone Hedge is too close to Blackwood Vale, and Big Daemon..."
"Then let them see who calls the shots in the Riverlands." Daemon handed the invitation to Rayford and walked silently toward The Cannibal. "Pass the word, divert to Stone Hedge."
The Cannibal's roar cut through the morning mist, interweaving with the roars of Caraxes and Dreamfyre.
The current of the Red Fork still swirled, as if recounting the endless grudges on this land.
The sign of the Inn of the Kneeling Man swayed in the wind. That kneeling king still bowed to travelers, only now under the shadow of dragons, the posture seemed to hold a bit more helpless mockery.
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