The meadow outside Riverrun was like a green velvet carpet soaked by the river. Morning dew rolled on grass blades, reflecting the rising sun, sparkling like crushed diamonds. Daemon leaned against an old oak tree, watching the noisy scene in the field, a faint smile on his lips.
Jarmen Waters stood by a target fifty paces away, his single eye glinting sharply.
The short spear at his waist swayed lightly with his movements as he patiently corrected Mycah Rivers's posture: "Raise your elbow; I'm not asking you to break the bow. Imagine your target is a giant's knee. Steady, be steadier."
Harlan Hunter, the second son from Longbow Hall, demonstrated nearby. The arrow broke the air like a meteor, nailing precisely into the bullseye.
Mycah gritted his teeth, arm trembling slightly from exertion. The moment the string was released, the arrow veered off target, drawing low laughter from the onlookers.
The boy's face flushed red. Just as he was about to nock another arrow, Jarmen raised a hand to stop him. "Take a breath. Using strength in the wrong place makes shooting more useless."
In the clearing on the other side, the blunted swords of Rupert Crabb and Corlin Celtigar clashed with cracking sounds.
Rupert's swordplay was wide and open, carrying the fierceness typical of House Crabb, yet skillful, like the swamp marigold; Corlin was more agile, footwork light, occasionally launching surprise attacks from tricky angles like a crab.
Rayford Rosby and Leowyn Corbray stood outside the circle, discussing moves in low voices. Leowyn held a branch, gesturing a couple of times with focus.
"Not going to try?" Gael's voice sounded beside him. She held a small wooden bow, her pale violet eyes shining with eagerness.
Daemon stood up with a smile, taking the bow she offered. "Little Aunt wants to learn?"
"Not learn, compete." Gael lifted her chin, mimicking Harlan's posture to draw the bow. Though not standard, it looked decent. The arrow flew out, grazing the target edge and falling. She stomped her foot in frustration. "Damn."
"Relax." Daemon walked behind her, holding her hand to adjust her posture. "Imagine the bullseye is Big Daemon's head."
Gael laughed out loud. The next arrow, though still not hitting the bullseye, was much closer.
In the distance, Dreamfyre lowed, pale blue scales glowing softly in the sun. The Cannibal lay on a further hillside, massive head resting on front claws, seemingly dozing, but actually not missing a single subtle sound.
Mysaria sat on the grass, learning to identify herbs with Alys Rivers.
Alys spread a cloth with leaves and roots of various plants, patiently explaining their uses.
Mysaria's platinum-blonde curls hung on her shoulders. She listened exceptionally attentively, occasionally raising a hand to ask questions, voice faint as a mosquito.
Under the tree shade, Larys Strong half-reclined, a drawing board on his knees, charcoal pencil scratching on paper.
No one knew what he was drawing. Only occasional glimpses showed lines sketched on paper, like river courses or some formation draft.
A roll of parchment was clipped between his fingers. He occasionally lowered his head to write a few words, expression lazy yet revealing an indescribable sharpness.
Children's laughter came from the riverbank. Edmure, the fourth son of the Tully family, was fishing on the riverbank with a group of younger siblings, nieces, and nephews.
Red hair was strikingly visible in the sunlight, like clusters of burning flames. Edmure patiently taught the youngest niece how to bait the hook. A wildflower was tied to the girl's braid, and she smiled brilliantly.
Just then, a loud dragon roar pierced the sky.
Everyone looked up to see a crimson shadow sweep past like lightning. Caraxes's massive wings stirred a gale, blowing the grass into waves.
On the dragon's back, Daemon Targaryen's black cloak snapped in the wind. He held a red-haired girl in his arms—it was Lord Grover's third daughter, Lysa Tully.
"Look, it's Prince Daemon!" some child shouted, drawing cheers from the Tully children on the riverbank.
Daemon Targaryen waved with a smile, turning the dragon's head. Caraxes circled once over the meadow before landing slowly not far from The Cannibal.
He vaulted off, movements still dashing despite slight inconvenience from his leg injury.
Lysa jumped from his arms blushing, clutching a bunch of freshly picked purple flowers, clearly given by Daemon Targaryen.
"Little Daemon, look who I brought?" Daemon Targaryen was in an excellent mood, limping to Daemon and patting Lysa's shoulder. "Lady Lysa said she wanted to bring us some freshly baked honey cakes."
Lysa timidly raised the basket in her hand, curtsying to Daemon and Gael, voice thin: "Prince, Princess." Her red hair hung by her cheeks, hiding most of her shy expression.
Gael accepted the basket with a smile. "Thank you, Lady Lysa."
Daemon looked at the undisguised mirth in Daemon Targaryen's eyes and the exceptionally gentle gaze when he looked at Lysa. A trace of strangeness flashed in his heart.
The change in this Rogue Prince who broke his sword at Pinkmaiden a few days ago was too obvious. The sorrow between his brows was replaced by a lightness, clearly due to the enthusiastic company of the Tully red-haired girl.
In the tower of Riverrun, Lord Grover was discussing the expected harvest of the Riverlands with his third son Hoster.
Hearing the dragon roar, the father and son happened to walk to the window, seeing Caraxes land. Seeing the two on the dragon's back clearly, Grover's brow knitted instantly.
"That is... Lysa?" Hoster's voice held surprise.
Grover's face darkened, fingers gripping the window sill tightly. "Daemon Targaryen fulfilled his betrothal last year to Lady Rhea of House Royce in Runestone." Thinking of Rhea Royce's notoriously fierce temper, then looking at his own innocent and shy daughter, worry surged in his heart. "This is not good."
Hoster was silent for a moment. "Should we... remind Lysa?"
Grover shook his head. "Wait and see. Hopefully, it's just youthful spirit and won't cause trouble." He watched the crimson dragon shadow outside the city and the silver-haired prince laughing with Lysa, his brow furrowing deeper.
Early the next morning, the moment to bid farewell to Riverrun finally arrived.
Almost all members of House Tully came out to see them off at the gate. Lord Grover held Daemon's hand, repeatedly instructing: "The matter of Pinkmaiden is tricky; the grudge between Bracken and Blackwood runs deep. You might pass through their lands; the Prince needs to take care."
"Rest assured, my Lord," Daemon nodded.
While the retinue prepared, Daemon Targaryen and Lysa Tully whispered aside.
Lysa stuffed an ornament embroidered with a trout pattern into his hand, eyes red.
Daemon Targaryen untied a ruby accessory from his waist, placing it solemnly in her hand, whispering something that made Lysa smile through tears.
This scene fell into everyone's eyes, reactions varied.
Daemon looked at the accessory, worry deepening. Daemon Targaryen's act was too conspicuous, completely unlike treating an ordinary friend.
He glanced at the two knights from the Royce cadet branch in the retinue. Their faces were indeed not good; one even tightened his grip on his sword hilt slightly.
Most Vale knights knew Rhea Royce's temper and clearly felt this was inappropriate.
The men of Riverrun looked even more complicated. Edmure frowned, Hoster's gaze held warning, and Lord Grover simply turned his face away, clearly unwilling to watch further.
"Time to go," Daemon patted Daemon Targaryen's shoulder, tone meaningful.
Only then did Daemon Targaryen reluctantly bid farewell to Lysa, climbing onto Caraxes's back. The red dragon let out a long roar, as if responding to his master's reluctance.
Daemon mounted The Cannibal. The pitch-black giant dragon spread his wings, raising a gale.
Gael led Mysaria onto Dreamfyre, pale blue wings like clouds hanging from the sky.
Alys Rivers rarely didn't ride a dragon, instead getting into a carriage, saying she wanted to finish the new books obtained from Riverrun during the journey.
As the retinue slowly left Riverrun, Daemon looked back. The patch of red hair at the gate was exceptionally striking in the morning sun, like a surging red wave.
The prolific nature of House Tully truly lived up to its reputation. Men, women, old, and young added up to dozens, forming a lively and warm picture.
"Truly magnificent," Gael's voice came from the side. Dreamfyre flew alongside The Cannibal. She watched the shrinking red wave below, a trace of inexplicable envy flashing in her eyes.
Daemon nodded, gaze turning to Caraxes beside him again. Daemon Targaryen was looking back toward Riverrun, gaze lingering for a long time. He sighed inwardly, hoping this namesake great-grandfather "cousin" wouldn't really cause trouble.
Wind swept across the plains of the Riverlands, carrying moisture and the scent of grass. The retinue headed toward the Inn of the Kneeling Man. The road ahead was long, and the brief tranquility and ripples of Riverrun these past few days had quietly left different marks in everyone's hearts.
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