The red brick walls of Stone Hedge glowed with scorching light in the noon sun. The banner with the red stallion sigil snapped on the battlements, the wind carrying the pride of House Bracken.
When Daemon's retinue arrived, the gates were wide open. Guards in red armor lined both sides, scabbards polished bright. Seeing the silver-haired, purple-eyed Targaryen group, they knelt on one knee one after another—even if their lord had no deep friendship with the Targaryens, the rumors of the past few days had engraved awe for the blood of the dragon into their bones.
"Welcome, Prince!" Ser Hendry Bracken came out to meet them. Today he wore a wedding tunic embroidered with a red stallion in silver thread, cheeks flushed with excitement. Behind him, the eldest daughter of House Piper wore a pale red elegant gown, the hem embroidered with the silk maiden sigil of her house. Her brows and eyes were gentle and graceful. Seeing Daemon Targaryen, she silently turned her head to meet his gaze.
The wedding feast was set in the castle courtyard. Long tables stretched from the gate to the inner keep. Grease from roasting whole oxen dripped onto charcoal, sizzling. Ale barrels were pried open, amber liquid flowing into wooden cups, splashing fine foam. Nobles friendly with House Bracken were all seated here.
Daemon Targaryen leaned on his cane, walking slowly to the newlyweds.
Daemon's followers all held their breath—forgetting who spread it, but everyone now remembered the anecdote about him and the eldest Piper daughter at Pinkmaiden. Facing the main characters now, no one could say what this Rogue Prince would do.
The eldest Piper daughter clutched her skirt hem lightly, knuckles turning slightly white. Ser Hendry also tensed his back, hand on his sword hilt, ready for any sudden change.
However, Daemon Targaryen just tilted his head to look at the bride, glanced at the groom, and suddenly smiled.
There was no usual frivolity in that smile, but rather a hint of relief, like wind blowing away mist. "Piper girl," his voice wasn't loud but clearly reached across the courtyard, "Ser Hendry is a stubborn horse, but very protective of his family. You didn't marry badly."
He picked up a cup of wine from a nearby attendant's tray, raising it to his chest: "Wish you... bear many boys with the red stallion sigil."
With that, he downed it in one gulp. Wine flowed down the corner of his mouth, wetting his white shirt.
Then, he placed the empty cup on the tray, picked up his cane, turned and left. His limping steps made thud, thud sounds on the flagstones. Without looking back, he headed straight for Caraxes outside the city.
The courtyard was quiet for a moment, then erupted into louder noise. Ser Hendry let out a long breath, and the eldest Piper daughter whispered something to her handmaiden beside her.
Daemon exchanged a look with Gael. Rayford Rosby understood immediately, clearing his throat: "Everyone, Prince Daemon Targaryen is tired from the journey; we will accompany him to rest for a moment. Please excuse us."
Everyone naturally understood this was an excuse, but no one dared to detain them. Daemon's group walked quickly out of the courtyard, seeing from afar Daemon Targaryen leaning on Caraxes's neck. The red dragon extended his tongue, gently licking his silver hair as if comforting him.
"You..." Daemon walked up, wanting to say some comforting words; after all, his great-grandfather's entanglement at Pinkmaiden that day was still vivid.
But Daemon Targaryen raised an eyebrow to interrupt him, tapping his cane on the ground. "What? Think I should have flipped the table?" He grinned, revealing two rows of white teeth. "Don't forget, I am a Targaryen; I can afford to lose." He patted Caraxes's scales, and the red dragon lowed. "Besides, couldn't I understand the meaning in that girl's eyes? Can't make it hard for her on her first day of marriage."
That look of "you should praise me for being sensible" blocked the words at Daemon's lips. Gael couldn't help chuckling: "Yes, yes, yes, Nephew Big Daemon is the most magnanimous."
"Naturally." Daemon Targaryen lifted his chin smugly. "Let's go back to the Inn of the Kneeling Man. The wine here is too weak; boring to drink."
When the retinue left Stone Hedge, the sun had begun to slant west. The shadows of the red brick walls were stretched long, like bloodstains dragged on the ground.
Returning to the Inn of the Kneeling Man, the innkeeper was directing staff to clean up the mess—lunch guests had just dispersed. Seeing Daemon's group, he busily prepared dinner, but was stopped by a knight in dark grey robes.
"Prince Daemon, Princess Gael." The knight knelt on one knee, his robe embroidered with the weirwood and raven flock sigil of House Blackwood. "My Lord Ser Toren Blackwood invites you. Today is his wedding day with the second daughter of House Piper. We earnestly invite the Prince to come to Raventree Hall and grace us with a wedding toast."
Daemon frowned. The two Piper daughters marrying on the same day, one to Bracken and one to Blackwood—this was the result of the Pinkmaiden arbitration, but he hadn't expected the two families to set the wedding feast on the same day.
Larys Strong leaned in, whispering: "House Bracken is closer to the Inn of the Kneeling Man. They must have sent a messenger early in the morning just to beat House Blackwood to it, to one-up them and make their mortal enemy lose face in the whole Riverlands. Truly absurd and boring."
"Then the eldest Piper daughter just now..." Mysaria suddenly remembered something. "The look she gave Prince Big Daemon earlier, perhaps she was hinting at something?"
Daemon Targaryen was sitting in the pavilion munching on an apple. Hearing this, he mumbled indistinctly: "She's smart. She stuffed me with a silk handkerchief embroidered with a raven—House Blackwood's sigil—given by her sister, meaning 'they also have a feast, don't show favoritism'."
He threw the apple core into the river. "So I left after drinking the wine, saving House Bracken from thinking they gained a huge advantage, and giving us an excuse to go to Raventree Hall."
Everyone realized then. That seemingly casual blessing and departure was actually this Rogue Prince's "calculated decency."
Daemon naturally understood these things too, but he genuinely loathed such twists and turns. The millennial feud between Bracken and Blackwood... even though Daemon had studied the history of their conflict in his past life's youth, experiencing it personally now still felt... childish.
But when Daemon looked at Daemon Targaryen, he suddenly felt this great-grandfather might understand balancing better than on the surface after experiencing this heartbreak—at least in the muddy waters of the Riverlands, his "waywardness" could occasionally become a weight for balance.
"Prepare horses," Daemon told Rayford. "To Raventree Hall."
The road to Blackwood Vale was harder than to Stone Hedge. Evening mist rose from the Red Fork, dampening hooves. The smell of rotting leaves mixed in the mud, fishy-sweet and humid.
The outline of Raventree Hall became clear in the twilight—ancient moss-covered stone walls looked like old cloth soaked in water. Two square towers guarded the gate. On the corner watchtower, guards in green watched vigilantly, only lowering bowstrings upon seeing their retinue.
"Prince, please come in!" Ser Toren Blackwood came out to welcome them. He was much thinner than Hendry Bracken, eyes sharp like a falcon hiding in the woods. Behind him, the second Piper daughter wore a pale black dress. Unlike her sister's grace, her eyes seemed to always carry shyness. Seeing Daemon's group, she curtsied bashfully.
The courtyard of Raventree Hall was smaller than Stone Hedge but appeared more ancient. Dry straw covered the muddy ground. The doors of the timber keep were open, warm candlelight spilling out.
Most striking was the godswood deep in the castle—a giant weirwood stood there. The trunk had long died, black as charcoal, twisted branches reaching for the sky. Ravens returning to nest at dusk covered the tree in a black mass, cawing echoing in the silent valley.
"That is our ancient tree." Toren followed Daemon's gaze, a trace of gloom in his tone. "Poisoned by people of House Bracken, dead for nearly a thousand years." He paused, then smiled. "But the ravens still come. Ancestors say as long as the tree stands, House Blackwood will not fall."
The atmosphere of the wedding feast was different from Stone Hedge, not as flamboyant, but with more gravity. Daemon Targaryen didn't seek any "fun" this time, just sitting in the corner drinking cup after cup of House Blackwood's homemade sour fruit wine, occasionally glancing at the newlyweds with calm eyes.
When Daemon and Gael toasted, the second Piper daughter suddenly thanked softly: "Many thanks to Prince Daemon for mediating at Pinkmaiden, making it possible for Toren and me."
Daemon Targaryen walked over at some point, snatching the conversation: "Thanks for what? Our Little Daemon just hates seeing girls in a dilemma, just like his brother me." He raised his cup, shaking it at Toren and the bride. "Wish you... bring more vitality beside this dead tree."
The wine went down, carrying the astringency of sour fruit, but with a stronger kick than the light wine at Stone Hedge.
When leaving Raventree Hall, the night was deep. Ravens quieted down on the dead weirwood; only moonlight filtered through branches, casting dappled shadows on the ground.
Daemon's retinue walked on the road back to the Inn of the Kneeling Man. The sound of the Red Fork's current was exceptionally clear in the darkness, as if whispering the millennial grudges of the Riverlands.
"Depart for Maidenpool at noon tomorrow?" Daemon said to everyone. The Cannibal lowed behind him, black scales gleaming dimly in the moonlight.
Daemon Targaryen rode Caraxes alongside, suddenly humming a Lysene ditty. The tune was frivolous, yet carried an indescribable relief. Perhaps for him, this "decent exit" at the dual feasts made him more comfortable than any romantic affair.
The wind of the Riverlands was still blowing, carrying the moisture of the Red Fork and the scent of wine from two wedding feasts. And Daemon knew their art of balancing on this land had just begun. The road ahead led to Maidenpool, where there might be new disputes or new turns, but at least for now, between the red brick walls of Bracken and the dead tree of Blackwood, there was finally a trace of subtle balance again.
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