The current of the Blue Fork surged beneath the wooden bridge, carrying the fresh scent of reeds ashore. The bridge at Maidenpool was indeed as vast as rumored; new planks shone with the luster of tung oil in the sun. The water patterns carved on the railings were worn smooth by passersby. Several barefoot children lay on the railings, reed rods dangling into the water, fishing up strings of small silver fish.
"Much more decent than the bridge at Oldstones." Larys Strong halted his grey donkey, brownish-black eyes sweeping the market across the bank.
The wooden houses on the south bank of the Blue Fork were scattered but orderly. Thatch roofs were sun-dried to golden brown. Black smoke rose from the smithy chimney. The aroma from the bakery drifted far on the wind, mixing with the leather smell from the tannery, forming the unique scent of the town.
When Daemon dismounted from The Cannibal, his boots made a crisp sound on the bluestone slab at the bridgehead.
A blurred sigil was carved on the slab—a trident pattern almost worn invisible, reminding him of "King Pate the Plowman" Larys mentioned—that peasant who tried to declare himself River King under the rule of the Storm Kings, leaving only this scratch trampled by pedestrians.
"Prince, Princess, this way please!" The local petty lord was a stout middle-aged man, a string of copper keys jingling at his waist with every step.
He led everyone through the market, fingertips brushing a stall with pottery jars. "Though our Maidenpool market can't compare to Saltpans or Lord Harroway's Town, you won't find better Blue Fork perch or Sevenstreams honey anywhere else in the Riverlands!"
The market was at its bustling hour. Farm women in rough cloth skirts bargained with baskets in hand; peddlers shouted while weaving through the crowd; old men spat while telling children under willow trees old stories of "King Harwyn Hoare of the Iron Islands defeating the Storm King here."
Daemon's gaze swept over a stall hung with furs. The owner was showing off a sable skin, claiming it was traded from a Northern merchant—this reminded him of those Northmen who would stay in the Riverlands after following Cregan Stark south after the future Dance of the Dragons.
"Sister Alys, can this 'Blue Fork grass' really cure wind chill?" Mysaria's voice came from the herb stall. Alys Rivers was bending over examining a pile of dried herbs. Her green dress swept past pottery jars containing lizard livers. She picked up a wild grass with blue flowers: "Mash it and drink with honey; works better than medicine from Riverrun septons." When she looked up, she caught Daemon's gaze, lips curling into a half-smile. "Want to try, Prince? Lest the cold wind of the North freezes your dragon blood."
Before Daemon could reply, Gael pulled him toward the fabric stall. "Look at this velvet; it would surely make a beautiful cloak." Her fingertips traced the sapphire blue fabric. Sunlight fell on the cloth through her hair, reflecting fine light.
Rupert Crabb and Leowyn Corbray stood not far away, hands on sword hilts scanning the crowd vigilantly. Corlin Celtigar stared at a smithy, eyes bright enough to spew fire—a short sword inlaid with blue crystal hung there.
"Go, archery practice!" Mycah Rivers's shout broke the retinue's noise. Carrying a longbow, he dragged Rayford Rosby toward the clearing by the river. Jarmen Waters and Harlan Hunter had already set up targets there. The one-eyed sharpshooter was demonstrating stance; the bowstring hummed low when drawn, arrow nailing steadily into the bullseye, drawing gasps from Mycah.
Daemon Targaryen had long disappeared. Everyone glimpsed his silver hair flashing at the door of a tavern with the "Riverside" sign, then surrounded by colorful handmaidens entering. The thud-thud of his cane on the threshold mixed with laughter drifting out, exactly like his style in King's Landing and the Inn of the Kneeling Man.
"Leave him be." Gael picked up a string of pearl necklaces, examining it against the sun. "He'll come back before dark anyway."
Daemon's gaze fell into the shadows of the street corner. Larys Strong's grey donkey was tied to an old willow, but its owner was nowhere to be seen.
A corner of a black robe flashed behind a spice stall, then disappeared into the alley leading to the pier—where several cargo ships were docked, said to be frequented by merchants from the Free Cities.
The market's hustle and bustle hid countless secrets. Watching Alys whispering with the herbalist, and Gael measuring fabric, Daemon suddenly understood why ancient River Kings didn't want this place to become a city—the town's vitality lay in this messy liveliness, like the flow of the Blue Fork, seemingly loose but possessing its own power.
Afternoon sun slanted, dyeing the Blue Fork golden red.
The group practicing archery returned carrying bows. Mycah Rivers's archery had improved significantly; three arrows were stuck in the target, crooked but at least hitting the edge.
Corlin Celtigar bought the short sword as he wished, wiping it lovingly.
Alys's bamboo basket was full of herbs, with an extra small pottery jar wrapped in black cloth, contents unknown.
Daemon Targaryen was escorted out by tavern maids, steps unsteady, silver hair red as if soaked in wine, lipstick marks on the corner of his mouth. "Good wine... good girls..." He mumbled while supported by Rupert, eyes half-open. "Little Daemon, let me tell you, the girls here compared to the Inn of the Kneeling Man..."
"Brother needs to rest." Seeing the unreliable great-grandfather and Gael about to explode with "True Dragon Fury" beside him, Daemon quickly interrupted, signaling Leowyn Corbray to help the man to the inn.
The evening banquet was set in the inn's backyard. The evening breeze of the Blue Fork passed through the grape trellis, bringing coolness to dispel the day's heat.
Grease from roasted perch dripped on charcoal, sizzling. Ale barrels were pried open again, foam spilling over wooden cup rims.
"Time to talk about the road ahead." Daemon put down his wine cup, gaze landing on Larys. The latter had returned unnoticed, picking at a piece of grilled fish with a silver fork, the hem of his black robe stained with some pier mud.
Larys swallowed the fish, pulling a roll of parchment from his sleeve and spreading it on the table. "Departing from Maidenpool, heading north along the Blue Fork, the first stop is Oldstones." He traced the paper with a fingertip. "The bridge there is old but passable for carriages. Across is Ramsford."
"Oldstones of House Mudd, is there a lord garrisoning it?" Rayford Rosby asked, recording on parchment.
"A down-and-out branch lord of House Lychester," Larys chuckled lightly. "Their sigil of the scythe is covered in dust long ago. Seeing the Prince's dragon banner, he'll only be busy offering wine." He continued, "After passing Ramsford, the source of the Blue Fork arrives—Seagard, where House Mallister has guarded for a thousand years."
"And then?" Gael rested her chin on her hand, pale violet eyes reflecting candlelight.
"From Seagard northeast, through Sevenstreams across the Hag's Mire, reaching the banks of the Green Fork." Larys's fingertip traced an area marked with reeds. "That's all House Frey's influence. Finally to the Twins. House Frey's castle spans the Green Fork; crossing the bridge gets you to the Kingsroad. Straight north, past Greywater Watch, through the Neck, and into the North."
He paused, black eyes sweeping everyone. "This route is the most secure. Avoids many difficult places, all main roads. Though not as direct as the Kingsroad, we can visit the territories of several other major Riverlands lords along the way."
Alys Rivers suddenly chuckled, green eyes shining in the candlelight. "Little Clubfoot has figured out every stone in the Riverlands."
"After all, it is home." Larys lowered his eyelids, hiding the emotion in his eyes. "Knowing where the bridges and pits are allows one to walk steadily."
Daemon looked at the route on the parchment, fingertip tracing the words "Hag's Mire." This name reminded him of Alys Rivers beside him and the Children of the Forest on the Isle of Faces, reminded him of the Other's cold gaze—in the cold wind of the North hid threats more terrible than Riverlands feuds. This road was not just a tour, but paving the way for the future storm.
"We follow this route." Daemon raised his wine cup. "Depart early tomorrow morning."
Night wind blew through the grapevines, leaves rustling as if whispering Riverlands past.
The current of the Blue Fork continued forward, carrying the lights of Maidenpool and the shadow of this retinue, flowing slowly toward the North.
Behind the inn window, Larys's figure stood before the map for a long time. His clubfoot cast a twisted shadow on the floor, as if calculating some unspoken scheme.
And Daemon Targaryen's snoring came from next door, interweaving with the remaining noise of the market, adding a touch of absurd yet real human smoke to this journey about to penetrate deep into the North.
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