The current of the Blue Fork curved at the foot of Oldstones, muddy water slapping against the exposed riverbed, rolling up fine gravel.
When Daemon's retinue arrived, the setting sun plated the ruins with a rust color—only waist-high remnants of House Mudd's ancient city walls remained. Grey-green stones were covered with withered vines. The tomb of Tristifer IV Mudd stood lonely atop the hill. A weathered stone stele was carved with a blurred crown pattern; the house sigil of a golden crown studded with emeralds on a red-brown field was now only indentations eroded by wind and rain.
"This is Oldstones?" Gael pulled up on Dreamfyre's saddle, her pale violet eyes sweeping the ruins.
Grey-black foundations appeared faintly in the wild grass, like exposed giant bones. Wind passed through broken arrow towers, making whimpering sounds, as if recounting House Mudd's millennium-long rise and fall from Kings of the Rivers and Hills to lonely extinction.
Just as the retinue rounded a ruined wall, chaotic crying drifted over on the wind.
Daemon squinted to look. In front of the village at the foot of the hill, a dozen men holding rusty swords surrounded a group of villagers. The leader was a tall, thin man with a weasel-like face and shifty small eyes on a collapsed nose. He was dragging a girl in a rough cloth dress, greasy hands tearing at her collar.
"Let go of my granddaughter!" An old white-haired man lay on the ground, his robe soaked in blood. Ribs broken when he tried to intervene earlier, he struggled to crawl forward but was stepped on by a bandit.
Several young farmers charged up with hoes but were knocked down in a blink. Blood flowing from foreheads mixed with mud, spreading dark red stains on the ground.
Children huddled in corners of thatched huts, crying like choked kittens. Women's screams were drowned by bandits' jeering. Someone was ransacking chests, stuffing grain from jars and coins from cloth bags into sacks.
"These animals." Rupert Crabb's hand pressed on his sword hilt, armor trembling slightly with rage. Leowyn Corbray had already drawn his longsword, the blade gleaming coldly in the sunset. "Prince, give the order!"
Daemon's gaze landed on the weasel leader. The man was leaning close to the girl's neck, laughing lewdly, fingers about to tear her sash.
Just then, the fury of the Dragonlords brought forth simultaneous, deafening roars from The Cannibal, Caraxes, and Dreamfyre—the bellows of three giant dragons rolled across the wasteland like thunder. The airwave knocked the bandits askew, weapons clattering to the ground.
Taking advantage of their moment of shock, a dark shadow flashed behind the retinue. Jarmen Waters's single eye locked onto the target. Bowstring drawn like a full moon, the feathered arrow broke the wind, passing precisely through the chaotic crowd and piercing the weasel leader's chest with a thud. The fletching trembled violently on his chest.
The leader's laughter stopped abruptly. Eyes wide and round, he slowly fell to the ground, blood gushing from the arrow wound, dying the rough cloth shirt on his chest red.
"Kill!" Daemon's voice was cold as the ice of the Blue Fork.
Rayford Rosby drew his longsword, Corlin Celtigar wielded his newly acquired short sword, and Mycah's great axe split the first bandit's skull.
Daemon dismounted from The Cannibal and mounted his warhorse. Blackfyre unsheathed with a soft sound like a dragon's cry. Sword light flashed, and two bandits trying to resist were beheaded.
The Rogue Prince also vaulted off Caraxes's back. This time Corlin had prepared a warhorse for him in advance. Daemon Targaryen mounted despite his injured leg, Dark Sister unsheathed. Under the charge of warhorses, blood flew.
Gael stood on Dreamfyre's back, pale violet eyes sweeping the battlefield. The dragon's shadow shrouded the village, scaring the remaining bandits into limp heaps on the ground, daring not move again.
The battle ended quickly. Surviving bandits were tied in a string, kneeling on the ground shivering, watching their companions' corpses and the tearful eyes of villagers, yellow stains seeping from their trousers.
Rayford kicked a helmet dropped by a bandit. It was made of iron sheet with rolled edges, a crooked, blurred sigil welded on it.
"Prince," he frowned, "this equipment isn't right. Doesn't look like a ragtag bunch of bandits, more like..."
"More than that." Leowyn Corbray picked up a sword, the blade full of notches. "Look at this grip wrapped in linen for anti-slip; looks more like something trained soldiers would do."
"Thank you... thank you, Dragon Princes!" The white-haired old man, supported by his granddaughter, walked tremblingly to Daemon, turbid eyes shining with tears. Seeing the three giant dragons, he recognized the true dragons of Targaryen. Now he bowed deeply to Daemon. "This old man is Beren Lychester, Lord of Oldstones."
"Ser Lychester?" Daemon helped him up, noticing a blurred sigil embroidered on the inside of the old man's robe—a black sickle on an orange-and-white triangular sub-shield. "Of House Lychester?"
The old man smiled bitterly and nodded. "Second son in my youth, left Castle Lychester to roam the Seven Kingdoms. In 47 AC, followed Prince Jaehaerys to crusade against Maegor. In 48 AC, His Grace reclaimed the Iron Throne. Due to some meager merit, I was enfeoffed here." He coughed, bloody froth spilling from the corner of his mouth. "This is my granddaughter, Alysanne. My son died early; only us grandparent and grandchild are left..."
Alysanne, eyes red, curtsied to Daemon, voice choking: "The leader of that gang was Walder Frey, third son of Lord Frey of the Twins. He had long eyed the ruined keep of Oldstones, saying it's ownerless land, and coveted our territory. He came several times to propose marriage. Knowing his notorious reputation, we refused every time... didn't expect him to rob us directly this time..."
Corlin Celtigar and Leowyn exchanged a look, both looking at Daemon, eyes asking: How to deal with these captives?
Daemon Targaryen walked up leaning on his cane, silver-white hair dancing in the wind, violet eyes full of hostility. He pointed to the "bandits" on the ground, making a throat-slitting gesture to Daemon, voice cold as ice: "Scum like this are a scourge if kept alive. Better just..."
Larys Strong stood nearby unnoticed, black robe looking like spread bat wings in the twilight. He whispered: "Prince, Oldstones is remote. Why not strip their equipment and wealth, dump them by the roadside, and say they were killed by other bandits in a turf war... Even if House Frey finds out, they can't pick a fault."
Daemon looked at those shivering "bandits," then at the injured villagers on the ground, crying children, and Alysanne's torn collar.
He never liked killing the innocent, but if these "bandits" counted as "human," then there were no animals in the world.
"Take them all away." He waved his hand, tone unquestionable. "Find a secluded place."
As the bandits were dragged away, they howled like slaughtered pigs. Some begged for mercy, some cursed, but no one dared resist.
Daemon Targaryen sneered, following behind with his cane. Caraxes roared low, sweeping the bloodstains on the ground with fire as if cleaning trash.
The group escorted the captives to a river valley three miles from the village. Overgrown with wild grass and rugged rocks, it was a perfect place to destroy corpses and traces.
Daemon closed his eyes. When Blackfyre fell, there was no hesitation.
Screams subsided quickly. Daemon ordered: "Burn them."
Torches were thrown onto the pile of corpses. Dry wild grass ignited instantly into a raging fire, illuminating the night sky and everyone's faces. Thick smoke rolled up carrying the stench of burnt flesh, drifting toward the Blue Fork.
"Leave it to me." Larys Strong signaled Jarmen Waters. The one-eyed bastard understood immediately, leading several attendants forward.
They began dragging corpses, arranging them to look like they killed each other, throwing inferior weapons stripped from bandits all over the ground, even hacking sword marks on rocks to fake a fierce firefight scene.
Larys personally added a few stabs to several corpses with a dagger, angles tricky, looking like wounds from dying counterattacks.
"Looks decent now." Larys clapped his hands, a trace of satisfaction in his black eyes. "Even if House Frey investigates, they'll only think Walder robbed other bandits and got silenced instead."
Daemon watched the dancing flames, firelight flickering in his violet eyes. The ruins of Oldstones stood silently in the night; Tristifer IV Mudd's tomb was like a silent witness.
He remembered House Mudd was the last ruler of the Trident to believe in the Old Gods, remembered their destruction under the Andal invasion. Suddenly he felt some things never changed—the plunder of power, the ugliness of human nature, enacted on this land from ancient times to present.
"Back to the village." Daemon turned, bloodstains on Blackfyre gleaming dark red in the moonlight. "Depart for Ramsford early tomorrow."
The fire gradually died out, leaving only a pile of charred ash scattered in the river valley by the evening wind. Larys checked the scene one last time to ensure no flaws before following the retinue back. The shadow of his clubfoot dragged long on the ground, like a wet bloodstain.
In the village of Oldstones, Ser Lychester was directing villagers to clean up bloodstains. Alysanne bandaged injured farmers. Children stopped crying and began helping pick up scattered grain.
Three giant dragons lay by the ruins like three silent mountains. Their breath condensed into white mist in the night sky, guarding this land just experienced blood and fire.
Daemon stood before King Mudd's tombstone, fingertips tracing those blurred carvings.
Perhaps this was the meaning of his return—not only to stop the Dance of the Dragons but also to guard the peace that shouldn't be plundered in these forgotten corners.
Night wind blew through the remnants of Oldstones, carrying the moisture of the Blue Fork and a faint burnt smell.
The road ahead led to Ramsford, where there might be more storms. But at least for this moment, under the stars of Oldstones, justice was served in the most resolute way.
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