The night at Oldstones lacked the hustle and bustle of a market, only the crackle of bonfires. Ser Lychester's wooden house was the largest building in the village, yet it only had walls plastered with yellow mud and a thatched roof, supported by crooked wooden pillars holding up the beams.
The villagers gathered their best food: several bowls of smoked dried fish, half a bag of rye bread, two small jars of honey, and a woman even brought a bowl of wild berries, red as if soaked in blood.
"Prince, simple food and drink, truly unworthy to offer..." Ser Lychester rubbed his hands, face full of guilt. His granddaughter Alysanne squatted by the bonfire boiling wild vegetable soup in a pottery bowl, the flames reflecting on her patched skirt hem.
Daemon looked at the obviously chipped pottery bowls, then at the villagers' cheeks reddened by cold, and signaled Larys Strong.
Larys understood immediately, untying a sack from his horse. Inside were coins, bits of silverware, and several decent pieces of leather armor scavenged from the bandits. "Ser," he counted the goods, voice steady, "calculated at market price, these are enough to compensate the villagers for their losses. The rest is payment for our lodging."
"How can we accept this!" Ser Lychester waved his hands hurriedly. "The Prince saved us grandparent and grandchild, killed that villain; we can't thank you enough..."
"Take it." Daemon interrupted him, tone unquestionable. "The villagers' losses must be compensated, and the children should have winter clothes."
Just then, a burst of laughter came from the other side of the bonfire.
Daemon Targaryen had his arm around the smith's daughter at some point, dancing around the fire. The girl wore a wash-faded blue dress, cheeks flushed with laughter. When she spun to the beat, her skirt drew beautiful arcs in the firelight.
Daemon Targaryen's silver hair shone dazzlingly white. His limping steps seemed surprisingly agile in the dance. Hearing the dispute, he turned back laughing: "Old Knight, listen to Little Daemon! Treat this money as us buying wine, or I'll stay at your house tonight and won't leave!"
Ser Lychester looked at his "unreliable" manner, then at Daemon's firm gaze, finally accepting the sack with red eyes.
Alysanne brought the wild vegetable soup, steam rising from the bowl rim. "Prince, try it. It's shepherd's purse from the banks of the Blue Fork, very fresh."
Late at night, Daemon walked to the ruins of Oldstones. The Cannibal was dozing beside Tristifer IV Mudd's tombstone, black scales gleaming dimly in the moonlight. Daemon stroked his neck, whispering: "Go hunt some game, don't touch the villagers' livestock."
The black three-headed dragon brand on his right shoulder suddenly grew slightly hot, like a small fire burning under the skin. The Cannibal let out a low moan, rubbed his head against his palm, then spread his massive wings, sweeping low over the village. Dreamfyre and Caraxes followed immediately. The shadows of three dragons passed through the ruins under the moonlight, flying upstream along the Blue Fork.
"Is it truly that even his own kind must obey the Wild Dragon King? Or is it because of you, Prince?" Larys's voice came from behind. He had woken up at some point, leaning against a ruined wall, black robe flapping in the night wind.
Daemon didn't look back. "They are hungry, and the villagers need food more."
Larys chuckled softly. "You care more about these people than the nobles in King's Landing."
"At least there's no calculation in their eyes." Daemon watched the direction the dragon shadows disappeared. "House Mudd ruled for a thousand years, leaving only a tomb in the end. Perhaps for these commoners, living is more important than a crown."
At dawn, the three dragons returned.
The Cannibal held strings of glittering large fish in his mouth, dozens of them, scales still carrying the moisture of the Blue Fork;
Dreamfyre clutched several large hares in her claws, ears still twitching slightly;
Caraxes was the most exaggerated, carrying a wild stag in his mouth, antlers wet with dew.
"Seems the Wild Dragon King's menu is indeed broad." Rayford Rosby stepped forward laughing, helping to unload the game.
Villagers were awakened by dragon roars, stunned by the sight. Children clapped around the strings of fish, and even Ser Lychester clicked his tongue: "True dragons are indeed different; even hunting is so formidable."
Daemon had Corlin Celtigar pick the largest fish to give to the villagers, exchanging the rest with Ser Lychester for some sun-dried fish.
"These are for their rations." He stroked The Cannibal's snout. The black dragon licked the back of his hand docilely, the fishy smell mixing with the heat of dragon breath, surprisingly not unpleasant.
Before departure, Alysanne suddenly walked up to Jarmen Waters, holding a cloth bundle. Her face was redder than wild berries. Stuffing the bundle into Jarmen's hand, she turned and ran: "It... I sewed it overnight. Thank you, Ser."
Jarmen froze, opening the bundle to find a grey eye patch, the edge embroidered with tiny Blue Fork grass patterns.
This one-eyed bastard of House Buckwell of Antlers had killed men and shed blood without blushing, but now his ears were red enough to drip blood, as if scalded by fire.
"Ooh—" Daemon Targaryen, Rayford, and others jeered immediately. Rupert even whistled. Jarmen stuffed the eye patch into his tunic haphazardly, turning to lead his horse, his back revealing panic.
When the retinue left Oldstones, Ser Lychester led the villagers to see them off at the village entrance. Alysanne stood at the front, watching Jarmen's back, clutching her hem tightly.
Daemon looked back at the ruins. Oldstones in the morning light looked like a silent elder, House Mudd's tombstone casting a long, thin shadow in the rising sun.
Ramsford sat on a shoal of the Blue Fork. Called a town, it actually had only a few dozen wooden houses and a crude wooden bridge spanning the shoal, connecting both riverbanks.
The river became gentle here, exposing large patches of pebbles on the shoal. Several rams were grazing by the bank, giving the town its name.
"Rest a bit, let the horses drink." Daemon pulled on his reins, gaze sweeping the town. People here seemed busy; several fishermen were dragging nets ashore, women were beating clothes by the river, and the air was filled with fishy smell and river dampness.
Just as Rayford Rosby was about to book rooms at the inn, he suddenly pointed to the distance: "Prince, look!"
Everyone looked in the direction he pointed—at the end of the Blue Fork, toward Seagard, flames were soaring into the sky. Thick smoke spread like a black dragon in the morning sky. The fire was immense; even from here, dancing red light was visible, as if a hole had been burned in the sky.
"It's Seagard." Larys's face darkened, squinting at the firelight. "House Mallister's territory... why would a fire start for no reason?"
Daemon Targaryen sobered up considerably. Leaning on his cane, he walked to the riverbank, violet eyes fixed on the direction of the fire. "Could they be fighting with other Riverlands lords? In the days I've followed you touring the Riverlands, they haven't stopped causing trouble among themselves."
"Unlikely." Daemon gripped Blackfyre, the blade gleaming coldly in the sun. "Except for Bracken and Blackwood, Riverlands lords dare not blatantly offend the Iron Throne's authority by fighting so fiercely in private."
The Cannibal let out an uneasy low growl, rubbing his head against Daemon's arm. The distant firelight grew brighter, dyeing even the surface of the Blue Fork red, like flowing blood.
Fishermen at Ramsford also saw the fire, stopping their work to discuss animatedly. An old fisherman squatted on the ground drawing a seven-pointed star. "Gods, what happened to Seagard? House Mallister has guarded there for centuries..."
Daemon vaulted onto The Cannibal's back, and the black dragon took off immediately.
Looking down from high altitude, the fire indeed came from the direction of Seagard. The entire castle seemed swallowed by flames. Smoke columns rising from different places were faintly visible, unlike an accidental fire.
"Go take a look." Daemon patted The Cannibal's neck. The black dragon let out a roar, diving toward the firelight.
Gael on Dreamfyre followed closely. The shadows of two dragons swept over the wooden bridge of Ramsford, scattering the rams on the bank in panic.
Daemon Targaryen cursed, mounting Caraxes to follow, his lame leg swaying on the dragon's back but gripping the saddle tight.
Rayford Rosby told Rupert: "Watch the retinue, we follow!"
The group moved immediately, hooves clattering chaotically over the pebbles of the shoal.
Daemon looked back at Ramsford. The town residents were still staring blankly at the fire. None of them knew what lay behind those flames—rebellion, war, or another unforeseen disaster.
The current of the Blue Fork continued forward, carrying their shadows toward the soaring firelight. The warmth of Oldstones was still in their hearts, but the fire ahead had already dyed the sky blood-red.
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