The current of the Green Fork shimmered with dark silver light in the night. The bonfire crackled, stretching Daemon's shadow long.
The retinue camped in the woods at the edge of the Hag's Mire. The Cannibal, Caraxes, and Dreamfyre curled up in the distant clearing. The white steam of dragon breath mixed with the forest mist like three silent clouds.
Daemon Targaryen leaned on his cane, limping to Daemon's side and adding a piece of pine to the fire. His silver-white hair glowed warm in the firelight. He didn't seek fun as usual, just staring at the dancing flames, suddenly sighing.
"After the Twins, north of here is the Neck," his voice was low, as if afraid of disturbing the night. "When you begged Little Aunt Gael for me, you said at least let me accompany you through the North to relax. But Gael said at most finish the Riverlands, then let me return to King's Landing. Now the Riverlands are nearly done, and it's almost time to part."
Daemon turned the hare on the roasting rack. Grease dripped into the fire, sputtering fine sparks. "She was angry then; why take it seriously?"
"Not taking it seriously." Daemon Targaryen tapped his cane. "I came out this time under the pretext of delivering Father's letter to you. But I've been out too long this time. Grandma Alysanne is probably nagging, Sister-in-law Aemma must be worried, and Viserys that fool, without me protecting him in King's Landing, who knows which bastard is bullying him again."
He paused, a self-mocking smile curling his lips. "And Father, he let me out secretly this time. Who knew I'd run all over the Riverlands with you? The Old Man watches him in court every day; he's probably covering for me under pressure now. Maybe he's even sharing the heat with Viserys in King's Landing for me? When I go back, the Old Man and he will surely give me a father-son mixed beating."
Daemon watched him fiddle with the cane—the top was worn smooth, clearly leaned on heavily and often.
From the disappointment at Pinkmaiden to the recovery at Riverrun, the decisiveness at Oldstones, and the resolution at Seagard, this tour had actually made the Rogue Prince shed quite a few disguises.
Aside from the madness of Targaryen blood and fire in his bones, his clarity when calm almost made one forget he was the prince who galloped through the Street of Silk.
"Go back if you want." Daemon handed him a roasted hare leg. "Say hello to everyone for me and Gael." He pulled two pieces of parchment from his pack. "These are letters from me and Gael. Let Caraxes take them back—a messenger's steed and a raven's wings, however fast, are not faster than a red dragon's wings."
"You little rascal!" Daemon Targaryen took the letters, slapping his arm. "Really treating your brother as a messenger?"
"Who made you 'Big Daemon'?" Daemon dodged with a smile. Just as he finished, Gael's laughter came from behind a tree.
"I have an idea." She walked out with arms crossed, pale violet eyes shining slyly in the firelight. "Why not let everyone else in the retinue write a family letter, and you take them along when you return? If the Old Man asks, you say you were doing serious business; maybe you can avoid punishment. Even if you are kept in King's Landing, you can use this excuse to run out 'delivering letters' another day."
Daemon Targaryen's eyes lit up, standing abruptly with his cane. "Great idea!" Before Gael could react, he was already limping toward the squires' camp. "Rayford! Rupert! Come write letters!"
Gael watched dumbfounded, tugging Daemon's sleeve. "I was joking; why did he take it seriously?"
"Relax." Daemon patted her hand soothingly. "Even without this, he won't be peaceful going back. He is the Rogue Prince Daemon Targaryen; the word 'peaceful' isn't in his bones. With delivering letters dragging him, at least he won't cause too much trouble."
Gael breathed a sigh of relief, then immediately pinched Daemon's ear. "Then in your letter, you are not allowed to mention to Father and Mother that it was my idea! Don't say it when you return either, or Little Aunt will punish you, disobedient Little Daemon." As she spoke, her hands pulled down Daemon's shoulders, hugging his neck, rubbing her cheek against the top of his head. "Understand?"
"Understand, understand." Daemon smiled helplessly. "Promise not to tell Grandpa and Grandma."
"Also," Gael looked up, instructing seriously, "don't forget to send a letter to Sister-in-law Jocelyn too. She is not only my Father and Mother's half-sister but also your father Aemon's wife, and your sister Rhaenys's mother."
Mentioning Jocelyn, Daemon's smile faded. The look in Lady Baratheon's eyes appeared in his mind immediately—sorrow mixed with heartache, like looking at a lost treasure recovered, or worrying about a wayward child.
Fate took her husband Aemon away, but let her meet him—this boy recognized by everyone as Aemon's bastard, but actually Baelon's descendant.
Clearly Baelon and Aemon were so alike growing up; why did everyone assume he was Aemon's blood? Just because of his unusual height like Aemon? He clearly inherited Ancestor Baelon's flesh and blood.
Daemon looked toward the Green Fork. The river flowed silently in the night, carrying his tangled thoughts.
Jocelyn's gaze always reminded him of a mother's look at a child, familiar yet strange. In his past life, he never saw it in his own mother's eyes, yet saw it more than once in Queen Naerys's eyes looking at Daeron. But in this life, he had to bear the identity of "Aemon's bastard" to accept this heavy concern.
Whispers rose and fell from the other side of the camp. Rayford was writing a letter home to his Earl father at Rosby. Rupert Crabb bragged in his letter to his brother Clement about how many Ironborn he cut down, telling him not to worry. Mycah Rivers lay on a rock, writing stroke by stroke to his half-brother Lord Jorah Mooton about his progress in archery—longing climbed up everyone's heart like vines following the warmth of the bonfire.
Daemon Targaryen limped through the crowd with his cane, occasionally pointing out "Mention Mother's stew here," "Don't forget to ask about Sister's kitten," "I remember you mentioned," silver-white hair swaying in the torchlight, truly looking somewhat like a serious messenger.
Gael leaned on Daemon's shoulder, watching the lively scene, whispering: "Actually—he's not that worrisome."
Daemon hummed an agreement, gaze sweeping the river surface. The boys' troubles and worries were like mud at the river bottom, rolled by the current, drifting toward home—castles in the Crownlands, mountains of the Vale, tributaries of the Riverlands, sails of Blackwater Bay, cliffs of Crackclaw Point—the handwriting on those parchments might land in the palms of loved ones on Caraxes's wings.
Night deepened, and the bonfire slowly weakened. The Cannibal let out a low moan, as if responding to a distant call.
Daemon rubbed his aching temples, throwing those confusions about his identity in this life and worries about Jocelyn's gaze temporarily into the flow of the Green Fork.
At least tonight, there were letters home, bonfires, and people beside him.
And when the sun rose tomorrow, they would pass through the Twins and head for the North. As for these parchments full of longing, they would arrive at their destinations faster on dragon wings.
The water of the Green Fork flowed quietly on.
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