The Green Fork curved under the stone arch bridge of the Twins. The sound of the current hitting the piers was like a never-stopping pendulum.
When Daemon's retinue arrived, the morning sun illuminated the two castles on both banks—towering grey-white stone walls, cold light on the moat. On the heavy iron-bound oak gates, the sigil of blue twin towers and arch bridge was exceptionally glaring in the morning light.
The stone bridge connecting the banks was wide enough for two carriages abreast. The Water Tower in the middle of the bridge was like a vigilant eye; guard figures were faintly visible in the arrow slits.
"House Frey ancestors spent three generations building this thing." Larys Strong rode alongside Daemon, his black robe sweeping the flagstones of the bridge. "Changing wooden forts to stone, welding the bridge and castles into one—just to choke this river crossing."
The bridgehead was already crowded. Lord Forrest Frey wore a dark blue brocade robe, house sigil embroidered in silver thread on his chest. About sixty years old, his face looked like an aged owl, small eyes flashing with shrewd light.
Behind him followed two young men. The older one wore silver armor, face upright; the slightly younger one looked frail but carried knightly reserve. These should be his eldest and second sons, Stevron and Lyman. Neither looked like their father, but rather bore shadows of their mothers' houses.
"Welcome, Princes Daemon and Princess Gael! Welcome, Lord Dustin!" Lord Frey bowed, voice high and thin. "The Twins are simple; please forgive poor hospitality." His gaze swept Daemon's retinue, pausing for a moment on the three giant dragons, then looking at Daemon's followers and Lord Dustin's guards reeking of blood. Pupils constricted slightly, then he piled on a smile. "Please come in; the banquet is ready."
The dinner was held in the Great Hall of the Twins. The long table was filled with roast meat and sweet wine. Four portraits of women hung on the wall.
Lord Frey raised his cup, first introducing his fourth wife beside him—a woman from House Nayland of the Hag's Mire, face calm but eyes wary. Beside her stood a boy around ten, his fourth son.
"This is my fourth wife, Margarey of House Nayland." The Lord rubbed his hands. "My first three wives have all... passed." He pointed to the portraits. "This is my eldest son Stevron's mother, of House Charlton; this is my second son Lyman's mother, of House Erenford; this one—" He paused, pointing to the last portrait. The woman in the painting had a sharp face and small eyes identical to Walder Frey's. "Is the mother of my disappointing third son Walder, currently missing with fate unknown, of House Haigh."
Daemon's hand holding the wine cup paused slightly. Indeed, Walder Frey and the "weasel" look common in future Freys seemed inherited from this maternal line. It seemed they had done a good deed improving House Frey's future overall image.
Lord Frey's four wives came exactly from his four major vassals—Charlton, Erenford, Haigh, Nayland. This game was played exquisitely and dangerously. For a liege of vassals, with his sons' maternal houses fighting to the death, the old man could rest easy. The maternal houses behind the four sons even had to strive to please him, letting him sit securely on the Marquis's seat.
Stevron and Lyman rose to bow to everyone. Their demeanor exuded fairness, starkly different from their father and third brother.
Daemon exchanged a look with Daemon Targaryen, temporarily suppressing the anger in his heart—at least these two sons didn't look like they participated in those dirty deeds.
Halfway through the banquet, Lord Frey began apologizing, saying the territory wasn't peaceful lately, startling the Princes, and frequently toasted Roderick Dustin, trying to ease the atmosphere.
Lord Dustin only snorted coldl, veins popping on his hand holding the cup, clearly not forgetting the "bandits" in the Hag's Mire.
After the banquet dispersed, Lord Frey dismissed everyone, leaving only Daemon, Gael, Daemon Targaryen, and Roderick Dustin.
He closed the study door, the smile vanishing from his face instantly, bowing deeply to Daemon: "Prince, about Walder—it was my lax discipline."
"Lax discipline?" Daemon Targaryen tapped his cane on the floor. "Bandits at Oldstones, extortion at Sevenstreams, robbers in the Hag's Mire—all done by your good son and your vassals! Dare you say you didn't know?"
The old Lord's small eyes shifted. "I—I only told him to collect some toll fees, didn't tell him to hurt people... those plunderings were all his own idea, and his mother's kin instigated—" He sighed. "Stevron and Lyman are good knights; they know nothing. I beg the Prince, for their sake, leave me some dignity."
"Dignity?" Daemon Targaryen laughed, full of mockery. "You harmed so many people, yet have the nerve to want both face and substance? Want dignity? Want this Prince's Dark Sister to pick you off personally?"
"I didn't order killing!" The old Lord defended hurriedly. "And haven't Walder and those people paid the price? No corpse remains, whether buried in dragonfire or swamp—"
"Enough." Daemon interrupted him, the hilt of Blackfyre hot in his palm. "We have no authority to judge you over the Iron Throne. But I will report everything truthfully to King Jaehaerys." He stared at the old Lord. "When I return from the North, I hope you are smart enough to offer evidence of guilt yourself and confess to His Grace."
With that, he turned and left. Gael and Daemon Targaryen followed closely. Lord Dustin left last, slamming the door so hard books fell from the shelf.
Early next morning, the bridgehead of the Twins was crowded with people seeing them off. Daemon Targaryen had put on formal dragonrider gear, talking to Stevron Frey. Seeing Daemon's group approach, he vaulted onto Caraxes's back. The red dragon let out a roar, spreading wings.
"I wait for you in King's Landing! I will deliver your letters one by one!" He shouted, waving. Silver-white hair flew in the wind. Caraxes circled once, flying south. The crimson dragon shadow soon disappeared into the horizon.
Everyone's gaze followed the red dragon until it became a dot. Just then, a servant suddenly screamed: "Fire! It's the Lord's study!"
Everyone looked back to see black smoke rising from the keep. The firelight wasn't conspicuous in the dawn but spread rapidly. By the time guards arrived with water, the study was swallowed by flames. The sound of oak shelves bursting mixed with cracking burning noises, like a desperate wail.
Daemon stood at the bridgehead watching the fire, gripping Blackfyre. The black three-headed dragon brand on his shoulder grew slightly hot.
The old Lord turned to ash in the fire along with all evidence of guilt—no corpse, no confession, dead men tell no tales. He even calculated that everyone's attention would be on Daemon Targaryen, calculated that the dawn light would mask the initial flames.
"Shameless and shrewd." Daemon whispered, a chill flashing in his violet eyes.
Stevron and Lyman directed firefighting frantically, faces full of shock and grief, seemingly genuine.
Daemon looked at them, then at the growing fire, thinking of Walder Frey and Lord Frey. Suddenly he felt the "weasel" genes of House Frey might inherit not just looks, but ruthlessness and calculation deep in the bones.
"Let's go." Daemon turned his horse. "The Kingsroad and the North wait ahead."
When the retinue left the Twins, the fire in the study had reached the roof.
The Green Fork flowed on, carrying ash and secrets into the Trident's main stream. Daemon looked back at the receding Twin Towers, suddenly remembering Lord Frey's last look—not fear, but a cunning nearing relief.
Perhaps this was the "dignity" he wanted—wiping away all sins with a fire, letting his sons continue to rule the Twins as "victims."
Sunlight passed over the Water Tower, shining on the Kingsroad. Daemon gripped Blackfyre. The road ahead led to the Neck, to the North. The fire at the Twins became the last mark left to them by the Riverlands—an ending about crime and punishment, shrewdness and shamelessness.
But Daemon's anger was not extinguished. He genuinely loathed these bugs who couldn't stand in the light. Their darkness and calculation were what Daemon hated forever. The dragon brand burned slightly, reflecting Daemon's anger at kindness betrayed once again.
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