When The Cannibal's black shadow swept over the Bite, the first thing Daemon smelled wasn't the salty sea breeze, but a stench mixed of pig manure, rotting fish and shrimp, and damp straw—a smell like a rag soaked in sewage, sticking stubbornly in the nasal cavity. Even the black dragon couldn't help turning his head, white steam from his nostrils trembling with disgust.
"Gods above..." Mysaria held onto Dreamfyre's saddle, helped by Gael. Platinum-blonde curls were blown against her cheeks by the sea breeze. She covered her nose with a handkerchief embroidered with blue grass, voice muffled as if cotton-stuffed. "This place smells worse than the rotting mud of the Hag's Mire."
Gael wasn't faring much better. Her pale violet eyes crinkled into crescents, tugging at her salt-stained cloak. "Books say the Three Sisters are the 'Pearls of the Bite'; were these pearls dug out of mud?"
Daemon pulled on The Cannibal's reins, looking down at Sisterton below—the crude port town looked like a pile of junk washed ashore by waves:
Streets patched with mud and planks were potholed. Mud embedded with fish gills, shells, and discarded fishing nets;
Straw-roofed houses were crooked, some lacking even chimneys. Black smoke drilled out from wall cracks, blackening the surfaces;
In pigpens at street corners, skinny pigs rooted through moldy dried fish. Manure water flowed through plank gaps into the street, mixing with seawater rising at high tide, gleaming a nauseating grey-green.
"That's the banner of House Sunderland." Rayford Rosby pointed from the ship to the highest wooden pole at the port. The blue-green wave-patterned banner snapped in the wind; the sigil of three black-haired women's heads was exceptionally jarring. "Compared to the war banners seen in the Vale last time, it looks truly worn."
When the retinue reached the muddy flats of the port, Lord Triston Sunderland was already waiting with men.
The old Lord wore a dark blue brocade robe, hem stained with much sea smell. Hair grey but combed neatly. Seeing Daemon dismount, he strode forward immediately, rough hands grasping Daemon's wrist tightly—force carrying familiarity and imperceptible urgency.
"Prince Daemon! Finally wished you here!" Sunderland's voice sounded ground by sea breeze, hoarse but powerful. He pointed to three men behind him. "This is Earl Borrell of Sweetsister, Lord Longthorpe of Longsister, and Ser Torrent of Littlesister—heads of our Three Sisters, all waiting for you here!"
Daemon's gaze swept the three:
Earl Borrell was short and stout, skin dark as seawater-soaked reef. Grey webs faintly visible between fingers, looking like a crab just crawled from the sea;
Lord Longthorpe was thin as a dried harpoon, a rusty cutlass at his waist, eyes holding pirate-like vigilance;
Ser Torrent was youngest, wearing an ill-fitting silk coat clearly smuggled from the south, fingers nervously twisting his hem.
"Earl Borrell," Daemon spoke first, gaze on the other's hands. "Last time at the Gates of the Moon, didn't get to look closely—your 'gift' matches Sweetsister's seafood well."
Borrell froze, then laughed loudly, slapping his thigh with a rough palm. Webs gleamed in sunlight. "Prince has good eyes! Our House Borrell lived off the sea for generations; these webs are more useful than oars! Father taught me swimming as a kid; I can hold breath underwater for half an hour, catching more fish than my brother with nets!"
Just as he finished, chaotic braying came from behind the crowd—Larys Strong's grey donkey had broken free, fighting a skinny pig for a bundle of moldy seaweed. Hooves kicked mud; the pig grunted, rooting at its hind legs. Larys chased sweating with his cane, black robe hem half-muddy, muttering: "You glutton! Just as ignorant as your former master! Seaweed compare to Sunderland ale?"
Everyone burst into laughter. Even the tense-faced Longthorpe couldn't help curling his lips.
Daemon shook his head helplessly at this absurd scene. "Larys, control your 'Mr. Longlegs'; don't let it create a new legend of 'Donkey fighting Pig' in Sisterton."
Larys finally grabbed the reins. The donkey strained its neck unwillingly. He panted, glaring at the donkey, then bowed to Daemon: "Prince rest assured, next time I tie it beside The Cannibal—don't believe it dares act up then."
Lord Sunderland led everyone to Sisterton's only "decent" building—a fortress of reef rock and planks. Called a fortress, it was more like an enlarged fishing hut; fish bones decorated the thatched roof.
The long table in the banquet hall was pieced from whole whale bones, surface pitted but polished bright. The corner hearth burned vigorously. A black iron cauldron bubbled with something; aroma mixed with sea smell filled the room.
"Prince, please try our Three Sisters' signature 'Sister's Stew'!" Sunderland clapped. A servant in rough cloth skirt brought pottery bowls filled with thick stew: chunks of cod, crab legs, goat cheese mixed in pale brown broth sprinkled with unknown seaweed bits. "Don't look at the appearance; tastes great! Cod caught this morning, cheese is Littlesister specialty, stewed two hours, even bones chewable!"
Mysaria carefully "poison-tested" for the Prince and Princess, taking a bite. Eyes lit up: "Tastier than imagined! Fish tender, cheese not greasy." Gael tasted too, nodding agreement: "Indeed good, just a bit too fishy."
Mycah Rivers was least polite, wolfing down from the bowl, black face stained with soup. "Ten times better than Oldstones wild vegetable soup! Earl Borrell, are Sweetsister fish especially fat?"
Borrell grabbed a crab leg with webbed hand, lifting chin smugly: "That's right! Sweetsister currents are warm; fish grow faster than elsewhere, meat tender too. Just—" He paused, tone sinking. "House Arryn of the Vale always said we 'live off the sea but don't know rules,' charging double tax even selling fish to Gulltown."
This cooled the atmosphere instantly. Longthorpe played with his cutlass, whispering: "Northmen are worse, calling us 'pirate spawn.' House Manderly of White Harbor dares impound our smuggling ships, even though they buy our salt themselves!"
Ser Torrent nodded too, silk sleeve stained with soup. "We don't want to smuggle, but Three Sisters is too poor. Besides seafood and rocks, nothing else. Vale gives no grain, North gives no iron; only this to survive."
Lord Sunderland sighed, filling Daemon's ale. "Prince, frank words for frank people. Last time at the Gates of the Moon, you helped us Vale folks beat back mountain clans; we knew you're straightforward. Lately heard from Earl Celtigar you intend to venture across the Narrow Sea?"
"Cough!" Corlin Celtigar beside Daemon choked on ale, face flushing red, silver fork dropping with a clang.
His reaction was too obvious; everyone looked at him. Borrell squinted smiling: "Celtigar kid, thinking when your uncle spread this to all coastal lords? Old Crab's mouth is faster than Narrow Sea wind!"
Corlin wished to crawl into a crack, fingers picking at table seams, defending weakly: "My uncle—he just has a loose mouth, not intentional."
Daemon laughed at his embarrassment. "Alright, don't trouble Corlin. I know about Earl Celtigar's 'big mouth'." But who knows if this shrewd Old Crab was intentional or accidental?
Daemon put down his cup, violet eyes sweeping everyone, tone frank. "I indeed intend to go across the Narrow Sea, see the Free Cities, and build a great cause for family and myself—but not now. I still have the King's duty to tour the Seven Kingdoms, must finish Westeros first."
Before he finished, Borrell slammed his bowl down bang, standing abruptly. Webbed hand hit the table hard, shaking dishes. "Prince! We Three Sisters are willing to follow you! Just say the word, whether across the Narrow Sea or ends of the earth, House Borrell ships stand by anytime!"
Lord Sunderland's face darkened, trying to pull him down but failing, smiling wryly to Daemon: "Prince don't mind, Old Borrell is like this, impatient nature never changed."
Longthorpe and Torrent rose too. Longthorpe twirled his cutlass. "Prince, Borrell speaks true. Though Three Sisters have bad reputation, since Aegon's Conquest, never truly rebelled against Iron Throne. Raiding only hits Ironborn or pirates; smuggling isn't just us in Seven Kingdoms. If you give us a chance, we're willing to pledge loyalty!"
Torrent nodded hurriedly. "House Torrent has few people, but Littlesister port holds fifty ships, and can repair them! Just one word from Prince, we clear all smuggled goods immediately, switch to legitimate business!"
Daemon looked at these candidly cute lords, suddenly remembering those Three Sisters warriors following him on the Redgrass Field in his past life—descendants of these men. Though bandit-like, equally loyal.
The black three-headed dragon brand on his right shoulder grew hot suddenly, echoing this bond spanning centuries.
So Daemon stood, walking to the center of the long table. Blackfyre unsheathed with a shing. Valyrian steel blade gleamed coldly in firelight; ancient patterns on the blade seemed to come alive, flowing with faint silver light.
"I accept your loyalty, but with three conditions." His voice wasn't loud but held unquestionable authority, gaze sweeping everyone. "First, no raiding Seven Kingdoms merchant ships or commoners; only Ironborn or Narrow Sea pirates—I want a fleet that guards and fights, not pirates everyone beats. Second, my fleet obeys my unified command; no independent action without order. Third, before I finish the Seven Kingdoms tour, you must ensure safety of the Bite channel, letting no force cause trouble here."
Borrell nodded eagerly, about to speak, but Daemon raised a hand to stop him, continuing: "If you agree to these three, I swear by Daemon Targaryen's name and Blackfyre—" Before his voice faded, a deafening dragon roar came from the port. The Cannibal's black shadow swept over the fortress. Pitch-black wings brushed thatched roofs; breath condensed into white steam in the night sky like black lightning. Everyone looked up subconsciously, eyes full of awe.
"The day The Cannibal soars the sky, your sails beneath him shall gallop freely on the sea," Daemon's voice wove with the dragon roar, carrying the aura of Old Valyrian Dragonlords. "My Blackfyre will also fight for Three Sisters subjects; when you need support, The Cannibal's dragonfire will burn all your enemies!"
Borrell's eyes lit up, completely forgetting Daemon's three conditions. Thud he knelt in the mud, webbed hand thumping his chest heavily: "Prince! House Borrell follows you! Not just three conditions, even thirty, we agree!"
Lord Sunderland saw him taking lead again, shook head helplessly, kneeling on one knee too. Longthorpe and Torrent followed closely. Four lords shouted scrambling: "We pledge loyalty to Prince Daemon! In this life and world, never betray!"
Daemon stepped forward, first helping up Lord Sunderland, Blackfyre hilt touching his shoulder lightly. "Lord Sunderland, you are the leader of Three Sisters; fleet coordination relies on you in future."
Then Borrell. Daemon looked at the mud on his knees, couldn't help laughing. "Old Borrell, don't be so hasty next time; my oath won't run away."
Borrell chuckled, wiping his face with sleeve. "Prince's words are more rousing than dragonfire; couldn't help it!"
Finally helping up Longthorpe and Torrent, Daemon said specifically: "Longthorpe, your cutlass is good; patrolling the Bite relies on you. Torrent, keep Littlesister's ship repair skills; our ships rely on you for fixing."
Both bowed assent hurriedly, eyes full of excitement—living a lifetime, never valued so highly by royalty, let alone promised with "dragonfire as witness."
The banquet atmosphere heated up completely. Sunderland brought best ale; Borrell fished fresh cod personally; Longthorpe played sailor's lute; Torrent brought out smuggled Southern fruits. Even Larys's grey donkey was tied by the hearth, chewing oats Sunderland gave specifically.
Mysaria sat beside Gael, whispering watching the lively scene: "Prince seems to care especially about Three Sisters people."
Gael nodded, amusement in pale violet eyes. "No, he's always like this, can't stand seeing others pitiable. Don't you know yet? Besides, these people though rude and savage, are candid and loyal, much cuter than King's Landing nobles."
Daemon stood by the fortress window with ale, watching port lights.
Three Sisters sails faintly visible in night; though crude, exuding tenacious vitality.
He remembered warriors dying for him on Redgrass Field in past life, looked at these vivid people before him, warmth surging in heart.
Dragon brand on shoulder still hot. The Cannibal's roar from port mixed with distant waves like a hymn of promise.
Daemon gripped Blackfyre, swearing inwardly: In this life, not only prevent future Dance of the Dragons, but fight unknown Others beyond Wall, and let these slighted people offering loyalty live with dignity—just as Old Valyrian Dragonlords promised, let the glory of dragonfire shine on everyone loyal to him.
Night deepened. Songs in Sisterton continued. Aroma of ale and stew mixed with salty sea breeze became the unique smell of Three Sisters.
Daemon knew his tour road was still long, but from this moment, a fleet willing to fight for him appeared on the Bite, and a group willing to follow him.
And this was just a small step in his rewriting of history.
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