The gravel of the River Road crunched finely under hooves. The wind of the Westerlands, wrapped in the chill of mountain rocks, finally washed away the lingering fishy smell from the Three Sisters.
When Daemon pulled on The Cannibal's reins, his gaze crossed the winding mountain road ahead, catching the first glimpse of Golden Tooth. The fortress built into the mountain looked like gold embedded in grey limestone. The sun-facing stone walls gleamed with fine light, said to be traces of ore veins. From a distance, it truly looked like a sun suspended between mountains, matching the Lefford sigil of "a golden sun on a sky-blue field."
"Finally doesn't smell like Sisterton." Mysaria supported Gael's back. Mountain dust clung to her platinum-blonde curls. She sniffed, the disgust from the Bite finally gone from her eyes. "Westerlands mountains are much steeper than the Riverlands. Princess, look at those stone steps; carved directly from rock?"
Gael leaned closer, pale violet eyes sweeping the shrubs by the road. "Books say Golden Tooth guards the Westerlands gateway; truly lives up to its name. Just block this mountain road with a few boulders, and thousands of troops can't pass." She pointed down suddenly. "But look at those people below; peasant levies?"
Everyone looked in her direction. A dozen men in rough clothes squeezed at the road bend, holding rusty hoes or scythes, some even shouldering sharpened sticks. Faces greyer than Westerlands rocks.
A knight in leather armor rode a skinny horse, cracking his whip loudly, but no one wanted to move forward. Several half-grown children hid behind bushes shouting "Ironborn are coming again," voices holding less fear than mocking amusement.
"Doesn't look like going to war." Rupert Crabb pulled his reins. White pauldrons gleamed coldly in the sun. He pointed to a peasant squatting on the ground, secretly wiping tears with his sleeve, clutching a half-eaten rye cake. "Looks more like going to die."
Larys Strong rode his grey donkey, wandering to the peasants unnoticed.
The donkey, probably bored, stretched its neck to peck at a chicken in a peasant's arms as soon as it stopped, making the peasant jump and curse. Larys pulled the reins hurriedly, black robe sweeping gravel, tone carrying his usual cunning: "Fellow countryman, don't get angry with a beast. Your group looks more like going to a fair than to war?"
Seeing his decent clothes and Dragonriding retinue, the peasant was willing to complain: "War? War my ass! Last month some Dagon Greyjoy wrote saying he'd burn Lannisport. The Lord called us to defend; this is the third time! First two times we marched before dawn, saw not a shadow of Ironborn at the port, just their longships floating far away. Lannister lords hid in the castle drinking; we didn't get even half a silver stag!" He grew angrier, stabbing his hoe into the ground. "Run empty again this time, and my kids will starve!"
"Dagon Greyjoy?" Corlin Celtigar leaned in suddenly, clutching a sea chart from the Three Sisters. "Seems to be King Alton's youngest son? That Urrigon at Seagard earlier, isn't he his brother?"
The peasant froze, nodding. "Exactly! Heard Lannisport sailors say the Ironborn old king is dying; three sons fighting to be king, all want to establish authority by raiding. Last time that Urrigon went to raid Seagard, got burned to nothing by the Iron Throne's dragons. This bullshit Dagon wants to raid our Lannisport, but dares not come for real, only writing letters to scare people!"
Hearing this, the black three-headed dragon brand on Daemon's right shoulder grew slightly hot—from Urrigon at Seagard to smugglers at the Three Sisters, and now Dagon threatening Lannisport, Ironborn internal strife began affecting the Westerlands. If Casterly Rock handled it poorly, it might evolve into bigger trouble. He turned The Cannibal's head, telling Larys and the others below: "Speed up to Golden Tooth."
The retinue galloped along the mountain road. The outline of Golden Tooth became clearer.
This fortress lived up to its name, divided into three levels by mountain terrain. The bottom gate was wrapped in thick iron, Lefford sun sigil carved on the lintel. Arrow slits densely packed the middle level. On the top watchtower, guards with spyglasses looked out. Seeing dragon shadows of The Cannibal and Dreamfyre, they blew horns immediately, sound echoing in the valley.
Reaching the gate, a team of red-armored Lannister messengers was mounting horses. The lead knight's face was iron-green, reins cracking loudly.
Beside the gate stood a burly man in a sky-blue brocade robe embroidered with golden piles and sun sigils—Lord Humfrey Lefford of Golden Tooth. He nodded perfunctorily at the messengers' backs, not even smiling, fingers unconsciously rubbing the gold-handled dagger at his waist—scabbard inlaid with small gold nuggets, clearly local produce.
"Prince! Princess!" Humfrey's voice rose suddenly. The cold hard face piled on a smile instantly, wrinkles at eye corners squeezing together. He strode forward, completely ignoring the departing Lannister messengers. "True Dragons gracing Golden Tooth truly brightens this stone city! Told the Maester this morning, clear sky means noble guests; didn't expect the Princes!"
His speed of changing face made Mysaria tug Gael's sleeve, whispering: "Better at reading wind than Three Sisters smugglers."
Gael held back laughter, nodding slightly, gaze on the gold ore decoration on Humfrey's robe—not exquisitely polished but exuding Westerlands straightforwardness: We have gold.
Humfrey didn't notice the girls' small movements, enthusiastically pulling Daemon into the city. "Prince, please enter! Banquet prepared—fresh gold-flake wine from the mines, fattest roast boar in the Westerlands, even for your dragons—I had thirty fat sheep driven over, freshly picked from pastures, guarantee The Cannibal and Dreamfyre eat well!"
Golden Tooth's main hall was simpler than imagined but exuded "wealth" everywhere: gold leaf wrapped beams, tapestries embroidered with gold thread, even table legs wrapped in thin gold.
Several Lefford knights sat inside. Seeing Daemon's group, they rose to bow, gazes darting out the window toward the dragons, full of curiosity.
"Prince, sit first!" Humfrey pulled a chair for Daemon personally, ordering maids to serve mead to Gael and Mysaria. "Mead brewed with Fair Isle honey, sweeter than King's Landing's, try it." Sitting down, he clapped again. Servants carried in a glistening roast boar with a golden apple in its mouth, drawing gasps.
Most lively was the clearing outside. Dozens of servants drove a flock of fat sheep toward The Cannibal and Dreamfyre. Sheep bleated, some trying to burrow into grass but blocked tight by servants.
The Cannibal first spewed a warning breath. Black flame grazed the flock, scaring servants back. But smelling the mutton, he couldn't resist picking one up, roasting and swallowing it whole, dragon eyes showing a bit of disdain—probably thinking it inferior to Dragonstone fish.
Dreamfyre was much more elegant, pressing a sheep lightly with a claw, roasting then eating in small bites. Pale blue wings blocked splashing semi-cooked juices, making Mysaria sigh in relief: "Good thing Princess Dreamfyre is refined; otherwise too scary."
Halfway through the banquet, seeing Humfrey drinking happily, Daemon mentioned casually: "Lord Earl, saw peasant levies looking unwell on the road, saying they ran several times for Ironborn matters?"
Humfrey waved his hand dismissively, drinking gold-flake wine. Gold dust sparkled in candlelight. "Prince means that kid Dagon Greyjoy? Hah, a weaning babe! Wrote last month threatening Lannisport, saying he'd burn our ships. Result? Only dared wander Ironman's Bay three times, didn't even touch Lannisport's shadow!"
He sneered. "Our Lord Tymond Lannister of Casterly Rock serves as Master of Ships in King's Landing. Casterly Rock is managed by two babes and the Lord's cousin old Ser Rollam—the Lord's late son's posthumous twins Jason and Tyland are only eight or nine. Rollam is famously soft-hearted, can't bear to ask tenants for rent. Guess Dagon saw this, wanting to scare them to distract us, snatching two small villages for profit. To really clash with our Westerlands army, that bunch of bastards isn't qualified!"
Rupert Crabb put down his roast meat, frowning. "But what if he really dares come? Lannisport is the Westerlands gateway; if lost—"
"Relax, won't be lost!" Humfrey slapped the table; the gold dagger jumped. "Golden Tooth iron mines alone forge countless gear, not to mention Casterly Rock garrison isn't idle! Besides, isn't there the Prince's dragon? With Targaryen giant dragons, let alone Dagon, even if all Iron Islands come, they'll burn to ash by dragonfire!"
Saying this, he toasted Daemon specifically. "Prince rest assured, House Lefford watches Westerlands matters. You tour at ease; if real trouble, I'll send ravens immediately!"
Daemon toasted with a smile, noting inwardly—Humfrey's optimism was blindly confident. He heard of Ironborn succession madness in his past life; Dagon daring to provoke three times might not be just scaring.
Moreover, Casterly Rock managed by young lords and old retainers might not be stable internally. Under this Westerlands "wealth," hidden dangers likely abounded.
He glanced at Larys in the corner. The latter picked at mutton with a silver fork, thoughtful light in black eyes, clearly hearing the holes in Humfrey's words too.
Night deepened; banquet atmosphere remained warm. Lefford knights and Daemon's followers competed in swordsmanship, some even using short-handled axes and hammers from mines, fighting vigorously;
Mysaria followed Gael to see Golden Tooth gold ore samples, returning with a small shiny nugget, eyes full of novelty;
Larys rode his grey donkey somewhere unknown, returning with mineral dust on his hem but a inexplicable smile on his lips.
Daemon stood on the castle terrace watching the distant mountain road. Under moonlight, Golden Tooth looked like a dormant beast guarding the Westerlands gateway. In the darkness at the road's end, shadows of Ironborn longships seemed to sway.
He touched the brand on his right shoulder. Heat faded, leaving inexplicable vigilance—under this Westerlands gold and feast, Ironborn shadow approached. Could Casterly Rock's young lords and old retainers withstand the coming storm?
The Cannibal's low moan came from below. The black dragon probably ate too much mutton, dozing in the clearing. Dreamfyre curled aside, pale blue wings glowing soft in moonlight.
Daemon gripped Blackfyre's hilt, firmness flashing in violet eyes—whatever the Ironborn purpose, he would investigate clearly touring Casterly Rock and Lannisport. Westerlands chaos must not become another disaster before the Dance of the Dragons.
Golden Tooth's lights twinkled in the night like scattered gold. The large lamp on the watchtower shone on the River Road, as if lighting a weak but firm light for the coming challenge.
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