Rosby

As Glutton's black shadow swept low over Blackwater Bay, Daemon looked down at the land gradually coming into focus below.

Unlike the towering Red Keep of King's Landing, Rosby was more like a brown patch set into a field of green—low walls of wood and stone surrounded the lord's tower, while the village beyond sprawled like mushrooms after rain. The scents of earth and straw drifted high on the wind, mingling with the sweet fragrance of apple blossoms.

"Your Highness, Rosby is ahead!" the knightly attendant shouted from the party below, his voice torn to pieces by the wind.

Daemon lightly patted Glutton's neck. The Black Dragon answered with a low rumble, drawing in his wings slightly as he began a slow descent.

The dust kicked up by the dragon's claws made the members of House Rosby who had come to receive him instinctively retreat several steps. Only the earl at the front held himself steady despite his sickly appearance and bowed slightly.

"Welcome, Prince Daemon." The Earl of Rosby's voice was like a spiderweb in the wind, thin and fragile. He wore a sable cloak embroidered with his house sigil, three red chevrons gleaming darkly beneath the sunlight like congealed blood.

His face was pale as paper, and the shadows beneath his eyes revealed the traces of prolonged illness. Yet within those eyes lay a sharpness not easily noticed.

Daemon swung down from Glutton's back, the scabbard of Blackfyre glinting dully in the sunlight. "There is no need for such ceremony, my lord." His gaze swept over the attendants around them. The members of House Rosby were indeed as lean and weary-looking as rumor claimed. "Thank you for receiving me."

"It is Rosby's honor to welcome a prince of House Targaryen." The earl turned to lead the way, his gaunt fingers tightly clutching the ties of his cloak. "Please, follow me. The feast is ready."

Only after passing through the modest city gate did Daemon truly see what this small town of the Crownlands looked like.

Houses built from earth mixed with straw lined the main road, their roofs covered in thatch. Smoke rising from their chimneys intertwined low in the air, forming a gray haze.

Children by the roadside watched him curiously, still clutching half-eaten wheat cakes in their hands. Women in coarse dresses stood in their doorways, their eyes lingering on Blackfyre at his waist with reverence and curiosity.

"Rosby is not large," the earl said softly, seeming to notice Daemon's gaze, "but we guard the shortcut between King's Landing and Duskendale. Over the centuries, we have witnessed quite a few stories." There was a faint, barely perceptible pride in his tone. "In 51 AC, King Jaehaerys and Queen Alysanne stopped here during their royal progress."

Daemon nodded, his gaze falling on the spire of a sept in the distance.

It was one of the few buildings in town made of stone. Its spire pointed straight toward the sky, as though silently proclaiming the majesty of the Seven.

The cabbages in the vegetable gardens were thriving, unripe fruit hung thick upon the branches of the apple orchards, and the wheat in the fields had begun to yellow—peaceful, fertile land utterly at odds with the storm to come.

The lord's tower banquet hall was more spacious than Daemon had expected. House Rosby's banners hung upon the stone walls, their three red chevrons especially striking against the sable field.

The long tables were already filled. The earl's heir sat first on the left, about Daemon's age, with shrewd eyes that secretly studied him from time to time;

Beside him sat several girls in exquisite dresses, surely the earl's daughters. Their gazes lingered briefly on Daemon before they lowered their heads shyly;

At the very end sat a boy of around ten. He was thinner than other children his age, but he held his back straight, carrying a stubborn air about him.

"Allow me to introduce them," the earl said, clapping his hands. "This is my eldest son, Gyles, the future Earl of Rosby." He pointed at the shrewd young man, then introduced several daughters in turn before finally indicating the boy. "This is my second son, Rayford, named after my great-uncle." Daemon's gaze rested on Rayford for a moment.

There was a determination in the child's eyes that did not suit his age, like wild grass hidden in the cracks between stones. The feast was not extravagant, but it was plentiful enough.

The roasted wild boar was crisp outside and tender within, the ale carried a faint fruity aroma, and the apple pie was just sweet enough.

The earl had clearly prepared thoroughly. He repeatedly toasted Daemon, speaking first of the harvest, then trade, then the security of the Crownlands, always maintaining precisely the right degree of warmth. After several rounds of wine, the earl gradually turned the conversation toward history.

"Your Highness cuts a dashing figure with Blackfyre at your side." He stared at the sword at Daemon's waist, his expression complicated. "Speaking of that sword, one cannot help but think of His Grace Maegor I."

Daemon's fingers tightened slightly around his wine cup. He knew the history of House Rosby—Ser Rayford Rosby had fought for Maegor in the Trial of the Seven, and one earl had been among Maegor's final supporters, eventually taking poison in 48 AC.

"King Maegor was a great warrior," Daemon replied evenly, offering nothing more. But the earl clearly had no intention of stopping there.

"Great? Perhaps." He smiled, an unusual flush rising to his pale face. "But he was also an unyielding soul. Did you know, when I was young, my father often told me stories of King Maegor? He said that the Earl of Rosby of those days and Ser Rayford both deeply admired that powerful man—both rode Black Dragons, both wielded Blackfyre."

His eyes fixed tightly on Daemon, as if he hoped to find some resonance upon his face. "They said that at first, King Maegor was much like you. He did not seem terribly interested in the Iron Throne..."

"My lord," Daemon interrupted, his tone calm but unwavering, "I am not King Maegor."

He set down his wine cup, his voice carrying clearly through the banquet hall. "I have long grown weary of the scheming and strife of power. King Jaehaerys, Queen Alysanne, Prince Baelon, Prince Viserys... they have all treated me well. In this life, the Blackfyre in my hand is not for claiming the Iron Throne, but for protecting my family."

Silence fell over the banquet hall. Even the crackling of the candles could be heard clearly.

A flicker of surprise passed through the earl's eldest son's eyes. His daughters watched Daemon with curiosity, while Rayford's gaze held a little more admiration.

The earl froze for a moment, then laughed. There was relief in that laughter, or perhaps something else. "Well said, well said..." He nodded repeatedly. "You make it so easy to forget that you are only thirteen or fourteen. You truly are much like King Maegor, yet completely different as well."

Then he paused again, turning the conversation once more toward the eastern continent. "But did you know? There is a rumor that after Aegon the Conqueror conquered Westeros, he left the Iron Throne to the comparatively 'moderate' Prince Aenys, while leaving the broader Essos to Maegor, who had truly inherited his ambition."

Daemon's brows furrowed slightly. He had never heard this rumor before. It sounded more like the wishful imagination of certain people.

"The rumor says," the earl continued in an even lower voice, excitement gleaming in his eyes, "that King Maegor mounted Balerion, took Blackfyre, and set foot upon the eastern continent, only returning after King Aenys died..." He looked at Daemon as if revealing a world-shaking secret. "You see, the world is vast. There is no need to fix your eyes solely upon the Iron Throne."

Daemon did not answer. He understood the earl's unspoken meaning—rather than struggle in the whirlpool of power in Westeros, he could cross the Narrow Sea like the Maegor of legend and carve out a realm of his own. It was certainly an alluring proposal, but he wished to remain here, at least until his "grandparents" passed away, to stay beside his family.

"Father." Rayford suddenly spoke, his voice quiet but unusually clear. "I am willing to follow Prince Daemon."

Everyone's attention turned to the frail boy.

The earl was taken aback, then smiled with satisfaction. "Good, good son." He looked at Daemon. "Your Highness, Rayford may be young, but he is resolute by nature. His horsemanship and swordsmanship are passable enough. If you do not mind, let him follow you and gain some experience."

Daemon looked at the resolve in Leonno's eyes and remembered himself in his previous life when he had been young. He nodded. "I would be glad to."

The earl was clearly delighted by the result, and the smile at the corner of his mouth could no longer be contained. He clapped his hands and said to his eldest daughter beside him, "Isabella, take His Highness to rest. The journey has been tiring. He should rest properly."

Isabella rose to her feet. She had the pale complexion typical of House Rosby, but her eyes were bright, like obsidian submerged in water. "Your Highness, please follow me."

Daemon rose and thanked him, following Isabella out of the banquet hall. The stone corridor was dimly lit, with portraits of generations of House Rosby hanging upon the walls. Their eyes seemed to watch this prince from King's Landing.

"Your Highness," Isabella said softly, with a trace of curiosity, "do you truly not wish to become king?"

Daemon smiled. "Power is like fire. It can keep you warm, but it can also burn you. More than before—no, perhaps the me of before—I would rather be the one who guards the flame than be consumed by it."

Isabella nodded as if she understood, just as she was about to say something else when a deafening dragon's roar suddenly rang out beyond the city walls!

The cry was clear and familiar, nothing like Glutton's low growl—it was Dreamfyre!

Daemon abruptly stopped, his heart leaping into his throat. Why was Dreamfyre here? Had Gael come? Why had she suddenly appeared at Rosby?

The sudden roar drained all color from Isabella's face. She instinctively grabbed Daemon's sleeve. Others in the corridor poked their heads out as well, their faces filled with terror and confusion.

Daemon looked out the window. Though he could not see beyond the city, he could clearly feel that the beautiful silver dragon was circling above Rosby.

Countless thoughts flashed through his mind. Had Gael followed him in secret? Or had she encountered some danger? Did Queen Alysanne know? What would King Jaehaerys think if he found out?

"Your Highness..." Isabella's voice trembled.

Daemon took a deep breath and tried to calm himself. "It is all right." He gently patted Isabella's hand, though there was a trace of tension in his voice that he could not hide. "It is only my family."

He turned toward the castle exterior. The dragon's roar sounded again, closer this time, as if it were directly above the tower. Sunlight spilled through the window onto him, yet it could not dispel the doubt and worry in his heart.