Dawn mist over the Riverlands
The wind carrying the scent of decaying wood from High Heart, thirty-one weirwood stumps arranged in a ring on the hilltop, their annual rings at the broken ends like solidified ripples, their heartwood long since hollow and rotten, yet still stubbornly pointing towards the sky.
The morning mist drifted among the tree stumps, blurring the flags below the distant hills into patches of color—the red horse with its golden shield belonged to the House Bracken, the black crows circling the dead fish weir belonged to the House Blackwood, and there was also the Darry family's plowman, the House Smallwood's six brown oaks, and the House Piper's pink and white silk-clad maiden dancing...
The emblems of half the feudal lords of Riverlands were crammed under this high hill, the sounds of clashing armor, neighing warhorses, and shouts mingling together like a pot of boiling turbid water.
"By the Seven," Myles Rivers reined in his horse, pointing downwards, "House Bracken and Blackwood are fighting again? And this time they've brought so many reinforcements?" As a fellow bastard of the Riverlands 'Mooton Household, he clearly knew more about the feud between the two families than anyone else.
Daemon remained silent. He sat atop the Glutton's back, his gaze sweeping over the ring of tree stumps. The black streaks at the broken ends resembled dried blood, reminding him of his eldest son Aegon, pierced by a hail of arrows on the Red Grassland —the boy's blood soaking the red earth, forming a small stream at his feet, overlapping with the faint traces of blood visible below the hill. Ever since that night in the Godswood, he had been seeing visions of the past.
"Look, even the House Tully's messengers have been sent back," Rayford Rosby, his voice tinged with surprise.
He pointed to a knight wearing silver trout coat of arms, who was awkwardly turning his horse around, when the angry roar of House Bracken's knights came from behind, "Tell that old Grover that the affairs of Stone Hedge are none of his business!"
Alys Rivers sat behind Gael, her fingers lightly tapping the girl's waist as if counting something. "Several thousand years," she suddenly spoke, her voice carried by the wind, "From the Age of Heroes until now, their swords have never truly been sheathed."
Larys rode his gray donkey at the back of the procession, his black robes brushing against the dewy grass.
He had just tried to glean the details from the chatter of the farmers watching the commotion, and now, tilting his head, he looked down at the shoving crowd, a faint smile playing on his lips, "The House Bracken says Blackwood stole their rye, Blackwood says the House Bracken poisoned the water supply in the Raventree Hall. Actually..." he drawled, tapping his limp leg lightly on the donkey's belly, "I think it's just an excuse to vent nearly fifty years of pent-up anger."
Daemon Targaryen, leaning on his cane, shifted slightly on Caraxes's back, the bandage on his left leg particularly noticeable. "Little Daemon," he said, his eyes gleaming as he looked at Daemon beside him, "Why don't we go down and take a look? Maybe we can get some credit for mediating and make the House Tully owe us a favor."
Daemon ignored him. Memories, like an out-of-control tide, surged up on the winds of High Heart.
On the eve of the rebellion, the brazier crackled. Quentyn Ball's red hair blazed like burning thorns in the firelight. He patted Daemon on the shoulder, the hilt of his steel sword digging painfully into him. "You have the blood of two true dragons! Why should you bow to the son of Daeron and that Dorne whore?" The instructor's spittle splattered on his face. "Look at Aegor! His mother is from House Bracken, and he still dares to fight! You have the Blackfyre, you have pure dragon blood, and you have us—"
Behind him, Aegor Rivers stood in the shadows. His black hair fell over his forehead, obscuring his purple eyes, which resembled Daemon's. On his shield, House Bracken's red horse bore the dragon wings of House Blackfyre, breathing flames.
"Brother," Bittersteel's voice was like ice, "That Brynden guy is watching you. He's the half-blood raven of the House Blackwood, just like his cousins, full of scheming and plotting."
Daemon held the Blackfyre, its blade gleaming coldly in the firelight. He looked at the Raven's Teeth watching him—the archers' arrows were all engraved with small raven emblems, exactly like the black raven on the House Blackwood banner below the hill.
"Dreaming again?" Alys Rivers ' voice pierced through his memory. Daemon snapped out of his reverie and saw her looking down, a corner of her gray skirt lifted by the wind. "What are you seeing?"
"I see the blood of the past," Daemon said softly. He pointed to the burly knight leading the House Bracken —the man wielding a greatsword, his red hair whipping in the wind, strikingly similar to Quentyn Ball, who had slain Earl Lefford outside Lannisport. "The House Bracken men always speak with their warhorses and their swords."
"And what about the House Blackwood?" Gael asked curiously. She glimpsed several knights in black robes praying around a Heart Tree in the House Blackwood's procession, the tree's shadow swaying on them like a flock of crows.
"They like to use arrows." Daemon's gaze fell on the longbowmen behind the Blackwood lines. Their bows were made of weirwood, the grain of which reminded him of the blood of the Red Grassland —it was with bows like these that he had pierced his throat and Aegon's heart on the Weeping Ridge.
Larys rode up on his gray donkey, his lame leg dragging softly on the ground. "Your Highness," he said, "Look at the House Blackwood banner—crows circling the Dead Fish Beam. They're convinced the Heart Tree of the Raventree Hall was poisoned by the House Bracken." He smiled, a sly glint in his dark eyes. "So you see, how absurd today's farce is."
Daemon's fingers tightened, gripping the hilt of the Blackfyre. The blade gleamed darkly on the dragon saddle, as if echoing his heartbeat.
"They've started fighting!" Myles Rivers's roar came from below.
Everyone looked down and saw the red flag of the House Bracken suddenly advancing, and the great sword of the Han knight cleaved through a shield of the House Blackwood;
The House Blackwood longbowmen immediately released their arrows, which flew through the air like black clouds and struck the House Bracken's lines.
The House Tully's silver trout attempted to lead the other groups to the middle, but was pushed aside by people from both sides at the same time. The knights' roars shook the morning mist of the High Heart.
"How lively." Daemon Targaryen clicked his tongue, his cane tapping lightly on Caraxes's scales. "Little Daemon, shall we really not go and join in? I bet if Caraxes breathed fire, they'd all be kneeling down and calling him Your Highness."
Gael frowned. "Daemon Targaryen! This is an internal affair of the Riverlands. We shouldn't interfere without Father's orders." She clearly hadn't forgotten the day she overheard Daemon Targaryen reminding Daemon about Otto's accusation of meddling in the affairs of the Seven Kingdoms...
"Internal affairs?" Alys Rivers chuckled, her arms tightening around Gael's waist. "Your Highness, House Bracken and Blackwood have been fighting for millennia. The treaty your father laid down has only quelled their hatred for less than fifty years." Her voice was low, like the wind whispering among tree stumps. "This isn't internal affairs; it's destiny."
Daemon's gaze swept sharply downwards, watching House Bracken's red horse flag and Blackwood's ravens fluttering and intertwining below, and his memories surged once more.
On the Red Grassland, Aegor Rivers led his troops, charging like red horses behind him, dragon wings fluttering on his shields;
Brynden Rivers ' Raven's Teeth lay hidden behind Weeping Ridge, their weirwood longbows poised to fire.
He led the charge from the middle, his Blackfyre cleaving through countless spears, but he couldn't dodge the arrow that Brynden was shooting down on the ridge—the shaft of which was engraved with a small raven emblem. Then a rain of arrows poured down, and his consciousness returned.
"Daemon?" Gael's voice pulled him back to reality. The girl's purple eyes were full of worry. "You look terrible."
Daemon took a deep breath; the smell of decaying wood mixed with the stench of blood in the wind sobered him up a bit. He looked at Larys, who was stroking the donkey's ears, seemingly indifferent to the fighting below, but the knuckles of the hand resting on the saddle were white.
He then looked at Alys Rivers, the witch's black hair blowing in the wind, obscuring half her face, revealing only a pair of bright eyes staring at the circle of weirwood stumps.
"Give the order, Your Highness." Larys suddenly looked up, his dark eyes devoid of any jest, filled only with an almost urgent seriousness. "If we wait any longer, it won't be mediation, it'll be collecting corpses."
Daemon Targaryen's eyes lit up. "Did you hear that? Even this cripple has more guts than you! Little Daemon, let the Glutton stretch his muscles—"
"Shut up." Daemon interrupted him, his voice as cold as the morning frost of High Heart. He patted the Glutton's neck, Black Dragon let out a deep roar, which made the sounds of fighting below pause for a moment.
"Gael," Daemon, looking at the girl on the Dreamfyre, "Bring the House Tully messenger up."
Gael was taken aback, then nodded. Dreamfyre swooped down, the wind whipped up by its pale blue dragon wings sweeping towards the disheveled knight.
Daemon's gaze swept over the chaotic army below, over the circle of silent weirwood stumps, and finally landed on the banners of House Bracken and Blackwood.
The intertwined shadows of the red horse and the black crow cast distorted shapes in the morning light, much like the shadows of Aegor Rivers and Brynden Rivers on the Red Grassland.
"Tell them," Daemon's voice echoed across the high hills through the dragon's roar, "Either lay down their swords and go home to await my and Tully's mediation, or..." He paused, Glutton abruptly raised its head, its dark eyes reflecting the terrified faces below, "That their High Heart may be reduced to ashes and flames."
The wind suddenly stopped. The sounds of fighting, shouts, and horses' hooves all ceased. Only the circle of weirwood stumps stood silently in the stillness, as if witnessing yet another bloody event about to be etched into the rings of time.
The black three-headed Dragon Mark on Daemon's right shoulder was burning hot, slowly transmitting heat to his hand holding the Blackfyre. He knew this was the first time in his life he had adjusted it, but it would never be the last. He not only had to stop the Dance of the Dragons, but also had to hold down this treasured sword that had been passed down for thousands of years in order to deal with an even greater crisis—even though the temperature on the hilt was so hot that it hurt his palm.
The fog of High Heart finally dissipated with the dragon's roar. And those entangled flags and shadows have only just begun their new entanglement.