Riverrun's secret whispers
The morning mist over Riverrun had not yet dissipated, but the waters of the Tumblestone were already shimmering beneath the waterwheel tower.
Grover's third son, Hoster, and fourth son Brynden, along with other young members of House Tully, stood in the courtyard. Horst wore a cloak with a silver trout coat of arms, while Brynden had a turquoise-inlaid dagger hanging at his waist, its scabbard adorned with red and blue wave patterns that echoed the colors of the castle's outer walls.
"Your Highness, Princess, please follow us." Hoster bowed to Daemon and the others, the hem of his cloak sweeping across the moss on the stone slabs, revealing the stone surface polished smooth by countless footprints. "Every stone in Riverrun is imbued with the scent of the river; you'll find it more intriguing than it appears."
Daemon Targaryen's gaze swept over the waterwheel tower—ivy cascaded down like a green waterfall, its massive blades turning slowly in the flow of water, the splashing droplets refracting iridescent colors in the morning light.
He suddenly stopped in his tracks, leaning on his cane. In the past few days, the frivolity in his purple eyes had faded, replaced by a rare seriousness. "Where is the best the Smith in town? I want to forge a new spear."
Hoster paused for a moment, then laughed loudly, "Your Highness has excellent taste! The ' The Anvil ' shop in the west of the city has a master craftsman whose skill allows a spear tip to pierce Oak Shield from thirty paces away. Fourth Brother, why don't you take His Highness and Sir Colin there, and let the master craftsman show off his skills?"
Brynden's eyes lit up, clearly more familiar with the ways of the common people. "Leave it to me! That old man is most proud of his tempering skills, saying he can make steel stronger than the purity of a young girl."
Gael's gaze lingered on Daemon Targaryen's retreating figure for a moment, a hint of worry appearing in her pale purple eyes.
Daemon nodded slightly, his gaze shifting to Jarman Waters —the one-eyed bastard who immediately understood, patting Myles Rivers the shoulder. "Didn't you say you wanted to learn archery the other day? Let's go pick out a good bow and fire some new arrowheads." He then put his arm around the shoulder of the second son of the House Hunter of the Longbow Hall, "Come on, let me show you just how sharp the ironware of the Riverlands can be."
As Jarman turned around, he glanced back deliberately, giving Daemon a reassuring look. The sunlight fell precisely into his single eye, reflecting a sharp light that seemed to pierce through the mist of the streets.
Hoster led the group toward the main castle, the gleam of the guards' armor faintly visible through the arrow slits along the way. "This triangular main castle was designed by our Axel," he said, pointing to the sharply defined towers. "The study on the top floor has windows on three sides, offering a view of the confluence of the Red Fork and the Tumblestone. On rainy days, the two rivers are clearly distinct, like the Father spilling red and blue paint."
Just then, Daemon Blackfyre caught a glimpse of crimson out of the corner of his eye— Lysa, the third daughter of House Tully, was using the act of adjusting her skirt to quietly slip away from the group. Her red hair flashed like flames against the gray stone walls before she disappeared into the alleyway leading to the west of the city.
Almost simultaneously, Larys Strong's figure, like a snake slithering into the shadows, silently slipped into the corner of the corridor; even the sound of his cloak brushing against the stone pillars was as light as breathing.
Rayford Rosby, who was chatting with Rupert Crabb and Lyonel Corbray, happened to see this and was about to speak up when he was stopped by a look from Daemon.
Daemon's gaze remained calm and unwavering, as if he had already taken everything under control. He merely tilted his head slightly, signaling the group to continue forward.
Rupert Crabb and Lyonel Corbray were still chatting and laughing, discussing the range of the catapults they had just passed, completely unaware of the undercurrents that were brewing in the background.
As the clanging of the Smith echoed deafeningly at the end of the alley, Daemon Targaryen stood by the Anvil, watching the master craftsman hammer the red-hot iron into a spearhead.
Colin Celtigar, standing to the side, selected an oak gun shaft, his fingertips tracing the fine grain. "This one's good; it can withstand my full-force strike."
"Want to add an imprint?" the master craftsman asked loudly. The force of the hammer hitting the ground made it tremble slightly. Sparks flew onto his calloused arms, leaving tiny white burn marks, but he didn't care.
Colin shook his head, his fingertips tracing the cooled tip of the gun. "Nothing fancy, just the sharpest—something that can pierce through the gaps in plate armor, like a crab's claws." There was a strange stubbornness in his voice, as if he were pouring some kind of pent-up frustration into the steel.
In the shadows at the alley entrance, Lysa Tully hesitated, clutching the hem of her skirt. Hearing laughter and curses coming from inside the shop, she finally mustered her courage, lifted her skirt, and ran inside. Her red hair danced in the firelight, creating a striking contrast with the sparks on the Anvil.
Meanwhile, Jarman Waters was standing in front of the bow and arrow shop counter, watching the second son of the House Hunter try to draw a longbow. The boy's arm was taut with effort, the bowstring hummed deeply, and the arrow landed firmly on the bullseye fifty paces away. Myles Rivers, a novice, was picking through a pile of arrowheads, his fingers lightly tracing the barbs. "This one's good; once it hits, it won't be easy to pull out."
"Be careful not to hurt yourself." Jarman glanced at the gleaming ironware, but his gaze went over the roof and towards the Smith —where the rising smoke seemed to carry the sound of a young girl's laughter.
As Hoster led the group to the Godswood, the morning mist had just dissipated. Dew clung to the eye sockets of the slender weirwood tree in the center, as if silently watching over them. "This tree is older than Riverrun," Hoster said with reverence. "When the First Men planted it, the Trident was called ' Greatwater,' and our House Tully, when they first came to Westeros with the Lord of Andals, were once reduced to mere 'fishermen' guarding the fords."
Gael reached out and touched the rough bark, suddenly recalling the weirwood tree with its High Heart. The faces there were even more ancient and sorrowful, as if they had witnessed too much bloodshed and betrayal.
As dusk fell, when the group returned to the castle, the Smith's men had already returned.
Daemon Targaryen carried a newly forged lance on his shoulder, its tip gleaming coldly in the setting sun. He had also forged one for himself. The gloom on his face had lessened considerably as he chatted and laughed quietly with Lysa Tully —the girl's red hair was slightly ruffled by the wind, her cheeks were as red as ripe apples, and she clutched a silk handkerchief embroidered with a trout pattern in her hand, clearly freshly embroidered.
"It seems His Big Daemon is quite satisfied with the new weapon." Duke Grover greeted him at the entrance of the banquet hall, his laughter booming like a bell, but a hint of paternal worry flashed in his eyes.
On the long table at the banquet, the oil from the grilled trout dripped onto the silver platters, and the Tumblestone ale was full of foam.
As Jarman Waters passed by Daemon, he remarked, "All is well. The House Hunter lad pierced the bullseye fifty paces away, and Myles picked twelve barbed arrows." He paused, then added in a whisper, only the two of them could hear, "The Smith is bustling; Miss Lysa wiped His Highness Big Daemon's sweat three times."
As Daemon nodded, he noticed that Larys Strong had quietly returned to his spot, picking at a piece of bread with a silver fork, his movements as elegant as if he were manipulating chess pieces, as if he had never left.
"Was today's visit to your liking?" Duke Grover raised his glass, his purple eyes gleaming with pride. "The history of our House Tully is quite long—starting from the First Men, the first Edmure Tully, following Tristifer IV, the ' Hammer of Justice,' won a full ninety-nine battles!"
After a few rounds of drinks, the Duke opened up completely. He talked about everything from the legend of Axel Tully's founding of the city to the death of the Earl of Elston in the Battle of the Six Kings;
From how Tommen Tully patiently preserved his strength to how Lord Edmyn assessed the situation and led the Riverlands lords to welcome Aegon the Conqueror.
"... Back then, when Maegor was tyrannical, we House Tully first helped him fight against Prince Aegon, and later joined Jaehaerys in opposing him." Grover took a large gulp of wine, the silver beard glistening with it. "Some say we're fickle, but the Riverlands taught us—we must turn when we must, or we'll be smashed to pieces by the rocks."
Daemon listened quietly, gaining a deeper understanding of why the House Tully had been able to establish themselves in the Riverlands for a thousand years. They were not as tough as the Lannister, nor as stubborn as the Stark; they were more like the flow of the Red Fork, knowing how to find a way to survive among the hard rocks.
After the banquet, Daemon returned to his room when the candlelight was dim. He had just unfastened his sword when the door was gently pushed open— Larys Strong appeared in the doorway, toying with a flint he had picked up from the corner of the Riverrun, its surface still covered with mud and sand from the Red Fork.
"Your Highness seems to have anticipated my arrival?" Larys raised an eyebrow, his smile carrying his usual cunning, as if he had already seen through people's hearts.
"The two hours you were gone were enough for you to have a pretty good grasp of Riverrun's defenses." Daemon sat in his chair, his fingertips lightly tapping the armrest, the wood grain leaving faint marks on his palm. "Tell me, what did you find?"
Larys walked to the table and placed the flint on the spread-out map, precisely overlaying the Tumblestone: "The defenses are more formidable than they appear. The arrow slits on the waterwheel towers can block the river, and the archers' fixed stances indicate long-term training; the hidden door in the west wall leads directly to the Red Fork crossing, its hinges greased, capable of concealing about fifty soldiers, suitable for a surprise attack; Grover ' personal guard numbers three hundred, half of them longbowmen, with quivers stocked with fire arrows, presumably for fire attacks." He paused, then added, "I also saw the Duke's eldest son checking the crossbow parts; the wear is minimal, suggesting recent regular maintenance."
Daemon's gaze fell on the outline of Riverrun on the map—the triangular castle, like a wedge, nestled at the confluence of two rivers, easy to defend and difficult to attack. "This information might be useful to others, but for me, it might not be of much use for the time being..." He suddenly looked up, his purple eyes flickering in the candlelight. "You seem particularly interested in the House Tully ' defenses?"
"Just interested in the defenses of all the lords." Larys shrugged, his cloak sweeping across the candlestick as he turned, casting flickering light on his face. "After all, knowing where the cracks are allows you to make the walls crumble faster when needed. You'll need this someday."
As the door closed again, Daemon gazed at the moonlight outside the window. The River Riverrun murmured in the night, as if telling the secrets hidden in this castle for a thousand years.
He knew that Larys brought not only intelligence, but also a pledge of allegiance—a covenant of the shadows written in the stone and steel of the Riverlands.
The night wind whistled through the blades of the waterwheel tower.
The Smith in the distance had long since turned off its lights; only the spear that Daemon Targaryen had forged for Colin was now leaning against the corner of the wall, its tip gleaming coldly in the moonlight.