Morning light at the Inn at the Kneeling Man
The Red Fork meanders gently beneath the pier, its waters chilling the gray stone foundation of the Inn at the Kneeling Man.
Daemon reined in the Glutton and looked down, seeing only the inn sign swaying in the wind—the kneeling king on the wooden sign was stained dark by past rains, but the gold trim on the crown still shone brightly, as if silently recounting the night a hundred years ago when Torrhen Stark bowed to Aegon.
"This place is more respectable than I've heard," Gael said with surprise. She looked at the row of long wing rooms that stretched over the river, the whitewashed wooden walls covered with ivy, the stone ceilings gleaming bluish-gray in the setting sun, and the mule braying from the stables mingling with the laughter under the pavilion, creating a strange sense of peace.
The innkeeper, a bald, fat man in a faded linen apron stained with ale, bowed low as he approached from afar. "My goodness! It's a true dragon from the royal family!" He rubbed his hands together, his wrinkles crinkling with laughter. "I'm truly Seven to host two Targaryen and princesses today! Please come in; the best rooms are reserved for distinguished guests like you—though our inn may be small, every traveler in the entire Trident knows that our stables can tether fifty fine horses, and our gazebo can fit twenty tables!"
He then led the group through a pavilion covered in vines, the wooden planks creaking underfoot. "Look at this side room," he said, "It extends three zhang (approximately 10 meters) over the river, so in the Summer it can catch the wind from the Red Fork. It's even cooler than the water garden in Riverrun!"
Daemon's gaze swept over the carvings on the pavilion pillars—layers upon layers of names and family crests left by countless travelers. Among them, a faded Direwolf mark was deeply carved by a knife, presumably a silent protest by the the North against the word "kneeling."
"The owner certainly knows how to do business." Larys Strong, riding his gray donkey behind the group, had already scouted out the local situation beforehand. His black robe swept across the moss beneath the pavilion. "It's called an inn, but it's more like a small market."
Indeed, there are a dozen or so houses scattered around the inn. The clanging of the Smith, the aroma of wheat from the bakery, and the tanned leather hanging outside the general store make this place feel more like a small town built along the river.
The shopkeeper's eyes crinkled with laughter. "Thanks to His Aegon, merchants, messengers, and knights all love to rest here. His Aegon's army crossed the river here, supposedly by stepping on the stone piers in the river; you can still feel those stones now!"
Daemon Targaryen's cane tapped impatiently on the wooden plank.
He had just recovered from the heartbreak of his time in Pinkmaiden. His silvery-white hair was ruffled by the river breeze, and the melancholy of his time in Riverrun had faded from his purple eyes, replaced by a familiar restlessness. "Stop rambling. The best room, the strongest liquor, and..." He paused, a signature roguish smile playing on his lips, "... a well-mannered girl."
Rayford Rosby coughed awkwardly, Rupert Crabb turned his back to pretend to adjust the saddle, and even Gael couldn't help but frown.
Only the boss, used to it all, hurriedly nodded and bowed. "Yes, yes, yes! It's a small place, but the girls here have figures as supple as river water..."
Before he finished speaking, Daemon Targaryen was already hobbling deeper into the side room, leaning on his cane. The hem of his black robe swept across the pillars engraved with names, leaving a fleeting shadow.
"Can't he just behave himself?" Gael's voice was tinged with helplessness, her fingers unconsciously twisting the reins.
Daemon watched the figure disappear at the end of the corridor, recalling Lady Piper from Pinkmaiden who had rejected him, and then the embroidered handkerchief that Leia Tully from Riverrun had handed him.
The thoughts and feelings of this great-grandfather at the age of seventeen were like pebbles at the bottom of a river, worn smooth and heavy by the current, yet always causing pain at some corner.
"Let him be," he said calmly. "At least for now, he didn't breathe Caraxes's Dragonfire onto the inn's roof."
The long tables for the banquet were set up on the riverside terrace. The tables were quickly moved from the hall, and the night view of the Red Fork shimmered in the candlelight.
The owner personally served the dishes: the roasted wild boar on the copper platter glistened with oil, and the foam of the ale overflowed the rim of the glass, carrying the distinctive slightly fishy aroma of the Red Fork. The oil from the roasted trout dripped onto the silver platter, mingling with the moisture carried by the river breeze, making it exceptionally fragrant. The owner brought over a jar of his treasured ale and, patting his chest, began to recount the history of the inn:
"... King Torrhen presented his crown to His the Conqueror right here! The great nobles of the the North were so enraged that they drew their swords and smashed the table; you can still see the sword mark in the backyard! Later, His Majesty Maegor passed by and beheaded several rebellious knights here; their blood flowed through the cracks in the wooden planks into the river, staining half of the Red Fork red..."
Alys Rivers picked up a piece of fish with a silver fork, her green eyes reflecting the light of the river lanterns. "So, this place has witnessed quite a few stories of kneeling and not kneeling."
Larys Strong, who was feeding apples to the gray donkey, chuckled softly upon hearing this. "Kneeling is sometimes wisdom, sometimes cowardice, it all depends on who's standing on the other side of the river." He tapped his lame leg lightly on the stone slab. "Like the House Bracken, who knelt before Dragonfire at High Heart a few days ago, they're probably already having their wedding feast in Stone Hedge."
Daemon listened, but his gaze remained fixed on the window.
Laksh and Dreamfyre were entrenched on the clearing along the riverbank, while the Glutton lay prone on a distant hill. The shadow of the three-headed dragon cast a subtle awe over the entire settlement.
Larys Strong also quieted down again and sat in the corner, sketching something on parchment with a charcoal pencil, his limp lightly tapping on the wooden board, as if he were calculating something.
"Your Highness, we're afraid there aren't enough rooms." The innkeeper came in again, rubbing his hands apologetically. "Besides your and the princess's suite, everyone else might have to squeeze in, or... perhaps some villagers nearby would be willing to make room."
"It's alright." Daemon waved his hand. "Let everyone make their own arrangements, but stay alert."
After dinner, Daemon returned to one of the best rooms deep inside the inn. The room was built over the river, and opening the window revealed a view of the Red Fork at night, with the fishing lights on the water reflecting the starry sky.
He had just unsheathed his Blackfyre when he heard Daemon Targaryen's laughter coming from next door, mixed with women's playful banter. The sound pierced through the wooden planks and was particularly jarring.
"Old habits die hard." Gael's voice rang out from the doorway. She entered carrying a roll of brocade, followed by Mysaria, who held an oil lamp. "We have to travel to the Fairmarket tomorrow, and he's like this..."
"At least it's better than getting into trouble with the House Piper or House Tully ladies, isn't it?" Daemon gazed at the fishing lights outside the window, recalling the resolute look in the eyes of the House Piper when she left Pinkmaiden. Perhaps for the Rogue Prince, melancholy was only temporary; once soothed by new feelings, indulgence was his best way to heal.
Night deepened, Daemon Targaryen still hadn't shown himself. Rayford asked several times if he could go looking for him, but Daemon stopped him each time. "Let him cause trouble," he said, gazing at the stars and moon reflected in the river. "We still have to travel by water tomorrow; let him keep quiet then."
More followers pitched tents near the stables or stayed at villagers' homes. Colin Celtigar and Lyonel Corbray practiced their swordsmanship by the Smith, the clanging sounds mingling with the roar of the river...
The next day, just as dawn was breaking and a thin mist was still floating on the river, Daemon was already standing on the pier, watching his servants carry the luggage onto the barge.
The direction of the Blue Fork is hidden in the morning mist, and the outline of Fairmarket is like a blurry ink blot. Just follow the current downstream, and you will reach the confluence of the Trident.
"Go and call him," Daemon said to Rayford, his voice carrying a barely perceptible headache.
As Rayford turned, a knight in the crimson coat of arms of House Bracken strode towards him, his armor still damp with dew. "Your Highness Prince Daemon! Your Gael Princess Geri!" The knight knelt on one knee, holding up a scroll of gilded invitations. "The wedding of Sir Henrik House Bracken is about to take place, and we humbly request Your Highness's presence as witness!"
Just then, the curtain of the cabin was lifted. Daemon Targaryen walked out yawning, his silver hair slightly disheveled, his eyes bloodshot, and the bandage on his left leg had been replaced.
"What's all the noise about..." He paused when he saw Sir House Bracken, then raised an eyebrow, "A wedding? Henrik's quick on the uptake."
Rayford and Rupert exchanged a glance, both feeling uneasy— House Bracken and Blackwood's feud was far from over, and Daemon Targaryen was entangled in an ambiguous relationship with the eldest daughter of the House Piper. Going to Stone Hedge now might just cause more trouble.
"Your Highness, we were originally scheduled to go to the Fairmarket today..." Rayford tried to dissuade him.
Daemon Targaryen waved his cane and laughed dismissively. "The Fairmarket isn't going anywhere. They've already delivered the invitations to our door; it would be disrespectful not to go!" He glanced at the invitation in the knight's hand, the gold-painted red horse emblem gleaming. "Stone Hedge isn't a mountain of knives or a sea of fire. Besides, with Little Daemon here, what are you afraid of?"
He limped toward the riverbank, Caraxes, sensing his master's presence, let out a low dragon roar.
Daemon watched him leap onto the dragon's back, then glanced at the invitation in his hand, his fingertips tracing the gold-embossed red horse emblem.
The House Bracken's deliberate invitation at this moment is probably not just for a simple "honor"—perhaps they want to use the Targaryen's prestige to show off to the House Blackwood, or perhaps there are deeper calculations involved.
Gael walked to his side and said softly, "He's right. Now that the invitations have been sent, not going would make us seem cowardly." She paused, a hint of worry flashing in her light purple eyes, "But... Stone Hedge is too close to Blackwood Vale, and that guy Big Daemon..."
"Let them see who's in charge in the Riverlands." Daemon handed the invitation to Rayford and silently walked towards the Glutton. "Pass the word: change course to Stone Hedge."
The Glutton's dragon roar pierced the morning mist, mingling with the howls of Caraxes and Dreamfyre.
The waters of the Red Fork still swirl, as if telling the story of the never-ending feuds on this land.
The sign for the Inn at the Kneeling Man swayed in the wind, and the kneeling king still bowed to the travelers, but now, shrouded in the dragon's shadow, his posture seemed to carry a hint of helpless mockery.