Two feasts and a balancing act in the Riverlands
The red brick walls of Stone Hedge gleamed intensely under the midday sun, and the banners bearing the crest of a red horse fluttered in the wind, carrying with them the pride of the House Bracken.
When Daemon's party arrived, the city gates were wide open, and guards in red armor stood on both sides, their sword sheaths gleaming. Upon seeing the silver-haired, purple-eyed Targaryen entourage, they all knelt on one knee—even though their lord had no close relationship with the Targaryen, the rumors of the past few days had etched a deep-seated awe of the true dragon bloodline into their very bones.
"Welcome, Your Highness!" Ser Hendry greeted him, dressed in a wedding suit embroidered with a red horse in silver thread. His cheeks were flushed with excitement. Behind him followed the eldest daughter of House Piper, who wore a pale red dress with the House Piper's silk crest embroidered on the hem. Her eyes were gentle and graceful. When she saw Daemon Targaryen, she silently turned her head to meet his gaze.
The wedding banquet was held in the castle courtyard, with long tables stretching from the city gate all the way to the inner castle. The fat from roasted whole oxen dripped onto the charcoal fire, sizzling as it did so. Ale barrels were pried open, and amber-colored liquor flowed into wooden glasses, splashing up tiny bubbles. Nobles from the surrounding area who were on good terms with the House Bracken were all seated there.
Daemon Targaryen, leaning on his cane, slowly walked up to the newlyweds.
Daemon's followers held their breath—they forgot who spread the rumor, but everyone remembered the amusing incident with the House Piper heiress in Pinkmaiden. Now, facing the real man, no one could say what this Rogue Prince might do.
The eldest daughter of the House Piper gently gripped the hem of her skirt, her knuckles turning slightly white. Ser Hendry also tensed his back, his hand on the hilt of his sword, ready to respond to any unexpected events.
However, Daemon Targaryen merely tilted his head to look at the bride, then glanced at the groom, and suddenly smiled.
The smile lacked its usual frivolity, instead carrying a hint of relief, like the wind dispelling the fog. "The House Piper girl," his voice wasn't loud, but it carried clearly throughout the courtyard, "Ser Hendry may be a stubborn horse, but he's very protective of his family. You've made a good choice in marrying him."
He took a glass of wine from the tray of a servant beside him, raised it to his chest, and said, "May you... have many sons bearing the crest of a red horse."
After saying that, he tilted his head back and drank it all in one gulp, the liquor dripping down the corner of his mouth and soaking his white shirt.
He then placed the empty cup on the tray, picked up his cane, turned and walked away, his limping steps making a "tap, tap" sound on the stone floor. Without looking back, he went straight towards the direction of the city's Caraxes.
The courtyard was quiet for a moment, then erupted into an even greater commotion. Ser Hendry let out a long sigh and House Piper whispering something to the maid beside her.
Daemon and Gael exchanged a glance, and Rayford Rosby immediately understood, clearing his throat. "Gentlemen, His Highness Daemon Targaryen has had a long journey. We'll accompany him to rest for a while. Excuse me."
Everyone naturally understood that this was an excuse, but no one dared to stop them. Daemon and his group quickly walked out of the courtyard and saw Daemon Targaryen leaning against Caraxes's neck in the distance. The red dragon stuck out its tongue and gently licked his silver hair, as if to soothe him.
"You..." Daemon stepped forward, wanting to say something comforting, after all, the entanglement of his great-grandfather in the Pinkmaiden that day was still vivid in his mind.
Daemon Targaryen interrupted him, raising an eyebrow and slamming his cane on the ground. "What? You think I should flip the table?" He grinned, revealing two rows of white teeth. "Don't forget, I'm Targaryen. I can afford to lose." He patted Caraxes's scales, and the red dragon let out a low growl. "Besides, do you think I don't understand what's in that girl's eyes? I can't let her have a hard time on her wedding day."
That "you should praise me for being sensible" look shut up Daemon's words. Gael couldn't help but chuckle, "Yes, yes, my Big Daemon is the most magnanimous."
"Of course." Daemon Targaryen raised his chin smugly. "Let's go back to the Inn at the Kneeling Man; the wine here is too weak, it's no fun."
As the group left Stone Hedge, the sun was already beginning to set, casting long shadows of the red brick walls, like bloodstains dragging on the ground.
Back at the Inn at the Kneeling Man, the innkeeper was directing his staff to clean up the mess—the lunch guests had just left, he had met Daemon and his party, and was busy preparing dinner when he was stopped by a knight in a dark gray robe.
"Daemon Highness Damon, Your Gael Princess Gary." The knight knelt on one knee, his robes embroidered with the Weirwood Crow emblem of the House Blackwood. "My lord, Sir Torrhen Blackwood, cordially invites you to his wedding day with House Piper. He humbly requests that Your Highness grace Raventree Hall with your presence and enjoy a cup of celebratory wine."
Daemon frowned. The two House Piper daughters were getting married on the same day, one to House Bracken and the other to Blackwood —this was the result of the Pinkmaiden arbitration, but no one expected that the two families would set their wedding banquets on the same day.
Larys Strong leaned closer and whispered, "The House Bracken is closer to the Inn at the Kneeling Man. They must have sent messengers early on, trying to beat the House Blackwood to it and make their mortal enemy lose face throughout the Riverlands. It's absurd and boring."
"And what about the eldest daughter of the House Piper just now...?" Mysaria suddenly remembered something, "The way she looked at His Big Daemon just now, wasn't she hinting at something?"
Daemon Targaryen, who was sitting in the gazebo eating an apple, mumbled a reply, "She's clever. She slipped me a silk handkerchief embroidered with a raven— the House Blackwood crest—that her sister had given her, meaning 'They have a feast too, don't favor one over the other.'"
He threw the apple core into the river. "So I left after I finished my drink, so the House Bracken wouldn't feel like they got a great deal, and it also gave us an excuse to go to the Raventree Hall."
Everyone then realized that the seemingly casual blessing and departure were actually the Rogue Prince's "respectable scheme."
Daemon understood all of this, but he genuinely loathed such convoluted schemes. The millennia-long feud between House Bracken and Blackwood, even though Daemon had learned about the history of their conflict in his childhood in his previous life, still seemed... naive to him now that he was experiencing it firsthand.
When Daemon looked at Daemon Targaryen, he suddenly felt that his great-grandfather, after experiencing this heartbreak, might be more adept at weighing things than he appeared on the surface—at least in the murky waters of the Riverlands, his "willfulness" could occasionally become a balancing factor.
"Prepare the horses," Daemon said to Rayford. "To the Raventree Hall."
The roads in Blackwood Vale were more difficult to traverse than those in Stone Hedge. Evening mist rose from the Red Fork, wetting the horses' hooves, and the earth carried the sweet, damp scent of decaying leaves.
The outline of the Raventree Hall gradually became clear in the twilight—the ancient stone city walls covered with moss looked like a piece of old cloth soaked in water, two square towers guarded the city gate, and on the watchtowers at the corners, guards in green uniforms were watching the distance vigilantly. Only when they saw their troops did they lower their bows.
"Your Highness, please come in!" Sir Torrhen Blackwood greeted them. He was much thinner than Henrik House Bracken, with sharp eyes like a hawk lurking in the forest. Behind him was the second daughter of the House Piper, dressed in a light black dress. Unlike her sister's poised and elegant demeanor, her eyes always seemed to carry a hint of shyness. Upon seeing Daemon and his party, she shyly curtsied.
The courtyard of the Raventree Hall was smaller than that of Stone Hedge, but it was more rustic. A layer of dry grass covered the muddy ground, and the wooden castle gate was open, revealing a warm candlelight inside.
Most striking is the Godswood deep within the castle—a colossal weirwood tree stands there, its trunk long dead and as black as charcoal, its branches twisted and reaching towards the sky. At dusk, ravens returning to their nests blanket the tree in a dark mass, their cawing echoing through the silent valley.
"That's our ancient tree." Torrhen followed Daemon's gaze, his tone tinged with melancholy. "It was poisoned by the House Bracken and has been dead for almost a thousand years." He paused, then smiled. "But the ravens still come. Our ancestors said that as long as the tree stands, the House Blackwood will not fall."
The atmosphere of the wedding banquet was different from that in Stone Hedge; it wasn't as flamboyant, but rather more solemn. Daemon Targaryen didn't seek any "fun" this time. He simply sat in a corner, drinking glass after glass of the House Blackwood's homemade sour fruit wine, occasionally glancing at the newlyweds with a calm expression.
As Daemon and Gael were toasting, the second young lady of the House Piper suddenly whispered her thanks, "Thank you, Your Highness Daemon, for your help in Pinkmaiden, which made things possible for Torrhen and me."
Daemon Targaryen, who had appeared out of nowhere, interrupted, "No need for thanks. My Little Daemon just doesn't like seeing girls in trouble, just like his brother." He raised his glass, waving it at Torrhen and the bride, "May you... bring some life to this dead tree."
The wine, upon entering the throat, carries a sour, fruity astringency, yet it has a stronger aftertaste than the light wines of Stone Hedge.
As we left Raventree Hall, night had fallen. Ravens settled down on the dead weirwood trees, and only moonlight filtered through the branches, casting dappled shadows on the ground.
Daemon's party walked back to the Inn at the Kneeling Man, the sound of the Red Fork flowing clearly in the darkness, as if whispering the millennia-old grudges of the Riverlands.
"Shall we set off for the Fairmarket again tomorrow at noon?" Daemon said to the group. The Glutton let out a low growl behind him, and the Black Dragon's scales gleamed dully in the moonlight.
Daemon Targaryen, riding alongside Caraxes, suddenly began humming a Lys tune, its melody light and frivolous, yet carrying an inexplicable air of relief. Perhaps for him, this "dignified exit" from the double banquet was more comfortable than any romantic affair.
The winds of the Riverlands were still blowing, carrying the moisture from the Red Fork and the lingering scent of wine from the two wedding banquets. Daemon knew that their art of maintaining balance on this land had only just begun. The road ahead led to Fairmarket, where there might be new conflicts or new opportunities, but at least for now, a delicate balance had been restored between the red brick walls and dead trees of House Bracken and Blackwood.