Fairmarket

The waters of the Blue Fork surged beneath the wooden bridge, carrying the fragrance of reeds as they flowed ashore. The wooden bridge at Fairmarket was indeed as grand as rumored; the newly laid planks gleamed with the luster of tung oil in the sunlight, and the water patterns carved on the railings were smoothed by the touch of passersby. Several barefoot children leaned on the railings, their reed poles dangling into the water, catching a string of small, silvery fish.

"Much better than the bridge in Oldstones." Larys Strong pulled on his gray donkey, his dark brown eyes sweeping across the market on the opposite bank.

The wooden houses on the Blue Fork are scattered in a neat and orderly fashion, their thatched roofs tanned golden brown by the sun. Black smoke billows from the Smith's chimney, and the aroma of the bakery drifts far on the wind, mingling with the leather smell of the tannery, creating the unique atmosphere of the town.

As Daemon rolled off the Glutton, the soles of his boots made a crisp sound as they stepped onto the flagstones at the bridgehead.

The stone slab was engraved with blurred heraldic symbols, one of which, a trident pattern worn almost unrecognizable, reminded him of "Pate the Farmer King" that Larys had mentioned—the peasant who tried to claim the title of River King under the Storm King's rule, ultimately leaving only this mark trampled by passersby.

"Your Highness, Princess, this way please!" The local lord was a short, stout middle-aged man with a string of brass keys hanging from his waist, which jingled with every step he took.

He led the group through the market, his finger tracing a stall displaying pottery jars. "Our Fairmarket may not be as famous as Saltpans or Harroway Town, but the perch from the Blue Fork and the honey from Sevenstreams are unmatched anywhere else in the entire Riverlands!"

The market was bustling with activity. Farm women in coarse cloth skirts carried baskets and haggled over prices, while traveling merchants shouted as they moved through the crowd. An old man stood under a willow tree, spitting as he told children the old story of "Harwin Hall, King of the Iron Islands, defeating the Storm King here."

Daemon's gaze swept over a stall displaying animal skins. The stall owner was showing off a sable pelt, saying he had traded it for from the North merchant—this reminded him of the Northerners who remained in the Riverlands after the Dance of the Dragons, following Cregan Stark south.

"Sister Alys, does this 'Blue Fork Grass' really cure a cold?" Mysaria's voice came from the direction of the medicine stall. Alys Rivers was bending over, examining a pile of dried herbs. Her green skirt swept over a ceramic jar containing lizard liver, and she picked up a wild grass with blue flowers between her fingers. "Crush it up, mix it with honey, and drink it. It's more effective than the medicine prescribed by the monks of Riverrun." As she looked up, she caught Daemon's gaze, and a half-smile appeared on her lips. "Would Your Highness like to try it? Lest the cold winds of the the North freeze your dragon blood."

Before Daemon could reply, Gael had already pulled him toward the fabric stall. "Look at this velvet, it would look beautiful as a cape." The girl's fingertips traced the royal blue fabric, sunlight filtering through her hair and falling on the cloth, creating dappled patterns.

Rupert Crabb and Lyonel Corbray stood a short distance away, their hands on their sword hilts, scanning the crowd warily. Corlys Celtigar, on the other hand, stared intently at a the Smith, his eyes blazing with fury—where a short sword inlaid with lapis lazuli hung.

"Let's go practice archery!" Myles Rivers's shout broke the commotion. He slung his longbow over his shoulder, pulled Rayford Rosby along, and ran towards the clearing by the river, where Jarman Waters and Harlan Hunter had already set up their bullseye. The one-eyed archer was demonstrating his stance, the bowstring whirring as it was drawn back, the arrow striking the bullseye with a sharp, steady thud, eliciting a gasp from Myles.

Daemon Targaryen was nowhere to be seen. The crowd caught a glimpse of his silver hair flashing at the entrance of a tavern with a sign that read " By the Beside the River," before he was ushered inside by a group of elegantly dressed maids. The sound of his cane tapping on the threshold mingled with laughter, much like his behavior in King's Landing and at the Inn at the Kneeling Man.

"Never mind him." Gael picked up a pearl necklace and examined it against the sunlight. "He'll always be back before dark anyway."

Daemon's gaze fell on the shadows at the street corner. Larys Strong's gray donkey was tied to an old willow tree, but its owner was nowhere to be seen.

A corner of the black robe glimpsed behind the spice stall before disappearing into the alley leading to the docks—where several cargo ships were moored, and where merchants from the Free Cities were said to frequently stop.

The bustling market hides countless secrets. Daemon watched Alys whisper to the pharmacist at the medicine stall, and watched Gael gesturing to the fabric. Suddenly, he understood why the ancient River King did not want this place to become a city—the vitality of the town was hidden in this chaotic liveliness, like the flow of the Blue Fork, seemingly unrestrained, yet possessing its own power.

As the afternoon sun slanted downwards, the surface of the Blue Fork was dyed golden red.

The archers returned carrying their bows. Myles Rivers ' archery skills had improved considerably; three crooked but at least partially hit the target.

Corlys Celtigar bought the short sword as he wished and was wiping it with great delight.

Alys's bamboo basket was full of herbs, and there was also a small earthenware jar wrapped in black cloth, the contents of which were unknown.

Daemon Targaryen was escorted out by a tavern maid, his steps unsteady, his silver hair reddish as if soaked in wine, and lipstick stains still clinging to his lips. "Good wine... good girls..." he mumbled, being supported by Rupert, his eyes half-open. "Little Daemon, let me tell you, the girls here are better than those at the Inn at the Kneeling Man..."

"Brother, you should rest now." Daemon quickly Gael his unreliable great-grandfather, who was about to unleash his "Dragon's Wrath" again, and gestured to Lyonel Corbray to help him to the inn.

The evening banquet was held in the backyard of the inn. The evening breeze from the Blue Fork blew through the grapevines, bringing coolness and dispelling the heat of the day.

The oil from the grilled sea bass dripped onto the charcoal, sizzling, and the beer barrel was pried open again, foam overflowing the rim of the wooden cup.

"It's time to talk about what's next." Daemon put down his glass and looked at Larys. The latter had returned sometime earlier and was using a silver fork to pick up a piece of grilled fish, the hem of his black robe stained with some mud from the dock.

Larys swallowed the fish, pulled a roll of parchment from his sleeve, and spread it on the table. "Starting from Fairmarket, head north along the Blue Fork. The first stop is Oldstones." He ran his fingertip across the paper. "The bridge there is old, but carriages can cross it. On the other side is Ramsford."

"Does the House Mudd still have a lord stationed in Oldstones?" Rayford Rosby asked, his pen scribbling on the parchment.

"A fallen branch lord of the Lychester family," Larys chuckled. "His family's crest has long since turned to dust; he's only interested in offering wine before His Highness's dragon banner." He continued, "Beyond the Ramsford, the source of the Blue Fork is reached— Seagard, where the House Mallister has guarded for over a thousand years."

"And then?" Gael rested her chin on her hand, her light purple eyes reflecting the candlelight.

"From Seagard, head northeast, through Sevenstreams and across the Witch's Mire, and you'll reach the banks of the Green Fork." Larys's fingertip traced an area marked with reeds. "That area is all Frey Household territory. Finally, you reach the Twins. Frey Household's castle spans the Green Fork. Cross the bridge, and you'll reach the Kingsroad. Continue north, past Greywater Watch, across the the Neck, and you'll enter the the North."

He paused, his dark eyes sweeping over the crowd. "This route is the safest. It avoids many difficult sections and consists mainly of main roads. Although it's not as convenient as taking the Kingsroad directly, it also allows us to visit the territories of the other major lords of the Riverlands."

Alys Rivers chuckled softly, her green eyes gleaming in the candlelight. "Little Clubfoot has certainly explored every single stone in the Riverlands."

"After all, it's my hometown." Larys lowered his eyes, concealing the emotions within. "Knowing where the bridges are and where the pits are is essential for steady progress."

Daemon stared at the route on the parchment, his fingertip tracing the words "Witch's Mire." The name reminded him of Alys Rivers beside him and the Children of the Forest of the Isle of Faces, and the cold gaze of the White Walkers — the the North winds concealed a threat more terrifying than the saga of the Riverlands. This route was not merely a pilgrimage, but also paving the way for future Storm.

"Let's take this route." Daemon raised his glass. "We'll set off first thing tomorrow morning."

The night wind rustled through the grapevines, the Leaf whispering tales of the past of the Riverlands.

The Blue Fork continued its flow, carrying the lights of the Fairmarket and the shadows of this group, slowly flowing towards the the North.

Behind the inn's window, Larys stood for a long time, staring at the map, his limp casting a distorted shadow on the ground, as if calculating some unspoken scheme.

Meanwhile, Daemon Targaryen's snoring drifted from next door, mingling with the lingering clamor of the marketplace, adding a touch of absurd yet real warmth to this journey deeper into the the North.