Blood and fire at Oldstones
The Blue Fork makes a bend at the foot of the mountains near the Oldstones, its turbid waters lapping against the exposed riverbed and churning up small pebbles.
When Daemon's party arrived, the setting sun was gilding the ruins with a rusty hue—only waist-high remnants of the House Mudd walls remained, withered vines climbing the gray stones. The tomb of Steffon Maud IV stood alone atop the hill, a weathered stone bearing a blurred crown emblem—the Maud coat of arms with emerald green accents on a reddish-brown background, now only worn away by the erosion of time.
"Is this the Oldstones?" Gael reined in Dreamfyre's dragon saddle, her pale purple eyes sweeping over the ruins.
The gray-black foundation is faintly visible among the weeds, like the exposed bones of Giants. The wind blows through the broken watchtower, making a wailing sound, as if telling the story of the rise and fall of the House Mudd from kings of rivers and hills to their extinction and desolation over a thousand years.
As the group rounded a crumbling wall, a cacophony of cries drifted over on the wind.
Daemon squinted and saw a dozen men wielding rusty swords surrounding a group of villagers in front of the village at the foot of the mountain. The leader was a tall, thin man with a face like a weasel, a flat nose, and a pair of sly little eyes. He was currently grabbing a girl in a coarse cloth dress and tearing at her collar with his greasy hands.
"Let go of my granddaughter!" An elderly man with white hair lay on the ground, his robe soaked in blood. He had been kicked and had his ribs broken when he tried to stop them. He was struggling to crawl forward when a robber stepped on his back.
Several young farmers rushed forward with hoes, only to be knocked to the ground in an instant. Blood from their foreheads mixed with dirt, leaving dark red stains on the ground.
The children huddled in the corner of the thatched hut, their cries like those of a choked kitten. The women's screams were drowned out by the robbers' laughter. Some were ransacking the place, stuffing grain from earthenware jars and coins from cloth bags into sacks.
"Those beasts." Rupert Crabb's hand rested on his sword hilt, his armor trembling slightly with rage. Lyonel Corbray had already drawn his longsword, its blade gleaming coldly in the setting sun. "Your Highness, give the order!"
Daemon's gaze fell on the weasel leader. The man was leaning close to the girl's neck, grinning lewdly, his fingers about to tear off her sash.
Just then, the Dragon King's wrath brought forth the Glutton, Caraxes, and Dreamfyre, all unleashing deafening roars—the three-headed dragon's roars rolled across the wasteland like thunder, the shockwaves sending the bandits staggering and their weapons clattering to the ground.
Taking advantage of their moment of shock, a dark figure flashed past the back of the group. Jarman Waters's one eye locked onto his target, the bowstring was drawn taut like a full moon, and the arrow shot out, accurately piercing through the chaotic crowd, and with a "thud" it pierced the chest of the weasel leader, the feathers at the end of the arrow trembling violently on his chest.
The leader's laughter abruptly stopped, his eyes widened, and he slowly collapsed to the ground, blood gushing from the arrow wound, staining his coarse cloth shirt red.
"Kill!" Daemon's voice was as cold as the ice of the Blue Fork.
Rayford Rosby drew his longsword, Corlys Celtigar brandished his newly acquired short sword, and Myles cleaved the first robber's head in two with his great axe.
Daemon dismounted from the Glutton and mounted his warhorse. As the Blackfyre was drawn, it emitted a soft, dragon-like sound. With a flash of light, the two bandits who tried to resist were already decapitated.
The Rogue Prince also tumbled off Caraxes's back, this time Colin had prepared a warhorse for him in advance. Daemon Targaryen, with a sway of his injured leg, mounted the horse, the Dark Sister were drawn, and blood splattered as the warhorses charged.
Gael stood on Dreamfyre's back, her pale purple eyes sweeping across the battlefield. The dragon's shadow loomed over the village, terrifying the remaining bandits so much that they collapsed to the ground, none daring to move.
The battle ended quickly. The surviving bandits were tied up in a string, kneeling on the ground, trembling, looking at their companions' corpses and the villagers' tearful eyes, their trouser legs stained with yellow stains.
Rayford kicked a helmet that a robber had dropped. The helmet was made of sheet metal with frayed edges and a crooked, blurry emblem welded on it.
"Your Highness," he frowned, "This equipment is off. It doesn't seem like the hastily assembled rabble of bandits; it's more like..."
"Not only that." Lyonel Corbray picked up a sword, its blade riddled with nicks. "Look at this hilt, wrapped in linen, for grip, more like something a trained soldier would do."
"Thank you... thank you, Your Highnesses Dragons!" The white-haired old man, supported by his granddaughter, walked shakily to Daemon, tears welling in his cloudy eyes. He recognized the three-headed dragon as Targaryen dragon the moment he saw it, and bowed deeply to Daemon. "I am Buren Lychester, the lord of this Oldstones."
"Sir Lychester?" Daemon helped him up, noticing a faint emblem embroidered on the inside of the old man's robe—a black eagle claw against an orange and white triangular sub-sign. "A member of the House Lychester?"
The old man nodded with a bitter smile. "In my youth, I was the second son of my family. I left Lychester and traveled to Seven Kingdoms. In the forty-seventh year of the Conquest calendar, I followed Prince Jaehaerys in the campaign against Maegor. In the forty-eighth year, His Majesty reclaimed the Iron Throne, and I was granted this place for my minor contributions." He coughed a few times, blood oozing from the corner of his mouth. "This is my granddaughter, Ala. Her son died young, leaving only the two of us..."
Ala, her eyes red-rimmed, curtsied to Daemon, her voice choked with emotion. "The leader of that group was Walder Frey, the third son of Marquis Frey of the Twins. He had long coveted the abandoned castle in Oldstones, claiming it was unclaimed land, and he also coveted our territory. He had proposed marriage several times, but we knew of his tarnished reputation and refused each time... We never expected him to actually bring men to rob us this time..."
Colin Celtigar and Lyonel exchanged a glance, then both looked at Daemon with questioning eyes: What should we do with these prisoners?
Daemon Targaryen stepped forward, leaning on his cane, his silver hair whipping in the wind, his purple eyes filled with malice. He pointed to the "robber" on the ground, made a throat-slitting gesture at Daemon, and said in an icy voice, "This kind of trash is just a nuisance, better to..."
Larys Strong had appeared beside him unnoticed, his black robes billowing like bat wings in the twilight. He said softly, "Your Highness, Oldstones is remote. Why not strip them of their equipment and valuables, leave them by the roadside, and say they were double-crossed by other bandits... Even if the Frey Household finds out, they won't be able to find any evidence."
Daemon looked at the trembling "robbers," then at the injured villagers on the ground, the crying children, and Ala's torn collar.
He never liked killing innocent people, but if these "robbers" were considered "human," then there would be no beasts in the world.
"Take them all." He waved his hand, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Find a secluded place."
As the robbers were dragged away, they screamed like pigs being slaughtered. Some begged for mercy, some cursed, but no one dared to resist.
Daemon Targaryen sneered and followed behind, leaning on his cane. Caraxes growled and swept the bloodstains on the ground with flames, as if cleaning up trash.
The group led the prisoners to a river valley three miles from the village. The valley was overgrown with weeds and full of jagged rocks, making it an ideal place to destroy the evidence.
Daemon closed his eyes, and the Blackfyre fell without the slightest hesitation.
The screams quickly subsided. Daemon ordered, "Burn it."
Torches were thrown into the pile of corpses, and the dry grass instantly burst into flames. The firelight illuminated the night sky and everyone's faces. Thick smoke billowed upwards, carrying the acrid smell of burning, drifting towards the Blue Fork.
"Leave it to me." Larys Strong winked at Jarman Waters, and the one-eyed bastard immediately understood, leading several servants forward.
They began dragging the corpses, arranging them to look like they were killing each other, and throwing the cheap weapons they had taken from the robbers all over the ground. They even slashed the rocks with sword marks to create the illusion of a fierce battle.
Larys personally used a dagger to deliver several more stabs to the corpses at tricky angles, making them look like wounds left from a dying counterattack.
"That looks much better now." Larys clapped his hands, a hint of satisfaction flashing in his dark eyes. "Even if the Frey Household investigates, they'll just think that Walder robbed another bandit and was silenced."
Daemon gazed at the flickering flames, their light flashing in his purple eyes. The ruins of the Oldstones stood silently in the night, the tomb of Steffon Mudd IV standing as a silent witness.
He recalled that the House Mudd had been the last rulers of the Trident who believed in the Old Gods, and their demise under the Andals invasion. Suddenly, he felt that some things had never changed—the plunder of power and the ugliness of human nature had been playing out on this land from ancient times to the present.
"Back to the village." Daemon turned, the bloodstains on his Blackfyre gleaming dark red in the moonlight. "Tomorrow morning, we'll set off for Ramsford."
The flames gradually died down, leaving only a pile of charred ashes, which were scattered in the valley by the evening wind. Larys checked the scene one last time, making sure there were no flaws, before following the group back. His limping shadow stretched long on the ground, like a trail of undried blood.
In the village of Oldstones, Sir Lychester was directing the villagers to clean up the bloodstains, Ala was bandaging the wounds of an injured farmer, and the children's crying had stopped as they began to help gather the scattered grain.
Three giant dragons lay beside the ruins, like three silent mountains, their breath condensing into white mist in the night sky, guarding this land that had just experienced blood and fire.
Daemon stood before King Muldur's tombstone, his fingertips tracing the faded inscriptions.
Perhaps this is the meaning of his return—not only to stop the Dance of the Dragons, but also to protect the peace in these forgotten corners that should not have been plundered.
The night wind blew across the ruins of the Oldstones, carrying the moisture from the Blue Fork and a faint, almost imperceptible smell of burning.
The road ahead leads to Ramsford, where there may be more storms to come, but at least for this moment, under the starry sky of Oldstones, justice has been served in the most resolute way.