Firelight at Ramsford
The night in the Oldstones was devoid of the bustling market, save for the crackling of campfires. Sir Lychester's cabin, the largest building in the village, was nothing more than mud-plastered walls, a thatched roof, and a few crooked wooden pillars supporting the beams.
The villagers gathered the best food they had in their homes: several bowls of smoked dried fish, half a bag of rye bread, two small jars of honey, and one woman even brought a bowl of wild berries, so red they looked like they had been soaked in blood.
"Your Highness, this is just a simple meal, nothing special..." Sir Lychester rubbed his hands together, his face full of guilt. His granddaughter, Ala, was squatting by the campfire, cooking a vegetable soup in an earthenware bowl, the flames reflecting off her patched-up skirt.
Daemon glanced at the obviously chipped earthenware bowls, then at the villagers' red, frostbitten cheeks, and gave Larys a wink.
Larys immediately understood, untying a sack from his horse. Inside were coins, loose silverware, and a few decent leather armors confiscated from the robbers. "Sir," he said calmly, counting the loot, "This, at market value, is enough to compensate the people for their losses. The rest will cover our lodging expenses."
"How can this be!" Sir Lychester hurriedly waved his hands, "His Highness saved our lives and killed that villain, we are more than grateful..."
"Take it." Daemon interrupted him, his tone leaving no room for argument. "The losses of our people must be compensated, and the children should get new winter clothes."
Just then, a burst of laughter came from the other side of the campfire.
Daemon Targaryen was dancing around a campfire, his arm around the Smith's daughter. The girl wore a faded blue dress, her cheeks flushed with laughter, and as she twirled to the rhythm, the hem of her dress drew beautiful arcs in the firelight.
Daemon Targaryen's silver hair gleamed, and his limping gait seemed surprisingly agile during the dance. Hearing the argument, he turned and laughed, "Old Sir, listen to Little Daemon! Consider this money for drinks, or I'll be staying at your house tonight!"
Sir Lychester looked at his "unreliable" appearance, then at Daemon's determined eyes, and finally accepted the sack with tears in his eyes.
Ala brought over a bowl of wild vegetable soup, steaming slightly. "Your Highness, please try it. It's wild shepherd's purse from the banks of the Blue Fork; it's very fresh."
As night deepened, Daemon walked to the ruins of the Oldstones. The Glutton was dozing beside the tombstone of Steffon Muldur IV, its Black Dragon scales gleaming dully in the moonlight. Daemon stroked its neck and whispered, "Go hunt some game, but don't touch the villagers' livestock."
The black three-headed dragon brand on his right shoulder suddenly felt slightly warm, as if a small fire was burning under his skin. The Glutton let out a low growl, rubbed his head against his palm, and then spread his huge wings, skimming low over the village. Dreamfyre and Caraxes immediately followed. The shadow of the three-headed dragon passed through the ruins in the moonlight and flew upstream towards the Blue Fork.
"Does the King of the Wild Dragons command even his own kind? Or is it because of you, Your Highness?" Larys's voice came from behind. He had also woken up at some point and was leaning against the crumbling wall, his black robes fluttering in the night wind.
Daemon didn't turn around. "They're hungry, but the villagers need food even more."
Larys chuckled. "You seem to care more about these people than the nobles of King's Landing."
"At least there was no scheming in their eyes." Daemon gazed in the direction where the dragon's shadow had disappeared. "The House Mudd ruled for a thousand years, and in the end, only a tomb remained. Perhaps for these commoners, living was more important than a crown."
At Dawn, the three-headed dragon returned.
The Glutton had dozens of large, shimmering silver fish dangling from its mouth, their scales still glistening with the moisture of the Blue Fork.
Dreamfyre was clutching several large wild rabbits in its paws, its ears still twitching slightly;
The most exaggerated Caraxes, who had a wild deer in his mouth, with dew clinging to its antlers.
"It seems the King of the Wild Dragons has a wide diet indeed." Rayford Rosby laughed as he stepped forward to help unload the prey.
The villagers were awakened by the dragon's roar and came out to find themselves stunned. The children clapped their hands around the fish strings, and even Sir Lychester clicked his tongue in amazement. "A real dragon is something else; even its hunting skills are amazing."
Daemon had Corlys Celtigar select the largest fish to give to the villagers, and then traded the rest with Sir Lychester for some dried fish.
"These will be their food." He stroked the Glutton's nose, and the Black Dragon obediently licked the back of his hand with its tongue. The fishy smell mixed with the heat of the dragon's breath didn't seem unpleasant.
Before setting off, Ala suddenly walked up to Jarman Waters, holding a cloth bag in her hands. Her face was redder than wild berries. She shoved the bag into Jarman's hands, turned, and ran off, saying, "It... I sewed this all night. Thank you, Sir."
Jarman paused for a moment, then opened the cloth bag. Inside was a gray eye patch with tiny blue fork grass patterns embroidered along the edges.
This one-eyed bastard son of the Buckwell family of Antlers, who had killed and shed blood before and had never blushed, now looked as if he had been burned, his ears turning so red they seemed to bleed.
"Oh--" Daemon Targaryen and Rayford and the others immediately cheered, Rupert even whistled. Jarman stuffed his blindfold haphazardly into his clothes, turned around and went to get his horse, his back view revealing his panic.
As the group left the Oldstones, Sir Lychester and his people saw them off at the village entrance. Ala stood at the front, watching Jarman's retreating figure, her hands tightly clutching the hem of her dress.
Daemon glanced back at the ruins. The Oldstones in the morning light resembled a silent old man, and the Mudd family's tombstone cast long, thin shadows in the rising sun.
Ramsford is situated on a shallow beach of the Blue Fork. Although it is called a small town, it actually consists of only a few dozen wooden houses, with a simple wooden bridge spanning the shallow beach and connecting the two banks of the river.
The river becomes calm here, revealing large pebbles on the shallows, and several rams are grazing on the bank, which is where the town gets its name.
"Let's rest and let the horses drink some water." Daemon reined in his horse and glanced around the town. Everyone seemed very busy. Several fishermen were hauling their nets ashore, and women were washing clothes by the river. The air was filled with the smell of fish and the dampness of the river.
Just as Rayford Rosby was about to go to the inn to book a room, he suddenly pointed into the distance and exclaimed, "Your Highness, look!"
Everyone looked in the direction he pointed—at the end of the Blue Fork, towards the direction of Seagard, a blaze of fire was shooting into the sky, thick smoke like a black dragon spreading across the morning sky. The fire was so intense that even from this side, the flickering red light could be seen, as if a hole had been burned through the sky.
"It's Seagard." Larys's face darkened as he squinted at the flames. "The House Mallister's territory... how could it suddenly catch fire?"
Daemon Targaryen, now mostly sober, leaned on his cane and walked to the riverbank, his violet eyes fixed on the direction of the firelight. "Could they be fighting with the other Riverlands lords? They've been causing quite a bit of trouble these past few days while I've been touring Riverlands with you."
"Not like it." Daemon gripped the Blackfyre, its blade gleaming coldly in the sunlight. "Apart from House Bracken and Blackwood, no Riverlands lord would dare to so openly offend the Iron Throne's authority, let alone fight so fiercely in private."
The Glutton let out an uneasy growl and nuzzled Daemon's arm. The firelight in the distance grew brighter and brighter, turning the surface of the Blue Fork red, like flowing blood.
The fishermen at Ramsford also saw the firelight and stopped their work, pointing into the distance and discussing it animatedly. An old fisherman squatted on the ground, making the sign of the cross. "Good heavens, what happened to Seagard? The House Mallister has guarded it for hundreds of years..."
Daemon flipped over and climbed onto the Glutton's back, and the Black Dragon immediately took to the air.
Looking down from high above, the fire was indeed coming from the direction of Seagard. The entire castle seemed to be engulfed in flames, and he could vaguely see columns of smoke rising from different places, which did not seem like an accidental fire.
"Let's go take a look." Daemon patted the Glutton's neck, and the Black Dragon let out a roar, swooping down towards the firelight.
Gael rode Dreamfyre closely behind, the shadows of the two dragons sweeping across the wooden bridge of Ramsford, startling the rams on the shore into scattering and fleeing.
Daemon Targaryen cursed and followed on his Caraxes, swaying precariously on the dragon's back but clinging tightly to the saddle.
Rayford Rosby said to Rupert, "Keep an eye on the team, we're following!"
The procession immediately sprang into action, the horses' hooves clattering over the pebbles of the shallows.
Daemon glanced back at Ramsford. The townspeople were still staring blankly at the flames. None of them knew whether behind those flames lay a rebellion, a war, or another unforeseen disaster.
The Blue Fork flowed onward, carrying their shadows toward the towering flames. The lingering warmth of the Oldstones still lingered in their hearts, but the flames ahead had already dyed the sky blood-red.