Letters home and the boys' cares
The Green Fork shimmered with a dark silver light in the night, and the campfire crackled, casting a long shadow of Daemon.
The group camped in the woods at the edge of the Witch's Mire. Glutton, Caraxes, and Dreamfyre huddled in a clearing in the distance, the white vapor of dragon breath mingling with the thin mist in the forest, like three silent clouds.
Daemon Targaryen, leaning on his cane, limped over to Daemon and added a piece of pine wood to the fire. His silver hair gleamed warmly in the firelight. Instead of going out to have fun as usual, he stared at the leaping flames and suddenly sighed.
"After passing the Twins, further north is the the Neck." His voice was low, as if afraid of disturbing the night. "When you pleaded with Aunt Gael, you said you'd at least let me accompany you all the way north to clear your heads. But Gael said she'd only accompany me to the Riverlands before letting me return to King's Landing. Now we're almost done with the Riverlands, and it's almost time to part ways."
Daemon flipped the rabbit on the grill, grease dripping into the fire and sparks flying. "She was still angry then."
Why are you taking this so seriously?
"It's nothing to worry about." Daemon Targaryen tapped his cane. "I only came out under the pretext of delivering a letter to you on behalf of my father. But I've been gone for too long. Grandma Alysanne is probably going to nag, and Sister Aemma is probably worried too. Besides, without me protecting Viserys in Viserys 'King's Landing, who knows which bastard has bullied him again."
He paused, a self-deprecating smile playing on his lips. "Besides, Father, he was the one who secretly let me out this time. Who knew I'd run all over the Riverlands with you guys? The old man's been watching him closely in court every day, probably under pressure to cover for me right now. He's probably in King's Landing right now, sharing the burden with that guy Viserys. When I get back, the old man and he'll definitely give me another beating."
Daemon watched him fiddling with his cane—the tip of which was worn smooth, clearly from frequent and forceful use.
From the disappointment of Pinkmaiden to the resurgence of Riverrun, the decisiveness of Oldstones, and the resolute decision of Seagard, this pilgrimage actually made this Rogue Prince shed a lot of his pretense.
Aside from the Targaryen madness of blood and fire in his bones, his calm and insightful demeanor makes one forget that he is the prince who rides a horse on Silk Street.
"Go back if you want." Daemon handed him a roasted rabbit leg. "Give our regards to everyone for me and Gael." He pulled two parchments from his bag. "These are letters Gael and I wrote. Have Caraxes take them back. Even the fastest messenger's horse and the wings of a raven can't outrun the wings of a red dragon."
"You Little Daemon!" Daemon Targaryen took the letter and slapped him on the arm. "You really treat your brother like a messenger?"
"Who told you to be ' Big Daemon '?" Daemon laughed and dodged away. Just as he finished speaking, Gael's laughter came from behind the tree.
"I have an idea." She walked out with her arms crossed, her light purple eyes gleaming mischievously in the firelight. "Why don't we have everyone else in the group write a letter home, and you deliver it on your way back? That way, if the old man asks, you can say you were on important business, and maybe you can avoid punishment. Even if you're left in King's Landing, you can use this excuse to run off and 'deliver a letter' today."
Daemon Targaryen's eyes lit up, and he abruptly stood up, leaning on his cane. "That's a great idea!" Before Gael could react, he was already limping towards the squires' camp. "Rayford! Rupert! Come and write letters!"
Gael stared in disbelief, tugging at Daemon's sleeve. "I was just joking, why did he take it so seriously?"
"Don't worry," Daemon patted her hand reassuringly. "Even if that weren't the case, he wouldn't be at peace when he gets back. He's the Rogue Prince Daemon Targaryen, the word 'well-behaved' doesn't even begin to describe him. With the messenger delaying things, at least it won't cause too much trouble."
Gael breathed a sigh of relief, but immediately grabbed Daemon's ear. "Then you're not allowed to mention in your letter that it was my idea to Father or Mother! And you're not allowed to tell them when you get back, or your aunt will punish you, you disobedient Little Daemon." She said this as...
She pulled Daemon's shoulders down with both hands, wrapped her arms around his neck, and rubbed her cheek against the top of his head. "Understand?"
"I understand, I understand." Daemon smiled helplessly, "I promise I won't tell Grandpa and Grandma."
"And one more thing," Gael looked up and earnestly instructed, "Don't forget to send a letter to your sister-in-law Jocelyn when you write. She's not only my father's and mother's half-sister, but also your father Aemon's wife, and your sister Rhaenys's mother."
Daemon's smile faded at the mention of Jocelyn. The image of Mrs. Baratheon's gaze, filled with sorrow and heartache, immediately came to mind—like that of someone looking at a lost treasure regained, or someone worried about a lost child.
Fate took away her husband, Aemon, but brought her into the life of someone everyone considered Aemon's illegitimate son.
He is actually a boy who is a descendant of Baelon.
Even though Baelon and Aemon look so alike from childhood, why does everyone assume he is Aemon's descendant? Is it just because he, like Aemon, has an unusually tall stature? He clearly inherited the blood and bones of his ancestor Baelon.
Daemon gazed in the direction of the Green Fork, its waters flowing silently in the night, as if carrying his tangled thoughts.
Jocelyn's gaze always reminded him of a mother's eyes for her child, a look that was both familiar and strange to him. In his previous life, he had never seen such a look in his own mother's eyes, yet he had seen it more than once in Queen Naerys's gaze towards Daeron. But in this life, he was now forced to bear the identity of "Aemon's bastard son" and accept this heavy burden of concern.
Whispers rose and fell from the camp. Rayford was writing a letter home to his father, the Earl Rosby; Rupert Crabb boasted to his Raynavor, about how many Ironborn he had slain, assuring him not to worry. Myles Rivers lay on a rock, meticulously writing to his half-brother, Earl Jonah Mooton, about his progress in archery—longing was like a vine...
The warmth of the campfire crept into everyone's hearts.
Daemon Targaryen, leaning on his cane, weaved through the crowd, occasionally pointing out, "You should mention Mother's stew here."
"Don't forget to ask about your sister's kitten." "I remember you mentioned it." His silvery-white hair swayed in the torchlight, making him look quite like a proper messenger.
Gael leaned on Daemon's shoulder, watching the lively scene, and whispered, "Actually—he's not that much of a worry."
Daemon hummed in agreement, his gaze sweeping across the river. The boys' worries and anxieties, like the silt at the bottom of the river, were carried by the current towards home—the castles of the Crownlands, the mountains of the Vale, the tributaries of the Riverlands, the sails of the Blackwater Bay, the cliffs of Crab Claw Peninsula —the words on those letters might, perhaps, ride on the wings of Caraxes, land in the palms of their loved ones.
As night deepened, the campfire slowly died down. The Glutton let out a low growl, as if responding to a distant call.
Daemon rubbed his aching temples, temporarily casting aside his confusion about his origins and his anxieties about Jocelyn's gaze into the flowing waters of the Green Fork.
At least tonight, I have letters from home, a campfire, and people around me.
When the sun rises tomorrow, they will cross the Twins and head towards the the North. As for these parchments filled with longing, they will reach their destination faster than dragon wings.
The waters of the Green Fork are still flowing quietly.