Firelight at dawn
The Green Fork makes a bend under the stone arch bridge in the Twins, and the sound of the water hitting the bridge piers is like a never-ending pendulum.
When Daemon's party arrived, the rising sun was illuminating the two castles on either side of the river—their grey stone walls towering high, the moat gleaming coldly, and the blue twin towers and the coat of arms of the arched bridge on the heavy oak gates gleaming brightly in the morning light.
The Stonebridge connecting the two banks is wide enough for two carriages to pass side by side. The Water Tower in the center of the bridge is like a vigilant eye, and the figures of the guards can be vaguely seen through the arrow holes.
"It took the Frey Household three generations to build this thing." Larys Strong rode alongside Daemon, his black robes sweeping across the stone slabs of the Stonebridge. "They converted a wooden fortress to stone, and then welded the bridge and castle together—all to block this crossing."
The bridgehead was already crowded with people. Frey wore a dark blue brocade robe with his family crest embroidered in silver thread on the chest. He was about sixty years old, with a face that resembled an old owl, and his small eyes gleamed with shrewdness.
Behind him followed two young men. The older one wore silver armor and had an upright face, while the younger one appeared frail but also carried the restraint of a knight. They were probably his eldest and second sons. Neither of them resembled their father; instead, they resembled their maternal family.
"Welcome, Your Highnesses Daemon and Gael! Welcome, Earl Dustin!" Marquis Frey bowed, his voice high-pitched and thin. "The Twins is humble, and our hospitality is lacking; please forgive us." His gaze swept over the procession behind Daemon, lingering for a moment on the three-headed dragon, before turning to Daemon's blood-soaked followers and Earl Dustin's guards. His pupils contracted slightly, then he smiled again. "Please come in; the feast is ready."
The banquet was held in the main hall of the Twins, where long tables were laden with roasted meat and sweet wine, and four portraits of women hung on the walls.
Frey raised his glass in acknowledgment and first introduced his fourth wife, a woman from the Nayland the Witch's Mire. Her face was calm, but her eyes revealed vigilance. Standing beside her was a boy of about ten years old, his fourth son.
"This is my fourth wife, Margaery, daughter of the Nayland." The Marquis rubbed his hands together. "My first three wives are all—gone." He pointed to the portraits on the wall. "This is the mother of my eldest son, Aemon, of the Charlton family; this is the mother of my second son, Hosteen, of the Erenford family; and this—" He paused, pointing to the last one, the woman in the painting with a pointed face and small eyes just like Walder Frey's, "Is the mother of my good-for-nothing third son, Walder, who is now missing and his fate unknown, of the Haigh family."
Daemon paused slightly in his wine glass. Sure enough, the "weasel-like" appearance of Walder Frey and the Frey Household in later generations seemed to be inherited from the mother. It seemed that they had done a good thing, improving the overall image of the Frey Household in the future.
The Marquis Frey's four wives happened to come from the four great vassals of the Lord of the Underworld: Charlton, Erenford, Haigh, and Nayland. This move was both shrewd and risky. For a vassal of a vassal, with his four sons' maternal families fighting to the death, he could rest easy. In fact, the maternal families behind his sons would have to curry favor with him to ensure his secure position as marquis.
Aemon and Hosteen rose and bowed to the crowd, their words and actions exuding fairness, a stark contrast to their father and third brother.
Daemon and Daemon Targaryen exchanged a glance, temporarily suppressing their anger—at least these two sons didn't seem to be involved in those matters.
Halfway through the banquet, Frey began to apologize, saying that the recent unrest in the territory had frightened the princes, and he repeatedly toasted Rodrik Dustin in an attempt to ease the atmosphere.
Earl Dustin merely scoffed, the veins on his hand gripping the wine glass bulging, clearly not forgetting the "bandits" from the Witch's Mire.
After the party ended, the Marquis of Frey dismissed everyone, leaving only Daemon, Gael, Daemon Targaryen, and Rodrik.
Dustin.
He closed the study door, his smile vanishing instantly, and bowed deeply to Daemon: "Your Highness, regarding Walder's matter—it was my fault for not disciplining him properly."
"Lacking in discipline?" Daemon Targaryen slammed his cane on the ground. "The bandits of Oldstones, the extortionists of Sevenstreams, the raiders of Witch's Mire —it was all done by your good son and your vassals! You dare say you didn't know?"
The old marquis's small eyes darted around. "I—I only let him collect some tolls, I didn't let him hurt anyone. Those robberies were all his own idea, and his mother's clansmen were cowards too—" He sighed, "Stevron and Ryman are good cavalrymen, they know nothing. I beg Your Highness, for their sake, please spare me some dignity."
"Dignity?" Daemon Targaryen laughed, his laughter full of sarcasm. "You've killed so many people, and you still have the nerve to want both face and substance? If you want dignity, do you want my Dark Sister to personally take care of you?"
"I never ordered the killings!" the old marquis hurriedly protested, "Besides, haven't Walder and those men already paid the price? Their bodies are gone, whether buried in Dragonfire or the swamp—"
"Enough," Daemon interrupted, the hilt of the Blackfyre burning in his palm. "We have no right to judge you beyond the Iron Throne. But I will report everything truthfully to His the Conciliator." He stared at the old Marquess. "When I return from the the North, I hope you will be wise enough to offer your own incriminating evidence and confess to His Majesty Jaehaerys."
After saying that, he turned and left, with Gael and Daemon Targaryen following closely behind. Earl Dustin was the last to leave, and the force of the door closing made the books on the bookshelf fall down.
The next morning, the bridgehead of the Twins was crowded with people seeing them off. Daemon Targaryen, dressed in his formal dragon rider attire, was talking to Aemon Frey when he saw Daemon and his party approaching. He climbed onto Caraxes's back, and the red dragon let out a roar and spread its wings.
"I'll be waiting for you in King's Landing! I'll deliver the letters to you one by one!" he shouted, waving his hand. His silver hair flew in the wind. Caraxes circled once and flew south, the crimson dragon shadow quickly disappearing into the horizon.
All eyes followed the red dragon until it became a tiny dot. Just then, a servant suddenly screamed, "Fire! The Marquis's study!"
Everyone turned around and saw black smoke rising from the direction of the main castle. The fire was not conspicuous in the morning light, but it was spreading rapidly. By the time the guards arrived with water, the study had already been engulfed in flames. The sound of the oak bookshelves cracking mixed with the popping of burning, like some kind of desperate lament.
Daemon stood at the bridgehead, gazing at the flames, gripping the Blackfyre tightly, the black three-headed Dragon Mark on his shoulder slightly warm.
The old Marquess, carrying all the evidence, was reduced to ashes in the flames—no body, no confession, no way to prove his innocence. He even calculated that everyone's attention would be on Daemon Targaryen, and that the dawn would extinguish the nascent flames.
"Shameless and shrewd," Daemon muttered, a chill flashing in his purple eyes.
Aemon and Hosteen were frantically directing the firefighting efforts, their faces filled with shock and grief, which seemed genuine.
Daemon looked at them, then at the ever-growing flames, and thought of Walder Frey and the Marquis Frey. He suddenly felt that the Frey Household's "weasel" gene might not only be inherited in appearance, but also in their inherent ruthlessness and scheming.
"Let's go." Daemon turned his horse. "The Kingsroad and the the North await us ahead."
When the group left the Twins, the flames in the study had already reached the roof.
The Green Fork continued its flow, carrying ash and secrets, before merging into the main stream of the Trident. Daemon glanced back at the two towers that were growing ever more distant, and suddenly recalled the Frey Frey's last look—not fear, but a hint of almost liberated cunning.
Perhaps this is the "decency" he wanted—to wipe away all the sins with a fire and let his sons continue to run the Twins as "victims".
Sunlight streamed over the Water Tower and onto Kingsroad. Daemon gripped his Blackfyre tightly. The road ahead led to the the Neck, to the the North, and the flames of the Twins became the Riverlands ' final mark on them—a final chapter of sin and punishment, shrewdness and shamelessness.
But Daemon's anger had not yet subsided. He sincerely loathed these lowly insects; their shady dealings and scheming were something Daemon would never despise. The Dragon Mark was slightly warm, reflecting Daemon's anger at having his goodwill betrayed once again.