The oath of the Three Sisters

As the Glutton's Black Dragon shadow swept across Bay of Crabs, Daemon's first whiff wasn't of the salty sea breeze, but of a stench mixed with pig manure, rotting fish and shrimp, and damp straw—the smell was like a rag soaked in sewage, stuck firmly in his nostrils. Even the Black Dragon couldn't help but turn its head away, its breath trembling with disgust.

"By the gods—" Mysaria, holding Gael and supporting Dreamfyre's dragon saddle, her platinum curls plastered to her cheeks by the sea breeze, covered her nose with a handkerchief embroidered with blue fork grass, her voice muffled as if she had cotton in her mouth, "The smell here is worse than the rotten mud of the Witch's Mire."

Gael wasn't much better off; her pale purple eyes were furrowed into crescents as she tugged at her salt-stained cloak. "The book says the Three Sisters are the pearls of Bay of Crabs," she said. "These pearls are probably dug out of the mud, aren't they?"

Daemon reined in the Glutton, looking down at the Sisterton below, a simple port town that resembled a pile of rubble washed ashore by the waves:

The streets, a patchwork of mud and planks, were full of potholes, with fish gills, seashells, and tattered fishing nets discarded by who-knows-who were embedded in the mud;

The thatched-roof houses were crooked and some didn't even have chimneys. Black smoke seeped out from the cracks in the walls, turning the walls black.

In the pigsty on the street corner, several emaciated pigs were rooting around moldy dried fish. Excrement flowed into the street through the cracks in the wooden planks, mixing with the seawater that flooded in during high tide, turning a nauseating grayish-green color.

"That's the Sunderland flag." Rayford Rosby pointed to the tallest wooden pole in the harbor from the ship. The blue-green wave-patterned flag fluttered in the wind, the emblem of three dark-haired women's heads particularly striking. "It looks much older than the battle flag I saw in the Vale last time."

When the group arrived at the mudflats of the harbor, the Marquess Sunderland was already waiting with his men.

The old marquis was wearing a dark blue brocade robe, the corners of which were stained with the smell of the sea. His hair was gray but neatly combed. When he saw Daemon dismount, he immediately stepped forward and his rough hand tightly gripped Daemon's wrist. The force carried the warmth of familiarity and a hint of barely perceptible urgency.

"Your Highness Daemon! We've been waiting for you!" Sunderland's voice was hoarse yet powerful, as if polished by the sea breeze. He gestured to the three men behind him, "This is Borrell Earl of Sweetsister, Lord Longthorpe of Longsister, and Torrent of Sister Isle. The heads of our Three Sisters are all here waiting for you!"

Daemon's gaze swept over the three of them:

Borrell Earl was short and stocky, with skin as dark as a sea-soaked rock, and faintly visible pale gray webbing between his fingers, making him look like a crab just crawled out of the sea.

Lord Longthorpe was as thin as a dried harpoon, with a rusty sailor's knife at his waist, and his eyes held the vigilance typical of pirates;

Sir Torrent, the youngest, wore an ill-fitting silk coat, clearly smuggled from the south, his fingers nervously twisting the hem of the garment.

"Borrell Earl," Daemon spoke first, his gaze falling on the other's hands, "I didn't have time to examine your talent closely at Moon Gate Keep last time—it certainly pairs well with the seafood of Sweetsister."

Borrell paused for a moment, then burst into laughter, slapping his rough hands on his thighs, the webbed hands gleaming in the sunlight. "Your Highness has a good eye! Our Borrell family has made our living from the sea for generations. These webbed hands are more useful than oars! When I was a child, my father taught me to swim, and I could hold my breath underwater for half an hour, catching more fish than my brother could with a fishing net!"

No sooner had he finished speaking than a chaotic braying of donkeys erupted from behind the crowd. Larys Strong's gray donkey, which had somehow broken free of its reins, was now fighting with a skinny pig on the street corner over a bundle of moldy seaweed. Mud splattered everywhere as the donkey's hooves dug at the ground, while the pig grunted and nudged its hind legs. Larys, leaning on his cane, chased after it, sweating profusely, his black robe half-covered in mud, muttering, "You glutton! Just like your former master, so ignorant! Seaweed compared to Sunderland's ale?"

Everyone burst into laughter, and even Longthorpe, who had been keeping a straight face, couldn't help but smirk.

Daemon watched this absurd scene and shook his head helplessly. "Larys, keep an eye on your Mr. Longlegs," lest he create a new legend of "donkeys and pigs fighting over food" in Sisterton.

Larys finally managed to grab the donkey's reins, but the gray donkey was still stubbornly pulling at its neck. He glared at the donkey, panting, then bowed to Daemon: "Your Highness, rest assured, next time I'll tie it next to the Glutton —I don't believe it'll dare to cause trouble again."

The Marquess Sunderland led the group to the only "decent" building in Sisterton —a fortress built of reef and planks. Though called a fortress, it was more like an enlarged fishing hut, with a few fish bones stuck in the thatched roof as decoration.

The banquet hall's long table was made from a single whalebone, its surface uneven yet polished to a shine. A fire was burning brightly in the corner, with a large black iron pot bubbling inside, its aroma mingling with the smell of the sea filling the entire room.

"Your Highness, please try our Three Sisters ' signature 'Sisters' Stew'!" Sunderland patted the table, and a maid in a coarse cloth dress brought over a ceramic bowl filled with a thick stew: large chunks of cod, crab legs, and goat cheese mixed together, the broth a pale brown color, sprinkled with some unknown seaweed flakes. "Don't let its appearance fool you, it tastes delicious! The cod was caught this morning, and the cheese is a specialty of Sister Isle. It's been stewed for two hours, so you can even chew the bones!"

Mysaria cautiously tasted the fish for the prince and princess, then her eyes lit up. "It's better than I expected! The fish is tender, and the cheese isn't greasy at all." Gael also tried some and nodded in agreement. "It's really good, just a bit too fishy."

Myles Rivers the least polite, wolfing down his food from the earthenware bowl, his dark face smeared with soup. "Ten times better than the wild vegetable soup in Oldstones! Borrell Earl, are the fish on your Sweetsister particularly plump?"

Borrell, who was holding a crab leg with his webbed hands, raised his chin smugly upon hearing this. "That's right! The currents on Sweetsister are warm, so the fish grow faster than elsewhere, and the meat is more tender. It's just—" He paused, his tone becoming more serious, "The House Arryn family in the Vale always said that we live off the sea but don't know the rules," even charging double the tax when selling fish to Gulltown.

These words instantly chilled the atmosphere. Longthorpe toyed with his sailor's knife and muttered, "The North are even worse, calling us pirates! The Manderly family of White Harbor even dared to seize our smuggling ships, even though they themselves buy our salt!"

Torrent nodded in agreement, soup stains cuffs of his silk coat stained. "We don't want to smuggle either, but the Three Sisters are too poor. They have nothing but seafood and stones. The Vale doesn't provide food, the the North doesn't provide iron, and this is their only means of survival."

The Marquess Sunderland sighed and poured Daemon a full glass of ale. "Your Highness, let's not beat around the bush. Last time at Moon Gate Keep, you helped us in the Vale drive away the Mountain Clans, and we knew you were a straightforward man. Recently, I heard from Earl Celtigar that you're interested in venturing across the Narrow Sea?"

"Cough!" Colin Celtigar, sitting next to Daemon, suddenly choked on his ale, his face turning bright red, the silver fork in his hand...

It clattered onto the table.

His reaction was so obvious that all eyes were on him. Borrell smiled, his eyes narrowed. "Young man from the House Celtigar, are you wondering when your uncle spread this news throughout the coastal lords? The old crab's mouth moves faster than the wind over the Narrow Sea!"

Colin wished he could disappear into a crack in the floor, his fingers digging into the cracks in the table as he whispered in protest, "My uncle—he's just a chatterbox, he didn't mean it."

Seeing his embarrassed expression, Daemon couldn't help but laugh, "Alright, don't make things difficult for Colin. I know how big a mouth Earl Celtigar is." But who knows whether this shrewd old crab did it on purpose or by accident?

Daemon then put down his glass, his violet eyes sweeping over the crowd, and said frankly, "I do intend to go to the other side of the Narrow Sea to see what the Free Cities like, and I also want to build a great legacy for my family and myself, but not now. I have the important task of His Majesty's tour of the Seven Kingdoms, so I must finish Westeros first."

Before he could finish speaking, Borrell suddenly slammed down his earthenware bowl, stood up abruptly, and slammed his webbed hand heavily on the table, making the bowl and dishes shake. "Your Highness! We Three Sisters are willing to serve you! As long as you give the word, whether it's to the other side of the Narrow Sea or to the ends of the earth, our Borrell family's ships are ready at any time!"

The Marquess Sunderland's face darkened. He reached out to pull him back but couldn't. He could only give Daemon a wry smile and say, "Your Highness, please don't take offense. Old Borrell is just like that, quick-tempered, and he's never changed in his life."

2

Longthorpe and Torrent also rose, Longthorpe twirling his sailor's knife in his hand. "Your Highness, Borrell is right. Although we Three Sisters have a bad reputation, we have never truly rebelled against the Iron Throne since Aegon's conquest. Our raids are limited to Ironborn, and we're not the only ones smuggling throughout the Seven Kingdoms. If you could give us a chance, we would be willing to pledge our allegiance to you!"

Torrent nodded quickly, "Although our Torrent family is small, the port on Sister Isle can hold fifty ships and even repair them! With just a word from Your Highness, we'll immediately clear out all the smuggled goods and switch to legitimate business!"

Looking at these lords who were so honest they were almost endearing, Daemon suddenly remembered the Three Sisters warriors who had followed him on the Red Grassland in his previous life. They were the descendants of these people, and although they had a bandit-like air about them, they were just as loyal.

The black three-headed Dragon Mark on his right shoulder suddenly became hot, as if echoing this bond that spanned a century.

Daemon then stood up, walked to the center of the long table, and drew his Blackfyre with a "whoosh." The Valyrian steel blade gleamed coldly in the firelight, and the ancient patterns on the blade seemed to come alive, shimmering with a faint silver light.

"I accept your allegiance, but there are three conditions," his voice was not loud, but carried an undeniable authority, his gaze sweeping over each person, "First, you are not allowed to plunder the merchant ships and civilians of the Seven Kingdoms. You are only allowed to double-cross the Ironborn and the Narrow Sea pirates. I want a fleet that can defend and fight, not pirates that everyone hates; second, my fleet must be under my unified command, and you are not allowed to act without my orders; third, before I complete my tour of the Seven Kingdoms, you must ensure the safety of the Bay of Crabs waterway and not allow any force to cause trouble here."

Borrell nodded hastily, about to speak, when Daemon raised his hand to stop him, continuing, "If you agree to these three covenants, I, in the name of Daemon Targaryen, swear by the Blackfyre..." Before he finished speaking, a Glutton dragon roar suddenly echoed from the harbor. The Glutton's shadow swept across the fortress, its dark wings brushing against the thatched roofs. Its breath condensed into white vapor in the night sky, like a black lightning bolt. Everyone instinctively looked up, their eyes filled with awe.

"One day, the Glutton will soar through the skies, and your sails will carry them across the seas," Daemon's voice mingled with the roar of a dragon, carrying the imposing presence of the Old Valyria Dragon King, "My Blackfyre will also fight for the people of the Three Sisters."

When you need support, the Glutton's Dragonfire will burn all your enemies!

Borrell's eyes lit up, completely forgetting Daemon's three promises. He knelt down on the muddy ground with a thud, pounding his chest heavily with his webbed hands. "Your Highness! The Borrell family is with you! We'll stand by you, even if it's thirty promises!"

Seeing that he had preempted him again, the Marquess Sunderland shook his head helplessly and knelt on one knee as well, followed closely by Longthorpe and Torrent. The four lords shouted in unison, "We pledge our allegiance to His Highness Daemon! We will never betray him in this life!"

Daemon stepped forward and first helped Marquess Sunderland to his feet, the hilt of his Blackfyre gently tapping his shoulder. "Lord Sunderland, you are the leader of the Three Sisters. From now on, we will rely more on you for the command of the fleet."

Then it was Borrell. Daemon looked at the mud on his knees and couldn't help but laugh, "Old Borrell, don't be in such a hurry next time. My vow won't be broken."

Borrell chuckled, wiping his face with his sleeve. "Your Highness's words are even more exhilarating than Dragonfire, I couldn't help myself!"

As he helped Longthorpe and Torrent up, Daemon said, "Longthorpe, your sailor's knife is good. We'll have to rely on you for patrolling Bay of Crabs from now on. Torrent, keep up the ship repair skills on Sister Isle. We'll need you to fix our ships in the future."

The two bowed respectfully, their eyes filled with excitement—they had never been so valued by members of the royal family in their entire lives, let alone received a promise with "Dragonfire as proof."

The atmosphere at the dinner party was getting really lively. Sunderland had the finest ale brought out, Borrell personally went to the harbor to catch fresh cod, Longthorpe played the sailor's Roote, Torrent brought out smuggled southern fruits, and even Larys's grey donkey was tied to the fire pit, munching on oats that Sunderland had specially provided.

Mysaria sat beside Gael, watching the lively scene before her, and whispered, "Your Highness seems particularly interested in the people of the Three Sisters."

Gael nodded, a smile playing in her light purple eyes, "No way, he's always like that, he can't stand seeing others play the victim. Don't you understand? Besides, although these people are rude and barbaric, they are very honest and loyal, much more lovable than those nobles in King's Landing."

Daemon stood by the window of the fortress, holding his beer, gazing at the lights of the harbor.

The Three Sisters ' sails were faintly visible in the night; though simple, they exuded a tenacious vitality.

He recalled the warriors who fought for him and died for him on the Red Grassland in his previous life, and looking at the vibrant people in front of him, a warm feeling suddenly welled up in his heart.

The Dragon Mark on his right shoulder was still burning hot. The Glutton's dragon roar came from the harbor, intertwining with the sound of the distant waves, like a hymn of promise.

Daemon gripped the Blackfyre, silently vowing: in this life, he would not only stop the future Dance of the Dragons, but also fight against the unknown White Walkers beyond the the Wall, and ensure that those who had offered their loyalty to him but were looked down upon could hold their heads high and live with dignity—just as the Dragon King of Old Valyria had promised, that the glory of the Dragonfire would shine upon everyone who was loyal to him.

As night deepened, the songs from Sisterton continued, the aroma of ale, stew, and the salty sea breeze mingling together to create the unique flavor of the Three Sisters.

Daemon knew his journey was far from over, but from this moment on, on the vast ocean of Bay of Crabs, there was one more fleet willing to fight for him, and one more group of people willing to follow him.

And this is just a small step in his rewriting of history.