The flames of Lannisport
The waters of the Tumblestone shimmered like shattered silver beneath the horses' hooves, Ashemark faded into the distance atop the hills, like embers that had burned out.
The Glutton's Black Dragon brushed against the roadside trees, stirring up a few Leaf glistening with Dreamfyre followed gracefully behind, its pale blue wings skimming the surface of the Tumblestone, startling a school of silver fish that leaped out of the water, their scales shimmering in the morning sun.
This is the fourth morning since leaving Ashemark. The wind in the Westerlands has finally lost the cold hardness of the Golden Tooth mines and gained a bit more of the moisture of the river valley.
"The Blazing Flame of House Marbrand, it truly lives up to its name." Gael in her dragon saddle, glancing back towards the direction of Ashemark, her pale purple eyes still lingering with the memory of that castle. "Little Mei, do you remember? When we first arrived, the Burning Tree lanterns hanging on the city gates were all lit up at night, making the whole city seem wrapped in orange fire."
Mysaria smiled upon hearing this, her platinum curls brushing behind her ears in the wind. "It's not just the lamps. The roast meat at the banquet was skewered with orange branches, and even the fruit wine in the glasses was sprinkled with orange petals, supposedly to match the family crest." Earl Marbrand even had the scholar tell us about the past of your aunt, Princess Rhaena, the former master of Dreamfyre, saying that when she visited Ashemark in 51 AC of the Conquest calendar, Dreamfyre ate several sheep.
Daemon listened to their conversation, his fingertips unconsciously caressed the hilt of the Blackfyre, his thoughts drifting back to the day he left Golden Tooth.
Humfrey Lefford personally escorted Earl to the bend in the mountain path, clutching a heavy brocade box in his hand. Upon opening it, he found a piece of ore inlaid with gold dust, saying it was "a small token of appreciation from Golden Tooth, for Your Highness to keep and enjoy."
The knights followed on horseback, their sun emblems on their brocade robes gleaming in the sunlight. Even the farewell attendants wore short jackets with gold trim, dressed more elegantly than the lord of the Crab Claw Peninsula.
"Compared to Golden Tooth, which is overflowing with gold," Ashemark has a touch more elegance. Larys Strong, riding his grey donkey, the hem of his black robe sweeping across the pebbles of the Tumblestone, suddenly looked at Rupert Crabb, a hint of mockery in his eyes. "Lord Crabb, you've been secretly collecting quite a bit of the silverware they gifted you these past few days, haven't you?"
Rupert's face flushed red, and he subconsciously touched the silver spoon engraved with the burning tree from the banquet that he had indeed slipped into his pocket when he left Ashemark yesterday, when no one was looking.
This young man from a "half- Wildlings" noble family on Crab Claw Peninsula had never seen anything truly valuable in his life but an iron sword and a suit of armor passed down from his ancestors. He had never even seen the gold leaf wrapped around the beams of Golden Tooth or the silver leaves floating in the wine cups of Ashemark.
"I—I just think it looks good," Rupert argued, his white armor shoulder blade brushing against Colin Celtigar beside him. "Look at the feasts in Golden Tooth, even the roasted wild boars have golden apples in their mouths; Ashemark is even more extravagant, even the plates for bread are silver! We Crab Claw Peninsula only get to eat a rye cake during the New Year, and our plates are all rough pottery, we wouldn't even throw them away if they got a chip." He spoke, his voice full of amazement, "The Westerlands are truly wealthy, no wonder the House Lannister are the richest family in the Seven Kingdoms."
Colin suppressed a laugh and patted him on the shoulder, "When you get to Casterly Rock, you'll see even more. My uncle said there are mountains of gold in the cellars of Casterly Rock, even the toilet handles are gold—though I guess he's exaggerating."
"Whether it's an exaggeration or not, it's still better than the smuggled goods from the Three Sisters." Myles Rivers bluntly interjected, her gaze sweeping over the farmland in front of her. The farmland in the Westerlands was much more orderly than that in the Riverlands, with scarecrows standing on the ridges, draped in faded red cloth, like little knights.
Several farmers squatted by the field smoking, their pipes emitting wisps of smoke. When they saw Daemon and his group of dragon figures, they merely glanced up at them before lowering their heads to continue chatting, showing not a trace of awe.
"These people from the Westerlands are even more lax than those from the Vale," Gael frowned. "When we were in the Vale, whether nobles or farmers, everyone bowed to the dragon; but in the Westerlands, they act as if they don't even see it?"
"Perhaps it's because of all the events that have happened since your aunt Princess Rhaena and uncle Aegon were trapped in the Crakehall, to your father and mother taking refuge in Casterly Rock, and then to the various royal tours that have followed, that the Westerlands are generally quite familiar with the existence of dragons." Alys Rivers rarely took the initiative to lift the carriage curtain, and followed in the footsteps of Gael and Mysaria, who had stopped to rest, and stepped onto the broad back of Dreamfyre.
Meanwhile, Daemon's gaze fell on a small tavern in the distance. Several horses were tethered at the entrance, and a few knights in leather armor were playing dice around a table. The sound of the dice could be heard from a great distance.
A knight, having lost money, slammed his fist on the table, cursing, "Damn Ironborn! They tricked us into going home empty-handed again! If they dare send another threatening letter, I'll chop their longships up and burn them for firewood!"
The farmer nearby laughed upon hearing this, "Sir Knight, don't exaggerate! That Dagon Greyjoy is a coward; he hasn't dared to approach Lannisport three times. He'll probably just wander around for a couple of days and then leave! We've followed you three times, and haven't even seen a glimpse of Ironborn. If we go on another empty trip, my cows will starve to death!"
"Exactly!" A teenager ran over, brandishing a short sword at the air. "The Ironborn are all cowards! They only know how to shout from their ships, they don't dare to actually come! Last time, that damned Urragon went to seize Seagard, wasn't he burned to ashes by the royal dragon? Even his brother couldn't do it, so that Dagon must be even more useless!"
Lars Strong's gray donkey suddenly stopped, a sharp glint flashing in his brown eyes. "Your Highness, what do you see?"
He pointed to the mountain path in the distance, where several House Lannister redguards were strolling leisurely, their spears slung over their shoulders, some even picking wild fruit by the roadside. "Even the guards of Casterly Rock are so lax. It seems Earl Humfrey was right."
Daemon didn't speak, but tightened the reins. The black three-headed dragon brand on his right shoulder suddenly felt slightly warm, and Glutton let out a low growl, its dragon wings instinctively spreading out as if on alert for something.
Gael sensed something was wrong and whispered, "Daemon, what's wrong? Glutton seems a little uneasy."
"There's a smell of smoke in the wind." Daemon's voice was a few decibels deeper than usual. He looked up and gazed in the direction of Casterly Rock —which should have been the most prosperous place in the Westerlands, but now a wisp of black smoke rose from the horizon, like a black snake winding across the blue sky.
"Smoke?" Rupert rubbed his eyes. "Is it the chimneys of Casterly Rock?"
"No." Colin's expression suddenly changed. He had been to Lannisport with his uncle before and knew that direction was where the port was located. "That's the direction of Lannisport!"
Everyone's hearts sank instantly. Daemon urged the Glutton to speed up, the wind from the flapping of the dragon's wings stirring up dust on the ground. Dreamfyre also sensed the danger and followed closely behind.
As the distance closed, the wisp of black smoke grew thicker and thicker, gradually turning into towering flames. The orange-red flames were particularly dazzling in the setting sun, and even the air was filled with the smell of burning—it wasn't ordinary cooking smoke, but the smell of burning houses and burning ships.
"Oh my god—." Gael covered her mouth, her pale purple eyes filled with shock. On the distant sea, one could see the shadows of countless longships, their sails adorned with the golden krait emblem of House Greyjoy, like a group of black sharks tearing at Lannisport.
The screams from the harbor could be heard from a great distance. Some houses had collapsed, flames licked at the wooden planks, billowing black smoke, and even the seawater was stained orange.
The Glutton let out an angry dragon roar, its Black Dragon gleaming coldly in the firelight, its breath churning in its throat as if it were about to spew out at any moment.
Daemon gripped the Blackfyre tightly, a fierce glint flashing in his purple eyes. The Westerlands ' complacency, the knights' mockery, and the farmers' disdain had ultimately given the Ironborn an opportunity.
This time, Dagon Greyjoy did not waver or back down. Instead of just a few longships drifting far away on the sea, he led a real fleet, spreading the flames of "conquest" to every inch of Lannisport.
Larys Strong's gray donkey pawed restlessly, his hands clenched tightly beneath his black robes, his dark eyes devoid of their usual cunning, only filled with solemnity. "Your Highness, the Ironborn are serious this time."
Gael's face was pale. She gripped the Dreamfyre's saddle tightly, staring at the distant flames, her voice trembling. "What will happen to those people and the people of Lannisport?" Although she had witnessed much bloodshed and fire since riding Dreamfyre and touring with Daemon, the girl's inherent fragility was still exposed under the towering flames.
This time, Daemon didn't answer the question, but instead urged the Glutton to keep moving forward.
The outline of Casterly Rock was already close at hand, but at this moment no one cared about the castle's golden splendor—all eyes were drawn to the towering flames of Lannisport. The flames, like a greedy hand, devoured the wealth of the Westerlands and ignited a war that no one had anticipated.
As the sun gradually set, the orange flames illuminated half the sky, and the shadow of the Ironborn longship loomed in the firelight. Screams and sounds of battle grew closer. The Glutton's dragon roar echoed through the valley, and the pale blue wings of the Dreamfyre were taut. A bloody battle was quietly unfolding in this harbor.