A Lannister Always Pays His Debts

As the giant rock of "Lion's Mouth" in Casterly Rock receded into the twilight, the cobblestone path of the Ocean Road was gilded with a golden-red hue by the setting sun, like a handful of melting wildness.

The Glutton spread its Black Dragon wings and swept across the reeds along the shore. Its claws occasionally brushed the sea surface, and the splashes of water condensed into tiny ice crystals in the air. Although the evening breeze in the Westerlands was gentler than that of the the Wall, it still carried the salty taste of the Sunset Sea, which made Daemon's silver hair stick to his neck and made the servants in the group shrink their necks.

"Rupert, if you keep waving that silver spoon around, it might get blown into the sea and fed to the fish." Colin Celtigar reined in his horse and pointed to the "half- Wildlings" boy from the House Crabb beside him, who was almost holding the silver spoon above his head.

Rupert hurriedly stuffed the silver spoon he'd smuggled from Ashemark into his robes, the shoulder blades of his white armor rustling as he spoke, "This is the work of the House Marbrand! Look at this engraved burning tree, ten times more exquisite than any rough pottery bowl from Crackclaw Point! I'd be heartbroken to lose it!"

Myles Rivers, carrying the the North Battle Axe he'd recently acquired in Barrowton, chimed in, "Brother, what's the use of just being refined? Can it even chop Ironborn? My old axe in Seagard got dulled last time, and this new thing hasn't even had a chance to use it yet!" He was about to swing the axe at a dead tree by the roadside when Rayford Rosby grabbed him, saying, "Save your breath! Last time in Oldstones, your old axe almost chopped your foot while chopping a bush. If you really want to chop a tree, our whole team will have to stop for ages to find you bandages."

A burst of laughter erupted from the group, and even Larys Strong, who had been riding his gray donkey at the back of the group, couldn't help but smirk.

His black robe swept across the dew-covered wild grass, but his dark brown eyes never left the distant coastline where several Lannister patrol boats could be vaguely seen sailing along the Ocean Road promenade, clearly an escort specially arranged by Duke Taimond.

"We're just ahead in the territory of the Crakehall," Larys suddenly said, and the gray donkey nervously pawed at its hooves. "The House Crakehall's territory is mostly forested; watch out for wild boars by the roadside. Their ancestors were boar killers." Crake's story has been told in the Westerlands for centuries, and it's said that even now, ferocious boars larger than warhorses still roam the forests.

As soon as she finished speaking, Mysaria suddenly pointed to the woods ahead. "Your Highness! Look, isn't that a wild boar?" Gael rode Dreamfyre closer, her pale blue dragon claws gently parting the branches. There, a brown-black wild boar was rooting around a tree root, its tusks still covered in mud. It didn't flinch at the sight of the dragon, but instead grunted and burrowed deeper into the woods.

"As expected of the House Crakehall's territory, even the boars are so arrogant." Daemon chuckled and patted the Glutton's neck. The Black Dragon dragon let out a low growl and didn't chase after the boar. It had eaten too many fat sheep in Casterly Rock last night and was too lazy to move at the moment.

After walking for about an hour, the woods ahead suddenly opened up, and a stone fort built by the sea came into view—the outline of the Crakehall was more rugged than I had imagined, with brown stone walls covered with ivy, and on the flag on the top of the fort, the brown and black-and-white wild boar emblem fluttered in the wind, like a ferocious beast that might pounce at any moment.

"Your Highness Daemon! Princess Gael!" A loud voice came from the castle gate, and a burly man strode forward. He wore a brown robe embroidered with wild boar patterns, a copper-hilted sword at his waist, and his beard was still smeared with ale foam. He was none other than Earl Burton Crakehall Crakehall.

Behind him followed several knights in leather armor, each one burly and strong. One of them, a boy, was particularly striking, towering over the adult knights by half a head. He had broad shoulders and a thick back, and clutched a dagger made from a wild boar tusk. When he saw Daemon and his party, his eyes shone like burning embers.

"I've long heard of Your Highness's dragons and great deeds!" Burton grabbed Daemon's wrist with such force that Daemon frowned slightly. "The Crackclaw Point helped House Crabb reclaim Whispering Castle, the Vale led a coalition of lords to relieve the Moon Gate Keep, the Riverlands mediated between House Bracken and Blackwood, and the burning of Seagard and Lannisport left those Ironborn crying for their mothers—these are things that are sung about every day in the taverns of our Westerlands!"

Before Daemon could speak, Burton pulled him into the castle. "Please come in! I personally roasted a wild boar for Your Highness, my husband Tybolt just hunted it yesterday, it's so fat it's dripping with oil! And I have my treasured ale, stronger than the red wine of Lannisport!"

A banquet had already been set up in the courtyard of the Crakehall, with long tables stretching from the fortress gate all the way to the sea. The fat from roasting wild boar dripped onto the charcoal fire, sizzling and releasing an aroma that mingled with the salty sea breeze, making Myles's mouth water.

Several maids carried earthenware bowls filled with wild fruits and bread, and occasionally a knight would urge the Earl Burton to tell the story of "Wild Boar Killer" Crake, making the scene as lively as a festival.

"This is my second son Tybolt." Burton pushed the boy behind him forward, Tybolt immediately knelt on one knee, his voice booming like thunder. "Tybolt Crakehall, I am willing to serve Daemon Highness Damon! I have heard that your followers are all brave; Rupert cleaved Wildlings with his sword, and Myles Mease could charge into Ironborn. So can I! Last time we hunted a wild boar, I single-handedly took it down!"

Rupert raised an eyebrow, about to make a sarcastic remark, when he saw Tybolt suddenly stand up, gripping his boar dagger and pointing it at the nearby wooden stake. "If Your Highness doesn't believe me, I'll show you right now!" He was about to rush forward when Burton grabbed him. "What's the rush? His Highness hasn't agreed yet!"

Daemon looked at the fervor in Tybolt's eyes, and thought of the warriors he had followed in his previous life, as well as Roland Crakehall, the tall and powerful Kingsguard of Daeron in his previous life. He looked so much like the boy, and the black three-headed dragon brand on his right shoulder suddenly felt slightly hot.

He drew his Blackfyre, its Valyrian steel blade gleaming coldly in the setting sun, and gently placed it on Tybolt's shoulder: "I accept your allegiance, Tybolt. But remember, my followers must not only be brave, but also protect the weak. Just as your father said, the House Crakehall None So Fierce," and that bravery can also be used to protect others.

Tybolt's face flushed instantly, and he nodded emphatically. "Your Highness, rest assured! I will never let you down! I, Tybolt Crakehall, swear by the House Crakehall motto of ' None So Fierce,' I am willing to follow you! Wherever you point, I will fight! Ironborn or Wildlings, at your command, I will cleave through all enemies with my sword!"

As he spoke, he reached for the battle axe in Myles's hand, shouting that he wanted to "have a contest of strength." Myles didn't hesitate, carrying the battle axe and following him to an open space. The two went back and forth, drawing applause and cheers from the crowd. Although Tybolt was strong and powerful, he didn't have the ruthlessness of Myles, a wild boy from the Riverlands who had traveled with Daemon through countless battles. After a few rounds, he was forced to retreat by Myles, who laughed even more heartily.

Gael sat beside Daemon, holding a piece of roasted wild boar meat, her pale purple eyes full of laughter. "I didn't expect the House Crakehall to be so cheerful, much more endearing than the nobles of King's Landing." Mysaria nodded in agreement, a few drops of roasted pig fat dappling her platinum curls. She secretly slipped a piece of wild fruit into Daemon's hand. "Your Highness, this will help cut through the richness."

The atmosphere in the courtyard gradually reached a climax. Rupert began to talk about the Ironborn in the Seagard. Restoration Father Myles Rivers listened with shining eyes, occasionally interjecting and swinging his battle axe with great force.

Larys Strong leaned against the fire pit, watching the gray donkey fight with the House Crakehall's warhorses for food in the stone trough, a faint smile playing on his lips;

After having a good meal, Gael and Mysaria sat down and chatted quietly about the forest in the Crakehall. Mysaria even took out the seashells she brought from Fair Isle and together with Gael, they pieced them together to form the shape of a small silver boat.

Just as the banquet in the Crakehall was reaching its climax, heavy footsteps were heard descending the stone steps in the secret prison of Casterly Rock.

A pale light shone through the iron bars of the cell. Lord Taimond Lannister, dressed in a dark red tuxedo, stood before the iron cell, just large enough to hold one person, where lay Dagon Greyjoy, the third son of Lord Alton of the Iron Islands and the mastermind behind the Burning of Lannisport.

Dagon was covered in scabs from burns, some of which were still bleeding. Old scars overlapped with new wounds, making him look like a stray dog.

He lay on the cold stone floor, struggling to move even slightly. When Taimond entered, he still stubbornly refused to move, his voice hoarse like a broken gong. "House Lannister scum! Give me a good beating if you dare!"

Taimond didn't speak, he just waved his hand. Two guards in red armor immediately stepped forward, put iron chains around Dagon's neck, and dragged him out of the cell.

Lord Taimond Lannister wore a black leather robe over his formal attire, the gold lion emblem on the collar gleaming coldly in the torchlight.

Dagon's hair was tangled up, his body covered in layers of burn scabs, with new wounds appearing on top of old ones, and bleeding in some places. He was dragged on the ground by iron chains, and with each rubble he scraped against, he let out a muffled groan, but he still gritted his teeth and didn't utter a sound.

"Pull him up." Taimond's voice was as cold as the ice of the Westerlands. The guards immediately grabbed the chains, lifted Dagon up, and slammed him against the wall of the iron cell.

Dagon's head hung limply, but he suddenly raised his eyes, his blue-gray pupils filled with mockery. "House Lannister cowards, all you do is hide in the dungeon and torture people? Why don't you give me a quick death!"

Taimond ignored him, simply circling Dagon, his fingers lightly tracing the marks on the stone wall—the imprints left by generations of prisoners. "What do you think you've destroyed?" he suddenly spoke, his voice laced with suppressed rage. "The Lannister ' honor? The Westerlands ' dignity? No, you've destroyed thirty years of my House Lannister's legacy!"

He suddenly grabbed Dagon's hair, forcing him to look up. "After my grandfather, Lord Lyman, died, the House Lannister withdrew from the center of power in the Seven Kingdoms! I became Master of Ships so that I could use this as a springboard to take over the Hand of the King Baelon!"

Because of you, after I resigned, I even made a deal with Viserys Targaryen to recommend his friend Leonno Strong to succeed me—just so that my grandchildren could attend the Small Council in his time!

And what happened? You burned down Lannisport, making me a laughingstock in King's Landing, and I had no choice but to resign in disgrace!

My grand plan has been delayed by you for decades!

Dagon spat out a mouthful of blood and sneered, "No matter how much gold your House Lannister has, it can't stop the longships of the Iron Islands! You think you can be a king? Dream on!"

"Dream on?" Taimond released Dagon fell heavily to the ground. "A Lannister Always Pays His Debts." He gave the guards a look. "Increase the punishment, but don't let him die—I want him to see how the House Lannister reclaim everything that is rightfully theirs, to see the future Iron Islands brats pay the price for what you've done today."

The guards immediately stepped forward, the scraping of chains and Dagon's muffled groans echoing through the dungeon.

Taimond turned and walked away, his black leather robe sweeping across the bloodstains on the stone steps, without looking back—to him, Dagon was not an enemy, but a "debt," a debt that had to be slowly repaid.

Ever since his attempt to persuade Daemon Blackfyre to seize the Iron Throne backfired, he had been focused on using his position as Master of Ships to eventually become Hand of the King Hand of the King. Now, this Ironborn's act of violence has completely stripped him and the House Lannister Westerlands of their bargaining power, leaving them no choice but to side with the Baelon family for the sake of their future.

However, our Lion of the Westerlands never imagined that Daemon's ambitions in this life were even greater. Riding the Black Dragon Blackfyre, he was no longer confined to the Iron Throne. His ambition lay across the Narrow Sea, in saving Westeros from the threat of the White Walkers.

As night deepened, the banquet at the Crakehall finally came to an end. Daemon stood on the rocks by the sea, gazing at the Sunset Sea. Glutton and Dreamfyre huddled on the beach not far away, and dragon breath condensed into white vapor in the night.

Gael and Mysaria approached. Gael was wearing a wool cloak embroidered with wild boar patterns, a gift from the House Crakehall, while Mysaria held a newly embroidered handkerchief depicting the scenery of the Ocean Road.

"What are you thinking about today?" Gael leaned against him, her pale purple eyes reflecting starlight.

"Thinking about tomorrow's journey." Daemon pointed towards the Reach. "The House Tyrell of Highgarden, the lords of the Reach, and some other things—our pilgrimage isn't over yet." He paused, looking at Mysaria's embroidered handkerchief. "Did you embroider this?"

Mysaria nodded and handed him a handkerchief. "I was thinking of embroidering the scenery along the way, so I'll have something to remember it by later."

Daemon took the handkerchief, his fingertips tracing the embroidery thread. Suddenly, he felt a warmth in his heart, a warmth that had come from his journey across Dragonstone. He had witnessed betrayal and war, but he had also gained Gael's companionship, Mysaria's thoughtfulness, and new followers like Tybolt. These bonds were more important than power.

"We'll set off first thing tomorrow morning." Daemon gripped his handkerchief tightly, his purple eyes filled with determination. "To the Reach, to see the Rose of Highgarden, and to let them know that the flames of the true dragon can not only burn the Wildlings and the Ironborn, but also illuminate every inch of the Seven Kingdoms."

In the distant Crakehall, Burton Earl was still drinking with his knights. Tybolt, Myles, and Rupert were huddled together, mimicking the famous daytime contest, their laughter carried on the sea breeze. Larys Strong's gray donkey let out a satisfied bray, as if gathering strength for tomorrow's journey.

The night breeze along the Ocean Road carried the aroma of roasted wild boar and the anticipation of the future. Daemon knew that the roses of the Reach might be beautiful, but they also harbored thorns; behind the smiles of the House Tyrell, there might be scheming. But as long as those around him remained, as long as the Dragonfire remained, he was not afraid, for he was Daemon Blackfyre, the Black Dragon returned from the Red Grassland, and his flames would never be extinguished easily.