The giant rock of the "Lion's Mouth" at Casterly Rock receded in the twilight. The gravel of the Ocean Road was plated with a layer of golden-red by the setting sun, looking like a handful of molten wild-fire had been scattered across it.
The Cannibal spread his black wings, sweeping past the reed clusters along the coast. His claws occasionally brushed the sea surface, sending up sprays that condensed into fine ice particles in the air. Although the evening wind of the West was gentler than that of the Wall, it still carried the unique saltiness of the Sunset Sea, blowing Daemon's silver hair against his neck and making the squires in the retinue shrink their collars.
"Rupert, if you keep waving that silver spoon, be careful the wind doesn't blow it into the sea to feed the fish." Corlin Celtigar pulled his reins, pointing at the "semi-wildman" boy of House Crabb beside him, who was holding a silver spoon almost above his head.
Rupert hurriedly tucked the silver spoon snatched from Cornfield into his breast pocket, his white pauldrons clanking as he moved. "This is Malbrand craftsmanship! Look at this engraving of the burning tree; it's ten times more exquisite than the coarse pottery bowls of Crackclaw Point. I'd be heartbroken if I lost it!"
Mycah Rivers, carrying the new Northern battle-axe he had recently acquired at Barrowton, leaned in to join the fun. "Big brother, what's the use of being exquisite? Can it split Ironborn? My old axe got a rolled edge at Seagard last time; this new fellow hasn't tasted blood yet!" As he spoke, he made to swing the axe at a withered tree by the roadside, but was held back by Rayford Rosby. "Give it a rest! Last time at Oldstones, you nearly hacked your own foot trying to clear a bush with your old axe. If you try to chop a tree now, the whole retinue will have to stop for half a day just to find you bandages."
A burst of laughter erupted from the retinue. Even Larys Strong, who had been riding his grey donkey at the rear, couldn't help but curl his lips slightly.
The hem of his black robe brushed against the dew-laden wild grass, but his brownish-black eyes never left the distant coastline. Several Lannister patrol ships could be faintly seen cruising along the Ocean Road—clearly an escort specifically arranged by Duke Tymond.
"The territory of Crakehall is just ahead." Larys suddenly spoke, his grey donkey pawing the ground uneasily. "The lands of House Crakehall are full of forests. Watch out for wild boars by the road. The story of their ancestor, Crake the Boarkiller, has been told in the West for centuries. It's said that fierce boars larger than warhorses still hide in these woods."
As soon as he finished speaking, Mysaria suddenly pointed toward the forest ahead. "Princess! Look, is that a wild boar?" Gael rode Dreamfyre closer, her pale blue dragon claws gently pushing aside branches. Indeed, a brownish-black wild boar was rooting at some tree roots, its tusks still stained with mud. Seeing the dragon shadow, it didn't flee in panic but instead grunted and burrowed deeper into the forest.
"Truly the territory of the Crakehalls; even the boars are this arrogant." Daemon smiled and patted The Cannibal's neck. The black dragon let out a low rumble but didn't pursue it—he had eaten too many fat sheep at Casterly Rock the night before and was feeling lazy.
After traveling for another hour, the forest suddenly opened up, and a stone castle built by the sea appeared in their vision. The outline of Crakehall was rougher than imagined, its brownish-tan stone walls covered in ivy. Atop the castle, the banner of a black-and-white brindled boar on a brown field snapped in the wind like a fierce beast ready to pounce.
"Prince Daemon! Princess Gael!" A booming voice came from the castle gates. A burly giant of a man strode forward to meet them. He wore a brown robe embroidered with the boar sigil, a copper-hilted sword at his waist, and bits of ale foam still clung to his thick beard. This was Earl Burton Crakehall, Lord of Crakehall.
Behind him followed several knights in leather armor, all broad-shouldered and thick-waisted. One youth was particularly eye-catching—half a head taller than the adult knights, with shoulders as broad as a wall and a dagger made of a boar's tusk in his hand. His eyes shone like burning charcoal upon seeing Daemon's party.
"I've long heard of the Prince's dragons and great deeds!" Burton grabbed Daemon's wrist with a force that made Daemon frown slightly. "Helping House Crabb reclaim the Whispers, leading the alliance to break the siege of the Gates of the Moon, mediating between Bracken and Blackwood, and burning those Ironborn till they cried for their mothers at Seagard and Lannisport—these stories are sung daily in our Westerlands taverns!"
Before Daemon could speak, Burton dragged him toward the keep. "Please, enter! I personally roasted a wild boar for the Prince; my son Tybolt just hunted it yesterday—it's dripping with fat! And I have my private reserve of ale, stronger than Lannisport red wine!"
A feast had already been laid out in the courtyard of Crakehall. Long tables stretched from the gate all the way to the seaside. Grease from the roasting boar dripped onto the coals, sizzling loudly. The aroma mixed with the saltiness of the sea breeze, making Mycah drool.
"This is my second son, Tybolt." Burton pushed the youth forward. Tybolt immediately dropped to one knee, his voice as loud as thunder. "Tybolt Crakehall, ready to serve Prince Daemon! I heard your followers are all heroes—Ser Rupert cleaving wildlings, Ser Mycah charging Ironborn with his axe. I can do the same! Last time I hunted a boar, I flipped it over by myself!"
Rupert raised an eyebrow, about to make a joke, when Tybolt suddenly stood up and pointed his tusk-dagger at a nearby wooden post. "If the Prince doesn't believe me, I'll show you right now!" He made to charge, but was pulled back by Burton. "What's the rush? The Prince hasn't even agreed yet!"
Daemon looked at the eagerness in Tybolt's eyes and was reminded of the warriors who followed him in his past life—specifically Roland Crakehall, the tall and powerful Kingsguard of Daeron's time. The boy looked so much like him. The black three-headed dragon brand on Daemon's right shoulder grew slightly warm.
He drew Blackfyre. The Valyrian steel blade glinted coldly in the sunset as he rested it lightly on Tybolt's shoulder. "I accept your fealty, Tybolt. But remember, my followers must not only be brave but also guardians of the weak. As your father says, House Crakehall is 'None so Bold,' and that boldness can be used to protect others."
Tybolt's face flushed red instantly, and he nodded heavily. "Rest assured, Prince! I will never disappoint you! I, Tybolt Crakehall, swear by our words to follow you! Where you point, I shall strike! Whether Ironborn or wildlings, at your command, I will cleave all enemies!"
He then tried to snatch the axe from Mycah's hand, shouting for a "test of strength." Mycah didn't back down, shouldering his axe and walking to the clearing with him. The two traded bouts, drawing cheers from the crowd. Though Tybolt was massive and strong, he lacked the ruthless edge Mycah had gained through blood and fire on Daemon's tour. After a few rounds, Mycah forced him back, but Tybolt only laughed harder.
Gael sat beside Daemon with a piece of roast boar, her pale violet eyes full of smiles. "I didn't expect the Crakehalls to be so hearty; they are much more likable than the nobles in King's Landing." Mysaria nodded in agreement, a few droplets of oil from the roast pig on her platinum curls. She secretly slipped a piece of wild fruit into Daemon's hand. "To cleanse the palate, Prince."
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As the feast at Crakehall reached its height, deep within the secret dungeons of Casterly Rock, a series of heavy footsteps descended the stone stairs.
The iron window of the cell let in a dismal light. Duke Tymond Lannister, dressed in a dark red formal coat, his gold rings gleaming in the gloom, stood before a cage just large enough for one person. Lying inside was the mastermind behind the Burning of Lannisport: Dagon Greyjoy, third son of King Alton of the Iron Islands.
Dagon was covered in scabs from burns, some still seeping blood. Old scars overlapped with new wounds; he looked like a beaten dog. He lay on the cold stone floor, struggling even to move. Seeing Tymond enter, he still craned his neck, his voice hoarse like a broken drum. "Lannister scum! If you have the guts, give me a clean end!"
Tymond didn't speak; he only waved a hand. Two red-armored guards stepped forward, looped a chain around Dagon's neck, and dragged him roughly out of the cell.
Tymond wore a black leather robe over his formal attire, the golden lion sigil at his collar gleaming in the torchlight. Dagon's hair was a matted mess. He let out a muffled groan every time he scraped against a jagged stone on the floor, but he gritted his teeth and didn't scream.
"Pull him up." Tymond's voice was as cold as Western ice. The guards hoisted Dagon by the chain and pinned him against the cell wall.
Dagon's head hung weakly, but he suddenly looked up, his blue-grey eyes full of mockery. "Cowardly Lannisters, only good for torturing people in secret cells? If you're a man, give me a quick death!"
Tymond ignored him, circling Dagon slowly, his fingers brushing the etchings on the stone wall—marks left by generations of prisoners. "What do you think you destroyed?" he finally spoke, his voice thick with suppressed rage. "Lannister's face? The dignity of the West? No. You destroyed thirty years of my family's grand design!"
He suddenly grabbed Dagon by the hair, forcing him to look up. "After my grandfather Lord Lyman died, House Lannister retreated from the center of power! I became Master of Ships as a springboard—to become Hand of the King when Prince Baelon ascends! Because of you, after I resigned, I had to strike a deal with Viserys Targaryen to support his friend Lyonel Strong to replace me—just so my grandchildren might have a seat on the Small Council in his time! Because of you, I became the laughingstock of King's Landing and was forced to resign in shame! My grand plan has been delayed by decades!"
Dagon spat out a mouthful of bloody phlegm and sneered. "No matter how much gold you Lannisters have, it can't stop the longships of the Iron Islands! You, Hand of the King? Dreaming!"
"Dreaming?" Tymond let go, letting Dagon slam onto the floor. "A Lannister always pays his debts." He glanced at the guards. "Increase the torture, but don't let him die. I want him to watch how House Lannister takes back everything that belongs to it. I want him to watch as the future pups of the Iron Islands pay the price, one by one, for what you did today."
Tymond turned and walked away, his black robe sweeping over the bloodstains on the stairs. To him, Dagon wasn't an enemy; he was a "debt"—one that had to be collected slowly.
Ever since his attempt to goad Daemon Blackfyre into taking the Iron Throne hit a wall, he had set his heart on the Handship. Now, an Ironborn's fire had stripped him of his leverage. He was forced to lean entirely toward Baelon's branch for the sake of the future.
However, the Lion of the West could never have guessed that Daemon's ambition in this life was even vaster. The Black Dragon astride his beast was no longer confined to that iron chair; his eyes were on the lands across the Narrow Sea, and on saving a Westeros destined to face the threat of the Others.
---
Night deepened, and the feast at Crakehall finally wound down. Daemon stood on a reef by the sea, gazing at the distant Sunset Sea. The Cannibal and Dreamfyre curled up on the nearby beach, their breath forming white mist in the night.
Gael and Mysaria walked over. Gael wore a wool cloak embroidered with the brindled boar, and Mysaria held a newly embroidered handkerchief showing the scenery of the Ocean Road.
"What are you thinking about today?" Gael leaned against him, her violet eyes reflecting the starlight.
"Thinking about the road tomorrow." Daemon pointed toward the Reach. "House Tyrell of Highgarden, the lords of the Reach... our tour isn't over yet." He paused and looked at the silk in Mysaria's hand. "Did you embroider this?"
Mysaria nodded, handing it to him. "I wanted to stitch the scenery along the way so we have something to remember it by later."
Daemon took the handkerchief, his fingers tracing the threads. He felt a sudden warmth. Since crossing from Dragonstone, he had seen betrayal and war, but he had also gained Gael's companionship, Mysaria's care, and new followers like Tybolt. These bonds were more important than power.
"We leave at dawn," Daemon said, his eyes full of determination. "To the Reach. To see the roses of Highgarden, and to let them know that the fire of the True Dragon doesn't just burn wildlings and Ironborn—it can illuminate every inch of the Seven Kingdoms."
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