When The Cannibal's shadow swept low over Blackwater Bay, Daemon was looking down at the land gradually becoming clear below.
Unlike the towering spires of the Red Keep in King's Landing, Rosby looked more like a brown patch inlaid on a green field—low wooden and stone walls surrounded the lord's keep, and villages outside the walls were scattered like mushrooms after rain. The scent of earth and straw drifted up on the wind, mixing with the sweet fragrance of apple blossoms.
"Prince Daemon, Rosby is ahead!" a squire shouted from the retinue below, his voice torn apart by the wind.
Daemon patted The Cannibal's neck gently. The black dragon let out a low rumble of response, folded his wings slightly, and began a slow descent.
The dust kicked up by the dragon's claws landing made the members of House Rosby who came to greet them instinctively step back. Only the Lord standing at the very front forced himself to maintain composure despite his sickly appearance, bowing slightly.
"Welcome, Prince Daemon." Lord Rosby's voice was like a spiderweb in the wind, thin and fragile. He wore a sable cloak embroidered with his house sigil; the three red chevrons on ermine glowed dark red in the sunlight, like coagulated blood.
His face was pale as paper, dark circles under his eyes revealing long-term illness, but a trace of imperceptible sharpness was hidden in those eyes.
Daemon vaulted off the dragon's back, the scabbard of Blackfyre gleaming matte in the sun. "My Lord, no need for formalities." His gaze swept over the surrounding attendants; the people of House Rosby were indeed as rumored, all slender in build with a touch of weariness between their brows. "I apologize for the intrusion."
"It is Rosby's honor to welcome a Prince of Targaryen." The Lord turned to lead the way, his withered fingers clutching the ties of his cloak tightly. "Please follow me; the feast is prepared."
Passing through the not-so-tall city gates, Daemon truly saw the appearance of this Crownlands town.
Small houses built of mud mixed with straw lined the main road, roofs covered in thatch. Smoke rising from chimneys wove into a grey mist in the low sky.
Children on the roadside stared at him curiously, clutching half-eaten oatcakes; women in rough cloth dresses stood in doorways, their gazes lingering long on the Blackfyre sword at his waist with awe and curiosity.
"Rosby isn't large," the Lord explained softly, seeming to sense his gaze. "But guarding the shortcut from King's Landing to Duskendale, we have witnessed quite a few stories over the centuries." A trace of imperceptible pride entered his tone. "In 51 AC, King Jaehaerys and Queen Alysanne also stopped here during their royal progress."
Daemon nodded, his gaze landing on the spire of the sept not far away.
It was one of the few stone buildings in the town, its spire pointing straight to the sky, as if silently proclaiming the majesty of the Seven.
Cabbages in the gardens were growing well, apple trees were laden with green fruit, and wheat in the fields was beginning to yellow—this was a peaceful and fertile land, incongruous with the coming storm.
The Great Hall of the lord's keep was more spacious than imagined. The banner of House Rosby hung on the stone walls, the three red chevrons striking against the ermine background.
People already filled both sides of the long table. The Lord's heir sat in the first seat on the left, about Daemon's age, with shrewd eyes that stole glances at him.
Next to him were several young ladies in exquisite dresses, presumably the Lord's daughters. Their gazes lingered on Daemon for a moment before they lowered their heads shyly.
At the very end sat a boy of about ten, thinner than his peers, but sitting with a straight back and a stubborn air.
"Allow me to introduce," the Lord clapped his hands. "This is my eldest son, Gyles, the future Lord Rosby." He pointed to the shrewd young man, then introduced his daughters one by one, finally resting on the boy. "This is my second son, Rayford, named after my great-uncle."
Daemon's gaze lingered on Rayford for a moment.
There was a firmness in the boy's eyes inconsistent with his age, like wild grass hiding in a crack in a rock.
The feast wasn't extravagant, but plentiful enough.
Roast boar ribs were crispy outside and tender inside, the ale carried a faint fruity scent, and the apple pie was just sweet enough.
The Lord had clearly prepared well, frequently toasting Daemon. Topics ranged from the harvest to trade, then to the security of the Crownlands, always maintaining an appropriate level of enthusiasm. After three rounds of drinks, the Lord's conversation gradually turned to history.
"Prince Daemon looks truly heroic wielding Blackfyre." He stared at the sword at Daemon's waist, his gaze complex. "Speaking of this sword reminds one of King Maegor I."
Daemon's fingers paused on his cup. He knew the history of House Rosby—Ser Rayford Rosby had fought for Maegor in the Trial of Seven, and a Lord Rosby was one of Maegor's last supporters, ultimately committing suicide by poison in 48 AC.
"King Maegor was a great warrior." Daemon responded neutrally, not taking the bait. But the Lord clearly didn't want to stop there.
"Great? Perhaps." He smiled, an abnormal flush appearing on his pale face. "But he was an unyielding soul. Did you know, when I was young, my father often told me stories of King Maegor. He said the Lord Rosby and Ser Rayford of that time deeply admired that powerful man—who also rode a black dragon and wielded Blackfyre."
His gaze was fixed tight on Daemon, as if looking for some resonance in his face. "They say King Maegor, in the beginning, was like you, seemingly not that interested in the Iron Throne..."
"My Lord." Daemon interrupted him, his tone calm but carrying unquestionable firmness. "I am different from King Maegor."
He set down his cup, his voice clearly reaching across the hall. "I have long tired of the intrigues of the game of thrones. King Jaehaerys, Queen Alysanne, Prince Baelon, Prince Viserys... they all treat me well. The Blackfyre in my hand in this life is not to fight for the Iron Throne, but to protect my 'family'."
Silence fell over the hall; even the crackle of burning candles was audible.
Surprise flashed in the eyes of the Lord's eldest son. The daughters looked at Daemon curiously, while Rayford's gaze held a bit more admiration.
The Lord froze, then laughed. The laugh held a trace of relief, or perhaps something else. "Well said, well said..." He nodded repeatedly. "It's easy to forget you are only a boy of thirteen or fourteen. You are indeed very like King Maegor, yet very different."
He paused again, turning the topic to the Eastern Continent. "However, did you know? There is a rumor that after Aegon the Conqueror conquered Westeros, he left the Iron Throne to the relatively 'moderate' Prince Aenys, and left the broader Essos to Maegor, who truly inherited his ambition."
Daemon frowned slightly. He had never heard this rumor; it sounded more like wishful thinking on someone's part.
"Rumor has it," the Lord's voice dropped lower, excitement flashing in his eyes, "that King Maegor rode the Black Dread Balerion, took Blackfyre, and stepped onto the lands of the East, not returning until King Aenys passed..." He looked at Daemon as if sharing a shocking secret. "You see, the world is big; one doesn't have to stare only at the Iron Throne."
Daemon didn't respond. He knew the implication—rather than struggling in the vortex of power in Westeros, why not be like the legendary Maegor and carve out his own territory across the Narrow Sea? It was indeed a tempting proposal, but he wanted to stay here more, at least by his 'grandparents'' side until they passed.
"Father." Rayford spoke suddenly, his voice not loud but unusually clear. "I wish to follow Prince Daemon."
Everyone's eyes focused on the thin boy.
The Lord froze for a moment, then revealed a gratified smile. "Good, good son." He looked at Daemon. "Prince Daemon, though Rayford is young, his character is tenacious, and his horsemanship and swordsmanship are passable. If you do not disdain him, please let him follow you to gain experience."
Daemon looked at the determination in Rayford's eyes, remembering his own youth in his past life. He nodded. "I would be delighted."
The Lord was clearly very satisfied with this outcome, unable to suppress the smile at the corner of his mouth. He clapped his hands and said to his eldest daughter beside him: "Isabella, take the Prince to rest. The journey was tiring; he should rest well."
Isabella stood up. She had the typical pale skin of House Rosby, but her eyes were bright, like obsidian soaked in water. "Prince Daemon, please follow me."
Daemon stood to give thanks and followed Isabella out of the hall. The stone corridor was dimly lit. Portraits of past members of House Rosby hung on the walls, their eyes seemingly watching this Prince from King's Landing.
"Prince Daemon," Isabella's voice was very soft, carrying a trace of curiosity. "Do you really not want to be King?"
Daemon smiled. "Power is like fire; it can warm you, but it can also burn you. Compared to 'before'... oh no, perhaps the 'me' from 'before' wanted to be the one guarding the fire more, rather than being swallowed by it."
Isabella nodded as if understanding, just about to say something else when suddenly, a deafening dragon roar came from outside the city!
The sound was clear and familiar, definitely not The Cannibal's low growl—it was Dreamfyre!
Daemon stopped dead in his tracks, his heart instantly in his throat. Why is Dreamfyre here? Is Gael here? Why would she suddenly appear at Rosby?
Isabella turned pale with fright at the sudden roar, instinctively grabbing Daemon's sleeve. Others in the corridor also poked their heads out, faces full of panic and confusion.
Daemon looked out the window. Though he couldn't see outside the city, he could clearly feel the magnificent silver dragon circling above Rosby.
Countless thoughts flashed through his mind: Did Gael follow secretly? Or did she encounter danger? Does Queen Alysanne know? What will King Jaehaerys's reaction be if he finds out?
"Prince Daemon..." Isabella's voice trembled.
Daemon took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. "It's fine." He patted Isabella's hand gently, though his tone held a trace of imperceptible tension. "Just my 'family' arriving."
He turned to look outside the castle. The dragon roar sounded again, closer this time, as if right above the tower. Sunlight poured onto him through the window, but couldn't dispel the doubt and worry in his heart.
---