Beneath the cliffs of the Whispers, the roar of waves crashing against rocks sounded like ancient war drums. On the edge of House Crabb's lands, Daemon Blackfyre raised Blackfyre, the morning light reflecting off the blade piercing the mist over the wildling formation. Behind him, the breathing of over twenty young followers mingled with the snorting of warhorses, taut as drawn bowstrings.
"Remember, we are here to save people." Daemon's voice wasn't loud, but it reached everyone's ears clearly. "The Cannibal will cover you, and I will be at the front."
Before his voice faded, The Cannibal's roar exploded like thunder. The black dragon spread wings that blotted out the sun. Pitch-black dragonfire swept over the cliff, burning the wildling vanguard into chaos. Dreamfyre followed closely, pale blue dragonfire tearing open a gap in the wildling ranks like flowing lightning.
"Charge!" Daemon clamped his legs around the horse's belly. The mount reared up, carrying him like a black whirlwind into the enemy formation.
Blackfyre drew a perfect arc. The first wildling who lunged at him didn't even have time to scream before being cleaved in two.
Warm blood splattered on his face, but it didn't affect his movements in the slightest—the second wildling was knocked flying, the third had his ribs crushed by the warhorse, and by the time the fourth's head rolled on the ground, Daemon's sword was already pointing at the tall figure in bearskin within the wildling ranks.
"That's their leader!" Rupert Crabb shouted from behind, voice trembling with excitement.
Daemon didn't look back. He could feel his followers breaking through their fear.
Rayford's sword pierced a wildling's throat; Mycah Rivers, the bastard of House Mooton, smashed another wildling's head with a hammer. These young noble second sons and bastards, who were discussing King's Landing gossip just yesterday, were now waving weapons with trembling hands, covering each other.
"Kill!" Someone shouted first, and immediately, over twenty swords roared together.
Under Daemon's edge and amidst the dragon's roar, these young men on the battlefield for the first time suddenly understood the weight of the word "warrior."
The Crabb smallfolk, besieged at the edge of the town and resisting desperately, suddenly erupted in cheers when they saw the black figure entering no-man's-land and the flames of two giant dragons illuminating the sky.
A one-armed farmer picked up a pitchfork and charged screaming at the nearest wildling; women stuffed stones into cloth bags and hurled them at enemies climbing the fence.
Daemon's Blackfyre finally clashed with the wildling leader's battle axe.
With a crisp clang, both felt their hands go numb. The wildling leader was a head taller than Daemon, arms thick as tree trunks, face painted with red and black oil. His eyes held no savage ignorance, only the coldness of a veteran warrior.
"Silver-haired boy." The wildling leader's Common Tongue carried a heavy accent as his axe swept horizontally. "This is not your castle."
"As long as our people are here, it is." Daemon sidestepped. Blackfyre slid up the wooden handle of the axe, slicing off several of the opponent's fingers.
The wildling leader cried out in pain. As the axe flew from his hand, the tip of Daemon's sword was already against his throat.
Seeing this, the surrounding wildlings roared and charged, only to be forced back by The Cannibal's dragonfire.
Dreamfyre swooped low, claws grabbing two wildlings attempting a sneak attack and throwing them far into the sea.
Daemon glanced at the battlefield. Though his followers were brave, three had been unhorsed; one lay on the ground groaning with a spear through his thigh.
The town fence was breached in many places, and many smallfolk lay dead on the ground.
Though panicked, the wildlings still outnumbered them several times over. They were gathering behind the ruins of the Whispers, seemingly hesitating whether to retreat.
"Take your people and get out of Crackclaw Point." Daemon withdrew his sword tip, blood dripping from Blackfyre onto the ground. "Next time I see you, it won't be as simple as losing a few fingers."
The wildling leader looked at him in disbelief, touching his bleeding hand. Finally, he gritted his teeth and roared: "Retreat!"
As if granted amnesty, the wildlings supported their wounded and scrambled to retreat toward the distant Whispers, disappearing quickly on the other side of the cliff.
The waves passed through the hollows of the Whispers, making a whimpering sound, as if mourning this unfinished battle.
Daemon dismounted and found Rayford taking out a waterskin.
The squire gulped down a large mouthful before realizing his arm was trembling slightly—not from fear, but from the exhaustion after the adrenaline faded.
"It will pass. Count the casualties," Daemon told Rayford. "Have the Maester treat the wounded, whether our men or Lord Crabb's people."
The town was a mess. Roofs were overturned, vegetables in gardens trampled, and several corpses lay by the well, terror frozen on their faces. Lord Crabb's eldest son, Renfred, was directing people to repair the fence. Seeing Daemon enter, he hurried over, eyes red. "Prince, thank you... I am the Baron's eldest son, Renfred. My father, he..."
"What happened to the Baron?" Daemon asked quickly.
"Father was shot in the chest by a wildling while resisting. He is still unconscious." Renfred's voice choked. "If you had been a step later..."
Daemon patted his shoulder. "Let the Maester treat him well; he will be fine."
The accompanying Maester and Gael, along with the Crabb Maester and several women, were already busy.
They cleaned wounds, bandaged injuries, and applied herbs. Though their movements were unfamiliar, they carried a tenacity.
Daemon watched Jarmen Waters, the one-eyed bastard of House Buckwell from Antlers, clumsily feeding water to an injured little girl, and suddenly felt this victory was more meaningful than he had imagined.
At dusk, bonfires were lit in the town square. The residents of Crabb's land slaughtered their few remaining pigs, roasting them until they sizzled.
Rupert Crabb walked to Daemon with a bowl of wine and knelt on one knee. "Prince, you saved us all! But the wildlings will return sooner or later. Please, stay!"
The surrounding smallfolk echoed:
"Prince, please stay!"
"We are willing to follow you!"
Baron Crabb was carried out, chest heavily bandaged, face pale as paper. Seeing this, he shouted weakly: "Rupert! Do not be rude! The Prince has his own journey..."
Renfred also frowned. "Brother, don't trouble the Prince."
"Sit and rest, Baron." Daemon helped Rupert up, his gaze sweeping over everyone present. "And you, Ser Renfred. Your brother is not wrong; he is merely fighting for his home."
He walked to the bonfire and thrust Blackfyre into the ground, the hilt gleaming in the firelight. Everyone quieted down, looking at the young Prince.
"I know what you are worried about." Daemon's voice echoed in the night sky, carrying a power that pierced the heart. "The wildlings will return. The chaos of Crackclaw Point won't end with one victory. But remember, you are subjects of the Iron Throne, subjects of House Targaryen!"
He pulled out Blackfyre, pointing the tip at the sky. "I, Daemon Blackfyre Targaryen, swear by Blackfyre and The Cannibal in the sky—as long as I live, I will never turn a blind eye to your life and death!"
Cheers erupted from the crowd. Daemon raised his hand for silence and continued: "Brothers who charged with me today, I will report your deeds truthfully to His Grace. Your names will appear on the royal commendation list!"
"Crackclaw Point has vast tracts of abandoned, ownerless land." His gaze swept over the young followers and the residents. "They are waiting for true masters to reclaim and guard them. For those willing to continue fighting with me, these lands are your reward!"
"For those unwilling, I will not force you." Daemon's voice softened. "You can stay here to rebuild your homes or leave. I and the Crown will reward each of you as payment for today's bloody battle."
He raised Blackfyre, pointing straight at the Whispers. "But I tell you—from today on, Crackclaw Point is no longer a forgotten corner! I will be here, in front of you, using this sword and The Cannibal's fire to cleave through all threats for you!"
"Those willing to come with me, raise your weapons!"
"Roar!" Over twenty young followers raised their swords first, Rayford's voice the loudest: "Follow the Prince to the death!"
The men of Crabb's land hesitated for a moment, then raised their axes and pitchforks. Renfred looked at his father. The Baron nodded weakly, so he gripped his sword tight and joined the cheering ranks.
Most surprisingly, several women who had just been treating the wounded stood up. One white-haired old woman, still holding bandages, shouted loudly: "The women of Crabb land are no worse than men! If the Prince wants to fight, we can join too!"
Other women responded, and the atmosphere in the square reached a peak.
Just then, hoofbeats came from outside the town. Lord Brune arrived belatedly with his troops. Seeing the scene in the square, surprise and complexity flashed in his eyes.
His son Bernarr Brune followed behind. Watching Daemon surrounded by the crowd and the fervor in the eyes of the young followers, he suddenly clenched his fists.
He remembered his father's hesitation before setting out, remembered the calculations about "reaping the spoils without effort," and then looked at this high-spirited Prince raising Blackfyre. A clear answer suddenly formed in his heart—This is the person I have always wanted to follow!
Daemon noticed the Brunes. He smiled and raised Blackfyre in greeting. The bonfire light danced on his face, reflecting eyes burning with fire.
The night at Crackclaw Point was destined to be sleepless. And the legend belonging to Daemon Blackfyre had only just begun to write its most fervent stroke on this desolate land.
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