The morning mist at Harrenhal hadn't fully dispersed, and gravel crunched under boots in the Flowstone Yard.
As Daemon swung into The Cannibal's saddle, he caught a glimpse of House Strong standing before the gatehouse to see them off—Lord Bywin's face was solemn, Harwin Strong's hand was on his sword hilt, but Larys Strong was nowhere to be seen.
"That cripple didn't lose his nerve, did he?" Daemon Targaryen leaned on his cane beside Caraxes, sneering.
While "roaming" the castle yesterday, he had seen this fellow who was currently in the same state as him.
The bandage on his left leg had just been changed, the white linen still tight, but it didn't affect his interest in watching the show at all.
Before his voice faded, a strange braying came from within the castle.
Everyone looked toward the sound to see Larys Strong riding a grey donkey, hobbling out from the archway.
The hem of his black robe swept over the stray hairs on the donkey's back. His left leg was unnaturally straightened. With every step the donkey took, it brayed, as if protesting this weird load.
"Gods above..." Rayford Rosby covered his mouth, shoulders shaking violently. Beside him, Leowyn Corbray turned his head away, gripping his silver sword hilt until his knuckles turned white, unable to suppress the stifled laughter escaping his throat.
Rupert Crabb, usually serious, also turned his back, his white pauldrons rising and falling slightly as he held back laughter.
Corlin Celtigar's fingers organizing charts paused. His gaze landed on Larys's obviously deformed left foot, and the corners of his mouth turned up uncontrollably.
The one who couldn't hold it back the most was Mycah Rivers, who slapped his thigh and laughed wildly: "Is this Harrenhal's new joke? A Strong using a donkey for transport!" Jarmen Waters's single eye flashed with amusement; he quickly lowered his head pretending to check his bowstring, but the tips of his ears turned slightly red.
Larys seemed not to hear, riding the donkey to the front of the group and patting its ear gently. "Please don't laugh, everyone. This leg of mine is disappointing; I fear falling if I ride a horse, so I can only trouble this 'Mr. Longlegs' to carry me." He emphasized "Longlegs," his self-mocking tone making the laughter louder.
Daemon's gaze swept over the twisted corner of his mouth, catching a fleeting coldness in that instant—like the glint when a snake flicks its tongue.
But when Larys looked up, those black eyes held only harmless playfulness. He even bowed slightly to Daemon: "The Prince won't mind a donkey staining your retinue, right? After all, a cripple with a poor mount complements each other."
"Keep up," Daemon said lightly. A low growl rolled in The Cannibal's throat, as if mocking this absurd scene.
Just as the retinue was about to depart, heavy footsteps suddenly came from behind the gate.
Alys Rivers walked out carrying a carved wooden chest. Her jet-black hair cascaded like a waterfall, accentuating the curves under her grey dress so exaggeratedly that even the morning mist seemed to stagnate.
The grey fabric was stretched tight, outlining heart-stopping curves. With every step, the silver chain at her waist swayed, clinking against the chest's copper lock, like knocking on everyone's heartbeat.
The women of House Strong subconsciously shrank back, the younger ones even lowering their eyes, daring not look directly;
Harwin Strong's hand pressed on his sword hilt, knuckles white. If not for Lord Bywin coughing timely, he might have rushed up to question why this woman appeared here;
The old Earl narrowed his eyes, gaze circling between Alys and Daemon, finally landing on Larys's grey donkey—as if that donkey could give him the answer.
Laughter in the retinue vanished long ago. Mycah Rivers's mouth hung open, unable to close for a long time, hand frozen mid-slap on his leg;
Rupert Crabb turned around but forgot to compose his expression, his pauldrons gleaming awkwardly in the morning light;
Jarmen Waters's single eye widened rarely. His gaze lingered on Alys Rivers, then moved away quickly, pretending to check his bowstring, but his ear tips quietly reddened.
Alys Rivers seemed not to see the stiffness all around, walking straight to Larys and handing over the wooden chest.
"For the squires." Her voice was casual, but carried a tone of familiar command.
Larys quickly slid off the donkey back, his clubfoot stumbling on the flagstones before steadying himself to take the chest.
His black robe swept past the donkey's leg. The grey donkey pawed the ground in dissatisfaction, as if mocking its master's attentive manner.
Then, she stepped toward the dragons.
"Daemon."
The name was like a stone thrown into an icy lake, instantly disturbing the surface.
Daemon Targaryen's eyes lit up. He busily tried to slide down from Caraxes's back with his cane, silver-white hair sweeping over red scales. "The beauty calls me?" His left leg bandage was still tight, but it didn't stop him from striking a dashing pose, even puffing out his chest. "I knew it, House Strong hiding such a figure..."
Before he could finish, he saw Alys Rivers stop by The Cannibal's claw, looking up at Daemon on the dragon's back.
"You should be in the column," Daemon's voice was calm as the deep water of the God's Eye, gaze sweeping her empty hand. "Or take a carriage."
Alys Rivers smiled, the curve of her red lips looking exactly like the twisted mouth of the heart tree on the Isle of Faces. "You need me, don't you?" She leaned forward half a step, the collar of her grey dress slightly open. "Some matters in the flames cannot be told to you in a carriage."
"Hiss—"
Mycah Rivers couldn't help sucking in a cold breath, quickly covering his mouth. Gael's brows knotted, a layer of frost floating in her pale violet eyes. Mysaria quietly moved closer to her, the girl's shoulders trembling slightly, her skirt hem crumpled out of shape.
Daemon Targaryen's cane clattered to the ground. Only then did he realize—that "Daemon" wasn't calling him.
He froze awkwardly on Caraxes's scales, neither up nor down. He had to pick up his cane and wink at Alys Rivers: "Little Daemon, you're good..." He deliberately dragged out the tone, gaze circling Alys Rivers's front. "Hid it deep enough. A beauty of this level, and you didn't explain to your brother first? Thinking back when I was on the Street of Silk..."
"Shut up." Gael's voice was cold as quenched ice.
Daemon Targaryen silenced instantly, turning to wink at Daemon instead. "See, Little Aunt scolds me again. Still, you have more face; if not for you begging her, I guess she would have driven me back to King's Landing long ago."
Daemon ignored his teasing, leaning down to pull the dazed Mysaria onto The Cannibal's back. The girl's fingers were ice-cold, trembling slightly as she grasped his sleeve.
"Don't be afraid." He whispered, fingertips inadvertently brushing the faint pink needle scars on her wrist—left from doing needlework these past few days.
Alys Rivers watched this scene, her smile deepening. She turned to Gael, curtsying. "Princess, may I ride with you? Magnificent Dreamfyre must be more comfortable than a carriage."
Gael bit her lip and didn't speak, taking it as tacit consent.
But just as she was about to climb onto the dragon's back, Alys Rivers suddenly wrapped her arms around her waist from behind—the girl exclaimed, cheeks flushing completely red instantly, as if dyed by morning mist.
Alys Rivers's chest pressed against her back. That shocking softness made Gael stiff all over, her fingers gripping the saddle slipping.
"You..." Gael wanted to say something, but the hot breath Alys Rivers blew into her ear made her forget her words.
On The Cannibal's back, Daemon frowned. Just as he was about to speak, Alys Rivers looked up. Her eyes held no frivolity, only a knowing calm, as if saying "Trust me." He suppressed his displeasure and patted the black dragon's back. "Let's go."
The Cannibal roared low, taking off first, the wind he raised sweeping away the last few wisps of morning mist.
Caraxes followed closely. Daemon Targaryen lay on the dragon's back, still muttering: "Biased, too biased... having a beauty to hold and not calling me..."
Dreamfyre took off last. The wind from pale blue wings blew Alys Rivers's black hair across Gael's cheek.
Gael turned her face away but couldn't help stealing glances—Alys Rivers was indeed much fuller than herself; even adding Mysaria might not match up.
She quietly stuck out her chest, then felt childish and pursed her lips in annoyance.
"Comparing?" Alys Rivers's voice held laughter, hot breath blowing behind Gael's ear.
The girl's face turned redder, jerking forward abruptly, almost sticking to Dreamfyre's neck. "No!"
Caraxes suddenly leaned in, Daemon Targaryen's laughter drifting on the wind: "Why is Little Aunt blushing? Embarrassed being held by a beauty? Want to swap with me?"
"Noisy again and I'll throw you into the God's Eye!" Gael's roar carried a sob, making Daemon on The Cannibal chuckle.
Mysaria sensed his amusement, looking up with eyes full of confusion.
Daemon looked down at her, suddenly remembering Daemon Targaryen hadn't been let out of his "confinement" in the attic since he left. He wondered if their "Rogue Prince" would be scared by the ransom money for the girls in his arms that Gael put on his tab when he returned to the Street of Silk in the future.
Thinking of this, he couldn't help laughing out loud.
"What are you laughing at?" Gael turned her head. Alys Rivers also looked over, scrutiny in her eyes.
Daemon shook his head, saying nothing. But Gael suddenly noticed that in Alys Rivers's gaze toward her, there was no mockery, only a faint pity, like looking at a fragile treasure.
Her heart skipped a beat, feeling Alys Rivers's arm around her waist tighten—that force didn't feel like intimacy, but like a reminder of her future.
She looked at Daemon on The Cannibal, seeing him talking to Mysaria with his head down, the girl's face flushed red.
Gael's anger inexplicably dissipated a bit, turning to glare at the still noisy Daemon Targaryen—it must be this dissolute scoundrel leading her Little Daemon astray!
Morning mist dispersed completely. The green waves of the God's Eye spread below like a giant emerald.
The shadows of three dragons were cast on the water, chasing each other as wings flapped.
Daemon Targaryen's jokes, Gael's scolding, Alys Rivers's whispers, Mysaria's chuckles woven into a noise in the wind.
Only Daemon caught a glimpse of Larys riding the grey donkey led by a squire at the end of the retinue. The arc of his black robe swinging in the wind was shockingly similar to that smile hidden in the shadow at the corner of his mouth.
And Alys Rivers's knuckles tapping on Gael's waist were gently counting, as if transmitting some secret message.
Riverrun was still far away, but the shadow of Harrenhal had quietly wound its way into the depths of the Riverlands with this group of people.
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