The wind on High Heart carried the scent of ancient decaying wood. Thirty-one weirwood stumps were arranged in a ring atop the hill. The rings on the cut surfaces looked like solidified ripples. The tree hearts had long rotted empty, yet they still pointed stubbornly at the sky.
Morning mist wandered among the stumps, blurring the banners below the high hill into patches of color—the red stallion on a golden shield was House Bracken; the black flock of ravens surrounding a dead weirwood was House Blackwood. There was also the ploughman of House Darry, the six brown oak trees of House Smallwood, and the dancing maiden in pink silk of House Piper...
The sigils of nearly half the Riverlands lords were squeezed beneath this high hill. The sounds of clashing armor, neighing warhorses, and shouting mixed together like a pot of boiling muddy water.
"By the Seven," Mycah Rivers pulled on his reins, pointing below. "Bracken and Blackwood are fighting again? And they invited so many helpers this time?" As a bastard of House Mooton of the Riverlands, he clearly understood the feud between the two houses better than others.
Daemon didn't speak. Sitting on The Cannibal's back, his gaze swept over the ring of stumps. The black patterns on the cut surfaces looked like dried blood, reminding him of his eldest son Aegon pierced by arrow rain on Redgrass Field—the boy's blood soaked the red earth, pooling into a small stream at his feet, overlapping with the faintly visible bloodstains below the hill now. Since that night in the godswood, he constantly saw visions of the past.
"Look, even the messenger of House Tully was driven back." Rayford Rosby's voice held surprise.
He pointed to a knight wearing the silver trout sigil, who was turning his horse around in disarray. Behind him came the roar of a Bracken knight: "Tell that old thing Grover not to meddle in the affairs of Stone Hedge!"
Alys Rivers sat behind Gael, her fingers tapping gently on the girl's waist, as if counting something. "Thousands of years," she suddenly spoke, her voice drifting in the wind. "From the Age of Heroes to now, their swords have never truly been sheathed."
Larys rode his grey donkey at the end of the retinue, his black robe sweeping over dew-covered wild grass.
He had just tried to understand the situation from the chattering farmers watching nearby. Now he tilted his head, watching the jostling crowd below, a faint smile on his lips. "House Bracken says Blackwood stole their rye; House Blackwood says Bracken poisoned the water source of Raventree Hall. Actually..." He drawled, his clubfoot tapping lightly on the donkey's belly. "I see it as just using an excuse to vent nearly fifty years of pent-up anger."
Daemon Targaryen leaned on his cane, shifting on Caraxes's back. The bandage on his left leg was particularly conspicuous. "Little Daemon," he looked at Daemon beside him, eyes shining. "Should we go down and take a look? Maybe we can grab some credit for mediation and make House Tully owe us a favor."
Daemon ignored him. Memories surged up like an uncontrolled tide, carried by the wind of High Heart—
The night before the rebellion, the brazier crackled. Ser Quentyn Ball's red hair looked like burning thorns in the firelight. He patted Daemon's shoulder, the hilt of the steel sword at his waist painfully pressing against him. "You are the blood of two true dragons! Why should you bow to the son Daeron had with that Dornish whore?" The master-at-arms' spittle landed on his face. "Look at Bittersteel! His mother is a Bracken, yet he dares to fight! You have Blackfyre, pure dragon blood, and us—"
Behind him, Aegor Rivers stood in the shadows. Black hair hung over his forehead, hiding those purple eyes similar to Daemon's. On his shield, the red horse of House Bracken bore the dragon wings of House Blackfyre, breathing flames.
"Brother," Bittersteel's voice was like quenched ice, "Brynden that fellow is watching you. He is the half-blood raven of House Blackwood, full of schemes and plots just like his cousins."
At that time, Daemon gripped Blackfyre, the blade gleaming coldly in the firelight. He looked at the Raven's Teeth guarding him outside—the fletching of those archers' arrows all bore small raven sigils, identical to the black ravens on House Blackwood's banner below the hill now.
"Distracted again?" Alys Rivers's voice pierced the memory. Daemon snapped back to reality, seeing her looking down, the corner of her grey dress lifted by the wind. "What did you see?"
"I saw past blood." Daemon whispered. He pointed to the leading burly knight in front of the Bracken array—the man held a greatsword, red hair dancing wildly in the wind, looking exactly like Quentyn Ball who cut down Lord Lefford outside Lannisport back then. "People of House Bracken always like to speak with the warhorses under them and the swords in their hands."
"What about House Blackwood?" Gael asked curiously. She glanced at the Blackwood ranks, where several knights in black cloaks were praying around a heart tree, tree shadows swaying over them like a flock of ravens.
"They like to use arrows." Daemon's gaze landed on the longbowmen behind the Blackwood array. Their bows were made of weirwood, the wood grain reminding him of the blood of Redgrass Field—back then, it was bows like these that shot through his throat and pierced Aegon's heart on the Weeping Ridge.
Larys rode his grey donkey closer, his clubfoot dragging a light sound on the ground. "Prince, look at the banner of House Blackwood—a flock of ravens surrounding a dead weirwood. They are convinced the heart tree of Raventree Hall was poisoned by House Bracken." He smiled, a trace of cunning flashing in his black eyes. "So you see, how absurd today's farce continues to be."
Daemon's fingers tightened around the hilt of Blackfyre. The blade gleamed darkly on the dragon saddle, as if echoing his heartbeat.
"They're fighting!" Mycah Rivers's roar came from below.
Everyone looked down to see House Bracken's red stallion banner pushing forward violently. The burly knight's greatsword split a Blackwood shield;
House Blackwood's longbowmen loosed arrows immediately. Feathered arrows swept through the air like a black cloud, nailing into the Bracken formation.
House Tully's silver trout tried to lead other troops to intervene but were pushed away by both sides simultaneously. The knights' roars shook the morning mist of High Heart apart.
"Truly lively." Daemon Targaryen clicked his tongue, cane tapping lightly on Caraxes's scales. "Little Daemon, are we really not going to join in? I bet as soon as Caraxes spurts some fire, they'll kneel immediately and call you Prince."
Gael frowned. "Daemon Targaryen! This is the internal affair of the Riverlands. Without Father's order, we shouldn't interfere." She clearly hadn't forgotten hearing Daemon Targaryen remind Daemon that day about Otto impeaching him for meddling in the internal affairs of the Seven Kingdoms...
"Internal affairs?" Alys Rivers chuckled softly, her arm around Gael's waist tightening. "Princess, Bracken and Blackwood have fought for thousands of years. Your father's peace pact has only quelled their hatred for less than fifty years until today." Her voice dropped extremely low, like wind whispering among the stumps. "This is not internal affairs; it is fate."
Daemon's gaze swept sharply downward, watching the Bracken red stallion banner and Blackwood raven banner fluttering and intertwining below. His memories surged again.
On Redgrass Field, Aegor Rivers led troops charging behind him like a red horse, dragon wings fluttering on shields;
Brynden Rivers's Raven's Teeth hid behind the Weeping Ridge, weirwood longbows ready to fire.
Caught in the middle leading the charge, Blackfyre cleaved countless spears and arrows, but couldn't dodge that arrow from Brynden on the ridge—on the shaft, a small raven sigil was carved. Then arrow rain poured down, and his consciousness surged back with it.
"Daemon?" Gael's voice pulled him back. The girl's purple eyes were full of worry. "You look terrible."
Daemon took a deep breath. The smell of decaying wood in the wind mixed with the scent of blood sobered him up a bit. He looked at Larys; the cripple was looking down stroking the donkey's ear, seemingly indifferent to the slaughter below, but the knuckles of the hand pressing on the saddle were white.
He looked at Alys Rivers again. The witch's black hair was blown up by the wind, covering half her face, revealing only a pair of shining eyes staring at the ring of weirwood stumps.
"Give the order, Prince." Larys suddenly looked up. The joking was gone from his black eyes, replaced by a seriousness bordering on urgency. "Wait any longer, and it won't be mediation, but collecting corpses."
Daemon Targaryen's eyes lit up. "Hear that? Even the cripple has more guts than you! Little Daemon, let The Cannibal stretch his muscles—"
"Shut up." Daemon interrupted him, voice cold as the morning frost of High Heart. He patted The Cannibal's neck. The black dragon let out a low roar, shaking the sounds of slaughter below into a momentary pause.
"Gael," Daemon looked at the girl on Dreamfyre, "let the Tully messenger come up."
Gael paused, then nodded. Dreamfyre swooped down, the wind from her pale blue wings rolling toward the disheveled knight.
Daemon's gaze swept over the chaotic army below, the ring of silent weirwood stumps, and finally rested on the banners of Bracken and Blackwood.
The entangled shadows of the red stallion and black raven cast twisted shapes in the morning light, looking exactly like the shadows of Aegor Rivers and Brynden Rivers on Redgrass Field.
"Tell them," Daemon's voice spread across the high hill through the dragon roar, "either put down your swords and return home to await mediation from myself and Lord Tully, or..." He paused, and The Cannibal jerked his head up, black pupils reflecting the terrified faces below, "let this High Heart be turned into a sea of ash and fire."
The wind stopped suddenly. The sounds of slaughter, shouting, and hooves all vanished. Only the ring of weirwood stumps stood silently in the quiet, as if witnessing another bloody event about to be carved into the rings.
The black three-headed dragon brand on Daemon's right shoulder burned hot, slowly transmitting to his hand gripping Blackfyre. He knew this was his first mediation in this life, but would never be the last. He not only had to stop the Dance of the Dragons but also hold down this sword inherited for a thousand years to face even greater crises—even if the heat on the hilt pained his palm.
The mist of High Heart finally dispersed in the dragon roar. And those entangled banners and shadows had only just begun their new entanglement.
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