When the blue and white sails of the Redwyne fleet sliced through the azure sea, the Isle of Tarth finally unfurled in their view. This land, known as the "Sapphire Isle," truly lived up to its glittering reputation.
The clear water shimmered with a gem-like luster. White sand beaches wound along the coastline, while distant mountains were blanketed in lush greenery. Waterfalls cascaded down cliffs, weaving into fine silver curtains in the sunlight.
The Cannibal and Dreamfyre circled above the fleet. The black shadow of the male dragon and the pale glow of the female fell upon the sea, causing fishermen along the shore to stop and gaze up at the rare sight of dragons.
As the Arbor Queen docked, Ser Horace Redwyne led Alyn and little Horace down the gangplank.
Ser Horace wore a blue robe embroidered with grapes, a ledger hanging at his waist. His gaze swept over the crowd waiting on the pier. Lord Tarth's agent was a thin man in a sky-blue robe, the quartered sigil of House Tarth—yellow suns on rose and white crescents on azure—pinned to his chest. Around him were several minor lords and merchants of Tarth, holding wool samples or wooden boxes filled with sapphire jewelry, clearly waiting to trade with the Redwynes.
"Ser Marq, sorry to keep you waiting." Horace extended his hand. As they shook, his thumb inadvertently brushed the man's cuff—there were wool fibers clinging to it, a sign he had just been inspecting goods.
"The Arbor vintage is here as agreed. The best years are in hold three. And the oak barrels you wanted are all newly made; they'll keep for five years without spoiling."
Alyn Redwyne stood beside his uncle, his orange hair plastered to his cheek by the sea breeze. Holding a ledger, he recorded everything diligently. "Uncle, Ser Marq asked for fifty barrels last time, but he's added another twenty this time. He also wants some dried green grapes."
Horace nodded, turning his gaze to the bales of wool piled on the pier. "I need to see your wool first. Tarth wool is famous for being soft and fine. If there's coarse wool mixed in, the price is going down."
He crouched, pulling open a bale at random. He pinched a few fibers and held them up to the sunlight. "Not bad, better than last year's. But this batch goes for thirty percent off. After all, we risked the Narrow Sea to bring you this wine."
Little Horace Redwyne, though young, leaned in and poked the wool bale, mimicking his uncle, which made Garmund Hightower laugh out loud.
"Little Horace, look carefully. Don't get cheated," Garmund said, blowing a crisp note on a newly bought shell whistle. "Last time at Rain House, I saw you buy stale oatcakes thinking they were rations."
Little Horace blushed and tried to snatch the whistle. "I just wasn't paying attention! With Uncle here this time, I won't make a mistake!" The two boys chased each other playfully, drawing smiles from the surrounding merchants.
Bethany Hightower shook her head helplessly and walked over to Ser Horace, her pale lavender dress sweeping the gravel on the pier. "Ser Horace, please look after my brother. Don't let him cause trouble with Little Horace."
"Don't worry, Lady Hightower," Horace nodded with a smile. "Master Garmund is a smart lad. Getting some business experience with us will only help him manage Oldtown's trade more effectively in the future."
On the other side, the girls had already gathered together. Gael held a sapphire bracelet, her pale violet eyes full of delight. "This bracelet is beautiful, even more exquisite than the jewelry in King's Landing." Johanna stood beside her, a fresh white wildflower pinned in her black hair. Her gaze rested on the bracelet before quietly drifting away. She remembered a jewelry box her mother had left her back at Stonehelm, which had contained similar gems, only for her uncle to lock them away as "useless things."
Mysaria noticed her sadness. She took Johanna's hand and offered her a piece of freshly bought honey cake. "Johanna, try this. Tarth honey cakes are sweeter than the ones at Riverrun."
Alys Rivers stood nearby, holding a herb picked from the seaside, her green eyes flashing with curiosity. "Is this 'Seaheart Grass'? It treats burns. With a little adjustment, it should be more effective than the Citadel's ointments."
When Daemon walked over, he saw the girls discussing herbs around Alys, while the boys trailed behind him. Alyn was explaining grape cultivation on the Arbor to Corwyn and the others, while Garmund and Little Horace were still fighting over the shell whistle. Sunlight bathed them all in warm gold, making even the sea breeze feel gentle.
"Prince Daemon, Princess Gael!" A booming voice rang out as Lord Cameron Tarth approached quickly with his retinue.
The Earl wore a deep blue brocade robe embroidered with yellow suns, an ivory-hilted longsword at his waist. His face was stern, but upon seeing Daemon, his gaze suddenly softened. His eyes swept repeatedly over Daemon's violet irises and tall figure. He even reached out as if to touch Daemon's silver hair before restraining himself. His voice trembled almost imperceptibly. "Such similar eyes... and this same tall, upright stature. If your hair were cut shorter... that refined, humble appearance, and the wild, free true dragon blood hidden in those eyes... it's exactly like him..."
Daemon's heart stirred. He had seen portraits of Aemon Targaryen many times—the Crown Prince who had been assassinated on Tarth bore a striking resemblance to him. Privately, Daemon had often compared his own reflection to Aemon's portrait, especially the violet eyes and build. If he didn't know for certain that his body retained the appearance of his childhood self from his past life, and that he was a descendant of Baelon, he might have doubted his own lineage.
But the world didn't know. They assumed he was Aemon's bastard son. Even this Earl, who had fought alongside Aemon, had fallen for the misunderstanding.
"You flatter me, my Lord," Daemon bowed, maintaining a polite tone. "Prince Aemon was a hero of the Seven Kingdoms. How dare I compare myself to him."
"You need not be so modest. The ignorant world may deny your identity, but here, you need not hide your bond with Prince Aemon. Call him your father freely!" Lord Cameron stepped forward, gripping Daemon's hand tightly—so hard that Daemon frowned slightly. "Prince Aemon died with an arrow in his throat fighting Myrish pirates for Tarth... I still remember how he looked when he fell. It is exactly the same as how you stand here now."
He paused, his tone almost pleading. "Prince, you must stay at Evenfall Hall tonight. Let me show you my hospitality. I have arranged guards; I will not let you be disturbed in the slightest."
Daemon wanted to decline—the plan was to resupply and leave—but seeing the earnestness in the Earl's eyes, along with the unconcealed guilt and nostalgia, the words died on his lips.
Rayford Rosby and the others were about to say, "The Prince's martial skill is high; he doesn't need guards," but were cut off by Lord Cameron's intense, almost desperate gaze. They could only say, "We will guard the Prince. Please trust us, my Lord."
However, Lord Cameron waved them off. "No! Your protection is reliable, I'm sure, but Tarth's guards know the terrain better. I have mobilized the entire city guard and tripled the sentries at Evenfall Hall. We must ensure the Prince's safety."
Helpless, Daemon nodded and asked Rayford to inform Ser Horace to delay their departure by a day.
Lord Cameron smiled immediately, pulling Daemon toward Evenfall Hall. "Come with me! The banquet is ready. Lobsters fresh from the sea, Tarth's famous roast lamb... I've even had the best cattle and sheep on the island prepared for your dragons. I guarantee they will be satisfied."
Evenfall Hall sat on the high ground of Tarth. The gray-white stone walls were covered in ivy, and the quartered banner atop the keep snapped in the wind.
Inside the great hall, the long tables were laden with food: golden roasted lobsters glistened with oil, legs of lamb were sprinkled with rosemary, fruit platters were piled high with fresh peaches and green grapes, and flagons of pale gold Arbor wine shone in silver cups.
"Prince, try this lobster." Lord Cameron peeled a lobster for Daemon personally and placed it before him. "Tarth lobsters are fatter than those across the Narrow Sea. People come every summer just to catch them."
As he served food, he spoke of Prince Aemon. "When Prince Aemon visited, he sat in this very seat. He ate three lobsters and said the seafood of Tarth was the best in the Seven Kingdoms. Later, when we fought the Myrish pirates, he charged at the front. His swordsmanship was better than anyone I've ever seen..."
Daemon listened quietly, nodding occasionally. He could feel the nostalgia in the Earl's words and understood the weight behind this enthusiasm—it was guilt toward an old friend, and compensation for that friend's "son."
Outside the castle, the Cannibal and Dreamfyre feasted. The black dragon devoured sheep in great mouthfuls, while the blue dragon pecked elegantly at beef, causing the servants to stop and watch in awe.
Halfway through the banquet, Lord Cameron clapped his hands. A tall young man walked in wearing silver armor embroidered with the quartered sigil of House Tarth. It was the Earl's eldest son, Bryndemere Tarth.
"Bryndemere, come pay your respects to Prince Daemon." Lord Cameron beckoned his son forward, his tone solemn. "From today on, you will follow the Prince and protect his safety with your life. If any harm comes to him, I will hold you responsible."
Bryndemere knelt on one knee, his right hand on his sword hilt. "Bryndemere Tarth of House Tarth pledges to serve Prince Daemon until death."
Before Daemon could speak, the Earl called for a young girl. She wore a simple gray dress and was taller than most girls, with unusually determined eyes. It was the Earl's daughter, Brienne Tarth [Note: Assuming this is an ancestor with the same name, given the timeline].
"Brienne, you follow the Prince too. You have skill; you can help Bryndemere guard him. You can also help the Prince guard the Princess."
Brienne bowed, her voice crisp. "Yes, Father."
Daemon was surprised and tried to refuse, but Lord Cameron held his shoulder. "Prince, this is the will of House Tarth. Taking them with you will give me peace of mind. Prince Aemon died to a Myrish arrow because of my negligence, because he didn't have enough guards... I don't want to see anything like that happen again."
At dusk the next day, the time for departure finally came. Lord Cameron and his family saw them off at the pier. Bryndemere and Brienne, bags packed, stood in Daemon's retinue.
The Earl suddenly stepped forward and hugged Daemon tightly, his voice choked with emotion. "Child, protect yourself. No matter how strong your martial arts are, no matter if you are a true dragon riding a dragon's back, always beware of arrows from the shadows."
Daemon's eyes grew hot. Even though this concern was born of a misunderstanding about his identity, the genuine emotion was enough to move this black dragon who had lacked love in his past life. He patted the Earl's back gently and replied silently in his heart, I will, my Lord.
As the fleet slowly left Tarth, the sapphire-like sea receded, and the silhouette of Evenfall Hall shrank to a dot.
Daemon leaned on the railing, staring in the direction of Tarth for a long time. The Earl's eyes, full of guilt, nostalgia, and love for his old friend's son, were branded in his heart.
Not only that, but the Earl's final whisper in his ear—"If you need it, the fleet of Tarth will fight for you forever"—was also deeply etched in his mind.
"It's late, the wind is cold." Gael walked over, Brienne following behind her carrying a wool cloak.
Brienne took the cloak from the princess and carefully draped it over the Prince, who had grown a few inches taller. Her movements were slightly clumsy but incredibly earnest.
Daemon turned back, looking at Gael's gentle eyes, then at Brienne's determined profile. He suddenly felt that this trip to Tarth had gained him not just loyal guards, but a heavy, heartfelt sentiment—a protection that transcended blood, born from an old friendship, warm and steady as the Evenstar.
The Cannibal and Dreamfyre circled above the fleet, their roars echoing in the twilight, as if putting a gentle period on this brief but profound encounter.
And Daemon knew that Lord Cameron Tarth's warning would act like an alarm bell, constantly reminding him—on this road to rewriting history, there was not only the glory of blood and fire but also hidden dangers in the dark. He needed to be cautious every step of the way, protecting those around him, and protecting himself.