The morning mist at Storm's End hadn't even dissipated before it was shattered by the sound of hoofbeats in the distance.
Daemon had just finished a set of sword drills in the courtyard. The frost on Blackfyre's blade hadn't even faded when Borros Baratheon, that brute, came charging in like a stag diving into a wheat field. His cloak, embroidered with the crowned stag, hung crookedly from his shoulders, and a poultice was still plastered on the forearm he'd injured during their arm-wrestling match.
That didn't stop him from bellowing, "Little Daemon! Come with me! Bring your brothers! I'm introducing you to my crew today! Any later and they'll be off hunting boars in the woods!"
He grabbed Daemon's wrist with enough force that Daemon almost flung his scabbard away.
Daemon helplessly sheathed his sword and glanced nearby—Elenda Caron was sitting on a stone bench with Gael, Johanna, and Mysaria, picking out fabrics. Seeing him being dragged away by Borros, Elenda waved a piece of blue cloth and shouted with a laugh, "Prince, don't let Borros lead you into a ditch! Last hunt, he almost got his backside gored by a boar!"
Borros turned beet red, yelling back, "That was a sneak attack! Not my lack of skill!" The ladies burst into laughter, even the shy Johanna covering her mouth, her eyes dancing.
Passing through the inner courtyard of Storm's End, a crowd had already gathered on the path to the stables.
The most conspicuous was a young man in a yellow robe embroidered with black lions, leaning against a pillar and yawning. His belt was loose, his boot buckles undone. Seeing Borros, he straightened up lazily. "Borros, if you were any later, I was going to head back to Grandview for a nap."
"Lorent! Stop playing lazy with me!" Borros clapped him on the shoulder. "This is Prince Daemon Blackfyre, a true dragonrider!" He turned to Daemon. "This is Lorent Grandison of Grandview. His house sigil is a sleeping lion, and he's just like it—sleeps when he's not eating. Only hunting gets his eyes open."
Lorent Grandison bowed to Daemon, his tone still sleepy. "Prince, an honor. My old man always says seeing someone ride a black dragon is rarer than seeing a Dornishman willingly cross the Red Mountains these years. Like King Aegon and King Maegor..." Realizing the impropriety, he added, "And Prince Viserys in King's Landing, of course."
He pointed sleepily to two boys in black armor with green trim behind him. "These are my cousins, Thurgood and Wyl Fell from Felwood."
Thurgood, the elder, stepped forward immediately. The spruce tree sigil on his pauldron was polished to a shine, and he clutched a hunting horn. "Prince! I've wanted to see your riding and martial skills for ages! Jasper Wylde said at Rain House that you could cleave a bird in mid-air from dragonback! I hope you can give me some pointers on my riding this hunt."
His younger brother Wyl wasn't as outgoing. He tugged at Thurgood's cloak and whispered, "Brother, stop bragging. Last time you couldn't even catch a rabbit..." Thurgood blushed and tried to cover his brother's mouth, the two tussling and drawing laughter from the group.
As Daemon watched the scene, a boy in a green robe with twin fawns approached shyly, holding a wooden carving of a fawn. "Prince, I am Jon Cafferen of Fawnton. My father couldn't come as he is seeking a healer for my sick brother. I carved this myself... it's a mascot of our house. I wish you a successful hunt." The boy's ears were red. Clearly, this was his first gathering with the heirs of the Stormlands, and his first time meeting a dragon prince.
"Thank you, Jon." Daemon took the carving, feeling the rough grain under his fingers. "It's beautifully carved." Jon smiled and retreated a few steps to stand by Thurgood, sneaking glances at the Cannibal. The black dragon was napping in a nearby clearing but occasionally opened an eye to sweep the crowd, causing the boy to shrink behind Thurgood again.
"And this redhead!" Borros dragged over a boy in red and white armor with a griffin sigil. His red hair was like a flame, and his eyes held a defiant spirit. "The little Lord of Griffin's Roost, Ronnel Connington. This 'Griffin' is just like those 'Swans' of House Swann—prouder than anyone. Last time we gathered for a tourney, he fought me for first place!"
Ronnel Connington lifted his chin slightly and bowed to Daemon, but didn't lower his head. "Borros, you... Prince, please don't mind him. We all know your feats at the tourneys in Highgarden and King's Landing, but in the Stormlands, hunting skill might be more important." He pointed to the distant forest. "It's an honor to hunt with you today. Perhaps we can compete—see who bags a stag first, or who gets the most game!"
Before Daemon could answer, two more people approached from the back of the crowd. Leading was a young man in black armor with purple lightning bolts—Beric Dondarrion, heir to Blackhaven, according to Borros. beside him was a boy in a simple gray tunic, with charcoal-black hair and pale green eyes. He stood tall, carrying a saddle. Though dressed plainly, his handsome features were undeniable.
"Sorry I'm late, everyone. Prince Daemon, this is my squire, the son of our house steward, Criston Cole. He's here to see the world." Beric patted Criston on the shoulder. "He's good with a sword, just doesn't talk much."
Criston Cole knelt on one knee before Daemon, his movements crisp and standard, his voice steady. "Criston Cole, at your service, Prince." His gaze lingered on Blackfyre at Daemon's waist before quickly moving away. His fingers tightened slightly on the saddle—clearly, he had heard the rumors about the true dragon prince.
Daemon looked at him, remembering the title "Kingmaker" from the history books of his past life, his resolve during the Dance of the Dragons, and his legendary life. Looking at the sixteen-year-old boy now, his eyes held none of the ruthlessness of history, only the caution and forbearance of a squire.
He reached out to help him up. "Rise. Since you are Beric's man, you are a friend of Borros and me. Join the hunt today."
A flash of surprise and gratitude passed through Criston's eyes as he looked up, before returning to calm. He bowed respectfully. "Yes, Prince."
With everyone gathered, Borros clapped his hands. "Alright! We're all here! Let's go to Griffin's Roost! Ronnel's hunting grounds are huge, and there are rare white-tailed deer!" He winked at Daemon. "As for the women, let them stay at Storm's End. Hunting is men's work. Let them embroider and drink tea!"
As soon as the words left his mouth, Elenda's voice drifted from the colonnade. "Borros Baratheon! If Princess Gael hears that, do you think she'll ride Dreamfyre and throw you, horse and all, into Shipbreaker Bay?"
Borros froze. He turned to see Gael crossing her arms cooperatively, with Johanna and Mysaria beside her, eyes full of amusement.
He scratched his head, chuckling sheepishly. "I didn't mean it like that... just worried the thorns in the woods might tear your dresses..."
"Alright, we know." Gael waved him off with a smile. "Stay safe. Don't let a boar actually gore your backside like Elenda said." She walked up to Daemon and handed him a leather pouch. "Mysaria and Johanna taught me how to make jerky in the kitchen; it's inside. And some salve for wounds from Alys. Take it."
Daemon took the pouch, his fingertips brushing her warm hand.
Johanna walked over too, handing him a folded piece of linen. "Prince, you can use this to wipe blood from your sword... I saw you use your cloak on the slaver ship last time. Use this from now on."
Mysaria came over last, whispering, "Prince, if you see any pretty feathers, bring one back for me? I learned to make accessories; the Princess should like them."
"I will." Daemon nodded. Watching the ladies disappear behind the colonnade, he mounted his horse. The Cannibal seemed to know he was going hunting; he circled low once before flying to a distant clearing. Dreamfyre followed, her pale blue wings sweeping over the rooftops, eliciting gasps from the squires.
The group set off for Griffin's Roost in grand style. Dozens of warhorses clattered over the stone road outside Storm's End, the dust they kicked up carried away by the sea breeze.
Borros rode at the front, shouting back occasionally. "Thurgood! Slow down! Wyl can't keep up!"
"Lorent! If you dose off again, your horse is going to throw you!"
Lorent Grandison yawned lazily. "What's the rush? Griffin's Roost isn't going anywhere." He pointed to a distant hill. "Just over that hill. Last year I saw a white stag in those woods, bigger than yours."
"Bullshit!" Borros retorted. "I saw that white stag first! If you hadn't dragged me off to drink, I would have bagged it!"
Daemon followed, watching them bicker, then looked at Ronnel Connington beside him. The boy rode closer, red hair flying. "Prince, is that horse a fine breed from across the Narrow Sea? My family has a few too. Want to race next time?"
"Sure." Daemon nodded, his gaze sweeping back to Criston Cole at the rear. He rode a white horse, his posture steady as a rock. Even on the bumpy road, his saddle didn't shift an inch. Clearly, his riding was far more than just "good."
After about an hour, the silhouette of Griffin's Roost finally appeared.
The castle sat atop a hill, its reddish-brown stone walls looking like a slumbering griffin. The red and white banner snapped in the wind. The road from the foot of the hill to the castle was lined with dense oak forests, and occasionally, the call of a deer could be heard.
"We're here!" Borros reined in his horse and pointed to the forest. "Plenty of white-tailed deer in there, plus boars and foxes! Let's split into teams. Whoever bags a stag first drinks the strongest ale at Griffin's Roost tonight!"
Lorent Grandison leaned against a tree and waved his hand. "I won't fight you for it. I'll just find a spot to sunbathe."
Thurgood raised his hand immediately. "I'm with the Prince and his followers!" Wyl nodded. "Me too!"
Ronnel Connington frowned. "No! That puts most people with the Prince. We need to be fair. Let's draw lots!"
Daemon laughed as he watched them argue. "No need to draw lots. Let's look together. Hunting isn't a competition; it's for the fun." He looked at Criston. "Criston, do you know these woods?"
Criston paused, then nodded. "I came here a few times with Master Beric last year. I know the watering holes the deer frequent. Please, Prince, call me Cole."
"Then lead the way." Daemon spurred his horse forward. "Borros, didn't you want a stag? Keep up."
Borros perked up instantly, forgetting the argument. "Coming! Daemon, don't worry. If we meet a boar, I'll take it!"
Sunlight filtered through the leaves, creating dappled patterns on the ground. Criston led the way, his white horse moving almost silently over the fallen leaves. He stopped occasionally to check tracks, moving with the skill of a veteran hunter.
Thurgood and Wyl followed, whispering about where the deer might be. Jon Cafferen clutched his wood carving, carefully avoiding thorns. Lorent Grandison found a large tree and leaned against it to nap. Ronnel Connington, though unconvinced, followed Daemon, watching his movements with curiosity.
After about half an hour, Criston suddenly raised a hand to signal a stop. "Prince, water ahead. I heard deer."
Daemon reined in his horse and looked where he pointed. In a clearing, several white-tailed deer were drinking at a small pool. Among them was a stag with broad antlers, head down lapping at the water.
"Look at that beauty!" Borros lowered his voice and raised his hunting bow. "Watch this!" He held his breath, aiming for the stag's chest. Just as he was about to loose the arrow, the stag suddenly lifted its head and bolted into the deep woods.
"What happened?" Borros was baffled until he heard Thurgood shout from behind, "Wyl! You stepped on a twig!"
Wyl stood by a bush, face red. "I didn't mean to..."
Daemon smiled and shook his head, spurring his horse to give chase. "Don't panic. It won't go far." Criston followed immediately, his white horse like a bolt of lightning, quickly catching up to the stag.
Daemon raised Blackfyre, but instead of striking down, he tapped the stag's rump with the flat of the blade. The stag spooked and ran faster, but unharmed.
"Prince, why didn't you kill it?" Ronnel Connington caught up, confused.
"That stag is still young," Daemon sheathed his sword. "Let it grow stronger. We can hunt it next time." He looked at Criston. "Your judgment just now was precise. Faster than Borros's arrow."
Criston paused, then lowered his head. "You flatter me, Prince." The tips of his ears turned slightly red; clearly, he wasn't used to such praise.
Borros finally caught up, panting. "Daemon, why did you let it go? That was a good stag!"
"What's the rush?" Daemon patted his shoulder. "There are others in the woods. Let's keep looking." He pointed to a distant hill. "I think I saw some white-tailed deer heading that way. Shall we?"
Borros immediately forgot his regret and spurred his horse. "Let's go! We'll get one this time for sure!"
The sunlight in the woods began to slant westward. Hunting horns sounded occasionally, mixing with the laughter of the youths, echoing through the oak forest.
Daemon watched the noble sons playing around him, his own followers blending in, and Criston following silently behind. He suddenly felt that the Stormlands in this moment had no solemn executions, no lordly schemes, only the hot blood and liveliness of youth. And hidden within this liveliness were future bonds and destinies, like the griffin banner over the castle, unfurling in the wind, waiting to be written into history.
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