Inn at the Crossroads, Kingsroad
Daeron was astride Shadow as they made their way toward the Ruby Ford under the full moon. The night wasn't too dark—moonlight bathed the path in silver—and both Arthur and Daeron could see the road ahead. It had been four days since they left the Twins, and they had now reached the Inn at the Crossroads. They'd decided to rest here for the night.
Daeron could have chosen to stop at Castle Darry, which wasn't much farther, but he decided against it. Castle Darry was said to be under the control of Lannister men. It could've been a mere rumor, something overheard at the inn, but Daeron wasn't one to take unnecessary risks. His men were tired from marching dawn till dusk, and in no shape to lay siege or defend themselves if attacked in their sleep.
He had hoped the bastard cousin of House Darry—who was said to be staking a claim—might appear before him. If the man was who he claimed to be, Daeron would have handed over the castle willingly. But it seemed either the bastard was dead, or word hadn't yet reached him of Daeron's presence nearby. Unlikely, Daeron thought, since the innkeeper had been preparing for their arrival since the day they left the Twins. Not to mention, farmer sons and scattered men-at-arms had begun joining their march along the Kingsroad, drawn by fury and vengeance. All eager to strike back at the Lannisters.
And Daeron understood their rage. Looking west of the Kingsroad toward the Green Fork, the land was scorched—fields burnt, holdfasts and homes razed. Nothing had been spared. The brutality of the Lannisters left him disgusted, though not surprised. He could only sigh, weary and resigned. Such was the world he now lived in.
By the time they reached the Trident's crossing, that is called Ruby ford—the place where Daeron's biological father had fallen to the so-called Demon of the Trident—the hour of the bat had come. Daeron dismounted and walked to the riverbank, gazing out over the water. Emotion stirred in his chest, though he couldn't quite name it. And that made his snort in his mind, he who can smell the emotions of other people, does not understand and identify his own emotions.
"Your father, though gifted with the sword, never gave it the same devotion he gave his books," Arthur said softly, standing just a step behind him, his gaze fixed on the muddied current of the Trident. "I dream of that day often, you know. That acursed day. I wonder what might've been if Rhaegar had listened to me and let me come with him. The Lord Commander and Ser Oswell were guarding the Queen. They would've protected her and you with their lives, as was their duty. By the Old Gods and the New, I would've made sure this place was called Stag's End… not Ruby Ford."
Daeron could practically smell Arthur's regret and anger clinging to him like a heavy, damp cloak.
"Drunkard and whoremonger he may have been, but Robert was a puissant warrior—unmatched with a hammer in hand, and strength to back it. You truly believe you could have made the difference? Ser Barristan was there too, and even he could do nothing," Daeron muttered absently.
"Dawn has drunk the blood of warriors more skilled than Robert, when it was in my hand," Arthur replied without pause. "And Ser Barristan—with all his honor and skill—was too rigid. He either underestimated Robert's fury or overestimated the Prince's chances. Likely because of Connington's earlier victory over Robert. And their numbers were greater. He may have thought the battle won already. Too much victory can do that to a man. Still… I blame him for failing to protect the Prince."
"It was war, Arthur. You can't place that burden on him. Robert wasn't alone. Many fought with him. Others could have intercepted him, bought time. It wasn't all on Ser Barristan."
"But I can blame him," Arthur said stubbornly, "for bending the knee to that drunkard and usurper."
Daeron shook his head, eyes fixed on the silver-lit waters. He didn't share Arthur's bitterness. He didn't blame Barristan. The man was old, his hopes broken. After Rhaegar's death, who was left? Viserys was just a child—madness in his blood, no allies, no strength. The realm had never followed Aerys; they had followed the Last Dragon. And when Rhaegar fell, so did everything else. Barristan's surrender was just one of many.
"I want to practice my singing. In Parseltongue," Daeron said after a pause.
Arthur frowned but did not object.
"I won't leave this time," he said after a long breath. "I'll stand here. I want to hear it."
Daeron raised an eyebrow. Arthur had never stayed to listen before. Usually, he gave Daeron privacy when he practiced the serpentine tongue. Daeron often wondered if Parseltongue had any real mystical power when sung aloud near humans; the snakes simply enjoyed hearing him speak. So whenever he asked them about their opinion on his voice, their reply was the same all the time, 'Ssspeaker ssing good. Speaker ssing more.' Wood and Patch—and the Earthsingers—had been avoiding him since their talk about the past. With no human to judge the language's effect, Daeron lacked confirmation.
So Arthur staying? That was valuable. Like a curious rat, willing to endure the experiment.
Daeron cleared his throat, not intending to waste much time. Arthur remained silent, his face unreadable. Daeron began:
"Sssummon the gentle ebb of light,
Ssoothe each wound with ssilver might,
Ssspin the threadsss of flesh and bone,
Ssend them whole where oncce they're torn,
Sssuckle life from hidden ssprings,
Sssing the tide that healing brings,
Sshield the heart with coils of care,
Ssanctify all hurt laid bare."
Daeron stopped abruptly when he heard the sound of moaning and someone grunting in pleasure beside him. He turned to Arthur, eyes widening in shock. There was little doubt left now—singing in Parseltongue, even with whatever half-written shite he'd composed, did have effects on others. Aether had told him as much. But this?
It was Arthur.
The moaning came from the white knight himself, and the sheer look of bliss on Arthur's face unsettled Daeron enough to take a cautious step back.
"Arthur," Daeron called quietly, not wanting to spook him. When the knight remained dazed, Daeron raised his voice. "Arthur."
Arthur jolted upright, back ramrod straight, and his hand flew to the pommel of his sword with such speed that Daeron hadn't seen the motion until it was done. The knight looked around sharply, then locked eyes with Daeron, realization dawning.
He flushed—an awkward blend of embarrassment and elation. "It is… wonderful, Your Grace. Your voice, I mean. I never thought a song could heal someone. Aye, you might not have noticed since you weren't affected the same way, but… slowly, your singing made me feel lighter. The pain in my body faded. I felt as if, even if I were cut open, the wound would heal in seconds. I wouldn't feel a thing—not so long as I could hear your voice. The shivers and unease I had when you hissed before… they turned into warmth. Peace. Something like this, I've never felt in my entire life." Arthur's words came with genuine joy.
"Daeron the Bard King," Daeron quipped. "That's how history will remember me. Or perhaps… Daeron the Hisser." He chuckled, and Arthur joined in, both sharing a rare moment of levity.
But then Arthur furrowed his brow, glancing curiously at Daeron. "What if you sang a sad song, like your father Rhaegar, Your Grace? Would you make our enemies weep and—?"
He stopped mid-thought, his gaze shifting past Daeron's shoulder. Daeron turned as well.
Smoke—thick and dark—rose into the star-lit sky to the south of the Trident.
Daeron's eyes immediately scanned the skies, searching. It didn't take him long to find what he was looking for.
"Catch my body, Ser."
Before Arthur could respond, Daeron's mind surged upward—into the owl flying high above. Owl was headed north, likely fleeing the smoke, but Daeron wrested control with practiced ease.
He would have appreciated the night vision in other circumstances. Now, it simply served its purpose.
He steered Owl southward. The bird hooted in protest, afraid, its mind flooded with instinctive terror at the sight of fire. But Daeron pressed forward. What lay ahead had to be seen.
Castle Darry was ablaze.
From Owl's sharp eyes, Daeron watched people scatter—some fleeing in terror, others desperately trying to douse the flames with buckets from afar. Futile.
The message was clear for anyone with a mind to see. The fire was no accident.
Daeron pulled himself free from the owl's mind. He staggered slightly as he returned to his body, leaning against Arthur for balance.
"What is that fire, Your Grace?" Arthur asked.
Daeron's voice was low and bitter. "It seems the Lannisters of this age enjoy burning things just as much as my dear grandsire did. The Targaryen one."
His humor rang hollow.
House Darry had stood by House Targaryen through every rebellion, every war. As if extinguishing their line hadn't been cruel enough, now the Lannister men had burned their ancestral seat as well. Such cruelty… would not go unanswered.
Daeron's eyes glinted cold in the moonlight.
He had decided not to burn the keeps and extinguish old lines.
But the Westerlands? Their cruelty made Daeron decide that exceptions need to be made. And Daeron decided then and there, watching the smoke coming from the South.
The Westerlands would learn the true meaning of Fire and Blood.