The golden lion banner had fallen. Once again, the farmer's banner flew proudly above the walls of Darry City.
"Uncle, I have already reclaimed Darry City for our House."
Martin watched the soldiers transport supplies, tend to the wounded, repair fortifications, and re-garrison the castle. Pride swelled in his chest. He clenched his fist and tapped it twice against the stone parapet.
Footsteps approached. Mond hurried over to deliver the casualty report.
"We lost two knights, with one more gravely wounded. Among the spearmen, fifty-seven were killed, eighty-three injured. Some of those wounds are minor. Also, the southwestern wall has been damaged. We'll need to find a way to shore it up."
Martin's brow furrowed but quickly eased. The losses were painful, but not catastrophic. Much of the credit belonged to the two hundred archers Roose Bolton had lent them. Their fire had been decisive in storming the walls.
"Alright, I understand," Martin said. "Patch the breach with rammed earth and fencing for now. The Westerlands won't return immediately. Let the men rest. We'll go see Ser Bolin."
Ser Bolin, sworn sword of Bolton, had commanded the two hundred archers. Martin and Mond quickly found him, still directing soldiers as they collected usable arrows from the field.
"Lord Martin. Lord Mond," Bolin greeted them with a smile.
"Ser Bolin," they replied.
After brief courtesies, Martin thanked him and Bolton for their aid.
"It's nothing," Bolin said easily. "The North and the Riverlands now fight beneath the same crown. There's no need for such politeness."
His words, however, carried a subtle reminder. Everyone remembered Jon's bold refusal to acknowledge Robb as king at Riverrun. It was a barb delivered with a smile.
The three men returned to Darry City. Thankfully, even under Lannister occupation, the cooks and messmen had been left alone. When the Westerlands soldiers were driven out, these "invisible" folk simply continued their work, preparing food as though nothing had changed.
Of course, had it been the Mountain who held the city, the story would have been very different.
This time, Martin insisted that Lin Man himself join them at the feast, if only to show gratitude. At his uncle's urging, the boy Earl lifted his wine cup. But he was so small that standing or sitting made no difference in height.
"Thank you for your help, Ser Bolin. House Darry will never forget this kindness," Lin Man said earnestly.
"Ser Lin Man, you are too kind." Bolin shifted his weight dismissively, hardly sparing the boy a thought.
The wine stung Lin Man's lips, making him wince. The sight drew laughter from those gathered. A mascot—that was all he was. Fortunately, the boy himself didn't notice.
Before leaving, Bolin added one final barb.
"Since House Darry has reclaimed its city, I will return to Lord Bolton with the news. I had thought to leave the archers with you, but… as you know, King Robb appointed Jon as quartermaster. Lord Bolton and Jon… well."
The implication was clear.
Martin inclined his head. "I understand. I will find a way to explain this to King Robb."
Satisfied, Bolin departed with his men the next morning.
Afterwards, Martin, Mond, and Lin Man hurried to the family cellars. To their relief, they found them untouched. Inside lay House Darry's greatest secret—kept hidden for more than a decade.
Martin unlocked the heavy door and ordered the contents brought out.
One by one, portraits emerged, their black coverings pulled away to reveal silver-haired, purple-eyed figures of striking beauty.
The kings of House Targaryen.
Darry loyalty was more than fealty—it was devotion. Their ancestors had sworn: "Dragonfire clears the land, farmers plow the earth; we are born to stand with the Dragon Kings."
The dragons might be gone, but their vow endured. In the Riverlands, House Darry was an anomaly.
Martin had the portraits moved to a ventilated chamber. They had suffered damage, and with a Baratheon on the throne, restoring them openly would invite trouble.
Lin Man lingered, watching closely. Suddenly, his eyes fixed on one painting.
"Wait." He raised a hand, stopping the servants.
"What is it?" Mond asked.
"This one."
It was no king. It was Crown Prince Rhaegar Targaryen. At the time, many had believed he would succeed the Mad King. House Darry had commissioned the portrait in secret, eager to honor him.
"Don't you think he resembles someone?" Lin Man asked softly.
"Who?" Mond leaned in, but saw nothing.
"I can't quite say… but he does."
Mond dismissed it as the boy's imagination. Perhaps Lin Man had simply seen too many faces at Riverrun.
That night, Lin Man moved into his late father Raymon's chambers. The room was too large, too empty—and it still carried a strange, acrid stench. Not Raymon's scent, but something harsher, left behind by the Westerlands. The maids had scrubbed it, but it clung stubbornly in the air.
Lin Man tossed restlessly through the night, only falling asleep near dawn.
In his dream, Darry burned.
Flames devoured the walls, blood spilled down the battlements, the air reeked of ash and iron. Screams and pleas rose outside until they drowned the clash of steel.
Paralyzed with terror, Lin Man hid in his room. The door shattered. A beast—roaring, bloodthirsty—burst inside. He crawled under the bed, trembling, but a hand seized his ankle and dragged him into the open.
The terror was suffocating.
He woke with a start. The bed beneath him was wet.
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