The stone walls of Pinkmaiden glowed with a soft rose hue in the setting sun. The waters of the Red Fork wound around the castle, shimmering like shattered gold.
When Daemon's retinue arrived, Lord Piper stood beneath the gatehouse rubbing his hands. Attendants behind him held silver cups, but no one dared speak first—after all, no one knew how this Targaryen Prince would handle this melee caused by their own lady.
"My Lord," Daemon dismounted, the scabbard of Blackfyre tapping lightly on the red sandstone ground. "Tell me, what exactly is going on."
Lord Piper sighed, his flushed face wrinkling up. "Prince, it's about my daughters... their marriages. Ser Toren and Ser Hendry both came to propose. I thought... thinking both are prominent Riverlands families, wishing not to offend either side, I wanted the eldest to marry Toren and the second to marry Hendry. Who knew..."
"Who knew you wanted both dowries and to play both sides," Daemon Targaryen's voice came from behind. Supported by Corlin, his clubfoot dragged lightly on the flagstones. "Old boy, lucky you have two daughters; otherwise, who knows if you'd split one in half?"
Lord Piper's face flushed beet red instantly. Just as he wanted to defend himself, light footsteps came from the inner courtyard.
Two women walked out quickly. The second daughter in front wore a pale green dress, a long braid hanging down her front, eyes big and bright like hiding the shimmer of the Red Fork;
The eldest daughter behind wore a dark red gown, long hair loosely pinned up, her brows carrying steady concern. Daemon Targaryen stopped his knife-sharp tongue immediately; the lady looked exactly like the mature, intellectual type he currently favored.
"Father!" The second daughter rushed forward to support Lord Piper, voice tearful. "Are you alright? It's all my fault..."
The eldest daughter also stepped forward to tidy her father's collar, her calm gaze sweeping over Daemon and Daemon Targaryen before curtsying. "Greetings to the two Princes, and the Princess." Her voice was gentle but firm, like still water deep in the Red Fork.
Daemon Targaryen originally wanted to tease more, but seeing the eldest daughter like this, he shut his mouth abruptly, ears quietly turning red under his silver-white hair.
Having settled her father, the second daughter looked worriedly at Ser Toren who had been led aside by attendants, her clear eyes full of heartache.
Seeing his daughter like this, Lord Piper finally sighed. "Let it be, let it be... Since my daughter favors Ser Toren, let it be as she wishes."
"No!" Ser Hendry broke free from the attendants violently, red hair and beard bristling like an enraged red bull. "She must have been bewitched by Blackwood sorcery! Lord Piper, I refuse to accept this!" He turned to Toren, greatsword waving in hand. "Dare to duel? Winner marries the second daughter! Winner is the one who can give her happiness!"
Ser Toren looked at the second daughter, then at Daemon and Lord Piper. Seeing the Earl look tempted, his heart steadied, and he gripped his longsword. "I accept."
The tourney ground the next day was set in the outer courtyard of Pinkmaiden. The red sandstone ground was swept clean, surrounded by crowds watching the excitement.
Daemon and Gael sat on a temporary stand. Mysaria sat next to Gael, holding a half-embroidered handkerchief;
Alys Rivers stood in the corner, green dress contrasting with the red wall like a flower blooming in stone cracks;
Larys with his grey donkey watched with relish from behind the crowd, occasionally kicking the person next to him with his clubfoot to comment.
The first bout was on foot. Hendry's greatsword danced with wind-breaking force, every strike carrying mountain-splitting power, forcing Toren to retreat repeatedly.
Toren's longsword was agile as a snake, constantly parrying and dodging, but ultimately couldn't withstand the brute force—with a crisp clang, Toren's longsword was knocked flying. Hendry let out a roar of victory. The second daughter's face turned white instantly, fingers clutching her skirt tightly.
The second bout was archery. The wind direction favored Toren exceptionally. Standing fifty yards away, all three of his arrows hit the bullseye, the last one even splitting the nock of the previous arrow. Hendry missed two shots, throwing his bow on the ground in anger, red beard shaking like a flame.
The second daughter breathed a sigh of relief, a faint smile rising on her lips.
The third bout, the joust, was the fiercest. They charged at each other seven times, breaking six lances, horses foaming at the mouth from exhaustion.
On the eighth charge, Hendry suddenly lowered his lance tip, smashing precisely into the center of Toren's breastplate—Toren fell from his horse, hitting the ground heavily.
"Toren!" The second daughter screamed and rushed onto the field, throwing herself beside Toren regardless of propriety, tears falling like broken pearls. "How are you? Are you okay?"
Toren endured the pain, raising a hand to wipe away her tears. "I'm fine..."
Hendry sat on his horse, watching this scene, the hand holding the lance slowly lowering.
He won the tourney but lost the heart he wanted to protect. Watching the woman he loved embracing his rival, two lines of tears rolled from the burly man's red eyes, mixing with sweat falling onto the red sandstone.
"I... I lost," he murmured, turning his horse. "This marriage, I won't pursue."
With that, he galloped out of the tourney ground. The Bracken clansmen behind him froze, then chased after him.
The next day, Hendry left Pinkmaiden with his retinue. Surprisingly, Lord Piper's eldest daughter rode beside him. Riding side by side, the eldest daughter wore a calm smile, occasionally speaking to Hendry.
It turned out after the tourney, the eldest daughter approached Hendry proactively, saying she was willing to marry him—rather than marrying someone who didn't love her, he might as well give this accidental dispute a perfect ending.
The most dejected person in Pinkmaiden became Daemon Targaryen.
When he found the eldest daughter last night, she was watching the flow of the Red Fork on the city wall.
Seeing him approach, the eldest daughter turned, her smile apologetic. "Prince, I know your heart. I also admire a handsome true dragon like you."
She paused, voice gentle but firm. "But I heard you were betrothed to Lady Rhea of House Royce in the Vale last year—a marriage of bronze and fire. You cannot defy the arrangement of your King Grandfather, Queen Grandmother, and Crown Prince Father, nor can I defy my Earl Father's will. Though House Piper is small, we have honor. A pity... fate plays tricks, letting us meet at the wrong time."
Daemon Targaryen opened his mouth, wanting to say something, but found his throat tight. He thought of Rhea's always tense face, her tone like quenched ice, then looked at this educated and reasonable lady before him. His heart felt swollen like soaked by the Red Fork water, sour and astringent.
On the day of departure for Riverrun, the wind of Pinkmaiden carried moisture, making eyes damp.
Daemon Targaryen returned Corlin Celtigar's warhorse, patting his shoulder. "When we get to Riverrun, I'll have the smith forge you a new lance, ten times better than this one."
Corlin nodded with a smile, but didn't miss the desolation in his eyes.
Daemon Targaryen leaned on his cane, climbing clumsily onto Caraxes's back. The red dragon flicked his tail in dissatisfaction, as if urging. After settling, he looked down at Dark Sister at his waist, then looked up toward Pinkmaiden—where the eldest daughter's figure had long disappeared before the gate.
"Let's go," he whispered, voice light as wind.
Caraxes soared into the air, flying toward Riverrun alongside The Cannibal and Dreamfyre.
Riding The Cannibal, Daemon looked back at the figure on Caraxes—that usually boisterous great-grandfather was now facing away from them. Silver-white hair fluttered in the wind, lame leg hanging over the saddle edge, motionless like a forgotten statue.
Gael sighed softly. "He seems... really sad."
Mysaria nodded, small hand gripping Gael's sleeve tightly. Alys Rivers watched Caraxes's shadow, a complex smile curling her lips, saying nothing.
The wind of the Riverlands blew gust after gust, across the water of the Red Fork, across the grass of High Heart, toward distant Riverrun.
But no matter how the wind blew, it seemed unable to disperse the haze in the heart of the seventeen-year-old on Caraxes's back.
Daemon knew some wounds couldn't be smoothed by dragonfire, nor faded by time.
Just as the stone walls of Pinkmaiden would always carry a rose hue, some regrets might stay there forever, gently pricking the young man's heart on every windy day.
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