Trails and Tribulations part 2

Alrick's muscles burned with exhaustion as he finally reached the village, the carcasses of the deer and wolves trailing behind him. His boots were caked in mud, and sweat poured down his face.

As he emerged from the tree line, Alrick was surprised to see the villagers gathered in the central square, with Daemon standing before them. The knight had set up large pots of boiling water and various vegetables nearby.

" Alrick, there you are," Daemon called out, gesturing for the young man to join him. "I've been waiting for you. Gather round, all of you!"

Daemon's words were met with a sense of relieved gratitude from the villagers. Many of them had been struggling to find food after the recent bandit attack had devastated their stores. The sight of the deer and wolves before them represented a much-needed source of nourishment that would help them see through these difficult times.

The villagers shifted nervously, casting curious glances at the animals' bodies and the steaming pots. Alrick hurried to Daemon's side, dropping the carcasses at his feet.

As Daemon began to skin the deer, he suddenly paused and frowned, examining one of the wolf carcasses. "Alrick! Look at this pelt - it's damaged." He turned to the young man, his eyes narrowed in displeasure. "You will be the one wearing this inferior hide. Perhaps it will teach you to be more careful."

Alrick swallowed hard, his cheeks flushing with embarrassment as Daemon tossed the damaged wolf hide at his feet. The knight then proceeded to expertly chop up the deer, distributing the meat into the boiling pots. 

Daemon turned to the oldest man he could find and sat in front of him. The villagers grew nervous at the stranger's presence, but Daemon raised his hands in a placating gesture.

"Do not worry, I simply have a few questions," Daemon said. He needed to understand where he was and how to get home. "First of all, where am I?"

The old man swallowed nervously. "This is Salt Mines Village, milord. If you head north, you will reach Saltpans town."

Daemon nodded, processing the information. "And what kingdom is this?"

The man looked at Daemon strangely. "We are in the Riverlands, milord."

Riverlands? Daemon had never heard of such a place. "I'm afraid I'm not familiar with the Riverlands. What can you tell me about this land?"

The villager shifted uncomfortably. "The Riverlands are one of the seven kingdoms of Westeros, ruled by House Tully from Riverrun. We are located between the Green Fork and Red Fork of the Trident river."

"Forgive me, but I find myself quite unfamiliar with this land. You mentioned the Riverlands, and that they are one of the seven kingdoms of Westeros. Could you tell me more about this Westeros and the seven kingdoms?"

The old man eyed Daemon curiously. "Aye, milord, the Seven Kingdoms - Westeros is the name of our entire continent, divided into nine regions ruled by great lordly houses. There's the North, the Vale of Arryn, the Reach, the Stormlands, the Westerlands, the Iron Islands, Dorne, the Riverlands where we now find ourselves, and the Crownlands which are directly under the rule of King's Landing."

Daemon furrowed his brow, looking a bit confused. "Nine? I thought you said the Seven Kingdoms?"

The old man chuckled. "Aye, that's what we call it, but there are actually nine regions that make up the whole of Westeros. The Crownlands and the Riverlands are part of the Seven Kingdoms, but are considered separate regions. An easy mistake to make, milord."

Daemon nodded, committing the information to memory. "And this Riverlands, it is ruled by House Tully, you say?"

"That's right, m'lord. Riverrun is the seat of House Tully, the liege lords of this region. They answer to the King in King's Landing, who rules over all the Seven Kingdoms."

"King's Landing?" Daemon asked, the unfamiliar term catching his attention. "And who sits as Kings currently?"

The old man blinked, taken aback by Daemon's line of questioning. "Why, King Aerys Targaryen, milord. He's been on the throne for near two decades now."

Daemon nodded, processing the information. "I see. And the Targaryens have ruled over these Seven Kingdoms for some time, then?"

The old man nodded. "Aye, milord. The Targaryen dynasty has sat the throne for nigh on three centuries now, ever since Aegon the Conqueror united the kingdoms under his rule near three hundred years ago."

Daemon's eyes widened slightly. "Three centuries? That is long reign. How did the Targaryens come to unite the Seven Kingdoms under their rule?"

"Well, m'lord, the tales say that Aegon Targaryen, with his sisters Visenya and Rhaenys, landed in Westeros with their mighty dragons and conquered the scattered kingdoms one by one. Through force of arms and the power of their dragons, they brought the petty kings and lords to heel, uniting them all under the Iron Throne in King's Landing."

Daemon listened intently, his mind trying to process this fantastical history. Dragons, an Iron Throne - it all sounded so foreign to him. "And this Aegon, he is the founder of the Targaryen dynasty then?"

"Aye, that's right milord. Aegon I, they call him - the Conqueror. His descendants have ruled the Seven Kingdoms ever since, passing the crown from one generation to the next." The old man paused, then added," Though these days, some say King Aerys is...not quite as just a ruler as his forebears. In fact, there's to be a great tourney held soon at Harrenhal, one of the largest castles in the realm. The King himself is not expected to attend, as he's been rather…unwell of late. But the Prince and all the great lords paramount will be there, and the prize purse is said to be most lucrative."

Daemon listened intently, the unfamiliar names and details swirling in his mind. "Harrenhal, you say? 

The old man's face took on a more solemn tone. "Ah, Harrenhal, milord - a cursed place, that. It was built nigh on three hundred years ago by the black arts of the last King of the Riverlands, Harren the Black. They say the castle is cursed, for Harren and all his line were burned alive within its walls by Aegon the Conqueror and his dragons."

He shook his head solemnly. "Aye, Harrenhal has a dark history. It's the largest castle in the realm, but it's said to be haunted, and any who try to rule it never seem to last long. Some even call it the 'Haunt of Harren'."

Daemon listened, his brow furrowed. The tales of dragons and cursed castles were almost too fantastical to believe. And yet, he found himself increasingly intrigued by this strange new world he had found himself in. Perhaps attending this tourney at Harrenhal could provide him the answers he sought.

Daemon nodded slowly, his thoughts whirling. This was clearly a world and a history vastly different from anything he had ever known.