The great fog of the Hag's Mire was like a wet, cold blanket wrapping every inch of land at the source of the Blue Fork. Daemon's retinue and Lord Dustin's men marched side by side on the muddy path. Hooves stepped into slippery green moss, splashing black water mixed with rotting leaves.
The outline of Sevenstreams had long disappeared in the mist. Only the faint shouts from the checkpoint behind remained—vassals and subordinates of House Frey still extorting copper coins from merchants behind. The banner of House Haigh, with its black pitchfork on a brownish-black field, looked like dried, faded bloodstains in the fog.
"Heard the witches in this mire specifically pick foggy days to cut off travelers' heads and harvest their souls," Daemon Targaryen leaned on his cane, deliberately lowering his voice, violet eyes glancing at the reeds looming in the mist.
His silver hair was white as rime. His lame leg dragged crooked marks in the mud. "Especially young fools like Mycah, most to their taste. Is it true?"
Mycah Rivers blushed, gripping the bow at his waist tight. "Prince Big Daemon, don't scare me! Those are just stories old folks in the Riverlands make up to trick children, warning them not to trespass into unknown lands, to always be wary and respectful. Besides, there's only mud and vipers in this swamp."
Larys Strong chuckled lightly, the hem of his black robe sweeping over a cluster of ghost-fire-like blue mushrooms. "Vipers are real. Witches, well—" He glanced at the carriage from the corner of his eye. Alys Rivers and Mysaria were lifting the curtain for air. The green dress looked like flowing venom in the mist. "Maybe there are several kinds. Some cure with herbs, some divine with bones, and some—" He paused, looking at Daemon. "Might play with fire."
Hearing "witch" again, and thinking of the name Hag's Mire, Daemon couldn't help looking at Alys Rivers. This real witch seemed to sense his gaze, turning back to smile at him with curved brows, continuing to play with Mysaria's platinum-blonde curls with her fingertips.
"Compared to witches, I fear the mud underfoot more." Gael rode Dreamfyre on the flank of the procession. The magnificent pale blue giant dragon landed each step carefully, afraid of sinking into the swamp and being stained by filth. Her gaze swept the surroundings; rustling sounds came from the reeds, indistinguishable between beasts or something else.
Suddenly, a scream pierced the curtain of mist, mixed with the crisp sound of metal clashing, coming from deep within the reeds to the front left.
"Alert!" Daemon drew his sword immediately, the cold light of Blackfyre cutting through the thick fog.
"Rayford, take Mycah and Corlin to hold here!" He deployed rapidly. "Gael, you and Dreamfyre guard the carriage; let no one approach!"
"What about us?" Daemon Targaryen had already mounted Caraxes. The red dragon flicked his tail impatiently, breath condensing into white steam in the mist.
"Follow me!" Daemon leaped onto The Cannibal. The black dragon spread his wings, sweeping low over the reeds. "Rupert, Jarmen, bring a dozen men and follow close!"
Lord Roderick Dustin also arranged his troops. At his command, his Barrowton soldiers immediately drew longaxes, echoing the banner of two crossed black-handled longaxes in their retinue, exceptionally striking in the mist.
"Two Prince Daemons, please wait for us!" He mounted his horse, battle intent burning in his blue-grey eyes.
Passing through a waist-deep puddle, the fog ahead thinned slightly. A dozen masked men were hacking at a merchant caravan. Goods were scattered everywhere; furs and herbs soaked in muddy water. A merchant's wife was pinned to the ground, struggling and screaming as a masked man's hand tore at her skirt hem.
"It's a dragon!" One masked man looked up to see the shadow, dropping his axe in terror.
The Cannibal's dragonfire spewed suddenly, grazing the scalp of the attacking masked man, scorching the mud by his feet black.
Caraxes's crimson fire followed, igniting a wall of fire around the masked men, forcing them to huddle together, shivering.
"Let the hunt begin!" Daemon Targaryen's laughter mixed with the dragon roar. Caraxes's claw grabbed a masked man, throwing him into the fire wall like a sack.
Daemon dismounted from the dragon, Blackfyre sweeping horizontally to cleave two masked men trying to break out.
Every time Rupert's longsword fell, it was accompanied by the muffled sound of shattering bones;
Jarmen Waters's arrows precisely pierced masked men's throats, his single eye sharp as a falcon in the mist;
Lord Roderick Dustin's sword and his guards' axes were even fiercer, splitting masked men, shields and all, in two. The yellow-field family sigil shone in the blood mist.
His ferocious, exquisite martial arts finally reminded Daemon of who he was from the corners of history. In the future Dance of the Dragons: "At the Battle by the Lakeshore, he led the Winter Wolves to charge the Lannister spear wall five times, annihilating the opponent's elite at the painful cost of over two-thirds casualties."
"At the 'Butcher's Ball,' he personally blew the horn, launched the charge, and finally killed Criston Cole with arrows."
"At the First Battle of Tumbleton, Commander Lord Roderick died in battle against the Reach army led by Lord Ormund Hightower. He led the remaining Winter Wolves to cut a bloody path against ten times the enemy numbers, killing straight to Ormund's banner. Ormund's cousin Ser Bryndon Hightower blocked between them, chopping off Roderick's shield arm at the shoulder with a longaxe, but he still relied on his bloodlust to kill both Ser Bryndon and Lord Ormund before dying."
Thoughts returned; the battle ended quickly. The three surviving masked men were forced under a dead tree. Watching Daemon approach step by step, they suddenly looked at each other, drew short knives from their boots, and slit their own throats.
"Want to die?" Daemon kicked the last man's knife away, Blackfyre pressing against his throat. "Who sent you?"
The man glared, black blood spilling from the corner of his mouth—poison was hidden.
When Rupert searched the bodies, a badge fell from a masked man's chest: black pitchfork on a golden stripe over a brownish-black field. "It's House Haigh!" He picked up the badge. "Burning the bridge after crossing, killing and robbing, a thief crying 'stop thief'..."
Jarmen Waters also found clues, tearing a piece of cloth from the inside of another corpse's armor: "Also House Charlton's mistletoe!"
"Here's House Erenford's heron!" Leowyn Corbray held up a bloodstained cloth, the golden pattern on pink field still faintly visible.
All Frey vassals.
Daemon's gaze sank. The search at Sevenstreams was under the banner of Walder Frey's disappearance. Now these soldiers disguised as bandits appeared—what was House Frey plotting?
"Burn them," he told The Cannibal. The black dragon roared low; dragonfire swept over. Corpses and scattered weapons soon turned to ash. The burnt smell mixed with the swamp's rot spread in the mist.
The caravan leader stepped forward trembling to thank them, offering a bag of gold coins, but Daemon waved it away. "Leave here quickly, head toward Seagard."
Returning to the retinue, the fog was thicker. Gael greeted him worriedly. "Are you alright?"
"A bunch of jumping clowns." Daemon wiped blood from his sword. "Continue, get out of the swamp as soon as possible."
For the rest of the journey, they encountered three more waves of similar "bandits" robbing caravans. As expected, all were disguised Frey vassals, committing suicide every time before capture.
When Roderick Dustin cut down the last masked man, his sword hilt was stained black-red. "Is House Frey mad?" He panted. "Robbing caravans they let pass in their own territory?"
Larys Strong pushed aside a cluster of poison ivy with a branch, drawling: "Perhaps this isn't their first time robbing caravans." He looked at Daemon. "Guess they want to take advantage of Walder Frey's disappearance to do something big these few days."
Daemon didn't speak, just patting The Cannibal's neck. The black dragon seemed irritable too, occasionally spewing a small cluster of dragonfire to burn blocking reeds.
After walking for unknown time, the fog ahead suddenly thinned. Sunlight pierced the clouds like golden arrows, shining on a patch of dry land. The green pools and mud of the swamp disappeared, replaced by a solid dirt road. Cooking smoke was even visible in the distance.
"Finally out." Gael breathed a sigh of relief. Dreamfyre lowed, stretching her wings.
Daemon looked back. The great fog of the Hag's Mire still rolled behind, like a dormant giant beast.
Those sword glints hidden in the fog, the corpses of House Frey's vassal soldiers, were all swallowed by the mist, leaving only a bellyful of suspicion.
"Next stop, the Twins." Daemon gripped Blackfyre. "Time to meet this Lord Frey."
Sunlight fell on the retinue's banners. The three-headed dragon sigil symbolizing the Targaryen royal family was exceptionally striking in the morning light.
Roderick Dustin carried his longsword on his shoulder. The silence of the Northman and the mist of the Riverlands, at this moment of walking out of the swamp, seemed to condense into some silent declaration of war.
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