The ruins of Moat Cailin in the twilight looked like the skeleton of a giant beast. Three moss-covered towers pierced the grey-purple sky. Broken basalt walls were half-submerged in the black water of the swamp. Clumps of ghost grass grew at the base of the walls, their pale white flowers swaying gently in the evening breeze.
When Daemon pulled on The Cannibal's reins, the last ray of the setting sun grazed the top of the tallest tower, dyeing the icicles in the stone cracks golden red.
"This is Moat Cailin?" Gael's voice held awe. Dreamfyre's dragon claws stepped on a huge block of basalt, tips sinking into the weathered stone. "More desolate than legends say."
Roderick Dustin dismounted, twirling his rusty axe in hand. "The First Men stopped seventeen Andal invasions here. Now even lizard-lions can't be bothered to visit." He pointed to the three towers. "The leftmost one is still habitable; the top offers a view of the Neck's exit. The right two have half-collapsed, good for blocking wind."
The retinue began setting up camp. Rupert Crabb directed squires to clear a relatively dry patch of ground. Corlin Celtigar used a lance to stoke the bonfire. Rayford Rosby led men to inspect the towers, ensuring no nests of snakes, bugs, or swamp lizards.
Jarmen Waters and Harlan Hunter split guard duties on the east and west sides. The one-eyed knight's grey eye patch was exceptionally conspicuous in the twilight, the embroidered blue grass pattern trembling slightly in the wind.
"Lord Dustin." Rupert suddenly walked up to Roderick, white armor gleaming coldly in the setting sun. "This subordinate dares to ask you for some pointers on Northern swordsmanship."
Corlin and Rayford gathered around immediately. Leowyn Corbray also put down his work, eyes shining with anticipation.
Roderick grinned, revealing two rows of yellow teeth. "My swordplay was honed hacking Ironborn and swamp lizards. It's rough; afraid it won't suit the taste of you silk-wearing knights."
He patted Rupert's shoulder, the force making the boy stumble half a step. "But you look sturdy, like material for Northern swordplay. If you're willing, before we reach Barrowton, I'll teach you a few real hacking moves."
Rupert flushed red instantly, dropping to one knee abruptly. "Thank you, Lord!"
Mycah Rivers, surprisingly, didn't join this excitement. He stared at the axe-wielding guard beside Roderick—that guard had just split a bowl-thick trunk into three with one axe blow while chopping wood, the blade embedding half an inch deep into frozen soil. "Guard brother," the boy walked up hugging his battle axe, tips of his ears red, "can you teach me how to use this?"
The guard glanced at Roderick. Seeing the Earl nod, he weighed the battle axe in his hand. "Our Northern axes don't do fancy tricks; battle axes test if bones are hard enough." He picked up a thick branch. "Watch closely. The blade must follow the bone; otherwise, hit a stone, and you won't even know you chipped the edge."
Mycah widened his eyes immediately, watching the guard demonstrate—the first slash diagonal, branch snapping in two; the second chop straight, cross-section flat as if shaved; the last sweep horizontal, actually shaving off the edges of scattered broken branches neatly.
"Remember," the guard panted, frost falling from his beard, "Northern winter waits for no one. One bit faster with the axe, one bit more chance to survive."
On the other side, Daemon was walking toward Corlin, Rayford, and Leowyn gathered around the bonfire. Seeing him approach, the three subconsciously straightened their backs. "Freezing cold, just watching won't warm you up." Daemon unclasped his cloak with a smile, violet eyes startlingly bright in the firelight. "Who said they wanted to practice swordsmanship just now?"
Leowyn reacted first, bowing hurriedly. "If the Prince is willing to instruct, it is our honor." Corlin and Rayford followed suit, though their faces held some awkwardness—they all knew this Prince's swordsmanship and martial arts far exceeded everyone, but he was a few years younger than them after all. Losing in a real fight would be embarrassing.
"You set the rules." Daemon looked at the Royce twins among the squires. "Borrowing your rune greatswords."
The twins hurriedly unslung the swords from their backs—two greatswords inlaid with bronze runes, blades broad and thick, hard for ordinary men to lift with one hand.
But Daemon took them easily, left sword pointing diagonally at the ground, right sword horizontal across his chest. In the moment the dual swords crossed, bonfire light flowed on the blades, actually reflecting a bit of Valyrian steel's chill.
"Three of us against you alone," Rayford braced himself to say. "And—you can't use Blackfyre."
"Deal." Daemon's smile deepened, feet slightly apart, aura changing abruptly—the Prince carrying boyish air just now suddenly became like an unsheathed sharp blade, edge fully exposed.
Corlin attacked first, spear thrusting straight at Daemon's heart. His technique carried the agile ferocity of naval cutlasses. Just as the tip was about to touch the opponent's tunic, Daemon's left sword sank suddenly, the spine knocking precisely on the spear shaft.
With a muffled thud, Corlin felt his hand go numb, nearly dropping the spear.
Rayford seized the chance to slash from the left; he was better at this kind of cooperation than single combat. The longsword carried the steadiness of House Rosby, going straight for the waist. Daemon didn't dodge, right sword swinging back up, blade flicking like a python's tongue, forcing Rayford to retract his move to defend.
In this split second, Leowyn's technique learned from Corlin arrived from the right, moves tricky as crab pincers, aiming specifically for joints.
"Good come!" Daemon shouted low, dual swords suddenly crossing, sparks splashing onto the frozen soil.
Instead of retreating, he advanced. Left sword parried Leowyn's short sword, right sword sliding down Rayford's blade, tip stopping only an inch from Rayford's throat.
Corlin's spear thrust again, but Daemon bumped it with his shoulder. The shaft hit a broken wall, knocking down loose stones.
The three fought with increasing alarm. Daemon's dual swords seemed chaotic but always sealed all attacks in the nick of time—sometimes sweeping like wild wind on leaves, dual swords becoming a silver blur; sometimes like still water flowing deep, a light tap of the tip unloading a thousand pounds of force.
Most terrifying was his strength. The Royce rune greatswords were light as wooden sticks in his hands. Every collision numbed the three's arms.
"Stop!" Rayford shouted suddenly, leaning on his sword gasping for air, sweat on his forehead freezing into white frost in the cold wind. "With the Prince's skill, I fear even Kingsguard are far from matching up."
Corlin and Leowyn nodded repeatedly, looking at Daemon with only awe left.
Everyone by the bonfire had long stopped their work. Even Roderick watched with arms crossed, occasionally whispering to Rupert, probably critiquing the moves.
Jarmen Waters and Harlan Hunter stood not far away unnoticed. A corner of the one-eyed bastard's grey eye patch, given by the Lychester girl at Oldstones, was lifted by the wind. The exposed single eye reflected sword light, fingers unconsciously rubbing the bowstring.
"Royce swords are indeed handy." Daemon returned the dual swords to the twins. Runes on the blades flickered in the firelight.
The twin elder brother looked at the tiny notches on the blade, clicking his tongue: "The Prince is truly the Warrior incarnate; I fear I'll never catch up in this life."
The younger brother spoke suddenly, voice full of disbelief: "Brother forgot? The Prince is only thirteen this year. Even adding us brothers together, we probably can't catch up."
Once said, the surroundings quieted instantly. Even Larys, fiddling with lizard-lion bones, looked up, black eyes flashing in the shadow—everyone knew Targaryens produced warriors and had seen the Prince charge into crowds with Blackfyre like entering unmanned land, but hadn't seen the Prince possess such strength at this age, as if born knowing how to reap lives with swords.
Gael walked over carrying medicinal soup, Mysaria following with a piece of glowing moss. "Don't freeze after winning." She handed over the pottery bowl, pale violet eyes smiling. "Alys says this soup has warmth-root from the Neck added; drinking it resists cold."
Daemon took the bowl, steam blurring his lens-like violet eyes. He looked at the ruined towers of Moat Cailin. Twilight deepened; ghost grass atop the towers swayed like white flames in the wind.
This fortress that stopped countless southern invaders was now silently watching them—a group of travelers about to penetrate deep into the North, and their secrets hidden in swords and bones.
"My turn to watch tonight." Daemon drank a mouthful of soup, warmth flowing down his throat into his stomach. "You rest first; we travel early tomorrow."
Corlin and the other two exchanged looks, all seeing excitement in each other's eyes—being instructed by the Prince was enough to brag among squires for half a year.
Roderick patted Rupert's back, laughing loudly: "See that? That is a true dragon. Killed too fast at the Hag's Mire that day, I didn't even notice. You kid watch and learn well by his side every day."
Mycah was still competing with the guard, battle axe making bang bang sounds on frozen soil, occasionally letting out a low growl of frustration. Alys Rivers's wooden hut emitted faint light; her voice explaining Neck plants to Gael and Mysaria could be heard faintly, light as mist.
Larys's black robe had long merged into the tower shadow. Only the grey donkey's snort occasionally broke the silence, as if reminding everyone of his existence.
Night deepened, bonfire weakened. Daemon leaned on the basalt broken wall, watching the silhouettes of The Cannibal and Dreamfyre in the distance.
The black dragon wrapped wings around himself; the blue dragon curled into a ball. Breath condensed into white mist in the cold air.
The Northern wind swept snow particles over the ruined towers, making whimpering sounds, like ghosts of the First Men singing forgotten war songs.
He touched the brand on his right shoulder, slightly hot in the cold night.
Perhaps the stones of Moat Cailin remembered—remembered every sword raised, every axe fallen, remembered those lives struggling in ice and fire. And he was but another passerby traversing here in these long years, carrying sword and dragon, walking toward the unknown winter.
Low calls of lizard-lions came from the distant swamp. Daemon gripped Blackfyre at his waist.
Tomorrow, they would step into the true North, where snow was deeper than Riverlands mud, people harder to understand than Neck mist. But as long as the sword remained, and the dragon remained, he feared nothing.
The ruined towers of Moat Cailin stood silently in the night like three watching giants. Under their gaze, the boys by the bonfire gradually fell asleep. In their dreams, perhaps there were endless swords to swing, endless wood to chop, and a snowfield vaster than the Neck.
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