The wind of the Barrowlands carried the bite of frozen earth. As it rolled over the continuous hills, it pressed the wild grass on the barrows flat against the ground, like wrapping the grey-white mounds in a withered blanket.
When Daemon's retinue stepped onto this wasteland, the morning sun just pierced the clouds. Thin light fell on scattered barrows—some round mounds were taller than a man, some only half-exposed. The First Men runes on the headstones were worn blurry by time, leaving only a few deep grooves recognizable as patterns of frost and wolves.
"This is where the First Men buried their bones." Roderick Dustin pulled his reins, rusty axe pointing to the tallest mound in the distance. Its top was covered with thin snow, gleaming coldly in the morning light. "The Great Barrow. Some say the First King is buried there; others say it's the King of Giants. In my grandfather's time, Night's Watchmen came here seeking First Men relics, but only dug up a few bone fragments."
Daemon looked up. The Great Barrow was like a dormant giant beast crouching in the center of the hills, surrounded by smaller barrows like stars around a moon.
When wind swept over the mounds, it made whimpering sounds, like countless tiny whispers mixed with echoes of wolf howls—at the edge of the distant Wolfswood, several grey shadows flashed past. Common Northern grey wolves stared vigilantly at this retinue with giant dragons.
The Cannibal seemed to dislike this dead land. The black dragon's nostrils flared, claws occasionally pawing the frozen earth, unearthing shards of pottery from the age of the First Men.
Gael followed on Dreamfyre, pale blue wings folded slightly to protect herself and Mysaria on her back. "The wind here is colder than the Neck."
"Past the Great Barrow is our Barrowton." Roderick pointed southeast with his whip. "Over there you can see the water of the Saltspear. You southerners rarely see such mudflats—a long narrow strip like an iron spear thrust into Blazewater Bay. At low tide, you can see shells all over the ground; edible, just fishy."
The retinue moved along paths between hills. The ground gradually changed from frozen earth to hard soil mixed with salt grains.
After about an hour, pale blue water glimmered on the distant horizon. The outline of the Saltspear became clear—a long narrow mudflat connecting hills on one side and grey-green sea on the other. Waves crashed on the flat, rolling white foam. Salty wind drifted over, mixing with the scent of frozen earth into the unique smell of the North.
"The mouth of the Fever River is right there." Roderick pointed to a silver ribbon at the end of the mudflat. "River water flows down from the Neck carrying swamp mud, turning turbid here. In summer high tides, half the mudflat gets submerged. Fishermen have to drag boats to high ground so they won't be washed away."
Mysaria clung to Dreamfyre's neck, looking curiously at figures on the flat. "Are those fishermen?"
"Tenants of our House Dustin," Roderick nodded with a smile. "No fish to catch in winter, so they pick shells on the flat or chop red willows by the edge for firewood. Life in the North is endured this way."
Another half hour later, the silhouette of Barrowton finally appeared at the end of the hills.
It was a town built by the river. Wooden houses were arranged orderly, roofs covered with peat and thatch. Several dirt roads extended from the town entrance to surrounding fields.
Most conspicuous was Barrow Hall in the town center—built on a hill west of the Great Barrow. Wooden walls were three yards high, square towers standing at four corners. On the lookout of the towers flew the banner of House Dustin: on a yellow field, between two crossed black-handled rusty longaxes, a black crown fluttered in the wind.
"Home!" Roderick spurred his horse, rusty axe gleaming in the sun. "Let you taste my old woman's roast boar!"
Before the gatehouse of Barrow Hall, several guards in grey armor waited. Seeing Roderick, they knelt on one knee: "My Lord!" When the lead guard's gaze swept the two giant dragons, pupils constricted slightly, but he maintained composure—perhaps never having experienced dragonfire, Northmen rarely showed fear like southerners despite rarely seeing dragons.
Daemon dismounted, boots stepping on the planks of the wide wooden stairs with a creak. Stairs led from the town entrance up to the castle on the hill, flanked by cold-resistant rye swaying gently in the wind. The grass courtyard inside the gatehouse was tidy. An old windmill stood in the center, blades covered in thin frost, clearly unmoved for a long time.
"Roderick! You're finally back!" A woman in a brown dress walked out quickly. Three green sentinel trees were embroidered on her hem—sigil of House Tallhart of Torrhen's Square.
Her face was dignified. Though fine lines marked the corners of her eyes, she exuded the capability of Northern women. She held the hand of a little girl about five, with two braids and cheeks flushed red from cold.
"This is my wife, Arya Tallhart." Roderick put his arm around her shoulder, then pointed to the girl. "Youngest daughter Edda."
Arya curtsied to Daemon and Gael, voice gentle but firm: "Welcome Prince and Princess to Barrow Hall. The children are waiting inside."
Edda hid behind her mother, revealing only round eyes staring curiously at Daemon's silver hair, then quickly glancing at the magnificent Dreamfyre. She whispered: "Mama, is that a dragon? Can it breathe fire?"
Gael was amused by her, bending down to take a candied date from her cloak pocket—brought from Riverrun, still coated in frost sugar. "Yes, but she's very good, won't breathe fire randomly. This is for you."
Edda took the date, stuffed it quickly into her mouth, mumbled a "Thank you, Princess sister," then hid behind her mother again, showing only a fuzzy top of her head. Entering the main hall of Barrow Hall, warmth wrapped around everyone instantly. Walls were pieced from rough logs, hung with faded tapestries depicting scenes of House Dustin ancestors in battle.
Long tables stretched from one end to the other. Pottery bowls and wooden plates were set. The hearth in the corner burned vigorously. Grease from roast boar dripped onto charcoal, sizzling, aroma filling the hall.
Three boys ran out from a side door. The leader was about fifteen, wearing silver-grey short armor, face seven parts similar to Roderick but eyes steadier;
The middle one was twelve or thirteen, holding a wooden sword, face wearing a mischievous smile;
The youngest was about ten, holding a leather-bound book, eyes behind lenses revealing scholarly air.
"Father! You're back?" The leader wanted to hug his long-parted father but saw the noble guests beside him, bowing hurriedly. "I am Willam."
"Halys!" The boy with the wooden sword followed suit, but his gaze couldn't help drifting to The Cannibal at the door. "Heard you brought dragons back?"
"Beren." The boy holding the book whispered, hugging the book tighter. "Welcome, Prince."
Roderick patted his three sons' shoulders, introducing with a smile: "My eldest Willam, practiced swordsmanship with me and our Southern master-at-arms for years. Second son Halys, wild as can be, always thinking of hunting in the Wolfswood. As for third son Beren, looks like one of your Southern Maesters, just loves reading."
Arya had directed servants to serve food: roast boar leg crispy outside and tender inside, rye cakes sprinkled with herbs, hot ale in pottery jugs, and a bowl of stewed red beets, soup thick and steaming.
"North has no fine things," she filled Daemon's cup with ale. "This ale was brewed last winter, added some honey to warm the body."
Daemon tasted the ale. Mellow aroma mixed with honey sweetness slid down his throat; warmth spread through his limbs.
He looked out the window. The outline of the Great Barrow blurred in the twilight. Wind swept over the wooden walls of the castle, making whoosh-whoosh sounds, like First Men telling ancient stories.
"House Dustin has guarded these barrows for thousands of years." Roderick drank ale, tone carrying emotion. "Since our ancestor, the last Barrow King, submitted to the Starks. All these years, whether Andals came or Ironborn raided, we guarded here—as long as the barrows stand, House Dustin stands."
Willam added: "Last winter, a group of bandits wanted to dig the Great Barrow, saying there was gold inside. We chased them off. Lord Stark even sent a sword specifically to praise our defense."
Gael asked curiously: "Is the First King really inside the Great Barrow?"
Beren put down his book, adjusting his glasses. "Maester says that's just legend; likely only a few First Men bones inside. But old folks in the village say every full moon, blue light appears on the Great Barrow, the First King's spirit watching us."
Edda raised her hand suddenly, still chewing the date. "I saw it! Last full moon, I went with brother Halys to pick firewood near the Great Barrow, really saw blue light!"
Halys scratched his head, embarrassed. "It's true, but probably ghost fire drifting from the swamp."
Everyone laughed; the atmosphere in the hall grew lively.
Jarmen Waters and Harlan Hunter sat in the corner. The one-eyed knight's grey eye patch gleamed faintly in the firelight. He occasionally took ale from servants but remained vigilant, gaze scanning the door periodically—life experiences from childhood accustomed him to watch for potential danger amidst liveliness.
Larys Strong sat by the hearth at some point, black robe wrapped around him like ink merging into shadow. He spoke little, occasionally poking charcoal with a wooden spoon, black eyes flashing indecipherable light in the firelight, seemingly pondering something.
Mysaria leaned beside Gael, nibbling rye cake, gaze on the tapestry on the wall. "Is that the Stark direwolf?"
Arya nodded. "Correct. Ten years ago, Lord Ellard Stark and his lady visited Barrowton. The Lady Duchess embroidered it herself to give us when she was still alive. House Stark treats us well; we must be worthy of this trust."
Night deepened; conversation in the hall continued. Daemon listened to the Dustin family tell stories of the North, watching starlight fall on the Great Barrow outside, suddenly feeling this once dead wasteland also hid vivid warmth—the resilience of Northmen, like wild grass on barrows, rooting in cold wind, growing through time.
"If not in a hurry tomorrow," Roderick raised his cup, "I'll take you to see the Great Barrow, then pick shells at the Saltspear. Beren can tell you stories of First Men runes."
Daemon raised his cup with a smile. "Alright. Just right to let us see what the land guarded by House Dustin really looks like."
Charcoal crackled in the hearth, reflecting smiling faces. The wind of the First Men barrows still blew, but no longer so biting—perhaps because of the warmth in the hall, perhaps because of the Northmen's straightforward hospitality, or perhaps, this land burying First Men bones finally accepted the true dragons from afar.
The lights of Barrow Hall shone long in the night, like a warm star embellishing this vast and desolate wasteland.
And outside the hall, The Cannibal and Dreamfyre curled up in the castle clearing, breath condensing into white steam in the cold air, guarding the peace and liveliness of this night.
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