The morning mist at Barrowton had not yet dispersed. Grey-white moisture wrapped in the chill of frozen earth lingered outside the wooden walls of Barrow Hall.
When Daemon's retinue was packing, the Dustin family was already waiting before the gatehouse. Lady Arya held several linen sacks filled with oatcakes and smoked meat. Edda hid behind her mother, clutching a small direwolf doll sewn from animal fur, reluctance in her eyes.
"Mist is heavy; take care on the road." Roderick Dustin patted Rupert Crabb's shoulder, handing over a steel sword from behind—the blade was narrow and long, edge gleaming coldly, hilt wrapped in deerskin for grip, with a small Dustin sigil pendant at the pommel. "This is a spare sword I used in my youth. Tried hacking Ironborn and lizard-lions with it; you half-wild boy suit my taste most. Remember, a sword is a weapon for killing. Don't just learn those fancy Southern moves; develop your own method soon."
Rupert took the sword with both hands, knuckles white with force. He dropped abruptly to one knee, forehead touching the scabbard: "Many thanks, Lord Earl! I will not fail your teachings!" The silver armor gleamed faintly in the morning mist. The boy's eyes lost their usual easygoingness, gaining a trace of Northern resilience.
On the other side, Mycah Rivers was hugging Roderick's squire with red eyes.
The burly squire handed over a newly forged battle axe—the blade two fingers wider than Mycah's old chipped one, handle wrapped with black iron bands and carved with simple grip patterns. "To stop you kid from taking that chipped axe to battle again, I searched all the iron stock in Barrowton and had the old smith forge it overnight. Remember, a real battle axe must be heavy, ruthless; one swing must draw blood."
Mycah took the battle axe, testing a swing. The wind from the blade cut through the morning mist. He choked up nodding: "Thank—thank you, Master!" The usually boisterous boy couldn't complete a sentence now, only hugging the squire hard, burying his face in the other's armor.
Lady Arya handed the linen sacks to Mysaria, then stuffed a warm copper handwarmer into Gael's hands. "Oatcakes last seven days; meat is smoked with pine, keeps long. I changed the charcoal in the warmer; it's cold on the road, don't freeze." She pushed Edda forward. "These are dolls Edda made for the Princess and Lady Mysaria. She says she hopes you remember Barrowton."
Edda's small face flushed red. Stuffing the direwolf doll into Gael's hand, she quickly hid back behind her mother, showing only bright eyes. Gael squeezed the soft doll, whispering: "Thank you, Edda. I'll cherish it."
Just then, Roderick pushed Beren forward from behind. The boy hugged his book, ear tips red, fingers nervously picking at pages: "Pr-Prince, I heard after touring the North you go south... I've always wanted to see the Citadel, wanted to know if the 'secrets of the stars' Maesters speak of are true... can you take me with you?"
Daemon looked at the expectation in Beren's eyes, then at Roderick. Earl Dustin grinned: "This kid mumbles about the Citadel with books every day. Since the Prince goes that way, can you let him tag along to gain some insight? Willam is going to Winterfell to be Lord Stark's squire anyway; let the brothers have company on the road."
Willam stepped forward, bowing to Daemon: "Prince, I know the way. I know every path from Barrowton to Winterfell. Please allow me to guide."
Daemon nodded, amusement in his violet eyes: "Welcome, Beren. If you want to read on the road, there are books in my carriage; you can take them."
Beren's eyes lit up instantly, thanking repeatedly, hugging the book tighter.
The farewell ceremony had no fancy words. Roderick just patted Daemon's shoulder: "At Winterfell, give a message to Benjen Stark for me—say Dustin axes await Winterfell's call anytime."
"Will do." Daemon vaulted onto The Cannibal. The black dragon lowed, wings sweeping morning mist, rolling up fine ice particles.
As the retinue slowly left Barrowton, the Dustin family still waved at the gatehouse. Edda's small figure grew smaller in the mist until blocked by hills.
Daemon looked back. The yellow banner of Barrow Hall still fluttered in the wind. The outline of the Great Barrow appeared faintly in the mist, like a silent watchman.
"Northmen are truly genuine." Gael rode Dreamfyre alongside, pale blue wings shielding Mysaria and the handwarmer. "None of those empty Southern etiquettes, yet warms the heart."
"Their warmth is hidden in the bones." Daemon looked at the edge of the Wolfswood ahead, grey shadows of direwolves flashing among trees. "Like this Northern snow—looks cold, but protects seeds in the earth to sprout in spring."
Beren rode a pony beside Willam, occasionally peeking at the distant giant dragons, eyes full of curiosity: "Prince, does the Citadel really have Maesters who predict weather? I read in books they can calculate when winter comes using stars."
Larys interrupted with a laugh: "Citadel Maesters do understand this, but they also say Northern winter is hardest to predict. Sometimes snow falls just as autumn arrives." After all, his father studied at the Citadel; no one was more authoritative than this clubfoot on this topic.
Willam took over: "Last winter was especially early; first snow fell in early October. Rivers in Barrowton froze; Halys and Edda were sledding on ice."
The retinue moved along the path by the Wolfswood edge. The road gradually became covered in snow. Hooves crunched on snow.
The Cannibal and Dreamfyre occasionally landed, claws leaving huge prints in the snow. Grey wolves sometimes followed from afar but dared not approach—dragon scent made these Northern beasts instinctively fearful.
After several days, Northern wind grew biting, snow heavier. Stone walls appeared on the distant horizon.
"That's Castle Cerwyn!" Willam pointed ahead. "Seat of House Cerwyn, only half a day's ride from Winterfell. Their sigil is a battle axe on a silver field."
Daemon looked up. Castle Cerwyn sat on a small hill. Stone walls were three yards high. Square towers at corners flew silver battle axe banners snapping in wind and snow. Guards at the gate wore silver armor holding battle axes, standing straight as pines. Seeing Daemon's retinue, someone reported immediately.
"Welcome Targaryen Prince and Princess!" Lord Cerwyn came out personally. About fifty, tall, with a scar from forehead to jaw, a small battle axe at his waist matching the family sigil. "Freezing cold and so late, come in to rest! Hearth is lit, venison soup just stewed!"
The main hall of Castle Cerwyn was wider than Barrow Hall. Countless battle axes hung on stone walls—some rusty, some bright as new, all weapons used by Cerwyn ancestors. Firewood crackled in the hearth; aroma of venison soup filled the hall, dispelling the cold.
"House Cerwyn is closest to House Stark," Lord Cerwyn filled Daemon's ale. "When Andals came, our families defended Winterfell together; when Ironborn raided, our ancestors drove them back to sea with Lord Stark. Our words are 'Honed and Ready'—always prepared to fight for Winterfell."
Mycah tasted the venison soup; warmth flowed down his throat. "Lord Earl's soup is fresh, warms better than Southern broth."
"This is Wolfswood deer, meat firm," Lord Cerwyn smiled. "Winter deer is fattest. Added Northern spices when stewing to drive out cold. Tomorrow you go to Winterfell; if cold on the road, I'll have guards prepare hot soup cakes."
Beren sat in the corner holding his book, looking curiously at axes on the wall. "Lord Earl, are these real battle axes? Any from centuries ago?"
"Of course!" Lord Cerwyn grew interested, pointing to a rusty axe deep inside. "That was used by my grandfather's grandfather, chopped three Ironborn captains' heads! If you like, I'll show you our armory tomorrow; even stone axes from First Men times are there."
Beren's eyes lit up instantly, nodding repeatedly.
Jarmen Waters stood at the hall door chatting with Larys Strong leaning on the steps. The one-eyed knight's grey eye patch caught some snow particles. He occasionally scanned outside to check dragons—The Cannibal and Dreamfyre were settled in the clearing behind the castle; guards watched from afar, daring not approach.
Night deepened. Lord Cerwyn arranged rooms, all warmest inner chambers with thick fur bedding.
Daemon stood by the window watching wind and snow. Castle Cerwyn's lights glowed warm. Distant Wolfswood howls sounded ancient and desolate.
"Winterfell tomorrow." Gael walked in holding a handwarmer. "Willam says if clear tomorrow, Winterfell's chimneys are visible from Cerwyn towers."
Daemon nodded, anticipation in his violet eyes. "House Stark's Winterfell, heart of the North. Wonder if Lord Ellard Stark, who returned north halfway through the tourney due to illness, is as stern as legends say."
"Whatever," Gael smiled handing him the warmer, "at least Winterfell's hearth must be warmer than here."
Wind and snow continued outside. Cerwyn battle axe banners snapped in the wind, like playing a prelude for the coming Winterfell journey.
The hearth in the hall still burned vigorously. Aroma of venison soup, mellowness of ale, and unique Northern warmth added peace and heat to this cold winter night.
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