When the fiery red giant banner of Last Hearth disappeared from view, the Kingsroad was buried by snow to only a shallow trace.
The north wind carried snow particles like countless tiny ice blades scraping The Cannibal's scales, raising fine white steam.
Daemon lay on the black dragon's back, watching the continuous wasteland below—the border of the Gift. Brandon's Gift and the New Gift joined here. The former's soil exposed grey-brown rocks; in abandoned orchards, withered fruit tree branches pointed like frozen fingers at the leaden sky.
"Further ahead is the New Gift!" Brandon Stark rode at the front, black leather armor covered in thin snow. He pointed to a faint wooden fence in the distance. "That's the Night's Watch boundary marker. Past the fence is their jurisdiction. Villagers pay grain to Castle Black annually in exchange for Night's Watch protection from wildlings."
Daemon looked down. Beside the fence stood a faded wooden sign carved with crooked patterns of a direwolf and a Night's Watch torch—the mark of joint administration by Stark and the Watch.
Under the snow, exposed stone causeways were occasionally visible. According to Brandon, these were built during Queen Alysanne's tour, now mostly half-buried by frozen and thawed mud.
By afternoon, the retinue finally sighted a settlement in the New Gift. Dozens of wooden huts were scattered in a col, roofs covered with peat and thatch. Black smoke from chimneys tilted in the cold wind like dying black snakes.
The inn in the center of the settlement hung a dilapidated wooden sign with "Black Cloak Inn" written in charcoal—clearly a resting place for Night's Watchmen. Several strings of wind-dried meat hung under the eaves, frozen hard as rocks.
"Stay here!" Brandon dismounted, pushing open the wooden door. Warmth mixed with ale and charcoal fire rushed out.
The inn was small. The central hearth burned vigorously. Several villagers in grey-brown cloth sat at rough wooden tables. Seeing Daemon's group, especially the shadows of three giant dragons cast outside, they subconsciously straightened their backs.
The innkeeper was a lame old man wearing a wool sweater with a worn collar. Seeing Brandon's Stark crest, he hurried over: "Young Master Brandon? Please sit; ale just warmed, and frozen dried venison!" His gaze swept Daemon's silver hair and violet eyes, then moved away quickly, clearly recognizing Targaryen features, tone adding awe.
Just as they sat, heavy footsteps came from outside. Five men in black cloaks walked in. Snow clung to cloak edges; longswords and axes at waists, black Night's Watch sigils embroidered on chests.
The leader was tall, face resolute, a shallow scar at the corner of his eye, resembling Brandon somewhat.
"Brandon!" The leader's voice was low, carrying the hoarseness of long exposure to Wall winds. It seemed he was Brandon's uncle at the Wall, Night's Watch Ranger Rodrik Stark.
He walked up to pat his nephew's shoulder, gaze sweeping everyone, pausing on Daemon. "This is Prince Targaryen?"
"Exactly!" Brandon laughed, pulling Rodrik over. "Uncle, we were heading to the Wall; didn't expect to meet you here! You are?"
"Gathering supplies." Rodrik sat, drinking the ale offered by the innkeeper in one gulp. "Winter grain at the Wall is insufficient. Villagers in the New Gift paid some oats and salted meat; we're hauling it back." He paused, tone sinking. "Beyond the Wall isn't peaceful lately. Small wildling raids increased. Last night a group tried to cross the Gorge; we drove them back."
Daemon remembered Earl Umber's words. "The same group?"
"Hard to say." Rodrik shook his head, fingers rubbing the cup rim. "Some shout 'Winter is Coming,' some just grab grain; it's chaotic. The Watch lacks manpower, relying on Rangers to patrol. Fortunately, the Norrey clan helps keep watch—they live close and have dealt with wildlings for centuries."
In the corner of the tavern, Larys Strong quietly approached a Night's Watch Ranger.
Wrapped in a black cloak, legs stretched diagonally, hiding most of his body in the hearth shadow, voice low enough for only two to hear: "Heard there is a Ser Lucamore Strong at the Wall?"
The Ranger froze, putting down his cup, knuckles white—clearly not a light topic. "'Lucamore the Lusty'? You heard of him too?"
"Elders mentioned he was once a Kingsguard." No emotion in Larys's brown eyes, fingertips unconsciously spinning a copper star, as if merely curious. "Wondering how he fares now."
"Fares?" The Ranger sneered, adding wood to the fire. As sparks flew, he lowered his voice. "Back then he was glorious—golden hair flowing, strong as an ox. Commoners shouted his name at tourneys; court ladies loved talking to him. The result? Hid three wives and sixteen children from everyone, even from each other!"
He paused, tone adding mockery. "Ser Ryam Redwyne exposed him. Kingsguard brothers were angry enough to chop his head off. The King didn't kill him, but had his former sworn brothers castrate him, then exiled to the Wall. Now? Shoeing horses at Castle Black's smithy. Loose-lipped, always bragging to recruits about dancing with noble ladies in King's Landing. Last month tried to chat up a Norrey girl, chased by her with an axe. All Castle Black laughs at him: 'No guts left but still wants to pick flowers.'"
"His family?" Larys pressed, black robe hem sweeping over charcoal ash on the floor, hiding slightly tightened fingers.
"Wives sent to different places; children changed names—Rivers, Waters, Storm, all bastard names." The Ranger downed a gulp of ale. "Heard two sons followed to the Wall, but don't live with him, afraid of ridicule."
Larys nodded, asking no more, just sipping ale.
The warmth of the liquid didn't dispel the chill in his eyes. Watching the dancing flames in the hearth, remembering his grandfather Bywin's helplessness mentioning this grand-uncle, he suddenly felt the cold wind of the Wall suited such "abandoned people" better than the court of King's Landing.
On the other side, Jarmen Waters leaned by the door, single eye scanning The Cannibal outside, playing with the grey eye patch—embroidered with fine black sickle patterns, hand-sewn by the Lychester lady at Oldstones. The sickle stitches were sharp, showing dark patterns in the firelight, like ready to tear the fabric.
He didn't join the noise, only occasionally accepting ale from Harlan Hunter, gaze always vigilantly fixed on the inn door—instinct from years living on knife edges.
Gael, helped by Mysaria, was poking charcoal by the hearth, suddenly hearing Brandon shout: "After Queenscrown, let's visit the Bay of Ice! The Wulls roast whitefish sprinkled with wild fennel, fresher than Riverrun trout! And tavern girls there play harp, singing Riverlands ditties better than in King's Landing!"
Gael frowned slightly, pulling Mysaria's hand, signaling Daemon. "Mysaria's face is red from cold; I'll take her to the room to warm up. Alys should be waiting for us." She rose, arranging her cloak. "Don't drink too late; travel to Queenscrown tomorrow."
Daemon smiled helplessly, putting down the cup. "Understood. I'll watch Brandon, won't let him get too crazy." He ordered two best rooms from the innkeeper, watching Gael lead Mysaria upstairs before returning to the table.
"What? Prince controlled by the Princess?" Brandon teased, drawing laughter from Night's Watchmen and followers.
Daemon ignored it, looking at Rodrik, changing the topic: "Is the golden-topped tower at Queenscrown really where my grandmother Queen Alysanne slept?"
"It's true." Rodrik nodded, tone adding respect. "The Queen rode Silverwing to the Wall then, stayed a night passing there. Villagers later painted the top gold, saying to 'catch some true dragon light.' But the town isn't peaceful lately. Rangers say they saw strange footprints, like wildling scouts. Be careful passing through."
The atmosphere in the tavern grew lively. Rupert Crabb arm-wrestled a Night's Watchman. Veins popped on arms; the table vibrated. Rupert won with Crabb brute force, drawing cheers.
Mycah Rivers pestered Rodrik, asking if Wall weapons really pierced wildling leather armor.
Rayford, Leowyn, and Corlin chatted with Watchmen about Daemon's martial arts, speaking vividly.
Rodrik sang a Northern war song, voice resonant. Watchmen joined in, lyrics full of awe for the Wall, bitter winter, and glorious history of the Night's Watch.
Ale barrels opened repeatedly. Foam splashed on the table, mixing with fire sparks, matching the passionate and rough nature of Northmen.
Daemon sat in the corner watching the liveliness, fingertips unconsciously rubbing the brand on his right shoulder—only he and Alys Rivers knew the wildlings' shout "Winter is Coming" wasn't baseless. The Others mentioned by Leaf on the Isle of Faces were waiting to revive in the Land of Always Winter north of the Wall.
He couldn't tell Gael or Brandon, fearing unnecessary panic, only suppressing this worry in his heart like guarding a fire ready to start a prairie blaze.
In the upstairs room, Gael helped Mysaria spread wolf fur bedding. Alys Rivers sat by the window holding Legends beyond the Wall borrowed from Winterfell, green eyes shining in candlelight. "Lively downstairs?" She didn't look up, tone flat.
"Mm, Daemon and the others are listening to Brandon sing war songs with Watchmen." Gael walked to the window, watching moving figures in the tavern. "Tomorrow to Queenscrown; hope it goes smoothly. Heard there are wildling scouts."
Alys closed the book, looking at Gael. "Relax, with The Cannibal and Dreamfyre, wildlings dare not approach." She didn't mention Others or the Isle of Faces—she knew Daemon didn't want more people involved in this danger. Angering the Black Dragon didn't suit her needs. She added lightly, "Rest well; mountain roads tomorrow."
Singing continued downstairs, mixed with wind and snow hitting windows, like an unfinished war song in the cold night of the Gift.
Daemon raised his cup, watching dancing flames, suddenly feeling this trip to the Wall might be heavier than imagined—Night's Watch loyalty, wildling threats, and the ice shadow hidden in the Land of Always Winter, like Larys's thoughts hidden under black robes and the snow of the Gift, seemingly calm but hiding countless undercurrents.
Night deepened. Revelry continued. Candlelight upstairs and firelight downstairs wove into warm light on this land near the Wall, resisting Northern cold and unknown dangers.
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