Mist over the marsh
The thick fog of the Witch's Mire, like a damp, cold blanket, enveloped every inch of the land at the source of the Blue Fork. Daemon and his party rode alongside Earl Dustin's men along the muddy path, their hooves sinking into the slippery green moss and splashing up Blackwater mixed with decaying leaves.
The outline of Sevenstreams had long since disappeared into the fog, leaving only the faint shouts of the checkpoint behind them—the vassals and subordinates of the Frey Household were still extorting copper coins from the merchants behind them. The banner of the Haigh family, with its brown background and black fork emblem, looked like dried and faded bloodstains in the fog.
"I've heard that the witches in this swamp choose foggy days to cut off the heads of travelers and reap their souls." Daemon Targaryen leaned on his cane, deliberately lowering his voice, his purple eyes glancing at the reeds that were faintly visible in the mist.
His silver hair was as white as frost, and his limp left crooked marks in the mud. "Especially hotheads like Myles, they're their type, aren't they?"
Myles Rivers blushed and gripped the bow at his waist tightly. "Your Highness Big Daemon, don't scare me! That's just something the old folks in the Riverlands made up to fool children, warning them not to venture into the unknown and to always be wary and respectful. Besides, this swamp is full of mud and poisonous snakes."
Larys Strong chuckled, the hem of his black robe brushing against a cluster of will-o'-the-wisps of blue Mushroom. "The snakes are real, and the witches—" His eyes darted over the carriage; Alys Rivers and Mysaria were letting in some fresh air, her green dress billowing like a slick venom in the mist. "Perhaps there are several kinds. Some heal with herbs, some tell fortunes with bones, and some—" He paused, glancing at Daemon, "Maybe play with fire."
Upon hearing the word "witch" again, and recalling the name of the Witch's Mire, Daemon's gaze involuntarily fell on Alys Rivers. The real witch seemed to notice Daemon's gaze, turned back, smiled at him with a slight curve of her eyebrows, and continued to play with Mysaria's platinum curls with her fingertips.
"I'm more afraid of the mud beneath my feet than the witch." Gael rode Dreamfyre along the side of the group, landing cautiously in the middle of the magnificent pale blue dragon, afraid of sinking into the swamp and getting filthy. Her gaze swept around, and she could not tell from the rustling sounds coming from the reeds whether they were wild beasts or something else.
Suddenly, a scream pierced the fog, mixed with the crisp sound of metal clashing, coming from the depths of the reeds to the left.
"Be on guard!" Daemon immediately drew his sword, the cold light of the Blackfyre cleaving through the thick fog.
"Rayford, take Myles and Colin and guard this place!" he ordered rapidly. "Gael, you and Dreamfyre guard the carriage. Don't let anyone near!"
"And what about us?" Daemon Targaryen had already climbed onto Caraxes, the red dragon impatiently flicking its tail, its breath condensing into white vapor in the mist.
"Follow me!" Daemon leaped onto the Glutton, the Black Dragon spread its wings, and skimmed low over the reeds. "Rupert, Jarman!"
Bring a dozen or so people and follow closely!
Earl Rodrik Dustin arranged his troops, and then gave a command. His soldiers from the Barrow Hall immediately drew their long axes, echoing the two crossed black-handled long axes banners in their ranks, which stood out conspicuously in the fog.
"Your Daemon, please wait for us!" He mounted his horse, his blue-grey eyes burning with fighting spirit.
After passing through a waist-deep puddle, the fog ahead thinned out. A dozen masked men were hacking and slashing at a caravan. The merchants' goods were scattered all over the ground, furs and herbs were soaking in the mud, and a merchant's wife was being held down, struggling and screaming as masked men tore at the hem of her skirt.
"It's a dragon!" A masked man looked up and saw the shadow, so frightened that he dropped his axe.
The Glutton's Dragonfire suddenly erupted, grazing the scalp of the masked man who had attacked, and scorching the mud at his feet.
Caraxes's crimson flames followed closely behind, igniting a wall of fire around the masked men, forcing them to huddle together, trembling.
"The hunt has begun!" Daemon Targaryen's laughter mingled with a dragon's roar as Caraxes grabbed a masked man with his claws and tossed him into the wall of fire like a sack of potatoes.
Daemon flipped off the dragon, his Blackfyre sweeping across, cleaving two masked men who were trying to break through.
Each time Rupert's longsword fell, it was accompanied by the dull thud of bones shattering;
Jarman Waters's arrow pierced the masked man's throat with pinpoint accuracy, his single eye as sharp as a hawk's in the mist;
Earl Rodrik Dustin's sword and his guards' axes were even more ferocious, cleaving masked men and their shields in two with each stroke, the yellow family crest gleaming in the blood mist.
His fierce and superb martial arts finally made Daemon remember who he was in a corner of history. In the future Dance of the Dragons history, he "led the Winter Wolves in the Battle by the Lakeshore, charging the Lannister spearmen five times, annihilating the enemy's elite forces at the heavy cost of more than two-thirds of their troops."
"At ' The Butcher's Ball,' he personally sounded the horn, launched the charge, and finally killed Criston Cole with a hail of arrows."
"In the First Battle of Tumbleton, Earl Rodrik, the commander-in-chief, was killed in battle against the Reach army led by Earl Mund Hightower."
He led the remaining Winter Wolves, fighting his way through ten times their number of enemies, and marched straight to the banners of Mund.
Brandon Hightower, a cousin of Mund, stepped between the two, severing Rodrik's shield-wielding left arm from the shoulder with a single blow of his long axe. But driven by bloodlust, he killed both Brandon and Earl Mund before dying.
With his thoughts returning to normal, the battle quickly ended. The three masked men who hadn't died were forced under a dead tree. Watching Daemon approach step by step, they suddenly exchanged glances, then abruptly pulled out the short knives hidden in their boots and slashed their own necks.
"Want to die?" Daemon kicked away the last man's knife, his Blackfyre pressed against his throat. "Who sent you?"
The man stared wide-eyed, black blood spilling from the corner of his mouth—he had hidden poison.
As Rupert examined the body, a badge fell from the arms of a masked man: brown background with gold stripes and a black pitchfork. "It's the Haigh family!" he exclaimed, picking up the badge. "They even betrayed us, murdered us, and are now crying 'thief!'"
Jarman Waters also found a clue, tearing a piece of cloth from the inside of another corpse's armor. "And Charlton's mistletoe!"
"There are Erenford's herons over here!" Lyonel Corbray held up a bloodstained cloth, the gold patterns on the pink background still faintly visible.
They were all vassals of Frey.
Daemon's gaze darkened. The search in Sevenstreams, under the guise of Walder Frey's disappearance, and now these soldiers posing as bandits—what exactly is the Frey Household up to?
"Burn them," he said to the Glutton. The Black Dragon roared, and Dragonfire swept across, quickly turning the corpses and scattered weapons to ashes. The smell of burning mixed with the stench of the swamp spread through the mist.
The caravan leader, trembling, stepped forward to express his gratitude and offered a bag of gold coins, which Daemon waved away, refusing. "Get out of here immediately."
Head towards Seagard.
When they returned to the group, the fog had thickened. Gael greeted them worriedly, "Are you alright?"
"A bunch of clowns." Daemon wiped the blood from his sword. "Keep going, get out of the swamp as soon as possible."
During the rest of their journey, they encountered three more groups of similar "robbers" robbing the caravan. As expected, they were all vassals of Frey in disguise, and each time they committed suicide before being captured.
When Rodrik Dustin felled the last masked man, the hilt of his sword was stained black and red. "Have the Frey Household gone mad?" he gasped. "Robbing a caravan they themselves let through on their own turf?"
Larys Strong parted a clump of poisonous vines with a branch and said slowly, "Perhaps this isn't the first time they've robbed a caravan." He looked at Daemon, "They're probably trying to take advantage of Walder Frey's disappearance to pull off something big these next few days."
Daemon didn't speak, but patted the Glutton's neck. The Black Dragon also seemed to get agitated, occasionally spewing out small bursts of Dragonfire that burned down the reeds blocking its path.
After walking for an unknown amount of time, the fog ahead suddenly thinned. Sunlight, like golden arrows, pierced through the clouds and shone on a dry land. The green pools and muddy swamps disappeared, replaced by a solid dirt road, and in the distance, wisps of smoke could even be seen rising from chimneys.
"Finally out." Gael breathed a sigh of relief, Dreamfyre let out a low hum, spreading its wings.
Daemon looked back; the thick fog of the Witch's Mire was still rolling behind him, like a lurking beast.
The glint of swords hidden in the fog, and the corpses of Frey Household vassals and soldiers, were all swallowed by the mist, leaving only a bellyful of questions.
"Next stop, the Twins." Daemon gripped his Blackfyre. "It's time to meet this Frey."
Sunlight shone on the banners of the procession, making the three-headed dragon emblem, symbolizing the Targaryen royal family, stand out prominently in the morning light.
Rodrik Dustin's longsword rested on his shoulder. The silence of the the North and the mist of the Riverlands seemed to coalesce into a silent declaration of war the moment he emerged from the swamp.