The Mists of the Neck and the Lord of the Marshes

The Kingsroad suddenly becomes rugged north of the Twins. The sound of wheels rolling over gravel echoes across the wilderness, and after Daemon Targaryen and Caraxes left, the atmosphere of the party seemed to thin out along with the shadow of the Rogue Prince and the red dragon.

As Daemon reined in the Glutton, he could feel the chill unique to the the North at his fingertips—fine ice particles swirling in the wind, striking the Black Dragon's scales and stirring up wisps of white vapor.

"Further north, we should be wearing thick cloaks." Gael's voice came from Dreamfyre's back, and the pale blue dragon wings folded slightly to protect Mysaria in her arms.

The girl's platinum curls were streaked with frost, and her face was red from the cold, yet she still gazed curiously at the distant rolling hills. "Earl Rodrik said that beyond the the Neck, even in Summer it snows."

Daemon looked down at the road surface of Kingsroad. The cobblestones that Jaehaerys had laid years ago were already broken and cracked, revealing the frozen yellow soil underneath. Thin ice had formed in the ruts, and every step felt like walking on glass.

Larys Strong rode behind on his grey donkey, the hem of his black robe rustling against the frozen grass. "The North say, ' The Kingsroad becomes a narrow path from the the Neck,' and it's true." He pointed to a pea-shaped causeway ahead. "That's the only way across the the Neck. The ruins of Moat Cailin are just to your left."

Daemon looked in the direction he was pointing. On both sides of the causeway were endless swamps, with decaying vegetation floating on the gray-green water. Mist rolled on the surface of the water like a pot of boiling soup.

The distant ruins are blurred, with broken walls half-submerged in mud and water. They were once the barrier of the ancient the North King against invasion from the south, but now only the mournful sound of the wind piercing through the broken window openings remains.

"The House Stark ancestors were truly visionary." Rodrik Dustin rode alongside Daemon, his blue-grey eyes sweeping across the swamp. "Using the the Neck as a natural defensive line, how many fools have perished here."

The rusty axe at his waist swayed slightly with the horse's movements. "The Frey Household the Twins by the throat, but compared to this, it's just child's play."

As the group reached the middle of the causeway, the fog suddenly thickened. Visibility was less than ten paces; the Glutton ' breath condensed into white pillars in the fog, Dreamfyre swished its tail restlessly, and the frost on its scales grew thicker and thicker. Mysaria gripped Gael's sleeve tightly, her voice trembling, "It's so quiet here."

It was indeed quiet. Even the sound of the wind was sucked away by the swamp. There was only the hollow sound of horses' hooves on the wooden planks and the faint croaking of frogs in the distance—the sound was so hoarse that it didn't sound like a living creature, but rather like some kind of reptile spitting its tongue in the mud.

Larys suddenly reined in his gray donkey, his black robes billowing like bat wings in the mist. "Your Highness, watch your step." He pointed to a gap between the planks of the causeway, where the Blackwater gleamed oilily, and something could be vaguely seen wriggling beneath the slippery green water plants. "The old folks always say that lizards that bite lurk in the mud of the the Neck."

Before the words were finished, the Glutton suddenly let out a low roar, and its huge dragon claw smashed a wooden plank. Amidst the splashing mud and water, a black creature as thick as an arm was flung into the air. It had a crocodile-like snout but dragged a snake-like long tail, and it was still writhing wildly when it landed.

"It's a swamp lizard." Rodrik Dustin pulled out his rusty axe, a hint of wariness flashing in his blue-grey eyes. "These things come in packs; it seems we've trespassed into their territory."

Sure enough, Kou's voice came from the fog, and countless small yellow eyes lit up on the water's surface, like scattered will-o'-the-wisps.

Gael immediately unleashed pale blue Dragonfire from Dreamfyre. The flames swept across the water's surface, scalding the swamp lizards and causing them to hiss piercingly as they burrowed into the mud.

"Speed up!" Daemon patted the Glutton's neck. The Black Dragon spread its wings and flew low, its claws occasionally sweeping across the causeway, smashing the swamp lizards that tried to climb up. The group moved swiftly under the cover of Dragonfire, the wooden planks trembling violently under the horses' hooves, as if they might break at any moment.

After walking for an unknown amount of time, a crack suddenly appeared in the fog ahead, revealing a gray-green island floating in the swamp.

Dozens of sharpened wooden stakes were planted in the reeds at the edge of the island, with dried lizard skulls hanging from the tops, resembling ferocious masks in the fog.

"It's Greywater Watch!" Rodrik Dustin reined in his horse, his tone relieved. "At least that old bastard Lyman didn't mistake us for invaders and shoot us through."

The cluster of wooden houses in the center of the island gradually came into view. They were built on stilts, and their roofs were covered with peat and reeds. The black smoke and mist rising from the smokehouses mingled together, making it impossible to distinguish between the smoke and the mist.

A dozen or Crannogmen in grey-green cloaks stood on the dock, holding spears with tips coated in dark green venom. Upon seeing the two dragons, their eyes held awe, yet they still blew horns made of conch shells, the sound like the breath of the swamp.

A short, stocky middle-aged man walked at the front, wearing a lizard-skin vest and a stone axe at his waist. His face was covered with wrinkles from the wind and sun, but his eyes shone like stars in a swamp at night.

"Rodrik! You old bones, you can still get through the the Neck!" His voice was as loud as a bell. He opened his arms and gave Earl Dustin a bear hug. The wooden handle of the stone axe struck the rusty axe with a dull thud.

"Lyman Reed, you swamp frogman, you still smell as bad as ever," Rodrik chuckled, patting the mud off the other's back. "Stop catching up, let me introduce you—this is Prince Daemon, and Princess Gael."

Lyman's gaze immediately shifted to Daemon, whose purple eyes and silver hair gave him the most direct clue.

He didn't kneel, but bowed slightly, the blade of his stone axe gleaming in the mist. "Welcome to Greywater Watch, Your Highness. The Crannogmen don't follow the southern customs, please don't take offense." He emphasized, "Just call me Reed; the title of 'Sir' is less effective in the the Neck than 'Swamp Commander.'"

Daemon dismounted, the scabbard of his Blackfyre striking the wooden post with a crisp sound. "Reed," he said, "We are passing through and wish to borrow your passage to Winterfell."

"Pass through?" Lyman grinned, revealing two rows of yellow teeth. "In the the Neck, there's no such thing as 'passing through,' only 'whether the House Reed will let us pass.'" He stepped aside to make way, joking as he spoke, the stench of his lizard-lion vest mingling with the smell of peat wafting over. "However, for the sake of that old man Rodrik, and because Your Highness's dragons are indeed quite frightening, please rest here at Greywater Watch tonight."

The Crannogmen's wooden houses were more spacious than they appeared, with walls woven from willow branches and plastered with peat, providing insulation and moisture protection. Lyman had stewed lizard meat and rye bread brought to him; the broth in the earthenware bowl glistened with oil and sprinkled with unknown herbs, giving it a strangely fresh and fragrant aroma.

"Try this." Lyman used a wooden spoon to scoop up a piece of meat. "It's a lizardman's hind leg that was frozen in ice last winter; it's more filling than your southern venison."

Gael hesitated for a moment, then took a bite, her eyes lighting up immediately. "Very fresh!"

"Of course." Lyman raised his chin smugly. "The Crannogmen have survived on this for thousands of years. When the Andals came, we hid in the swamps; when the Ironborn raided, we pierced the bottoms of their ships; even the Targaryen dragons shouldn't be able to burn through this thick fog."

He glanced at the Glutton; the Black Dragon was dozing at the edge of the island, its breath condensing into ice particles in the mist. "But your dragons are indeed powerful, even more terrifying than the legends."

Daemon noticed that there was no weirwood or altar to the Seven in the cabin, only a huge lizard skin hanging in the corner, with dried vines still wrapped around its claws. "Don't the Crannogmen believe in the Old Gods?" he asked curiously.

"Believe in your own spear, no matter what god you believe in." Lyman took a sip of ale, the liquid as murky as mud. "The trees of the First Men can't survive in the swamps, and the statues of the Seven were long ago burned as firewood." He leaned closer and whispered, "But when the House Stark come, we'll put a sapling on the dock to cheer them up."

Rodrik laughed loudly, "Is this how you Crannogmen survive?"

"Otherwise?" Lyman raised an eyebrow. "The Neck only so big. If we're not quick-witted, those idiots from the South would have devoured it long ago, leaving not even bones." He suddenly lowered his voice, "You came from the Twins? Didn't that old fox Frey try to trip you up?"

At the mention of the Marquis Frey, Daemon's expression darkened. "He's dead, in the fire in his study."

Lyman's eyes lit up. "Burned to the bone?" Seeing Daemon nod, he slapped his thigh, "Well done!"

That old bastard wanted to build a causeway in the the Neck decades ago, but my dad poisoned three foremen with lizardfish venom, which finally made him give up the idea.

As night fell, a cold rain began to fall on the swamp, the raindrops pattering on the reed roof like countless fingers gently tapping.

Daemon stood on the platform of the wooden house, watching the Crannogmen dance around the campfire, singing songs composed in an ancient language, the lyrics filled with reverence for the land and water.

Lyman and Rodrik sat by the fire, drinking ale from stone bowls, occasionally bursting into rough laughter. Stone axes and rusty axes lay side by side on the ground, like old comrades who had fought side by side.

"The North are certainly straightforward," Gael's voice came from behind. She wore a lizard-lion fur cloak sent by Lyman, her pale purple eyes reflecting the firelight. "Much more pleasing to the eye than the nobles of King's Landing."

"They don't need to disguise themselves." Daemon gazed at the Glutton figure in the distance, the Black Dragon shielding Dreamfyre with its wings. "Here, surviving the winter is a skill in itself; there's no time for those southern schemes and tricks."

Mysaria sat in the corner with her knees drawn up, listening to the songs of the Crannogmen, her platinum curls glistening with embers from the campfire.

Alys Rivers had sat down beside her at some point, toying with a necklace made of lizard Lion's Tooth, her green eyes gleaming mysteriously in the firelight.

Larys Strong and Lyman's eldest son were having a pleasant conversation. The gray donkey, tethered to a stake in the wooden house, was munching on the moss given to it by the Crannogmen, occasionally letting out a satisfied bray. The lame shadow flickered in the firelight, as if imitating the Crannogmen's dance steps.

The next morning, the rain stopped. The island of Greywater Watch had somehow drifted to another part of the swamp, and the pier from the previous night now faced a completely different reed bed.

Lyman pointed to a boy who looked remarkably like him. "This is my second son, Joren. Have him lead you across the the Neck; he could find the ruins of Moat Cailin with his eyes closed."

Joren about sixteen years old, a little taller than his father. He held a dagger with a handle made of fish bone. When he saw Daemon, he simply nodded, turned around, and jumped into a canoe. The canoe was carved from a single tree trunk and was as light as a Leaf.

"Remember, in the the Neck, follow the current, don't trust the sun's direction." Lyman's voice echoed in the mist, stone axe slung over his shoulder. "When you reach Winterfell, give my regards to Ellard Stark —tell him that this year's lizardman skins are being prepared."

The group followed the canoe through the maze-like waterways. Every now and then, Joren would tap the gunwale with his bone dagger, producing a specific rhythm that would echo from the depths of the swamp.

Daemon gazed at the exotic flowers and plants flitting across the riverbanks. Some had blood-red blossoms, while others had glowing roots. Alys Rivers occasionally had Mysaria memorize the appearance of these plants, her green eyes filled with curiosity.

When the causeway of Kingsroad reappeared, Joren suddenly turned the canoe around. "Moat Cailin is just ahead. Beyond that lies the heart of the the North." He said no more, merely brandishing his bone dagger before disappearing into the reeds as if he had never been there.

Rodrik looked toward the swamp, his rusty axe gleaming in the sunlight. "That's how the Crannogmen are," he said. "They come and go without a trace. But if you need them, just blow a conch shell, and they'll crawl out of the mud and cut your enemy's throat."

Daemon reined in the dragon saddle, and the Glutton let out a long, resonant roar that shook the waters of the powerful marsh. The winds of the the North blew with an even more biting chill, and the Kingsroad stretched northward like a silver ribbon, disappearing into the distant forest.

"Winterfell isn't far," Gael said expectantly, the dragon scales of her Dreamfyre gleaming pale blue in the sunlight. "I wonder if the House Stark castle is as warm as Riverrun."

As Daemon gazed at the endless forest, he suddenly recalled Lyman's words, "In the the North, survival is the most important thing. Perhaps the ice and snow here, more so than the silk and gold of the South, can help one see clearly what one truly desires."

As the group set off again, Greywater Watch was left far behind, with only the mist of the Neck still swirling low in the sky like a gray veil that refused to leave. The land of the the North unfolded beneath their feet, desolate yet magnificent, awaiting the footprints of true dragons.