The broken towers and swordplay of Moat Cailin
The ruins of Moat Cailin resembled the skeleton of a giant beast in the twilight. Three moss-covered towers pierced the gray-purple sky, and the broken basalt walls were half-submerged in the Blackwater of the swamp. Ghost grasses growing at the base of the walls bloomed with pale flowers, swaying gently in the evening breeze.
As Daemon reined in the Glutton's dragon saddle, the last rays of the setting sun swept across the top of the tallest tower, turning the icicles in the crevices of the rocks a golden-red.
"This is Moat Cailin?" Gael's voice was filled with amazement as Dreamfyre's dragon claws slammed into a massive basalt rock, the tips sinking into the weathered stone. "It's even more desolate than the legends say."
Rodrik Dustin dismounted, twirling his rusty axe in his hand. "The First Men held off seventeen Andals' attacks here, but now they won't even bother with a lizardman." He pointed to the three towers. "The leftmost one is still habitable; you can see the exit of the the Neck from its roof. The two on the right are half-collapsed, but they're good for blocking the wind."
The group began to set up camp. Rupert Crabb directed his squires to clear a relatively dry clearing, Colin Celtigar used his spear to start a campfire, and Rayford Rosby led the watchmen to inspect the towers to ensure there were no snakes, insects, or swamp lizard nests.
Jarman Waters and Harlan Hunter took turns on the east and west flanks, the One-Eyed Knight's gray eyepatch standing out starkly in the twilight.
The blue fork grass pattern embroidered on it trembled slightly in the wind.
"Earl Dustin," Rupert suddenly approached Rodrik, his white armor gleaming coldly in the setting sun, "I dare to ask you for some pointers on the swordsmanship of the the North."
Colin and Rayford immediately surrounded him, and Lyonel Corbray put down what he was doing, his eyes shining with anticipation.
Rodrik grinned, revealing two rows of yellow teeth. "My swordsmanship was honed by slaying Ironborn and Swamp Lizards; it's quite rough, probably not to the liking of you silk-clad knights."
He patted Rupert on the shoulder with such force that the boy stumbled half a step to his knees. "But you look sturdy, you'd be good at the North swordsmanship. If you'd like, come to the Barrowlands and I'll teach you a few real slashing techniques."
Rupert's face flushed instantly, and he abruptly knelt on one knee. "Earl Xie, please grant my request!"
Myles Rivers, unusually, didn't join in the fun. He stared at the axe-wielding guard beside Rodrik— the guard who had just chopped wood, splitting a tree trunk as thick as a bowl into three pieces with a single blow, the axe blade embedded half an inch deep into the frozen ground. "Brother guard," the boy stepped forward, clutching his battle axe, his ears turning red, "Could you teach me how to use this?"
The guard glanced at Rodrik, and seeing the Earl nod, he weighed the battle axe in his hand. " In the the North, we don't rely on fancy techniques; we judge axe blows by the hardness of the bone." He picked up a thick branch. "Watch closely; the blade must cut close to the bone, otherwise you won't even notice if you hit a rock."
Myles immediately widened his eyes as he watched the guard demonstrate with his axe—the first axe cleaved diagonally, snapping the branch in two; the second axe chopped straight down, leaving a clean, sharp cut; the final axe swept horizontally, neatly shearing away the edges of the scattered twigs.
"Remember," the guard panted, frost falling from his beard, "The winter in the the North waits for no one. The quicker your axe, the greater your chance of survival."
On the other side, Daemon was walking towards Colin, Rayford, and Lyonel, who were gathered around the campfire. The three of them instinctively straightened their backs as he approached. "It's freezing cold; just looking at it won't warm you up," Daemon said with a smile, unbuttoning his cloak, his purple eyes shining brightly in the firelight. "Who said they wanted to practice swordsmanship?"
Lyonel was the first to react, and quickly bowed, saying, "It would be our honor if Your Highness would be willing to give us guidance." Colin and Rayford also bowed, but their faces showed some unease—they all knew that the prince's swordsmanship and martial arts skills far surpassed everyone else's, but he was, after all, a few years younger than them. If they really fought, they were afraid they would lose face if they lost.
"You set the rules," Daemon said, glancing at the House Royce twins among his entourage. "May I borrow your rune greatswords?"
The twins quickly unslung the swords from their backs—two large swords inlaid with bronze runes, their blades so thick that an ordinary person could hardly lift them with one hand.
Daemon easily took the sword, his left hand pointing diagonally at the ground, his right hand holding it horizontally in front of his chest. In the instant the two swords crossed, the light from the campfire flowed across the blades, reflecting a hint of the coldness of Valyrian steel.
"The three of us against you," Rayford said, forcing a smile, "And—you can't use the Blackfyre."
"It's a deal." Daemon's smile deepened, his feet slightly apart, and his aura suddenly changed—the prince who had just been youthful now resembled a drawn blade, its sharpness fully revealed.
Colin struck first, thrusting his spear straight at Daemon's heart. His swordsmanship was as agile and ruthless as a sailor's scimitar. Just as the spear tip was about to touch Damon's clothes, Daemon's left-hand sword suddenly sank, the spine of the blade striking the spear shaft precisely.
With a muffled thud, Colin felt his hand go numb and the spear nearly slipped from his grasp.
Taking advantage of the opportunity, Rayford slashed from the left. He was more adept at this kind of teamwork than one-on-one combat. His longsword, imbued with the composure of the Rosby Household, aimed straight for the waist. Daemon neither dodged nor evaded, but instead parried with his right sword, the blade flashing like a python's tongue, forcing Rayford to withdraw his attack to defend himself.
In that instant, the swordsmanship Lyonel had learned from Colin was delivered from the right, the moves as cunning as crab claws, specifically targeting joints.
"Well done!" Daemon shouted, and his two swords suddenly clashed, sparks flying onto the frozen ground.
Instead of retreating, he advanced, parrying Lyonel's short sword with his left hand, while his right hand slid down following Rayford's sword momentum, the tip of the sword only inches away from Rayford's throat.
Colin's spear thrust forward again, but he deflected it with his shoulder, sending the shaft crashing into the broken wall and causing rubble to fall.
The three fought with growing apprehension. Daemon's twin swords, though seemingly chaotic, always managed to block all attacks at the last possible moment—sometimes like a whirlwind sweeping away leaves, the twin swords dancing into a blur of silver shadows; other times like still waters running deep, the tips of the swords lightly deflecting a thousand pounds of force.
What was most terrifying was his strength; the House Royce's rune greatsword was as light as a stick in his hands, and every collision made the three men's arms go numb.
"Stop!" Rayford suddenly shouted, leaning on his sword and panting heavily, the sweat on his forehead turning into frost in the cold wind. "Your Highness's skill is probably far beyond the reach of even the Kingsguard."
Colin and Lyonel nodded repeatedly, their gazes towards Daemon filled with nothing but awe.
The people around the campfire had long since stopped what they were doing. Even Rodrik was watching intently with his arms crossed, occasionally whispering a few words to Rupert, probably commenting on the strengths and weaknesses of the moves.
Jarman Waters and Harlan Hunter were also standing not far away. The one-eyed bastard wore a gray eyepatch given to him by the Lychester family of Oldstones, which was lifted by the wind, revealing a glint of sword light in his other eye. His fingers unconsciously rubbed the bowstring.
"The House Royce swords are indeed handy." Daemon returned the two swords to the twins, the runes on the blades flickering in the firelight.
The twin brother stared at the tiny nick on the blade and exclaimed, "Your Highness is truly a warrior descended to earth. I'm afraid I'll never catch up to you in my entire life!"
The younger brother suddenly spoke, his voice filled with disbelief. "Brother, have you forgotten? His Highness is only thirteen years old this year. Even if all of us brothers combined, we probably couldn't catch up."
Upon hearing this, the surroundings immediately fell silent. Even Larys, who had been fiddling with the lizardman bone, looked up, his dark eyes flashing in the shadows—everyone knew that Targaryen produced brave warriors, and had seen the prince wielding the Blackfyre and cutting through crowds as if they were nothing, but no one had ever seen a prince of such age possess such power, as if he were born knowing how to use a sword to reap lives.
Gael walked over carrying the medicinal soup, with Mysaria following behind, holding a piece of glowing moss in her hand. "Don't get cold now that you've won." She handed over the ceramic bowl, her pale purple eyes smiling. "Alys said this medicinal soup contains the warming root of the Neck, it will help you resist the cold."
Daemon took the bowl, the steam blurring his violet eyes. He looked at the Broken Tower in Moat Cailin; dusk had fallen, and the ghost grass atop the tower swayed like white flames in the wind.
This fortress, which had once blocked countless southern invaders, now silently watches over them—a group of travelers about to venture deep into the the North, and the secrets they each hid in their swords and bones.
"It's my turn to keep watch tonight." Daemon took a sip of the medicinal soup, the warmth flowing down his throat into his stomach. "You all rest first; we have to travel tomorrow morning."
Colin and his two companions exchanged glances, all seeing excitement in each other's eyes—being mentored by the prince would be something they could brag about to their entourage for half a year.
Rodrik patted Rupert on the back and laughed loudly, "See that? That's a real dragon! I didn't even notice it when it killed so fast in the Witch's Mire that day. You've been watching closely every day, so you'd better learn from it."
Myles was still sparring with the guards, his battle axe pounding the frozen ground with a resounding crash, occasionally punctuated by a low growl of frustration. Alys...
A faint light shone from Rivers's wooden house, and one could vaguely hear her talking to Gael and Mysaria about the plants in the the Neck, her voice as soft as mist.
Larys's black robes had long since blended into the shadows of the tower, with only the occasional snort of the gray donkey breaking the silence, as if reminding everyone of his presence.
As night deepened, the campfire gradually died down. Daemon leaned against the basalt cliff, gazing at the silhouettes of the Glutton and the Dreamfyre in the distance.
The Black Dragon wrapped its wings around its body, while the blue dragon curled up into a ball, its breath condensing into white mist in the cold air.
The North winds swept snowflakes across the Broken Tower, making a mournful sound, like the ghosts of the First Men recounting forgotten war songs.
He touched the brand on his right shoulder, which felt slightly warm in the cold night.
Perhaps the stones of Moat Cailin remember, remember every raised sword, every falling axe, remember those lives struggling in ice and fire. And he, however, is merely another passerby in this long history, carrying a sword and a dragon, heading towards the unknown winter.
The low growl of a lizard lion echoed from the distant swamp, and Daemon gripped the Blackfyre at his waist.
Tomorrow, they will step into the true the North, where the snow is deeper than the mud of the Riverlands, and the people more enigmatic than the fog of the the Neck. But as long as the sword remains, and the dragon remains, he has nothing to fear.
The Broken Tower of Moat Cailin stand silently in the night, like three Giants watching over each other. Under their gaze, the boys by the campfire gradually fall asleep, perhaps dreaming of endless swords, inexhaustible firewood, and a snowfield more vast than the the Neck.