A cold night in the Gift

When the fiery red Giants banner of Last Hearth disappeared from sight, Kingsroad was buried in snow, leaving only a shallow mark.

The north wind whipped up snowflakes, like countless tiny ice blades, scraping against the scales of Glutton, stirring up fine white vapor.

Daemon lay on the back of the Black Dragon, gazing at the vast wasteland below—the boundary of the the Gift, where Brandon's Gift and the New Gift meet. The former's soil exposed gray-brown stones, and in the abandoned orchards, the withered branches of the fruit trees resembled frozen fingers, pointing towards the leaden sky.

"The New Gift is just ahead!" Brandon Stark rode at the head of the group, a thin layer of snow clinging to his black leather armor. He pointed to a faint wooden fence in the distance. "That's the Night's Watch's Watch's boundary marker. Beyond that fence lies their territory. Every year, the villagers have to give food and provisions to Castle Black in exchange for the Night's Watch's protection from Wildlings."

Daemon looked down and saw a faded wooden sign standing beside the fence, with a crookedly carved image of Direwolf and Night's Watch torch—the mark of the Stark' shared control of the Night's Watch.

Under the snow on the ground, one can occasionally see the exposed stone causeway, which, according to Brandon, was built when Queen Alysanne went on a tour, but is now mostly buried halfway by the frozen and thawed soil.

As the group traveled into the afternoon, they finally came into view of a settlement in the New Gift. Dozens of wooden houses were scattered in the valley, their roofs covered with peat and thatch, and the black smoke rising from the tobacco pipes swayed crookedly in the cold wind, like a dying black snake.

In the heart of the settlement, an old wooden sign hung above the inn, bearing the words "Black Cloak Inn" written in charcoal—clearly a resting place for the Night's Watch. Several strings of dried animal meat hung under the eaves, frozen solid.

"This is the place!" Brandon dismounted, pushed open the wooden door of the inn, and was greeted by a warm breeze carrying the scent of ale and charcoal.

The inn was small, with a roaring fire in the center. Several villagers dressed in gray-brown cloth sat around a few rough wooden tables. When they saw Daemon and his party, especially the shadow of the three-headed dragon cast outside the door, they all instinctively straightened their backs.

The shopkeeper was an elderly man with legs, wearing a wool sweater with a worn collar. Upon seeing Brandon's House Stark coat of arms, he hurriedly came forward. "Is this Young Master Brandon? Please have a seat. We've just warmed up some ale and some frozen venison jerky!" His gaze swept over Daemon's silver hair and purple eyes before quickly shifting away, clearly recognizing the Targaryen features, and his tone became more respectful.

Just as everyone sat down, heavy footsteps sounded outside the door. Five men in black cloaks, the edges of which were covered in snow, entered. Longswords and short axes were at their waists, and the Night's Watch emblem was embroidered on their chests.

The man in the lead was tall and had a resolute face with a faint scar near his eye. He looked somewhat like Brandon.

"Brandon!" The leading man's voice was deep and hoarse from years of exposure to the winds of the the Wall. He was clearly Brandon's uncle on the the Wall, Rodrik Stark, Night's Watch's Watch ranger.

He stepped forward and patted his nephew on the shoulder, his gaze sweeping over the crowd before lingering on Daemon for a moment. "Is this His Highness the Targaryen?"

"Exactly!" Brandon laughed, pulling Rodrik along. "Uncle, we were just on our way to the the Wall, and we didn't expect to run into you here! What brings you here?"

"Gathering supplies." Rodrik sat down, took the ale the shopkeeper offered, and downed it in one gulp. "We're running out of winter rations at the the Wall. The villagers in the New Gift contributed some oats and cured meat, which we'll take back along the way." He paused, his tone becoming more serious. "Recently, Beyond the Wall haven't been peaceful beyond the Great Wall. Small groups of Wildlings have been raiding more often. Last night, a group even tried to cross the Gorge, but we drove them back."

Daemon, recalling Umber Earl's words, asked, "The same group of Wildlings?"

"It's hard to say." Rodrik shook his head, his fingers tracing the rim of his wine glass. "Some are shouting ' The Long Winter is coming,' while others are just grabbing food; it's chaotic. We don't have enough men for the Night's Watch, so we have to rely on the rangers to patrol. Fortunately, the Norrey clan is willing to help us keep watch—they live nearby and have been dealing with the Wildlings for hundreds of years."

In a corner of the tavern, Larys Strong had quietly approached a Night's Watch's Watch ranger.

He was dressed in a black robe, his legs stretched out, hiding most of his body in the shadow of the fire pit, and his voice was so low that only the two of them could hear. "I've heard there's a Lord Lucamore Strong on the the Wall?"

The ranger paused, put down his glass, his knuckles white from the effort—clearly, this name was not something to be taken lightly. "' The Lusty Lucamore '? You've heard of him too?"

"The elders in my family mentioned that he used to be Kingsguard." Larys's brown eyes were devoid of emotion, his fingertips unconsciously twirling a bronze star, as if simply out of curiosity. "I want to know how he's doing now."

"His situation?" The ranger chuckled, adding a piece of firewood to the hearth. As sparks flew, he lowered his voice. "Back in his day, he was quite the figure—blonde hair flowing, as strong as an ox, commoners chanted his name at tournaments, and ladies of the court loved to speak with him. And what happened? He secretly married three wives and fathered sixteen children, all behind everyone's back!"

He paused, a hint of sarcasm in his voice. "Lyan Redwyne exposed him, and his Kingsguard brothers were furious, wanting to chop him up. The King didn't kill him, but had his former sworn brothers castrate him and then banish him to the the Wall. And now? He's shoeing horses at the Smith at Castle Black, a real blabbermouth, always bragging to the newcomers about dancing with noble ladies in King's King's Landing. Then last month, he tried to talk to Norrey clan girl, and she chased him with an axe. All of Castle Black laughs at him, saying he's 'too cowardly to even think about womanizing.'"

"Where are his family?" Larys pressed, the hem of his black robe sweeping across the charcoal ash on the ground, obscuring his slightly clenched knuckles.

"His wife was sent to different places, and his children all changed their surnames— Rivers, Waters, and Storm —all surnames of illegitimate children." The ranger took a swig of ale. "I heard his two sons came to the the Wall with him, but they didn't live with him, afraid of being laughed at."

Larys nodded, didn't ask any further questions, and simply picked up his glass and took a sip.

The warmth of the wine did not dispel the coldness in his eyes. Gazing at the flickering flames in the hearth, he recalled the helplessness his grandfather Bywin, had expressed when mentioning this great-uncle, and suddenly felt that the chill winds of the the Wall were more suited to such "abandoned people" than the courts of King's Landing.

On the other side, Jarman Waters leaned against the door, his one eye scanning the Glutton outside the window. He toyed with the gray eyepatch in his hand—the one embroidered with fine black claws on the eyepatch, the same one hand-embroidered by Miss Lychester of Oldstones. The stitches of the claws were sharp, and the dark patterns were visible in the firelight, as if they might tear the fabric at any moment.

He didn't join in the commotion, only occasionally accepting the beer Harlan Hunter offered, his eyes always fixed warily on the inn's door—an instinct born from years of living on the edge.

Gael was stirring the embers by the fire with Mysaria's help, she suddenly heard Brandon slam his fist on the table and shout, "After we get past Queenscrown, let's go check out Bay of Ice! The Wull clan's grilled whitefish, sprinkled with wild fennel, is even fresher than the trout from Riverrun! And in the town's tavern, there's a girl who plays the harp and sings Riverlands tunes better than those from King's Landing!"

Gael frowned slightly, tugged at Mysaria's hand, and winked at Daemon: "Little Mei's face is red from the cold. I'll go with her back to her room to warm up. Alys should be waiting for us too." As she spoke, she stood up and straightened her cloak. "Don't drink too late either; we have to travel to Queenscrown tomorrow."

Daemon smiled helplessly, putting down the wine glass he had just picked up. "I know. I'll keep an eye on Brandon and make sure he doesn't go too far." He told the innkeeper about two superior rooms, watched as Gael led Mysaria upstairs, and then turned back to the table.

"What? Has His Highness been taken care of by the Lord?" Brandon joked, eliciting laughter from the Night's Watch and his followers.

Daemon didn't reply, but looked at Rodrik and changed the subject, saying, "The golden tower in Queenscrown, is it really where my grandmother, Queen Alysanne, slept?"

"It's true." Rodrik nodded, his tone now more respectful. "The Queen rode the Silverwing to the the Wall years ago, and stayed there for one night. The villagers later painted the top of the tower gold, saying it was to 'bask in the glory of the dragon.' However, things haven't been peaceful in town lately. Some rangers said they saw strange footprints, like those of Wildlings scouts. You should be careful when you go there."

The atmosphere in the tavern gradually became lively. Rupert Crabb challenged a Night's Watch to an arm-wrestling match. The veins on their arms bulged, and the wooden table trembled slightly under their hands. In the end, Rupert won with the brute strength of the House Crabb, drawing cheers from the crowd.

Myles Rivers pestered Rodrik, asking if the weapons on the the Wall could really pierce the leather armor of the Wildlings;

Rayford Rosby, Lyonel Corbray, and Colin Celtigar chatted animatedly with the Night's Watch about Daemon's martial arts skills.

Rodrik began to sing the the North War Song, his voice booming, and the Night's Watch joined in. The lyrics were filled with awe for the the Wall, for the harsh winter sun, and for the glorious history of the Night's Watch at the Wall.

The beer barrels were pried open again and again, foam splashing onto the wooden table, mixed with sparks from the charcoal fire, much like the passionate and rugged nature of the the North.

Daemon sat in the corner, watching the commotion before him, his fingertips unconsciously rubbing the brand on his right shoulder—only he and Alys Rivers knew that the Wildlings ' cries of "The Long Winter is Coming" were not unfounded; the White Walkers that Leaf had spoken of on Isle of Faces were hiding in the Lands of Always Winter, north of the the Wall, waiting for resurrection.

He couldn't tell Gael, he couldn't tell Brandon, for fear of causing unnecessary panic. He could only suppress this worry in his heart, like guarding a fire that could start a wildfire at any moment.

Upstairs in the room, Gael was helping Mysaria lay out a wolfskin rug. Alys Rivers sat by the window, holding a copy of * Strange Tales Beyond the Wall * borrowed from Winterfell, her green eyes gleaming in the candlelight. "Is it lively downstairs?" she asked indifferently, without looking up.

"Hmm, Daemon and the others are still listening to Brandon and the Night's Watch sing war songs?" Gael walked to the window, watching the figures moving around in the tavern. "We're going to Queenscrown tomorrow. Hopefully, things will go smoothly. I heard there are Wildlings scouts there."

Alys closed the book and looked at Gael: "Don't worry, with the Glutton and Dreamfyre around, the Wildlings won't dare approach." She didn't mention the White Walkers or the Isle of Faces —she knew Daemon didn't want more people involved in this danger, and angering the Black Dragon wouldn't suit her needs. She simply added, "You should rest well; we still have to walk through the mountains tomorrow."

The singing downstairs continued, mingling with the sound of wind and snow hitting the windows, like an unfinished battle song in the cold night of the the Gift.

Daemon raised his glass, gazing at the flickering flames in the hearth, and suddenly felt that this journey to the the Wall might be more burdensome than he had imagined—there was the loyalty of the Night's Watch, the threat of the Wildlings, and the shadow of the icy plains hidden in the Lands of Always Winter, just like Larys's thoughts hidden beneath his black robes and the snow of this the Gift, seemingly calm, yet concealing countless undercurrents.

As night deepened, the revelry in the tavern continued, while the candlelight upstairs and the firelight downstairs intertwined to create a warm glow on this land near the the Wall, warding off the harsh cold and unknown dangers of the the North.