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21. The Neck
🕑 Added 2025-03-03 19:06:55 +0000 UTCDaeron Targaryen
Daeron Targaryen rode alongside the Northern nobility, their steeds trudging carefully along the causeway that snaked through the Neck. The seemingly endless bog stretched out in all directions, its murky waters hiding dangers both known and unknown. Behind them, infantrymen marched in disciplined formation, while crannogmen flanked the host, their keen eyes scanning for lurking lizard-lions, venomous snakes, or treacherous flora. Lord Reed and his best archers had joined them at Moat Cailin, and after two days of rest at the North's key stronghold, their march southward resumed.
"Your Grace, are you certain you do not wish to rest at Greywater Watch?" asked the diminutive Lord Reed from his right.
Daeron sighed, longing to witness the elusive seat of House Reed. "I would like nothing more than to experience your house’s fabled hospitality, but time is a luxury we cannot afford. However, I give you my word that I shall visit Greywater Watch before I meet my eternal rest."
Lord Reed nodded, a small smile tugging at his lips. "Very well, I shall hold you to your word, my king."
"Wise decision, Your Grace. I assure you there is nothing of interest in those swamps or that castle of trees," Ser Arthur Dayne quipped, mischief glinting in his eyes.
Daeron glanced toward Lord Reed and caught the briefest twitch of the man’s brow.
"Aye, the same swamp that has long protected your ungrateful hide, you pompous sword-swinger," Lord Reed shot back. His tone lacked heat, and Daeron smirked at their camaraderie. The irony of their friendship was not lost on him—one had stabbed the other in the back, and that same man had saved his life.
Letting their banter fade into the background, Daeron turned his attention to the bog, eyes searching for a glimpse of a lizard-lion. The creatures fascinated him, and he wished to see more.
'What do you think about using parts of the Lizard-lion in the rituals, Aether?' Daeron mentally asked.
[Well, there are very few mundane things that can't be used in rituals. What really matters is how magically potent they are and how much benefit you could gain from sacrificing them in a ritual. These Lizard-lions, as they are called, somewhat resemble crocodiles. They might be a mutated species, if I had to guess. And according to the books you've read in your previous life, this Neck is a place where the Children of the Forest performed magic in the past. So, there’s a small possibility that these creatures mutated because of magic, or they may have simply adapted to survive in these bogs and swamps. We’ll find out once you incorporate their parts into potions or rituals.] Aether finished her lengthy explanation.
Daeron hummed in thought, considering the new information. 'Do you think I should ask Lord Reed to procure some Lizard-lions to see if we could use them in a ritual for me to gain the ability to speak Parseltongue?' Daeron asked, his curiosity and impatience evident. He had tasked Aether with preparing the ritual while he was at the wall, and she had only reduced their communication to tell him whether she had completed her work.
[I could never refuse you anything. You are my Master.] Daeron grunted, embarrassed that his thoughts were heard by Aether. [I did not mention it earlier because, at the moment, you lack the resources to perform that ritual. And to answer your question, we cannot use these creatures for our next ritual because they are not serpents but reptiles. You want the ability to speak the language of serpents and command them.]
Daeron sighed but nodded mentally, accepting Aether's reasoning for now. 'So, what else will I need? Aside from the various breeds of snakes you asked me to bring along.'
[This Neck is abundant in snake species, which is fortunate for us. The more species we have, the better it will be for you because that will help considerably in the ritual. The ingredient you lack is at the Iron Islands—if we believe the Ironborn. If they are mistaken, then you will need to wait until we reach Dragonstone to find an alternative. I’m talking about Nagga. If the Ironborn are to be believed, and their bones are indeed on Old Wyk, then that should be your first choice. If not, then it will be Dragonstone.]
'Why didn’t you tell me that earlier? I could fly to Old Wyk on the back of Caraxes after dealing with the Freys. From there, the journey to Old Wyk wouldn’t take long.' Daeron was pleased, realizing he might not have to wait long to gain the ability he desired. Not receiving an immediate answer from Aether when he asked her at Winterfell made him assume that it would take a year or two before he could perform the ritual.
[That is why I used the word 'currently' before. I already deduced that you would travel to Old Wyk after dealing with the Twins, but right now, your focus should be on the tasks ahead of you, rather than the ritual that will come later. It’s not as though you don’t possess magical abilities either. Your skinchanging ability has grown remarkably since that ritual at Crofter's village. And your dreams have also become more frequent recently. Focus on them and strive to improve, Master.] Aether replied, exasperated, as if speaking to a child.
'Warging is something I practice daily to improve, as you already know.' Daeron said, grimacing afterward. 'Dreams—less said about them, the better.' He sighed. 'Since we last spoke, there has been no improvement. I can’t see their faces, and I can barely hear them speak. The words are muffled, and the language sounds somewhat like High Valyrian, but more melodic than the dragon-commanding language used by my ancestors. I personally think that language might be the root of High Valyrian, like High Valyrian is to Low or Bastard Valyrian. If I'm right, then what I'm seeing is the past, not the future, which those who have dragon dreams are said to experience.’ Daeron concluded his internal monologue.
[It doesn't matter if you saw the past or the future; there aren't many true dreamers for us to know definitively if they only see the future and not the past. Writing down what you saw is the best thing you can do, and you are doing just that. I believe you're right about the language being an ancestor of High Valyrian; from what I found, High Valyrian is indeed a very diluted version of it. Give me some time, and I will be able to translate everything you remember and have written down.] Aether’s reply lifted Daeron’s spirits a bit, as the frustration of having dreams he couldn't understand had been wearing him down. He had to fly with Caraxes every morning after waking up to avoid lashing out at everyone due to his irritation and anger.
Daeron’s attention shifted from his silent conversation with Aether to the approaching scouts—his finest and swiftest riders, accompanied by a handful of crannogmen. But they were not alone. Bound captives trailed behind them, their faces a mixture of fear and astonishment as they took in the sight of the Northern host.
The leader of the scouts dismounted and bowed his head respectfully before signaling for the captives to be brought forward. Daeron’s sharp gaze swept over them, lingering on their armor. One in particular caught his eye—a sigil he recognized from the Vale, though he couldn’t recall the house it belonged to.
[House Hunter of Longbow Hall.] Aether’s voice echoed in his mind. [You and Robb had a good laugh at their arms and keep's name.]
The memory surfaced—Robb’s infectious laughter ringing through the halls of Winterfell as Maester Luwin explained the name. Daeron found himself smiling faintly, a fleeting moment of warmth before he turned his attention back to the matter at hand.
“Your Grace,” the scout leader began, his strong Northern accent thick. “We caught them attempting—and failing—to hunt a group of lizard-lions. Lost two men in the process.” His fellow scouts chuckled, some snorting at the memory of the so-called honorable knights of the Vale floundering in the swamps.
Daeron’s expression remained unreadable. “And the rest? I doubt only three men would wander so deep into the bogs to hunt lizard-lions.”
The scout leader, who had looked rather pleased with himself a moment ago, suddenly avoided his gaze. He hesitated, as if weighing his words carefully.
Galbart Glover’s voice cut through the tension like a blade. “Your king asked you a question, boy. Answer truthfully, not with the lies forming in your mind.”
The man flinched under the older lord’s sharp glare, bowing his head in shame. “Forgive me, Your Grace,” he said hastily. “When we intervened, risking our own to fight off the lizard-lions, one of them turned on us. Nearly took one of our own.” He gestured, and a heavily injured scout was brought forward, his wounds serving as silent proof.
Daeron inclined his head. “Continue.”
The scout swallowed hard. “We finished what they started. Some of them dropped their weapons once they saw their men being torn apart—couldn’t move fast enough in all that heavy steel armor.” He motioned toward four men bound with whatever scraps the scouts had found to restrain them.
Daeron’s cold gaze settled on one of the captives—a knight wearing the arms of House Hunter. “Remove his gag.”
One of the crannogmen obeyed, yanking the crude gag free.
“What is your name, good ser?”
The knight swallowed but held his ground. “Osric, my lord,” he answered, voice unsteady at first, though it hardened with each word. “I am a loyal and honorable knight of the Vale, sworn to House Hunter.”
Daeron studied him for a moment before nodding. A sharp gesture, and the crannogman forced the gag back into Osric’s mouth.
He turned to Galbart Glover. “You know what to do with them.”
Glover gave a curt nod, understanding exactly whom Daeron was referring to.
“They have not acted rightly either,” Daeron continued, his tone cold and final. “Punish them as you see fit.”
A ripple of unease passed through the scouts as they realized his words included them. Daeron paid them no mind. With a small shift of his leg, his horse turned, carrying him away before he had to see the mixture of fear and pleading in their faces.
----{Line Break}----
At last, Daeron and his considerable host reached the southern edge of the Neck, where a vast Vale army lay encamped. His sharp gaze swept over the sea of tents and the banners billowing proudly in the wind. The first to catch his eye was the sky-blue falcon soaring against a white moon—the sigil of House Arryn. Then came the runes of House Royce, the three ravens clutching three red hearts of House Corbray, and many others he recognized.
It was midday, yet the sky was veiled in thick clouds, allowing only occasional shafts of sunlight to pierce through.
His men had already ridden ahead to announce their arrival, requesting the Valemen to meet them. Now, in the distance, a mounted entourage emerged—men clad in the finest armor gold could buy, accompanied by guards and standard-bearers. The approaching lords reined in their horses at a respectable distance, the bulk of their retinue fanning out behind them.
At their head rode Lord Petyr Baelish, but it was the man beside him, Lord Yohn Royce, who commanded the most presence. The other Valelords loomed behind them, their gazes locked onto Daeron with silent intensity, as if searching for something.
Daeron met their scrutiny head-on, his expression calm, his gaze unwavering. He did not blink, did not falter. He studied each man in turn, letting them see the confidence in his eyes.
It was Royce who broke the silence, not Baelish.
“I dared not believe it,” he said, his deep voice carrying across the open field. “I held onto hope that Lord Baelish was lying.” His tone was heavy with disbelief and something else—something Daeron couldn’t quite place.
The old warrior studied him, eyes sharp with experience. “But I have seen my fair share of Targaryens in my time.” Royce exhaled, shaking his head. “It seems the cold of the North has smothered the dragon’s flame—but not entirely, if one looks closely.” He paused, his gaze lingering.
“To think that Lord Eddard would do something like this…”
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