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20. The journey to the Neck
🕑 Added 2025-02-27 19:37:14 +0000 UTC*Daeron Targaryen POV*
I turned to my three cousins, the ones I had grown up with as siblings, waiting for me to bid them farewell. A heavy black and red cloak billowed behind me as I strode toward them, my steps steady despite the weight of departure.
Rickon was the first to move, throwing his arms around me, his small body trembling as he fought back tears. I held him close, rubbing his back in reassurance.
"I will miss you… and Caraxes," he said, his voice thick with emotion.
I ruffled his wild hair with a grin. "We'll miss you too, little wolf. But worry not, we’ll be together again soon. I still have to teach you how to properly swing a sword."
Rickon's face flushed with embarrassment, and he tried to swat at me, making me chuckle.
Bran was next, sitting in his wheelchair, his gaze distant yet knowing. His eyes, clouded with visions beyond the present, met mine.
"You still haven’t used the potions I gave you," I noted, glancing at his legs pointedly. He had received the first batch, and if Ser Arthur’s recovery had proven anything, they worked.
"The time has not yet come for me to walk," Bran replied, his voice calm and certain. "But don’t worry—I have seen myself standing and fighting beside you."
A shiver ran through me, not of fear but of understanding. "The river that was turbulent since my return has settled enough for you to see the future again, hasn't it?"
Bran nodded slightly. "As stable as it can be."
I hesitated before asking the question that had been gnawing at my mind. "The man in the Stormlands, the one with the Golden Company at his back—does he truly have my father's blood? Is he Aegon Targaryen?"
Melisandre’s visions had shown him as the Black Dragon, but I needed Bran’s answer. If he was who he claimed to be, kinslaying would stain my hands.
Bran’s reply was measured but final. "I do not know who he is. But I have seen your half-brother's death. The anguish and despair on Queen Elia’s face as she watched her son die were not false."
A weight lifted from my chest, so great that I unknowingly let out a breath I had been holding.
"You have my gratitude for lifting that burden, Bran."
He nodded once, accepting my thanks without further words.
Finally, I turned to Sansa. Her face was composed, her features schooled into regal poise, but her eyes betrayed her emotions.
"Take care of yourself," she said, her voice softer than I expected. "The South is nothing like the North. They care only for themselves, always scheming for their own gain."
She stepped forward and embraced me. I returned the gesture, pressing a reassuring kiss to her forehead before pulling away.
"And bring back our wayward wild sister safely," she added, offering a rare, brilliant smile.
"I will," I promised.
Our relationship had improved greatly since I had given her the potions. The scars that bastard Bolton had left on her—both seen and unseen—had begun to fade.
I turned away, my gaze landing on Tormund, Davos, and the other lords waiting astride their horses. A stable boy approached, handing me the reins of my black destrier. With one final glance at my cousins, I swung into the saddle, straightened my cloak, and gave the signal to move.
----{Line Break}----
It had been more than three weeks since we departed from Winterfell, and with the return of the scouts we sent ahead just a day prior, we received confirmation that Moat Cailin was only a day or two's ride away. Not that many needed the reminder—everyone, save for the Freefolk and Davos, was born and raised in the North. The sight of the treacherous terrain ahead was enough for them to know we were nearing our destination.
During these past weeks, I had taken the time to ride alongside every Northern lord in our company, speaking with them, understanding their temperaments, and gauging their motives. I found the mountain clan chiefs the easiest to win over—simple men of war who valued strength and respect. A tale of battle, shared over a fire, was often enough to earn their loyalty. Lord Cerwyn and Lord Hornwood were steadfastly devoted to me—one for the vengeance I had delivered on his behalf, the other for the position of power he now held with my aid.
Lord Karstark, however, remained withdrawn. His house had lost much of its former standing, and the other lords did not regard him as they once had. But I made it a point to seek him out, to engage him even when his words were sharp-edged. In the past few days, his demeanor had shifted, his barbs less pointed, his tone less guarded. It was a start.
Master Galbert Glover and Lady Maege Mormont, on the other hand, often spoke of Robb’s victories and the Riverlords who might yet support my claim to the Iron Throne. I listened carefully, storing away their knowledge of the current lords of the Trident—those who might bend the knee, those who needed protection, and those who could be swayed by strength.
At present, I sat within the large campaign tent where the Northern lords gathered to dine and discuss matters of war. Tonight, they would learn of the Vale army lingering at the Neck. I had seen them myself through Luna’s eyes—knights and men-at-arms still waiting on the border, unmoving. Petyr Baelish’s hand was at play here, that much I was certain. Perhaps he lingered in the North, waiting to see how things unfolded, or perhaps he intended to follow us south, offering his support in the hopes of currying favor. But speculation alone would not serve me; the mind of Littlefinger was a maze of endless schemes.
One by one, the lords entered the tent, bowing their heads before taking their seats. Once all had gathered, I spoke.
“My lords, as you know, we are not far from Moat Cailin. Soon, we shall reach the Neck. There, an army from the Vale remains camped. Their presence raises many questions, but regardless of their intent, we all know what must be done.”
A murmur swept through the tent. Whispers exchanged in low voices, speculation running wild. I waited, knowing someone would voice the question that lingered in their minds.
"But why would they come down from their Bloody Gate now?" Lady Maege Mormont finally asked, her rough Northern voice cutting through the chatter. "They holed themselves up in their mountains while the realm tore itself apart. What reason would the Arryns have to leave the safety of the Eyrie? Surely, they are not foolish enough to invade the North in the dead of winter?"
No one had an answer, not even I.
"Only the gods know what thoughts run through their minds," I admitted. "But as Lady Mormont pointed out, they have kept themselves from war, meaning their numbers remain strong—second only to the Reach. If nothing else, they will see that I ride with Caraxes and was raised by Lord Eddard Stark. And I hope that might be enough to bring them to our side."
Master Glover spoke next, his tone steady. "The Vale has ever been a land of honor, Your Grace—at least, most of its lords. When they hear of the cause you fight for, they will see it as just. They will know that uniting the realm against the true threat is both honorable and wise."
"Then let us hope you are right, Master Glover," I said, though doubt remained in my mind. "For if they are not, I would hate for the sky to burn red with dragonfire."
A heavy silence fell upon the tent. Then, Lady Flint rose, her face set with grim determination.
"Your Grace, if I may—how do you intend to take the Twins? Your dragon could burn them to the ground, but we have all lost kin to the Red Wedding. We would rather stain our swords with Frey blood than watch them die by dragonflame. It is a request I make not just for myself, but for every house who lost a son or daughter in that accursed hall."
A murmur of approval echoed through the gathered lords.
I smiled darkly. "Oh, you need not worry, my lady. Each of you will have your vengeance. The Freys will meet their fate at the edge of Northern steel, not dragonfire. I have a plan to take the Twins, and you shall have your fill of justice."
A roar of approval rose from the tent, the fire of vengeance burning bright in their eyes.
"But before I reveal our strategy," I continued, "we must first learn where the Vale stands. Their decision may shape the battles to come."
With that, I dismissed them. One by one, the lords filed out, leaving only Ser Arthur standing in the dim candlelight. He had been there even before the others arrived, his silence ever-watchful.
"If you have something to say, Ser, now is the time."
Arthur had long since recovered from his weakened state. He was back to his full strength, and our daily sparring sessions had only sharpened his skill. It was humbling to admit that, in pure swordsmanship, he was still my better—but my strength and speed often gave me the advantage.
"Your Grace," he said after a pause, "the Vale lords may be honorable, but like some of the Northerners, they will not believe in the Others simply because you tell them they exist."
I smirked. "Then I will convince them as I did the doubters here."
Arthur frowned, then realization dawned on his face. "You… You brought one of them?"
I chuckled. "I did not need to ask them—they requested to join us. Some wish to go to the Isle of Faces. Convincing one to come forth and confirm what I have already said was not difficult."
Arthur exhaled, shaking his head in disbelief and admiration.
Before he could respond, a deafening roar echoed through the night—the cry of a dragon. Caraxes.
A slow smile spread across my lips. Caraxes was calling.
Without another word, I stepped out of the tent and made my way toward him to take me to the sky. Up there, amidst the clouds, I could think more freely.
Rhaenys Targaryen and Daeron Targaryen (Jon Snow) in the image.
