Ten tanned lizard-lion skins lay before them.
Each was nearly seven feet long, not counting the tail, with thick hides covered in square scales that shone with a dark green luster.
“These are very rare,” said one of the group.
“Not many tanners know how to treat this kind of hide.” The gifts from the Neckmen were passed around the group until they reached Patrek.
His family home, Seaguard, was also located near the swamps.
Living lizard-lions are dangerous predators.
They float in the water, disguised as driftwood, waiting to ambush prey with teeth as sharp as daggers.
To hunt one, a person must first survive the deep mud, a skill the local hunters have mastered.
“This is a generous gift,” Edmure said.
“Legend says the Marsh King rode a lizard-lion, and the creature is also the symbol of House Reed.” Life in the swamps was hard, and even the lords did not live in luxury, making the gift feel genuine.
Edmure planned to turn the skins into sturdy leather sword belts.
He also wondered if trading lizard-lion goods could become a profitable business.
In winter, the main road through The Neck was mostly empty.
The air was cold and damp, leaving no room for horse races or hunting trips.
To pass the time after setting up camp, Edmure led daily sword practice.
With Ser Brynden Tully coaching and Bronn sparring with the men, everyone kept their combat skills sharp despite the long journey.
After a hard day of travel and training, the young men gathered around the campfire to rest.
The conversation often turned to the famous fighters of Westeros, with everyone loudly arguing over their favorite heroes.
“House Reed doesn’t seem to have any famous swordsmen,” Robert Paige observed.
“Forget House Reed, I’ve never even seen a Neckman knight,” Tristan Legg added.
“Neckmen don’t use knights,” Hendry Bracken said.
“They use poison on their weapons.
A knight entering the swamps would just die from a poisoned arrow.
That’s why people call them ‘Swamp Devils’.” “Lower your voice,” Patrek warned with a serious face.
“If they hear you, you might get an arrow in your rear when you go to pee at night.
Then we’d have to cut off half your seat to save your life!” Everyone burst into laughter, leaving Hendry embarrassed.
Just as he started to reply, a loud splash echoed from the dark swamp.
He looked back nervously and quickly went quiet.
“Don’t worry,” Brynden Blackwood said softly.
“It was probably just a lizard-lion or a bird catching a fish.
Most Northerners follow the Old Gods, so they don’t knight people with holy oils.
That doesn’t mean they lack great warriors.” “You seem to know a lot about the North,” Ser Karyl noted.
“My family used to rule the Wolfswood in the North, and we have married into Northern families many times,” Brynden explained.
“We share the same faith, so it’s natural for us to know their ways.” “Lord Eddard’s great-grandmother was Lady Melantha Blackwood, which makes you distant relatives,” Edmure chimed in.
He slipped a piece of dry linen beneath his armor to absorb sweat and prevent a chill.
“Long ago, Lord Cregan Stark, the ‘Wolf of Winterfell,’ also married a woman from House Blackwood.” “That’s true,” Brynden agreed.
Edmure had studied the history of the Riverlands nobility closely to understand his family’s allies.
The Blackwood family was connected to many great houses.
Besides the Starks, even the former king, Aerys II, had a Blackwood grandmother, meaning King Robert Baratheon shared some of their blood as well.
Even Lord Walder Frey, who claimed to dislike ancient families, had taken his fourth wife from House Blackwood.
“Is Lord Eddard one of the best swordsmen in the Seven Kingdoms?” young Hugo Vance asked.
“I am not entirely sure,” Brynden admitted.
Ser Brynden Tully took over the conversation.
“Lord Eddard was a key commander during the rebellion.
He led his troops across thousands of miles and earned great respect.
The Northern warriors are fiercely loyal to him.
In a real fight, he is certainly no coward who hides in the back.” “If you are expecting to see a flashy tournament knight, you will be disappointed,” Edmure added.
“Northerners do not care for staged jousts.
They prove their strength on the battlefield.” “To save his sister from Prince Rhaegar, Lord Eddard and six companions fought three members of the Kingsguard at the Tower of Joy.
Surviving that battle proves how dangerous he is.” The Kingsguard were the king’s personal bodyguards—seven sworn knights who gave up titles, wives, and land to protect the royal family.
They were known as the finest fighters in the realm.
The young listeners leaned in close, eager to hear the rest of the story.
“Those three Kingsguard were formidable,” Edmure explained.
“Gerold Hightower, the ‘White Bull,’ was a veteran commander.
Arthur Dayne, the ‘Sword of the Morning,’ wielded the famous blade Dawn and was unmatched in skill.
And Oswell Whent was a knight of great renown.” Since Edmure’s mother was a Whent, he knew Oswell was likely a relative.
“Even though the Northerners had the advantage of numbers, if I had to pick six men from our group to fight those three knights, I wouldn’t bet on our survival.” Ser Brynden Tully looked thoughtful.
“The details of that battle remain a secret.
As far as I know, Lord Eddard was not yet a match for Arthur Dayne, and it is unclear if he could defeat Gerold Hightower one-on-one.” “Then how did the seven Northerners defeat them?” Hugo asked.
“It was a brutal fight to the death,” Edmure said.
“There is no trick to it—a real warrior must be prepared to die.
But if you were asked to sacrifice yourself so your friends could win, could you do it without hesitating?” The group fell silent.
“I know I couldn’t,” Edmure admitted.
“Not without thinking first.” “On a real battlefield, even the best fighter grows tired,” Ser Brynden said solemnly.
“If a horse falls, an armor plate breaks, or a sword gets stuck in bone for even a second, another enemy will strike you down.” Edmure recalled the story of a fierce knight who thought he could cut through an entire army by himself to kill the enemy commander.
Instead, he lost his sword after fighting just three men and was quickly captured.
“Three Kingsguard died that day,” Edmure finished.
“And of the seven Northerners, only two survived.” “Lord Eddard was one.
Who was the other?” Ronald asked.
“Lord Howland Reed, the master of The Neck,” Edmure revealed.
The boys looked at each other in surprise, and Marko Piper laughed.
“I didn’t expect that!
He probably didn’t fight like a traditional knight, did he?” “Perhaps not,” Edmure smiled.
“Or maybe he used magic.” The group chuckled at the thought.
“If you want to meet famous knights from Northern stories, I know of two who fit the description,” Edmure continued, catching Bronn’s attention.
“Who are they?
Are they at Winterfell?” Bronn asked.
“No, they don’t belong to House Stark, so we might not see them there.” The young men looked disappointed.
“The first is Lord Jorah Mormont of Bear Island,” Edmure said.
“He is an outstanding fighter and carries a Valyrian steel sword named Longclaw.” “Valyrian steel!” Hugo gasped.
Edmure smiled and continued.
“The second is Lord Jon Umber of Last Hearth.
He stands seven feet tall, possesses terrifying strength, and wields a massive greatsword that strikes fear into his enemies.” “It’s a shame we won’t see them,” Marko said.
“Don’t worry,” Edmure said, keeping the mystery alive.
“There are people at Winterfell who are even more interesting.” “Who?” Patrek asked quickly.
“You’ll see when we arrive,” Edmure replied with a grin.
The next day, the group reached Moat Cailin at the northern border of The Neck.
Before them stood the ruins of a massive, ancient fortress.
Moat Cailin was built thousands of years ago by the First Men to defend the narrow road into the North.
For centuries, it had stopped armies from the south from ever invading successfully.
When the Andal invaders conquered the rest of Westeros, they failed repeatedly at Moat Cailin.
The fortress was the main reason the North remained independent for so long.
Once a grand castle with twenty towers and thick stone walls, only three broken towers now remained among the scattered stones.
The Children’s Tower, where the Children of the Forest were said to have lived, was tall and thin with a broken top.
The Drunkard’s Tower leaned heavily to one side, looking as if it might fall over at any moment.
Ser Brynden walked along the path, inspecting the ruins from every angle.
“Moat Cailin is a complete death trap,” he said in awe.
“These three towers cover the road from every direction.
Archers stationed there could rain arrows down on any army trying to pass.
If an enemy attacks one tower, the other two can provide cover fire.” “And to reach the towers, attackers have to march through deep mud, cross a moat filled with lizard-lions, and climb slippery, moss-covered walls,” Edmure added.
“By the time they reach the top, they would be too exhausted to fight the defenders.” “That is why no southern army has ever taken it,” Ser Karyl remarked.
His ancestors had been among the Andal invaders who failed to breach the pass.
Edmure considered sleeping in the Gatehouse Tower, the largest and best-preserved structure.
However, the supply wagons were too heavy to pull through the waist-deep mud surrounding it.
Wanting to keep the goods safe, he decided to keep the camp on the main road.
Instead, Edmure used wooden planks to build a makeshift walkway across the mud to the Gatehouse Tower.
The large stone hearth inside made it easy to boil water and build a warm fire.
By wrapping cowhide sheets around the hearth, they created a private, warm space for everyone to bathe and change.
After spending over a week traveling through the cold, muddy swamps of The Neck, the travelers were covered in dirt.
A hot bath and clean clothes made everyone feel human again.
Refreshed and rested, the group left Moat Cailin the following day and continued their journey into the North.