Dany cast a sharp glance, and Garth immediately stepped forward to pull Belwas away from the wildling he was butting heads with.
"Old man, when I was down by the Wall, taking on dozens of White Walkers single-handedly, you were probably snoring away in some mountain hollow!"
"Talk is cheap. Words are like the wind, unless you can prove them," the big barrel of wine rolled his eyes and replied.
"How should I prove it then?" Dany's eyes gleamed, and a knowing smile appeared on her lips.
What a sly bunch these mountain folk were.
This simple-faced old wildling had been stirring trouble all along, just to provoke her.
Sure enough, the big barrel waved dismissively, pretending not to care, and pointed eastward. "Winterfell is only a hundred miles away. Roose Bolton's pale little body isn't half as tough as a White Walker's. Fly your dragon there and burn him to ashes, and I'll gladly admit your courage."
As he spoke, he slyly glanced sideways, stealing a peek at the Dragon Queen with the corner of his eye.
But to his surprise, the Dragon Queen was already smiling at him. The teasing in her gaze was so clear that the old clansman's leathery face flushed with embarrassment.
"Heh. That barrel of yours isn't full of wine—it's full of foul water. My courage needs no proof. But if you truly wish to know, you can ask your Stag King—or anyone here."
Dany swept her eyes around the crowd, then, using Drogon's sight from above, glanced over the Two-Deer army's knights and raised an eyebrow. "What a mess. Over a thousand knights, and not only have they lost their horses, but their numbers have dropped by nearly a third."
"The southern warhorses can't handle the northern cold. They've all frozen to death," said Gaudy Farlane the Giant-Slayer, his voice heavy with dejection.
The big barrel, sensing his little scheme had failed, dropped his discomfort toward the Dragon Queen.
To ease the awkwardness, he loudly mocked the Giant-Slayer.
"You pampered southern monkeys are truly delicate. A bit of snow and you wet your silken pants! If it weren't for your dawdling and delays, we'd have already taken the castle and chopped off Bolton's mangy head!"
"A bit of snow?"
The dejected Giant-Slayer suddenly lifted his head, anger twisting his face. "You bastard! You were the one who urged Her Majesty to march! Now I can't help but think you're Bolton's spy, sent here to whisper poison into her ear!"
The big barrel yanked the axe from his belt, swinging it a few times through the air. His voice turned vicious. "Girl, if I didn't hate Bolton more than I hate infighting, I'd have chopped off your little chicken head for that filthy accusation!"
Then, turning in a slow circle, the old clansman shouted to all around, "This is war—a northern war! The enemy's blades can kill, but so can the wind and snow. That's the truth, and there's no escaping it!"
"You're a stubborn old man, but I'll grant you this—you have courage," Dany said with a nod.
Seeing the Dragon Queen still willing to speak with him, the big barrel's buried wild spirit surged again.
"Dragon Queen, why not have your dragon breathe a little fire and burn down the gates? It wouldn't take much of your time," he said with a grin.
"Even ten blasts of dragonfire wouldn't help. In this weather, with over a hundred kilometers ahead, it'll take you half a month to reach there."
Since the Two-Deer host had left Castle Black for Deepwood Motte, even accounting for detours that doubled their distance, they had marched some 2,500 kilometers.
Yet after more than half a year, they still hadn't reached Winterfell.
And with this terrain, this weather, even she didn't know how to advance while keeping the army in fighting shape.
Dany asked Gaudy Farlane, "How far can you march each day now?"
"Before, we managed over ten kilometers a day. But now, with the snow getting heavier and nearly all the horses dead... some days we move four or five kilometers, others barely one or two," he lamented.
Dany looked around at the pale, exhausted knights, their faces thin and weary, and sighed. "Retreat. This war can't be fought like this."
The Giant-Slayer straightened, his eyes cold. "The way back is even longer. Without a goal, morale will collapse, and we'll die even faster."
"You're not wrong," Dany replied, "but it's only going to get colder from here."
"We have R'hllor. If we sacrifice this woman"—Gaudy Farlane pointed at Asha—"she carries the blood of kings. Offer her up, and R'hllor will drive away the cold and snow and bring us the sun."
"Screw you!" Asha spat in the knight's face, cursing, "You're all mad! You've already burned how many cannibals these past days—has your Lord of Light shown his face yet?"
"Cannibals?" the Great Bear gasped and turned to his cousin. "You—?"
"I'm a countess, for gods' sake. You think I'd ever run out of food?" Alysane grumbled.
Looking at her plump body and rosy cheeks, she did seem to be doing quite well indeed.
"There's food in Winterfell for sure. Kill Bolton, and we live," the big barrel bellowed.
"Let's go," Dany said, turning to Jorah.
A loud hiss echoed.
The sky darkened as Drogon swooped down, landing heavily on the snow-covered field. His wings stirred up a storm of snow, forcing wildlings and knights alike to squint their eyes.
"By the gods! What a fierce beast! I thought shadowcats were the most terrifying creatures alive—but a true dragon is beyond compare."
The big barrel gaped, his eyes wide with a mix of awe and fear.
"Riding a dragon, you can cross thousands of miles in a day. Here we are, crawling through snow like worms, while she'll be basking in the warm south by nightfall," Asha said bitterly.
"Hey! Everyone, come look at the dragon!" the big barrel suddenly shouted, cupping his hands to his mouth like a horn and calling out to the distant clansmen.
Dany's face darkened as she mounted Drogon. In the next moment, she slipped into the dragon's mind, merging with the "Wings of Death."
Drogon's long neck stretched, his monstrous head snapping toward the big barrel until it loomed inches from his face.
"Old man, what exactly do you want to see?" The dragon's roar blasted scorching air, tossing the clansman's hair and clothes in all directions.
"Ahhh!" The fearless old man fell backward into the snow, eyes wide and glassy, screaming like a madman.
"Hahaha!" Dany laughed heartily, unbuckling the dragonglass-and-valyrian-steel dagger at her waist and tossing it to Asha. "Fate brought us together. Take this dagger. Perhaps you can use it to buy back your freedom from Stannis."
After speaking, she spurred her dragon into the sky, leaving behind a crowd of wildlings shouting in astonishment—and a sea creature woman frozen in bewilderment.
"The Wull tribe of Big Barrel occupies the mountains along the edge of Ice Bay. They're neighbors of my family's Bear Island, and we've always kept in touch," said the great bear.
As the dragon flew high above, the bear spoke to Dany about the mountain clans.
Drogon was flying fast, so the others could hardly hear what the bear said, but Dany, having entered her Song of the Wind state, could easily pick up the surrounding sounds.
"The clansfolk, like those of Bear Island, are fiercely loyal to the Starks. Besides, winter has come. Either way, death awaits, so they might as well fight alongside Stannis.
If they win, they survive and avenge the Starks. If they lose, they just die."
"In the North, aside from nobles, no one can be certain of surviving the winter.
When the cold comes, the elders of the clans tell their kin they're heading into the deep woods to hunt.
In truth, they go to spare their families the burden of feeding them—and they never come back.
Not just the clansfolk; northern farmers do the same.
That's why you often see abandoned villages in the North.
Even the once-famous and ancient village of Overcrest, near the Wall, lies deserted.
Because winter claims the lives of every villager."
Excluding the lands beyond the Wall, the North alone takes up 40% of Westeros—nearly half the size of the Celestial Empire—yet its entire population is under half a million, fewer than the inhabitants of King's Landing.
So few people, such vast land, yet they can't even sustain themselves.
Drogon soared above Winterfell, and Dany finally saw the place where the story of Game of Thrones began.
She felt slightly disappointed.
The stone castle was about two hundred meters wide and over three hundred meters long, with the godswood taking up most of its space.
The walls weren't very tall, the towers were worn, and all around lay endless snow, making the whole scene look as though a dog had left several long, dark piles on the white ground.
Flying past Winterfell, about seven or eight miles southeast, Drogon was suddenly spotted by a group on the ground.
"A dragon! The Dragon Queen! Her Majesty Daenerys!"
Even from two to three hundred meters above, the faint shouts reached Dany's ears.
Through Drogon's eyes, she saw the convoy below—
Dozens of open freight wagons and two to three hundred riders left a winding black trail through the snow.
The banners held by the knights bore the emblem of a white merman holding a black trident.
In that instant, Dany recognized the sigil—it belonged to House Manderly of White Harbor, Wardens of the North.
It was very likely that Lord Wyman Manderly, also known as "Lord Eel," was among them.
Dany's only encounter with White Harbor had been three years ago in Qarth, when she met a ship captain from there—A man named Jordan Snow, who commanded a sea vessel called The Ginkgo Maiden.
To warn Robb about the Red Wedding, Drogon had even drawn him a picture, but that Snow never fulfilled his promise.
Though Dany was curious about Jordan's fate, she couldn't just land and question Lord Wyman directly.
But while she had no intention of descending, the other side seemed intent on meeting her.
Forty or fifty strong horses chased the dragon's shadow across the snow, shouting and waving their flags as they ran.
That was rather strange.
"Your Grace, Lord Manderly is below!" the bear shouted.
Drogon slowed his speed and descended.
"So what?" Dany called back.
"In the North, no other house can match the Manderlys in wealth or manpower—they even surpass the Starks," the bear said earnestly.
"Their standing in the North is comparable to that of the Hightowers in the Reach."
I don't even bother with the Hightowers of Oldtown, Dany thought dryly.
Ser Garth added, "Apart from his appetite, the lord's reputation for wisdom and character ranks among the best in the Seven Kingdoms. It won't take long to meet him, and it's worth your time."
A good reputation only means the Seven Kingdoms are that rotten, Dany muttered inwardly, though she knew the two white knights meant well.
Drogon circled once and landed beside the convoy, near the most ornate carriage surrounded by the greatest number of knights.
"By the Seven! Your Majesty, you're truly astride a dragon!"
As the dragon touched down, a man as wide as he was tall waddled forward.
He was just past sixty, with a belly like a truck tire, fingers thick as sausages, and so fat he needed two attendants to steady his steps.
Yet the plump lord looked kind, his face friendly and his smile sincere.
Dany noticed the sheen of grease on his hands and beard—he must have been gnawing on a pig's trotter earlier.
She dismounted, removed her helmet, and after receiving Lord Eel and his knights' bows, she asked, "Lord Manderly, what business do you have with me?"
The fat lord squinted as he examined the legendary Dragon Queen.
Her smooth silver hair glistened with snowflakes, her cheeks were rosy, her eyes large and bright, and her figure graceful and slender—truly a beauty of jade-like perfection.
Her silver, dragon-engraved armor and the greatsword strapped across her back gave her a striking, heroic aura.
"Your Majesty, I have grave news to report," said Lord Eel, stepping closer and lowering his voice. "Rickon Stark is on Skagos Island."
*(Author's Note: House Manderly controls the North's largest seaport, White Harbor, and is indeed its wealthiest house. The Starks never envied their vassal's riches.
The Manderlys were originally nobles of the Reach, holding lands along the Mander River. They were not of the "Greenhand" Garth line. Their rapid rise in wealth and influence drew the jealousy of other Reach lords—houses like Hightower, Tarly, Florent, and Gardener—all descendants of Garth Greenhand.
The Starks later welcomed the Manderlys into the North.
The Starks gained a fortune in gold; the Manderlys gained White Harbor, a golden waterway, as their new seat.
Within a few centuries, they became the richest house in the realm again—perhaps wealthier than all Northern lords combined.
Had this been ancient China, the Starks would have devoured them long ago.
Likewise, for thousands of years, the Manderlys have remained steadfastly loyal to the Starks. Despite their immense power, they've never shown a hint of rebellion.
In ancient China, men like Cao Cao or Sima Yi would have overthrown their liege by now.)*
(End of chapter)
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