The Kingsroad narrowed into a slender causeway as the air grew colder. Rhaegor and his party donned the winter clothes they'd bought in Saltpans. Nights became harsh, and the further north they traveled, the more the swamp's damp chill gnawed at their bones. The biting winds from the Bite swept over the jagged, desolate coastline, howling unchecked across the endless bog.
Black mire stretched in every direction. Flowers larger than men bloomed grotesquely in the mud and mist, their gaudy petals exuding a stench so foul it made one retch up yesterday's supper. Even to the naked eye, the ancient swamp trees loomed like spectral claws tearing free from the earth—twisted, dense, and draped in fungi and nameless, rotting vegetation.
By day, the pale sun offered no warmth. Even at its zenith, the cold seeping from the swamp's depths made them forget it was summer. From the relative safety of the causeway, they spotted lizard-lions lurking in the waters—sinuous reptiles half-submerged like black logs with eyes and teeth, waiting to claim their next meal.
Albin's warhorse, which had been with him since he was a boy swinging a wooden sword, was devoured by the swamp. It stumbled off the causeway, screaming as it sank into the fathomless muck. Rhaegor's group watched as ravenous lizard-lions swarmed, reducing the poor beast to bones in moments.
Now, Albin could only ride one of Rhaegor's pack horses, cautiously scouting ahead.
Deeper into the causeway, even that duty became impossible. Though winter had passed, its scars lingered. Melted snow flooded the Neck in summer, turning the path sodden and treacherous. One misstep could send a traveler spiraling into the swamp's heart.
Lord Cregan Stark knew this was a dire problem. But thawing the North took years—even now, after summers-long, some snows remained. Maintaining the causeway was a grueling task.
Cregan had thus commanded Brandon Reed, Lord of Greywater Watch, to guide travelers and rescue those lost in the mire.
But peace had shattered.
Vale mountain clans, fleeing their homeland, had infiltrated the Neck. Skirmishes erupted between them and the crannogmen. Outmatched by the "frog-eating devils"—their poisoned arrows, agile movements, and Stark-forged steel—the clansmen suffered dearly.
Yet they remained a menace.
Thunk.
Rhaegon grunted as he deflected a bone arrow, his violet eyes blazing. "Jaime! Cain! TRAITORS!"
The arrow had struck his shoulder. A strange, creeping cold spread from the wound, sapping his strength. His vision blurred.
Seeing their poisoned prey weakening, the clan chieftain spat. Cowards, he thought. 'Using the frog-eaters' tricks—poison is for women and children.'
But they'd used it anyway. The scar-faced old man had promised to isolate the nobles, yet even ambushed and envenomed, this one had slain several warriors.
The chieftain hesitated. This youth—lured out by Jaime without armor—was deadly. The other two nobles never removed theirs.
He gestured. Spearmen crept forward.
'My prince… they betrayed us! Stay back—!'
Rhaegon's last thought before darkness took him.
As he collapsed, he saw a warhorse charge into the bog.
A rapier flashed, brighter than the pallid sun. It split the chieftain's skull smoother than butter, followed by a crushing morningstar.
Rhaegor dismounted silently. He glanced at Rhaegon—kneeling, unconscious, still gripping his sword—then turned to the stunned clansmen.
"Son of Gulper, are you frightened?" An elder clansman roared, lunging with his spear.
Starsinger was no mere rapier. It was Valyrian steel—peerlessly sharp.
A flick of the wrist, and the spear sheared clean.
The young clansman called "Gulper's Son" froze, watching his elder's head split like overripe fruit.
Then—pain.
Ah. So I die too.
Rhaegor swiftly withdrew Starsinger from the young clansman's eye socket. After scanning the area to confirm no other threats, he approached Rhaegon with disbelief.
Elarion emerged from the trees, his eyes bloodshot. In one hand, he dragged the limp, one-armed form of Cain Mudd like a dead dog; in the other, his warhammer dripped with unidentifiable red, yellow, and white fluids. Albin followed close behind, his face twisted in grief and rage, his worn chainmail splattered with blood.
Elarion had never imagined the two sellsword knights—so obedient until now—would betray them.
It made no sense.
Cain, their guide to the Neck, had led them down a dead-end path into the swamp. Jaime, under the pretense of routine patrols, had lured Rhaegon away.
The ambush came without warning.
Had it not been for Elarion's vigilance and Rhaegor's insistence on wearing armor since Harrenhal, they might have fallen in the first volley of arrows. The clansmen's projectiles were tipped with poison—some even iron-headed.
Cain now lay limbless, dismembered by Rhaegor's cold, methodical fury. Jaime had died under Rhaegon's frenzied counterattack despite his wound, his corpse left to stiffen in the muck.
This is my fault.
Rhaegor's self-reproach was a blade to his gut. Had I not trusted those two… Rhaegon wouldn't be—
He checked Rhaegon's pulse. Alive, but needing treatment. Then, realization struck.
Betrayal never comes without warning.
Yet Cain and Jaime had shown no signs. They couldn't have known his true identity—"Rhaegor Vaelarys" wasn't a motive.
Money? Weapons? Horses?
Possible, but Rhaegor had learned much under Draezell's tutelage. Albin had once eyed his armor and sword with envy, but that greed had morphed into admiration: Someone this strong deserves such gear. Jaime had glanced at their coin purses, but that was typical sellsword behavior.
What did I miss?
His gaze snapped to Elarion and the broken Cain.
"My prince… Rhaegon, he—"
Like flint striking stone, the truth ignited.
Him.
Cain Mudd—never greedy, sometimes vanishing into the background. Their guide through the Riverlands and Neck.
Rhaegor's lips thinned.
Father, your guidance is about as subtle as a warhammer. He mentally scoffed at Draezell's heavy-handed methods.
"You're not Cain Mudd."
Rhaegor turned, his voice glacial as he addressed the mutilated figure on the ground.
"Who are you in the family? Kungor? Suren? Or Saethor?"
Cain's lips split into a pained, proud smile. "Prince Draezell was right. You can be reckless… but never blind."
"Enough." Rhaegor kicked him. "The antidote. Now. I know you carry drugs to slow venom's spread."
His next words were a snarl.
"Give it, and I'll pardon your deception, Saethor."
The man's face began to melt.