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The horns along the Wall rang out once more, sounding two deep blasts, the signal that riders were approaching. At that sound every man stiffened, except for the one who had sent the call.
They all remembered what Clay Manderly had said before he left.
North of the Wall there should be nothing left alive. That was his warning. If anything tried to cross, they were to use every means to destroy it.
No one truly knew why he had spoken with such iron certainty, yet a man known across the Seven Kingdoms, whispered of even among the Night's Watch, did not speak idly. His bearing alone told them he possessed knowledge far beyond what the black brothers of Castle Black could claim.
So they chose to trust him. After all, anyone who dared to ride alone into the haunted wilderness was either a fool or a man of unshakable courage.
Among the Watch there was a quiet respect for Clay Manderly.
Now the horn called again from the watchtower, the brother on duty sending the signal that someone approached.
Was it Clay returning?
Or was it something else entirely…?
Every soul on the Wall prayed it was the first.
Only a day earlier something strange had passed among them. The heavy drowsiness that had clouded their minds simply lifted. Strength flowed back into weary limbs. Even those who had lain in a stupor for days began to wake as if from a long winter's night.
Yet when they questioned one another, none could name a dream or a memory from that dark sleep. It was as though those hours had been erased.
However, that puzzle hardly mattered now. What mattered was that every man stood whole again. If they were back to themselves, then the crisis had broken like a thawed river and the Wall could breathe once more.
Still they whispered and wondered. Clay Manderly's lonely journey beyond the Wall must somehow be bound to this mystery.
The heir of White Harbor now carried a shroud of legend among the brothers of Castle Black. This turn of events defied every rule of the waking world and no ordinary explanation could fit.
"Look there! Over there!"
The shout cut through the icy wind.
At the edge of the haunted forest a lone rider eased out of the trees, horse dark against the snow. The figure sat straight in the saddle, and even at a distance they knew him.
It was Clay!
He had finished his task with the Three-eyed Raven and stepped free of that eerie dream of His.
After failing to sway the last of the Children of the Forest, he had left without a trace of hesitation. If they wished to linger and await the servants of the Cold God or some knight from beyond the stars, let them stay and meet their fate. A doomed spirit cannot be argued back to life.
Clay had turned south at once, guiding his Castle Black warhorse toward the Wall.
Fortunately, time inside a dream meant nothing. Had the hours there flowed as they did in the waking world, the beast he rode would have frozen long ago at the mouth of some cavern.
He remembered the words he had spoken to the Watch before he set out and he feared they might mistake his return for something darker.
So he reined in at a safe distance and lifted his arm high, waving until the brothers on the Wall could be sure of what they saw.
At last, after a long moment, someone above called in recognition.
"It is Lord Clay!"
"Open the gate! Raise the portcullis!"
Shouts echoed along the stone. The massive door that faced the haunted forest groaned as gears turned, and the passage from Castle Black to the lands beyond slowly opened once more to him.
Clay cast a final glance over his shoulder at the dead expanse where no living thing stirred. With a firm press of his heels he urged his horse forward and passed beneath the Wall.
The others might not have sensed it, but he felt it keenly.
When the Three-eyed Raven awoke in Winterfell and began to draw back the scattered power of the Old Gods, the very air seemed to shift. Clay could feel that ancient force thinning all around him, some of it dissolving into nothing, the rest flowing back into the heart trees where it belonged.
As the Old Gods withdrew, another presence rose to fill the emptiness. It was a power laced with cutting chill, a force that moved like a silent tide, claiming every inch it touched.
He felt it then: an impassive gaze fixed on him, cold and unblinking.
The moment he crossed through the Wall that feeling lifted, vanishing like a shadow burned away by sudden light.
Clay understood what it meant: the Cold God had been watching!
While the magic of the Old Gods lingered it had shielded him, like a storm cloud hiding a distant star. But once the Three-eyed Raven began its work, he, who was brimming with magic himself, had become a beacon in the dark, a lighthouse for whatever hunted in the endless night.
When his figure finally disappeared into the tunnel and the gate clanged shut behind him, a new sound stirred in the Ghostwood. The muffled rhythm of hooves came again, slow and deliberate against the hush of falling snow.
"He has gone inside."
"Yes. A pity."
"I had hoped to catch him. His power… there is something in it I almost recognize."
"Let it be. There will be other chances. This Wall will never hold us back forever."
"Hmh…"
"It is unfortunate the Navigators cannot open a direct path for us beyond the Wall," another voice said, deep and measured.
"As long as the power they call the Old Gods remains, we cannot break through."
"It will not last. That is no curse but a promise. And think of it… an endless world waits. The woman of the ancient bloodline chose well when she came here."
"Indeed. Perhaps we will find in this place the key to withstand the white frost, and make it our new home."
The murmurs thinned as the wind rose. Snow swallowed their words, yet nothing in their tone suggested defeat. Hope lingered in the frozen air like a scent that would not fade.
A land filled with promise draws hearts no matter the cold.
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"Lord Clay, you have returned…"
Faces surrounded him, more of them than before, every one bright with relief. Their eyes shone with a restless excitement, and in that moment Clay knew the strange plague of slumber had finally broken.
That's good. Another day of that sleep would have spelled disaster.
If the North lost too many of its people to death or weakness, the troubles would spread like cracks across winter ice.
Even the support the Night's Watch relied upon from the North might have been severed had the strange slumber continued. People who struggled merely to keep themselves alive could not spare men or grain for others.
"It is over," Clay said.
"Yes, it is over," came the answer. "Lord Clay, would you care to tell me what truly happened out there?"
The crowd parted, and Lord Commander Jeor Mormont stepped forward through the circle of black-clad brothers until he stood face to face with Clay.
If time had allowed, Clay would not have minded sharing a few quiet words with the old bear. He respected the man's steady presence and the weight of years in his eyes. But there was no such luxury now.
The South changed with every passing day, and without him Daenerys dared not move too boldly. She needed someone at her side whom she could trust. Keeping her hidden away in Dorne was no plan at all.
Clay's thoughts ran on even as he offered a polite smile.
"Not this time. I have work waiting. The South is still a tangle of troubles and I cannot stay."
He brushed aside the commander's outstretched hand with a gentle touch. His face stayed warm, yet his refusal was firm.
"You will not stay? Jon is awake. The two of you are close, after all," Mormont said, and the disappointment in his voice could not be hidden.
He knew the North had crossed into strange territory, and curiosity gnawed at him. The sense that events were slipping beyond his control made him all the more eager to hear what Clay might reveal.
Clay only shook his head and answered softly.
"He is gone. He has already knelt before the heart tree and sworn the oath to become a brother of the Night's Watch. This castle is filled with his sworn kin now. I am nothing more than a pampered noble, better to leave him be."
"Lord Clay… you—"
"That is all."
Clay strode past Jeor Mormont, leaving the old commander standing with quiet astonishment in his eyes. He did not glance back as he made his way toward the south gate of Castle Black, the cold air of the yard already seeping through the stone arch ahead.
As he walked, his thoughts returned to a conversation he had held before leaving for the wilds beyond the Wall, a meeting with Maester Aemon.
That night he had climbed the narrow stairs of the rookery to the tower, where the scholar awaited him. Aemon had welcomed him without hesitation, a figure robed in pure white that caught the firelight and made the old man seem almost luminous.
They had settled before the hearth while the heavy door behind them was drawn shut and barred. The fire snapped and hissed in the silence. In the flicker of those flames Aemon's pale eyes, touched faintly with a trace of violet, reflected Clay Manderly's thoughtful face as if holding it inside a calm sea.
The old maester gave a gentle laugh and said, "Lord Clay, you come to an old man so late in the night. Tell me, what matter weighs on you?"
Clay pulled himself from his wandering thoughts, adjusted his seat, and spoke softly. "Aemon Targaryen, at the edge of the world, how many still know that name?"
For a heartbeat the maester simply blinked, taken aback. Clearly he had not expected such a beginning. Yet when he looked into Clay's eyes he found no hint of malice there.
A faint smile of remembrance softened the deep lines of his face. "Ah… to think Lord Clay would know I am a Targaryen," he murmured, his voice carrying both surprise and an old, wistful warmth.
"I imagine that outside the records in the Citadel and perhaps Jeor Mormont himself, no one else in Westeros remembers the name I once bore. Your insight is remarkable."
Clay lifted a hand in quiet dismissal. "I did not seek you out to uncover secrets. You are no threat to me."
Aemon's smile remained, serene and steady. "Indeed. What danger could come from an old man hidden at the world's end, a man whose life is nearly spent?"
Clay inclined his head, acknowledging the truth in those words, though it was not a pleasant subject and he saw no reason to linger on it.
"Maester Aemon, do you know the name Daenerys?" he asked at last.
Aemon nodded slowly. "I know it. Rhaegar's sister. Sadly, I have never laid eyes on the girl. Mormont has spoken of her to me. He says she has returned to Westeros and now moves to reclaim the Iron Throne. Is that so?"
His tone remained calm and steady, as if he were speaking of the turn of the seasons rather than the fate of a house he once called his own.
Clay understood that detachment. A man who had watched a hundred winters pass would have long since learned to let go of storms he could never master.
"Yes," Clay said simply.
"Forgive me if I seem forward," Aemon went on, "but Lord Clay, you appear to hold a keen interest in my Targaryen blood. May I ask why?"
Clay thought to himself, Of course I'm interested. I want to know why a Targaryen girl, when cornered and pleading for mercy, would bite like a wildcat.
He brushed the thought aside before it could color his voice and answered instead, "What truly matters to me is the Targaryen who lives here in Castle Black."
"Um…???"
A soft questioning sound escaped Aemon, a low hum filled with doubt. He tilted his head, clearly unsure of Clay's meaning.
The old man knew well enough that he was the last of his line within these walls, yet the way Clay had spoken left no room for that simple answer.
"Jon Snow," Clay said the name at last.
"The son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark. A child born from the Rebellion, a living consequence of that war."
Aemon's pupils tightened sharply, the reaction too quick to hide.
This revelation struck him harder than he expected. He had always felt a quiet fondness for the boy, yet now Clay Manderly claimed that the same royal blood that once coursed through his own veins ran in Jon as well.
"I know you do not believe me," Clay added in a gentle voice. "That is all right. I came only to tell you. Whether you accept it or not is your choice."
The old maester could not make sense of it. Clay's words tangled through his mind like a maze with no exit. If Jeor Mormont had not spoken of this lord as one of the most powerful men in the North, Aemon might have thought he was facing a madman.
"Lord Clay," he asked at last, struggling to keep his voice steady, "what is it you are truly trying to say?"
Clay met his gaze without flinching. "I want you to keep him here for the rest of his life. Hold him to the Wall as best you can."
Aemon blinked, taken aback by the calm power in those words.
"Daenerys… she is my wife," Clay went on before the maester could speak. "Do not be surprised. You will hear of it soon enough. When I leave Castle Black I will prove that everything I have told you is true."
"I do not want Jon Snow to return to the Seven Kingdoms," he said, each word slow and unyielding. "His claim stands higher than Daenerys's. I care little for titles, but I will not have his presence become a burden to her."
Clay's eyes narrowed, a quiet warning beneath the steady tone. "Think of it as protecting him. Remember this. If I discover that Jon Snow has stepped back into the realm of the Seven Kingdoms, then believe me, he will leave this world in a way that is far from gentle. I keep my word."
With that, the room fell silent forever.
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Long after Clay Manderly departed, Aemon Targaryen found himself replaying every fragment of that strange conversation. The words refused to settle, hovering between doubt and belief. He could not guess what proof Clay intended to offer, nor how he meant to reveal it.
Clay did not return to the tower. He left Castle Black without another meeting, and still the maester's thoughts circled the same questions.
Then it came.
A sound split the sky, a roar so vast and fierce that it seemed to shake the stones beneath his feet and stirred a bloodline he had thought long dormant. The cry rolled through the air with a power that belonged to legends.
Above the startled shouts of the brothers of the Night's Watch, a shadow swept across the heavens… blue and gold, immense enough to blot out the sun.
Aemon Targaryen looked up and saw the great shape glide through the clouds, and on the back of that dragon he glimpsed a figure he knew.
In that instant, he believed…
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[Chapter End's]
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