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After leaving the Wall, Clay did not turn toward Winterfell.
There waited only a grieving mother who had lost her eldest son and wept until her voice was raw, a boy who looked obedient but hid a heart darker than most would ever guess, and Sansa and Rickon, two Stark children still too young to understand anything of the storm around them.
The whole place was a cauldron of confusion with no reason for him to go.
Besides, every northern lord worth the name was gathering at Riverrun. That river-bound fortress had become the true seat of power, the place where the North's pulse now beat.
So Clay guided Gaelithox in a wide, circling sweep over the black stones of Castle Black. He kept the dragon aloft long enough to fulfill his promise to Aemon Targaryen and to remind the entire Night's Watch that the rider of a dragon was no rumor but a fact carved against the sky.
Then he wheeled south and set his course for the Twins.
The battle of Harrenhal was done. The tide had turned, and Clay's side had finally broken through the weakness of being outnumbered. At last, they had the strength to strike back.
This was the moment to rouse the full might of House Manderly, to sit once more with the old lord of his bloodline whom he had not seen in many months, and to shape the next plan of attack. It was also the time for the entire family to confront what they had become… a house of dragon-lords.
Clay suspected that after his fiery appearance at Harrenhal, the old man had already begun preparing the others for this truth. Perhaps this homecoming would be the first in which he would not need to explain, again and again, how he had come to ride a dragon.
His grandfather would see to that.
If Clay could fight without distraction, much of the credit belonged to the old lord who kept the family steady.
The dragon beneath him raced through the air. With the old gods' power fading from the land, the strange drag that had troubled Gaelithox was gone.
Fire and blood were in the creature's very bones, and the frozen North was no home for such a being. Gaelithox loathed the endless cold.
At last the heavy lid of gray cloud that had smothered the northern sky began to break apart.
Pale sunlight spilled through in sudden shafts, and the long-buried glow poured across the silver-white wilderness. The land glittered as if dusted with ground pearls, a moment of rare brightness in a country ruled by winter.
Clay leaned into the dragon's warmth and urged him southward. They crossed over the roofs of Queenscrown, their shadows sliding like dark sails across the frozen streets, and swept above the glassy surface of Long Lake, which lay sealed beneath a skin of ice.
From there they followed the sinuous path of the White Knife, a ribbon of steel-gray water cutting through the snow.
When they reached White Harbor, Gaelithox circled again and again, his vast wings stirring the air into whirling gusts. Below, people ran into the open streets and along the quays, their cries rising in astonished waves. Clay watched their upturned faces and drank in the sound of their awe until he judged it enough.
The blue-and-gold dragon banked sharply and carried his rider out over the Bite, where the sea bit deep into the coast.
A dragon-rider has no need to respect roads or rivers. Wherever Clay wished to go, he could carve the straightest path across the sky.
By the time evening shadows stretched long over the riverlands, Gaelithox's wings were already beating above the Twins.
The pressure of a dragon's presence was the same no matter where it descended. A rush of confusion spread across the towers and yards below, a scatter of shouts and the frantic clatter of hooves. After that brief uproar, Gaelithox settled with deliberate grace on an open field east of the castle.
He needed no cavern or lair. The softer air of the riverlands, warmer by far than the killing winds of the North, suited him well enough.
Clay could tell at once that his grandfather had prepared the household.
He waited a short while, then saw the eastern gate swing wide beneath the banner of the golden trident and silver merman. Out rode a file of knights in bright armor, their lances gleaming like polished ice.
Obviously, they were here for him!
Clay swung down from the saddle without a flicker of doubt. No one in his family would dare harbor secret plots. With the chance to bind their bloodline to a house of dragon-lords, who would ever refuse?
History itself gave the answer. During the three centuries of Targaryen rule, whenever a Targaryen princess looked beyond her own kin for a husband, the finest young lords of Westeros had all but trampled one another for the honor. A dragon-riding dynasty was as close to the divine as mortal men could hope to reach.
The dragon was strength made flesh and, at the same time, a holy sign. It was a living emblem of power that sanctified the family it served. The worth of such a bond could not be measured in gold or steel, for much that could not be touched or weighed carried the greatest value.
Those unseen truths were what set a dragon-lord's house apart from the bloodlines of ordinary men.
Then Clay looked more closely, and a quiet laugh escaped him. His grandfather had come in person to meet him.
So the old man feared that a grandson returning astride a dragon might be met with some unwelcome surprise?
Yet even at a distance the old lord had stopped and waited. It was not that he wished to hold his ground, but rather that the warhorse beneath him had simply refused another step.
No matter how well trained, a horse quailed before a dragon, legs trembling and eager to flee.
"Go on then," Clay murmured, "find yourself something to eat, but remember, no harm to anyone."
He reached up and patted the broad head of Gaelithox. The dragon exhaled a gust of scorching breath, eyes flicking from his rider to the white-haired elder who had been there when he first cracked his shell.
Both faces were familiar. No danger here. The message in that slow blink was clear before the creature even moved.
With a low rumble Gaelithox turned away. Blue-and-gold wings spread wide under the afternoon sun and caught the light until the walls of the Twins flared with shimmering reflections. Cries of wonder rose from the battlements as the great body lifted into the sky.
When Lord Wyman Manderly had first told his men that their young master was a dragon-rider, many had whispered disbelief behind closed doors.
But now, with such a sight blazing against the heavens, every last murmur was swept aside like smoke on the wind.
Only after the dragon's shape dwindled over the horizon did the old lord bring his horse forward and close the distance to his grandson.
His first words came out as a rough exclamation.
"Seven hells, it has grown so fast. Two years ago it was only this big."
He held out his hands to show the size he remembered.
After all, he had watched the creature from the day it lay as a warm egg to this towering presence, and its growth defied belief.
Clay thought to himself that of course it had grown quickly. Near Sunspear the flocks had almost been eaten bare, until Prince Doran himself ordered the neighboring nobles to send more sheep to keep the beast fed.
"Grandfather, there is no need for us to stand here in the wind, is there?"
The old man caught the meaning at once and gave a short laugh. "Come inside. Everything is ready. There is golden Arbor wine from the Shield Islands, summer red from Dorne, sweet red from the Reach, and I even had a few bottles of Qartheen dreamwine brought in. They are still sealed. You may choose whichever pleases you."
Clay nodded with quiet satisfaction. No one knew his tastes better than his own grandfather.
Aside from the rare stretches he had spent in Astapor, where a merchant might offer a cask of something fine, he had been either at war or on the road to war. There had been no chance for indulgence. Most days a rough beer or thin ale had to do.
Now that he was home, he would drink properly or not at all.
A handful of family knights rode with them, men Clay recognized at a glance.
Each greeted him in turn, but their eyes carried a new light, a gleam of reverence that had not been there before.
In these chaotic times everyone admired strength.
And a man who could control a dragon stood at the very peak of strength, all the more so because this man was their own young lord. Nothing could please them more.
"Come then, let us head inside," the old lord said at last. "I know you have not returned without purpose, yet you must visit home more often. Only here will you find people who give you their full support. Remember that, Clay."
Clay gave a slow nod. He understood well enough what his grandfather meant.
Once they passed through the gates he could see how much the Twins had changed. The scars of war that had once marred the castle were gone.
When Clay had led his men to take the stronghold and wipe out the Frey family, the place had been left bleak and broken for a long while.
Later, when House Manderly began to absorb the petty lords who had sworn to the Freys, trouble had come with every step.
It was never a peaceful handover. Every village brought some form of resistance, hard and unyielding.
In the end the old lord had no choice but to summon a full thousand of the family's finest warriors from White Harbor and set them to the work of rebuilding order across every hamlet and holdfast now claimed in the name of House Manderly.
Those who would not yield met the simplest answer. Force settled what words could not.
The barefoot have little fear of those who wear boots. When these petty nobles fell, their lands were divided among soldiers whose valor had earned reward. It tightened the family's hold on the new conquest and gave their fighters reason to guard it well.
While Clay fought on, driving his war line from Harrenhal to Riverrun and keeping the enemy pressed to the south, the Twins lay far from the sound of swords. They were spared the worst of the storm.
Farmers to the south obeyed Edmure Tully's call to strip the countryside and hide within the nearest castles, or else they fled toward safer ground.
Yet the smallfolk of the riverlands were never made for long journeys. Few wished to wander into the cold unknown of the distant North.
So the Twins, now under Manderly rule, became the natural choice.
New faces poured in until the streets grew crowded. Order strained under the weight, but the old lord spread soldiers quietly through the town and kept the peace.
These settlers replaced the lives lost to war. Fields that had lain empty filled again, and harvests began to climb.
By the time Clay returned the stronghold had regained much of its old strength, nearly matching the days when the Freys still ruled here.
The taxes, though, were another matter.
The riverlands lay in chaos. With trade broken and the bridge too dangerous for tolls, there was no coin to gather there.
And to bleed the farmers dry… Clay had said more than once that such a pittance was worth less than nothing. Better to let the peasants rest and the soil heal.
The people of the Twins all saw the vast shape of Gaelithox when the dragon swept across the sky.
Fear was only natural. A creature so immense stirred some ancient instinct to tremble.
Yet in recent days a quiet rumor had taken root, one that Lord Wyman made no effort to silence. It wound its way through alleys and market stalls alike.
The great beast belonged to young Lord Clay Manderly. Word spread that House Manderly itself had risen into the ranks of dragonlords.
So when the dragon descended beyond the walls that morning and settled upon the earth for a long, heavy moment, wings folding like the sails of a ship, the people braced for fire and ruin. But no flame came.
After a patient pause, the beast lifted off again, vanished into the clouds, and left the town unharmed. Many who had watched began to believe that perhaps the rumor was true after all.
Faces turned toward one another with a secretive light, neighbors leaning close as though sharing a holy mystery.
"Did you see that dragon? Seven save us, it was beautiful, so huge."
"Of course I saw it. Anyone with eyes in this town saw it."
"I heard a thing or two about that creature…"
The guards of the castle made no move to quiet such talk. They had their orders from the family head, and they knew this gentle gossip worked in the house's favor. It drew the people closer, filled them with pride in their new lords, and gave them a story to carry in their hearts.
—–———————————————————
Water Tower, the top floor.
Because the tower stood on narrow ground its base was small, so the builders had reached for the sky instead.
Clay stood now at the very peak, the place where the old lord usually spent his days.
The study that once lay in steady silence buzzed with quiet energy.
Clay sat in the high seat, a position his grandfather had insisted upon.
The old lord's meaning was plain. From this moment the master of House Manderly was no longer himself.
It was not that age or weakness had claimed him, only that the time for his rule had passed.
A family must speak with a single voice and act with a single will.
Clay now stood upon the edge of kingship, and for such a figure to remain merely an heir was neither natural nor fitting.
The old lord was present, as were Wynafryd, Wylla, and Clay himself, with Wylis summoned from White Harbor to join this solemn gathering.
Aside from Wendel Manderly, who was busy reorganizing the family fleet, every core member of House Manderly had gathered in the chamber.
"Enough, the two of you can pester Clay with your questions later," the old lord said, shooting a mock frown at his granddaughters though his eyes held no real anger.
"Clay, this is all your fault. No one dares marry my two daughters anymore."
Wylis, whose health had never been strong and who was always coughing, laughed and teased Clay lightly.
The old lord said nothing, though his mind wandered briefly to Aegon the Conqueror.
Hmm… he thought, perhaps some consideration is in order.
The thought flickered through his mind like a candle's flame and was immediately suppressed.
————————————————————
"Tell me, Tyrion Lannister, do you think I can use that little dwarf brain of yours to ask the Targaryens to give my daughter back?"
On the Iron Throne, King Stannis Baratheon of King's Landing, flushed in the face and clearly a little tipsy, slurred the question.
As a discarded son, Tyrion Lannister counted himself lucky that Stannis, unlike his brother Robert, was not a bloated fool.
Tyrion knew very well that, though abandoned by his "beloved" father, Tywin, he still held great value as a Lannister.
Life under Stannis, therefore, had been surprisingly comfortable.
It had only been some time since he'd had a proper outlet for his frustrations. With King's Landing now under new rule, expecting to live as freely as he once had was impossible.
Hearing the king's question, he shook his oversized head, hopped down from his small stool, and wobbled his way to the throne.
Bowing with exaggerated elegance, he smiled and said, "I think, Your Grace, if you send a single Lannister head to Sun Spear, most likely the Dornish will enjoy a night with several beauties, while the Dragon Queen will not give you a single thought."
"Honestly, one head won't be enough. If you add my sister's and our 'beloved' father's heads, then perhaps, you might exchange them for Princess Shireen's."
He spread his hands in a mock display of fairness and added, "See, a head for a head, perfectly equitable."
Tyrion felt no concern at all that speaking this way might anger the king.
After spending so much time with Stannis, he had gradually come to understand the king's temperament.
This stubborn, cold stone of a man, so long as one avoided words that might humiliate him, was not impossible to deal with. Though his demeanor remained icy, he could still be reasoned with, and communication, while cautious, was possible.
Stannis nodded, clearly approving of this Lannister before him, dressed plainly but not unpleasant to look at.
It was ironic, really. Of all the main Lannisters he knew, the ones crowned "demons" were somehow the easiest to get along with.
"Why not mention your brother? The head of a king-slayer should surely be worth more than your sister's, who is known for nothing more than spreading her legs," Stannis asked.
Tyrion did not want to hear that.
He refused to accept any notion of being merely a prisoner, answering with visible irritation, "Stannis, though my brother has indeed done some terrible things, he, like me, is one of the few decent people left in this filthy Westeros."
"Even when I wanted Casterly Rock, it was only because my good nephew was still sitting on the Iron Throne and my unlucky brother had no way to reclaim it."
"Now… hmm, even the king has become a captive. Just thinking about it excites me."
Stannis understood these strange family dynamics perfectly.
Once united, the Baratheons were now fractured, riddled with mutual hatred.
His brother Robert had died, leaving no legitimate heir, and his daughter Shireen had fallen into the hands of the Targaryens, with no way of knowing when she might be burned to ash alongside him.
As for Renly… well, he knew what his own brother liked better than anyone.
The Baratheon family seemed on the verge of collapse.
Though they theoretically held three crowns, it was all meaningless.
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