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Melisandre deeply regretted ever coming to this forsaken place.
Yet at the same time, she could not help feeling a flicker of gratitude. For if she had not come, she would never have known what had truly taken place here, beyond the Wall and across the frozen wilds, where even the gaze of R'hllor could no longer reach.
At least, that was what she believed.
When had the Great Other gained servants like these?
Melisandre glanced back. Behind her, a knight in twisted, grotesque armor spurred his warhorse forward, closing the distance with frightening speed.
On both sides, creatures that looked like hounds but reeked of sulfur and bore shards of frost across their bodies darted through the snow, circling fast to cut her off before she could reach Eastwatch.
They had appeared without warning, emerging from the wilderness as she made her way toward the Haunted Forest. There had been no signs, no words, no hesitation, only sudden, lethal intent.
They had come for her life.
It was sheer fortune, perhaps the lingering protection of her priesthood under R'hllor, that gave her the strength to fight back. She could not ignite herself like a living flame, but her mastery of fire had been enough to deflect the first wave of attacks, to mount her horse, and flee southward through the snow in a desperate attempt to return to the Wall and find sanctuary.
But the things that hunted her, these creatures she had never glimpsed in any flame or seen hinted by her god's visions, pursued her relentlessly.
The language they shouted in bursts was unlike any she knew.
Lacking Clay's prior knowledge, she had no idea what they were.
Yet the chill sorcery that clung to their bodies told her enough. Whatever they were, their presence in these lands was no accident.
All the way through her flight, one thought tormented her:
Could these creatures truly be the newest servants of the Great Other? Was their sudden appearance a sign that the god of cold and death was awakening, gathering strength in silence before unleashing it upon the world?
The reason she had come north in the first place was because, some time ago, she could no longer see anything of the lands beyond the Wall or the North within the flames.
Every vision she called forth had turned gray, an unnatural, suffocating gray that smothered all light.
She knew at once that something momentous must have happened in the North.
Though she had lived in the South for a long time, the instant she understood what had occurred, she resolved to journey north. Yet soon she found herself facing the same obstacle Daenerys had once faced.
The magic of the Old Gods repelled her completely. She could not cross the Neck, nor could she even set foot within its misty marshes.
But Melisandre was never one to surrender easily.
If the path by land was sealed, then she would take another.
She hired a ship and sailed east across the Narrow Sea, hoping to land near the Wall.
It seemed the little raven had made quite a mess of things.
Of course, Melisandre knew of the Three-Eyed Raven. All who served as messengers of divine will were aware of one another's existence, even if they followed different gods.
By the time she reached Eastwatch, Clay had already dealt with the old god's lingering power tied to the Three-Eyed Raven. That was the only reason she had been able to set foot on shore without resistance.
She never had a chance to meet Clay. To her, he remained an enigma, a mysterious emissary of another god whose role in this great maelstrom she could not begin to understand.
So she had decided to investigate on her own.
Yet she never imagined that the moment she crossed the Wall and entered the Haunted Forest, she would walk straight into a deadly pursuit.
…
"Hurry up. The woman in red is about to leave the forest," shouted the leading knight to his companions.
Their speech was not in the Common Tongue of Westeros.
"I know. The hounds aren't fast enough. I'll go around from the left," another voice replied.
The voice that came from behind the black, snarling helm sounded hoarse and heavy, almost metallic, as if scraped through iron.
They had already made up their minds to find a way past the Wall.
The lands south of it were ruled by other powers, and the ones who commanded magic there would never accept their kind.
Because of that, their navigators could not simply open a portal in that territory as they pleased.
That single limitation made it difficult for their army to follow. After all, scaling this colossal Wall was agony even for them.
They were cavalry, and no cavalry could leap across a wall of such height and power.
Moreover, in their earlier scouting, they had already learned of the Night's Watch existence.
A direct assault was impossible, so they decided to adopt another approach.
Perhaps they could find a way around it from either side.
If they could cross south of the Wall and destroy the magical nodes that anchored the southern wards, then their navigators would be able to transport the rest of their forces to that very place.
Once that was done, the Wall would no longer stand as their barrier.
Until the time came to strike, secrecy was everything.
Melisandre was simply unfortunate. They had judged her as someone who might expose their existence.
So, they had sent knights to hunt her down, to kill her without fail.
They could feel the fire magic burning within her, and that searing presence pained them, driving their hatred even deeper.
Their warhorses galloped faster and faster, hooves pounding through the snow, and the blade of one rider's sword was already aimed at Melisandre's back.
"Stop running, woman. You were meant to die here!"
They shouted, trying to shake her focus and make her falter.
But it made no difference, for Melisandre could not understand a word of what they were shouting.
The Common Tongue might be shared across the realm, yet whatever language these creatures spoke clearly did not belong to it.
Her hand rose to clutch the ruby pendant at her throat.
She gathered every spark of fire magic she could muster from within her body.
The Red Priests of the Lord of Light were never meant for open battle.
Expecting them to turn into blazing warriors was a fool's hope.
Still, they could sometimes manage to set things alight, though it took effort and precision that few could muster under pressure.
No wonder she had always envied Clay's ability to summon fire with a mere gesture of his hand.
The heat in her palm grew sharper, burning like a coal. The power of R'hllor gathered through the ruby, streaming into her hand until it trembled from the force.
And just as the cold blade behind her was about to strike her back, Melisandre turned and flung a small burst of flame over her shoulder.
She did not aim for the knight himself but for the eyes of his warhorse, a great beast weighed down by heavy armor.
The plates glimmered with frost, covered in snow and ice, emanating a chilling magic that made her skin crawl.
She knew for certain that even as a high priestess, without the Lord of Light's direct blessing, she could never pierce such cold-forged armor through strength alone.
So she took a desperate gamble, hoping that the concentrated spark of her fire magic would at least startle the creature.
Her gamble paid off.
A shrill cry split the air as the horse reared and screamed in agony.
The rider was thrown violently to the ground, his body crashing into the snow with a dull, heavy thud.
The strange, dark sword he carried flew from his grip and landed several paces away.
Melisandre seized the moment and snatched it up.
She had brought no weapon with her, and though she could not tell what awaited ahead, at least now she had something with which to defend herself.
Her long red hair streamed behind her like fire against the pale snow, a living flame dancing over the frozen earth.
As the nearest knight fell, she urged her horse forward, galloping with every ounce of strength toward the faint shadow of the Wall that had begun to rise in the distance.
More than once, the sulfur-reeking hounds behind her lunged so close that their claws nearly scraped the legs of her mount, but each time she managed to swerve away with perfect timing, slipping past danger by the width of a breath.
At last, she broke through the edge of the Haunted Forest.
Behind her, the riders in their pitch-black, jagged armor halted at the forest's edge, their hounds whining and pacing in frustration.
"She escaped."
"Yes."
"It doesn't matter. Let her carry the message south of the Wall."
"They don't know who we are."
"That could still be a problem."
"No, Eredin doesn't care. The operation at sea has already begun."
"As long as we succeed on the water, we can cross it."
Their voices faded one by one, swallowed by the wind and snow. The speakers had already vanished into the whiteness.
Their failure to capture her meant little, for this was only a small part of something far greater. The true plan had already begun to unfold beneath the endless storm, and each of them — Gods of the land beyond the Wall — sought only what they desired.
…
"Your Grace, King Clay."
Inside the great hall of the Twins, the nobles of the North and the Riverlands had gathered together.
Whatever thoughts each man held in his heart remained unspoken, but under the steady gaze of Clay Manderly, every one of them tried to keep a polite, proper smile fixed upon his face.
None dared speak too freely with the man who, though uncrowned, carried an authority as hard and unyielding as steel.
Clay Manderly had kept his secret for so long that not a single whisper had escaped his walls. Only when the dragon descended from the skies did they finally realize the truth: that the man they had treated as an ally was in fact a power that could crush them if he wished.
Now they stared at him from below the dais, their eyes filled with restless heat. Loyalty did not matter, not in moments like this. The fact that they had come to the Twins at all was proof enough that, at least outwardly, they had accepted the new political reality.
At the start of the council, Clay Manderly sat upon the high seat with nothing upon his head and a simple fur cloak draped across his shoulders. His gaze swept slowly across the hall before he spoke, his voice calm yet heavy with command.
"My lords, I am your new king. Those who recognize me may remain and leave your seals. Those who do not may leave."
The guards had already prepared everything. One of them stepped forward carrying a burning red candle, letting the wax drip onto a large sheet of parchment made from tanned leather.
The words upon it were unmistakable. Every lord who signed would swear unconditional obedience to the command of Clay Manderly and Daenerys Targaryen, founders of the new dynasty.
All armies, wealth, and regional supplies were to fall under unified command whenever war demanded it.
Once the war ended, the crown would no longer interfere in those affairs.
There were other clauses as well, written clearly in neat, formal hand.
The nobles glanced at each other in confusion, unable to understand what this strange document meant or what purpose it served.
They did not realize that this was Clay's chosen weapon, a quiet snare that he would use to bind them when the time came.
Hidden within the terms were subtle tricks, small legal knots that the proud and self-willed lords would almost certainly violate.
And once they signed, the document would carry more weight than any ordinary decree, for it was witnessed and sealed by them all.
Each noble stamped his family crest upon the parchment, and by doing so they made it a pact witnessed by every peer in the hall — a declaration of common accord.
When the day came that Clay punished any one of them for breaking it, not a single voice would dare rise to plead on his behalf.
Who could they blame but themselves, when they had agreed to it of their own free will?
A few sharper men sensed something beneath the surface. Though they said nothing, they knew what Clay Manderly was truly doing.
Traditionally, this moment would have been marked by ceremony. Swords drawn, lords kneeling before the throne, voices ringing through the hall as they swore oaths of loyalty to their new king.
That had always been the way of things.
But it was clear now that Clay had no use for such empty rituals.
When the parchment bearing the seals of dozens of the realm's most powerful lords was finally complete, a "Joint Declaration" to mark the birth of a new realm, Clay leaned back in his chair and began the first round of political arrangements for his dynasty.
"My lords," he began, his tone steady, "I was born of House Manderly. You may think of me as a man of the North. Yet since we stand now in the Twins, you may also think of me as one of the Riverlands, if you wish."
"We have marched and fought together for a long time. You all know the sort of man I am."
He raised one finger, his expression firm.
"The armies, aside from those of my own house, still belong to each of you. As before, so now. They remain under my command, but you need not fear that I will seize them for myself."
This was the first matter that had to be made clear.
The armies of the realm were still far from professional, drawn as they were from the retinues of each noble house. If Clay had declared outright that all forces now belonged to the crown, half the men in the hall would have turned against him before nightfall.
He did intend, in time, to bring the whole realm's military under central rule, but he knew too well that such things could not be rushed.
As soon as Clay finished speaking, a quiet sigh passed through the gathered lords. The tension that had hung in the hall began to ease at last.
This was, after all, a king born of the battlefield. Clay Manderly had earned his crown in war, not ceremony. His reputation among the soldiers was unmatched, and now, with dragons at his command, every lord in that hall knew that if he demanded their forces outright, none would dare defy him. Yet losing their armies would mean losing their livelihoods.
Armies meant men — strong hands that tilled the soil, forged weapons, built keeps, and kept their lands alive. Without those men, half their domains would wither into ruin.
Clay raised a second finger:
"Now we must make one thing clear," he said, his voice steady and resonant. "Who are our enemies, and... who are our friends?"
Dragons could tear through any barrier, yet even that carried risk. He had already sent word to Dorne, summoning Daenerys to the Twins.
The Dornish had been holding position at Skyreach, guarding Prince's Pass against a possible strike from the Reach or the Stormlands. But so far, no banners had appeared on the horizon. The sheer terror of dragonfire had kept their foes at bay.
With the situation momentarily stable, Clay had called Daenerys northward. After all, in this new dynasty, House Targaryen held nearly half the crown's weight. It was only right that she be present.
And given the speed of a dragon's flight, she would not take long to arrive from Sunspear.
"Lord Karstark," Clay said, his gaze falling upon him. "In your view, who stands as our enemy?"
Rickard Karstark rose to his feet at once, the movement sharp and full of vigor. The man had always possessed a strange fervor for powerful creatures, and when he first laid eyes upon Gaelithox, he had looked as though he were gazing upon a god.
Although he could not ride the dragon, for approaching too close would have turned him to ash, the awe in his eyes was unmistakably real. Unless he was the greatest actor alive, that admiration could not have been feigned.
When Clay called his name, Karstark did not hesitate. He stood tall, his voice booming through the hall and echoing against the vaulted ceiling.
"If you ask me, we should march on the Vale first," he roared. "Drag out those treacherous bastards hiding in their mountains and make them kneel. Until the Vale bends the knee, our eastern flank will always be a threat when we march south."
Clay knew exactly which traitor he meant.
Word of Petyr Baelish's schemes in the Eyrie had already spread through the Vale like wildfire. Two lords sent there had met different fates: one dead under suspicious circumstances and blamed for Lysa Tully's murder, the other hailed as a hero for uncovering the plot. The northerners believed none of it.
In their eyes, the Boltons' betrayal had already been proven beyond doubt.
To cleanse corruption before facing greater foes was the northern way. First, destroy the traitors, then deal with the enemies beyond the borders.
In the past, to subdue the Vale, they would have had to storm the Bloody Gate and pay for every inch of stone with blood.
Now Clay wanted to see who among the Vale's proud knights would dare hold that gate when dragons darkened the sky.
If any man was brave enough to face them and turn to ash for his trouble, then so be it. Let him die a loyal servant to the Vale.
**
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[CHAPTER END]
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