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"I'm truly sorry, my lady. I don't know why young Lord Bran remains unconscious. There's no record of such symptoms anywhere in the Citadel's library. I… I've done all I can. All we can do now is pray to the gods, and hope they watch over him."
Inside the main keep of Winterfell, Maester Luwin, draped in his simple grey robes, let out a long sigh as he slowly rose from the bedside of Bran Stark, who lay flushed and fevered, unmoving beneath the covers.
The elderly maester's bald crown gleamed faintly in the firelight. With winter's heavy snows settling in, his already thin and stooped figure seemed even more hunched than usual. Bowing ever so slightly, he spoke in a quiet voice to the woman seated beside the bed — Catelyn Tully, the Lady of Winterfell, who was gently holding her son's hand.
Catelyn's face was drawn with sorrow, but she didn't for a moment believe Maester Luwin was trying to deceive her. The old man had already been serving as Winterfell's maester when she first arrived in the North, years ago.
Every one of her children, save for Jon Snow, that bastard, had been delivered into the world by this same maester. And for her to have birthed so many children in a place where the standards of hygiene were, to put it kindly, far from ideal, yet still remain healthy and alive… much of that could only be credited to Luwin.
She knew, without a doubt, that the maester had done everything within his power to treat Bran's mysterious illness. But now, this man whose neck was draped with chains forged from metals representing knowledge and study — this trusted maester of Winterfell — had told her he was sorry.
At that thought, her mind drifted southward, to her eldest son, whose fate remained unknown. And in that moment, a wave of despair rose within her.
According to the laws of succession, if something were to happen to Robb Stark, then Bran would be next in line. And so, for now at least, he held the title of acting Lord of Winterfell — since his brother had ridden off to war.
But if things continued like this, if Bran couldn't survive the harsh winter ahead, then the crown of the North would fall to her last remaining son: Rickon Stark, who was only five years old.
Catelyn dared not imagine what that would mean. A king — one who would stand against the Iron Throne, who would lead not only the North but also the Riverlands on the path to independence — yet only five years old.
And worse still, this little king wouldn't have anyone by his side to guide him. As for herself, she was but a woman. Managing the day-to-day affairs of Winterfell was one thing, but when it came to leading an entire kingdom… Catelyn Tully knew all too well that she wasn't up to the task.
There was another problem as well — something she didn't want to dwell on but could no longer avoid thinking about. The army. Or rather, the army that had already assembled here in Winterfell, but was soon to be handed over to Clay Manderly.
Catelyn knew very well that her son Robb's defeat had nothing to do with Clay. But the current situation… if Clay Manderly ever entertained other thoughts, if he so much as wavered in loyalty, there was absolutely nothing she could do to stop him.
All it would take was for Clay Manderly to marry her eldest daughter, Sansa Stark, and then, with a cold enough heart, see to it that Rickon Stark either quietly disappeared or died from some sudden illness. If that were to happen, then Clay Manderly would become the uncrowned king of the North.
What would follow after that, Catelyn didn't even dare imagine.
She wanted desperately to keep these armies, those who still followed Winterfell's command, under her control. But she simply couldn't. These soldiers hadn't gathered in Winterfell for her sake. They had come to march south, to rescue the great noble houses and the remnants of their armies who might still be alive.
Catelyn Tully had to send them to the Twins. There was no second option. No other path. No other hope.
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With Clay's departure from the North, the Three-Eyed Raven, the messenger of the old gods' will, was finally free to act without restraint. Bran Stark, after all, was someone blessed with the Greensight, and his body was the most suitable vessel for the old gods' power.
Back when Clay had still been in the North, the Three-Eyed Raven dared not make a move. It had discovered something deeply unsettling: whenever its magic touched Clay, it vanished completely, as if swallowed up by a void. And it understood all too well… if Clay's power were ever to invade his own essence, the only outcome would be utter annihilation.
That was why the Three-Eyed Raven had never dared to confront Clay directly. It had sent a dragon, offered assistance, and done everything in its power to gently push this bringer of calamity toward abandoning the North. As long as Clay held territory in the South, he would naturally become an enemy of R'hllor.
And the Three-Eyed Raven, as the guardian who sealed the path against the Lord of Darkness's advance into the South, was not a servant of R'hllor either. Its position was delicate and precarious. So if Clay could divert the attention of the god of fire elsewhere, the Raven would be more than willing to see it happen.
Now that Clay had departed from the North and marched southward to wage war, He had begun accelerating His efforts to erode Bran Stark's mind. So long as He could fully consume Bran's consciousness, the boy's body would become His new vessel. Through it, He could seize control of Winterfell, and perhaps even extend His influence across the entire North.
He had no desire for mortal power in and of itself. But by obtaining control over the world of men, He would gain the means to continually devour the bloodline of House Stark, generation after generation. After all, as one of the oldest and most ancient houses in Westeros, the blood of the Starks had always made for one of the finest vessels for magical power.
"It's close now. Very close. Bran Stark's will is already beginning to waver."
"Clay Manderly, emissary of the foreign god… I have no desire to become your enemy. And I trust that you, in turn, will honor the promise you once made to me…"
The voice was hoarse and rasping, like dry leaves scraping stone, echoing faintly from a hollow tree far beyond the Wall—only to be shredded a moment later by the swirling wind and snow. Yet the true voice, laced with ancient magic, traveled silently across the land through the weirwood trees, each one glowing faintly with power in another vision's eyes, spreading its message across the vast northern wilderness.
The power of the old gods had been rooted in the North for thousands of years. Their foundation was deep, their presence ancient. If not for the sudden appearance of this unpredictable variable named Clay, their plan would already be much further along by now.
Another magical tide was already on its way. And every creature hoping to survive — and perhaps gain something from it — had to find its place quickly. Otherwise, they would be swallowed whole by the crashing wave of magic that was coming.
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No matter how reluctant they were, even the last remnants of strength from the great houses had finally been assembled. Eight thousand second-line troops with little real combat experience had been mustered, and now, under the leadership of Ser Rodrik, they were making their way toward the Twins.
This force represented the very last of the North's strength. Without changing the current social structure, this was nearly the absolute limit of manpower the North could squeeze out. Pushing any further might tip the entire political balance into chaos.
The Twins had already received the raven sent from Winterfell and had made the necessary preparations to accommodate the arrival of the eight thousand.
At that moment, Lord Wyman Manderly could not help but feel a strange sense of awe. Once those eight thousand soldiers were in place, the number of troops directly under House Manderly's command would be nearing twenty thousand.
It was a staggering figure. Almost unreal. The thought that House Manderly, still bearing nothing more than the title of lord, now held more men under arms than Stannis Baratheon, who sat upon the Iron Throne, and more than the entire army of Dorne combined... it bordered on the fantastical.
If those twenty thousand soldiers were to become House Manderly's standing army, then frankly, the Stark family might as well lay down their crown as Kings in the North. Because at that point, the only real alternative would be to quietly accept that White Harbor, along with the entire region surrounding the Twins, might break away to form a kingdom of their own.
What kind of absurd situation was that? A vassal commanding twenty thousand troops… such power should only belong to a king who had united all Seven Kingdoms and claimed the Iron Throne.
And now, more than ever, he was convinced that retrieving Wynafryd from Winterfell had been an incredibly wise decision. If he hadn't, wouldn't that have been handing over a hostage straight into someone else's hands?
Before Clay departed, he had left him with a detailed war plan. To be honest, the old man had been holding his breath ever since.
Because the truth was, this plan was bold—almost recklessly so. Every move was designed around using the weaker to defeat the strong.
Sending out two thousand cavalry to bait the Vale's five thousand troops into a chase… that was one example.
Deploying seven thousand fresh recruits who had never stepped onto a battlefield, setting them behind the Lannisters and the Vale's rear lines, and waiting for the enemy to attack… that was another.
Little by little, the old lord had begun to understand his grandson's way of thinking. Clay never concerned himself with the gain or loss of a single castle or stronghold. He never focused on the success or failure of any one army.
His mind was always set on the whole of Westeros.
The attack on Lord Harroway's town, for example, wasn't just a strike — it was meant to force the Vale's main host to turn back, while also putting pressure on the Lannisters besieging Harrenhal.
And once that happened, the twenty thousand stationed at Riverrun could finally be freed up. The moment they moved, the entire situation would turn.
As long as the seven thousand infantry holding the Lord Harroway's Town could last long enough, then soon afterward, eight thousand foot soldiers and four thousand cavalry would press southward from the north, while Edmure Tully's twenty thousand men advanced from the west. At that point, the initiative on the entire battlefield would return to their side, sweeping away the passive and beaten state that had lingered ever since Robb Stark's defeat.
That was the mind of a true commander. A reckless charge, a relentless assault — those were the instincts of a warrior. Such a man might win a battle, but against someone who truly understood the art of command, they would be little more than a pawn in someone else's hand.
And the old man knew something else as well. In Dorne, there was still a force that everyone else might have overlooked. But that force, too, ultimately belonged to them.
When they finally and officially stepped into the game, it would mark the final moment… the moment that decided who would sit the throne.
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[Chapter End's]
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