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Chapter 265 - It’s Alive

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Jon Snow felt as though every drop of blood in his veins had frozen solid.

His expression was difficult to put into words: part fear, part grim solemnity, and part sheer disbelief.

For before his eyes, the swollen belly of that black plant had caved inward, forming a deep hollow.

Inside, it was not the fibrous weave of vine he had imagined.

It was… something else entirely… something made of dark, reddish-black flesh.

That alone was already enough to chill the marrow. Yet it was only when he saw what lay nestled within that pulsing mass, where two shapes were wrapped tightly in strange growths that resembled both blood vessels and creeping vine, that Jon truly understood the depth of his fear.

The reddish-black tendrils, faintly twitching as though they were alive, were coiled around the limp body of a grey direwolf and the glossy black form of a raven.

Those things…

They had driven themselves deep into the animals' bodies, burrowing through their mouths, forcing into their nostrils, and piercing into them from every possible point.

It was a vision so grotesque and unnatural that even here, beneath the thick, heady fragrance of the vast vine looming overhead, the sight felt warped, dangerous, and wrong.

Jon let out a startled gasp before he could stop himself, instinctively stumbling back a few paces… only to lose his footing on the slick layer of dead, rotting leaves beneath him, and fall hard onto the cold ground.

In the same instant, he yanked the short stick from his belt, gripping it tightly and pointed it directly at the foul mass before him, a thing he wished with every fiber of his being never to lay eyes on again.

Every instinct in him, every sharpened sense of the warrior he had become, screamed that this place was deadly.

And yet, no matter how long he waited, not a single trace of the attack he had braced himself for ever came.

In the stillness of the cavernous space beneath the earth, the only sounds were the quick, uneven breaths rasping from his own throat and the faint, almost imperceptible pulse. The beat was so soft it seemed imagined, yet it was undeniably real.

And beneath it all, there was something else… a whisper.

It came from nowhere and everywhere at once, a strange and sinister murmur that pressed against Jon Snow's eardrums and slipped straight into the core of his mind.

"Help me…"

"Tell Clay Manderly… they're coming…"

"The second frost in the snowstorm… is not yet… the time to open the gate."

"No time… left…"

Jon clenched his jaw and forced himself upright, stubborn pride rising in him like an iron rod through his spine. Some strange sense of honor would not allow him to remain sprawled there in such a sorry state.

If anyone at Castle Black were to see him like this, they would laugh themselves breathless and keep laughing until the day they found him frozen stiff in his bed.

That was the thought that crossed his mind.

Steeling himself, Jon gathered every shred of will he had, forcing his gaze back onto the foul mass he so desperately wished to look away from.

He had heard it clearly. Among those fragmented, halting whispers, one thing came through with absolute certainty. The name Clay Manderly.

The rest was a tangle of broken words he could not piece together.

But at least that name belonged to his world, to his understanding.

If it had been nothing but some alien, indecipherable sound, Jon knew he would have been utterly powerless to grasp it.

Right now, all he wanted was to understand one thing… why had that voice called to him, spoken his name, and then uttered Clay's?

And more than that… what in the name of the gods was that thing?

Jon swallowed hard, the motion loud in his own ears, then drew in a deep breath of the air he no longer found fragrant or sweet.

And he stepped forward.

————————————————————

Far to the south, Clay was on horseback, making his way toward Harrenhal, unaware of the strange events unfolding in the North.

The journey from Stone Hedge to Harrenhal was no easy stretch of ground.

And truth be told, Harrenhal itself was not even their true destination. Their purpose was far more direct and far less courteous. They meant to catch up to Yohn Royce and sink their teeth into his retreating ass.

After all, a beaten army with no fight left in it was the perfect prey for a ruthless strike. This was the best time to beat the enemy while they were down; miss this chance now, and there would be no such opening later.

CClay's forces had split their strength. The cavalry pushed ahead to cut off the enemy's eastward retreat while the slower-moving infantry followed behind. Once the foot soldiers closed the distance, they would bring the full weight of their strength to bear and force a decisive battle.

But in recent days, the heavy black clouds that had blanketed the heart of Westeros had left the Riverlands sodden and treacherous.

Everywhere was nothing but mire… true, sucking, reeking swamp-land.

Marching through such muck, there was no hope of speed, and the strain it put on both horse and man was immense.

The horses had to wrench their hooves free from the sucking mud with each step, muscles straining to lift themselves from the grip of the earth.

The men fared no better. In this age there were no boots truly proof against water, and slogging forward through the deep, uneven ground soon left ankles and feet damp, raw, and itching beneath the leather.

Clay had no doubt Yohn Royce's column was facing the very same misery.

That was what he told his commanders when they discussed the march.

On that morning, soon after Clay had mounted and given the signal for the host to advance, the feeling struck him without warning. A sudden, tight flutter of unease twisted in his chest.

An inexplicable surge of anger flooded into his mind, hot and sharp, coming from nowhere.

He froze for a heartbeat, then understood almost instantly what it meant.

This was an emotion carried to him by his dragon, Gaelithox!

The bond between them ran deeper than the one Daenerys shared with Drogon, whom she had only been riding for a short time.

When Gaelithox thought or felt something, Clay could often sense it the moment they touched.

Even now, though man and dragon were far apart, the force of Gaelithox's emotions was so fierce that it reached him across the distance.

The reason he had never spoken of it before was simple… Clay had not cared to.

Other than an endless appetite for meat of every sort and the satisfaction of bullying Drogon, there had been little of interest to share about the dragon's days in Dorne.

While Clay had been in the North, wrestling in blood and snow, Gaelithox had been stretched out on some sun-soaked meadow, basking in warmth and napping without a care in the world.

Clay tried not to think about it, because the moment he did, the comparison made his gut ache with a kind of dull, bitter frustration.

But now, this sudden surge of raw, unfamiliar rage flooded through him. It was shot through with a faint, almost imperceptible throb of pain, and it told him one thing with startling clarity: Gaelithox was fighting something.

And Clay was almost certain that "something" was human.

Back when he had left, Daenerys's three young dragons had still been far too small to provoke such a violent reaction from Gaelithox. Even if the three of them attacked together, they could never match him in strength. Drogon was fierce, Rhaegal was reckless, and Viserion… well, Viserion was a coward through and through.

Besides, those three had been squabbling since they were hatchlings. They had never once fought side by side, and Gaelithox had long since beaten them into submission. There was no chance they would risk their lives to fight him head-on.

So if it wasn't a dragon, then it had to be a person.

Yet for a human to actually hurt Gaelithox… well, truth be told, even if the dragon lay flat on the ground and let you hack away with all your strength, it would be nearly impossible to cut through the thick armor of his scales.

For no real reason, Clay suddenly thought of Westeros's so-called Olympic champion, the Night King. More precisely, he thought of the spear in the creature's hand.

A weapon with such weight and force was a true dragon-slayer's tool.

Just what kind of person had Gaelithox crossed paths with?

Had he flown off and set fire to someone's home? Wasn't he supposed to be in Dorne?

A flurry of questions popped one after another through Clay's mind.

From the emotions he was sensing, Clay judged that Gaelithox had likely only taken a minor wound… because what burned strongest in the dragon's heart right now was rage, a towering, consuming fury, with only the faintest thread of pain woven into it.

That meant things were not serious.

As a highborn lord through and through, Clay understood how rare and expensive anti-air defenses truly were. The kind of great crossbows meant for castle walls, crafted from select hardwood, fitted with precisely tempered springs, and loaded with brutally heavy iron-tipped bolts, were far from toys. No petty noble could afford to wield or maintain them.

At most, a minor lord might commission one to sit on his battlements for show, never to be used. In truth, most siege crossbows in Westeros lived out their days gathering rust and dust, from the moment they were built to the moment the iron rot claimed them, without ever firing a single shot.

For Gaelithox to be unlucky enough to actually take a bolt… well, that was the kind of misfortune where drinking a sip of cold water would chip your teeth, and breaking wind would somehow bruise your own heel

Given what Clay knew of his dragon, he had no doubt that, by now, whatever siege engines had dared to fire at him were nothing but smoldering heaps of ash.

He rubbed his chin, his brow furrowed in thought. This couldn't have happened inside Dorne's borders. Which meant it had to be somewhere along Dorne's edges… either in the Stormlands or the Reach.

And really, which idiot had the gall to shoot his dragon?

What kind of brand-new, suicidal stunt was that supposed to be?

I'm up here in the North, neck-deep in work, no time at all to deal with you lot, and now you've gone and picked a fight with me? Fine. When I get back to Dorne, I'll make sure you understand exactly what it means to face the wrath of a true dragon.

He needed to find a way to contact Daenerys.

Clay thought about it for a moment.

He needed to ask her what in the world she thought she was doing. The entire point of their current strategy was to let Renly and Stannis tear into each other, dog against dog. And now Gaelithox's had gone sneaking into someone's backyard to set fires? What was that supposed to accomplish?

If those two crowned stags stopped locking antlers and decided instead to turn their fury on them, then what?

Didn't he already have more than enough on his plate in the North?

Was she deliberately trying to make his life harder?

————————————————————

Jon Snow finally returned to the base of the tangled vine, his gaze fixed unshakably on the two strange shapes in its center, unwilling to look away for even a second.

And now, at last, he could see them clearly.

But almost immediately, he caught sight of something else, and the sight struck him to his very core.

There was no mistaking it. That silver-gray wolf pup was a direwolf. Jon knew it with absolute certainty.

But the real question was… why did this direwolf look so familiar to him?

This wasn't…

Summer? Bran's Summer?

Jon rubbed his eyes hard, thinking for a moment that he must be imagining things.

But no… unfortunately, there was no mistake. Right there before his eyes, bound up by those strange, writhing growths, the wolf's face twisted in visible pain… it was indeed Bran's direwolf, Summer. And worse, the beast was still alive, trapped in an unbreakable sleep from which it could not wake.

And beside him, there was the other creature, a black raven, its feathers a glossy jet black, the kind most Northerners loathed to look at. At first glance there was nothing outwardly amiss about it, apart from the fact that it was larger than the average bird of its kind.

But the problem lay in its forehead.

Jon Snow saw them clearly… three eyes!

All of them, black as fresh ink, yet open wide, unblinking.

And from within those dark sockets, thick blood of a black-red hue welled up, oozing past the edges until it dripped from the raven's feathers. Each drop fell onto the strange, fleshy mound beneath it, where the substance was drawn in almost instantly, vanishing as though the meat itself were thirsting for it.

Jon could hear it now, clear and close. The whispering voice had no visible source, and yet as he stepped closer to the twisted mass of vine and flesh, the sound grew slightly louder.

That meant only one thing: the voices were coming from the two creatures in front of him.

His hands began to tremble.

Throughout all the years of his life, even in the bleakest and most terrifying corners of his nightmares, Jon had never laid eyes on a sight like this.

But now, he had no choice. He had to decide what to do.

The bastard of Winterfell bent down, swallowing the sickness and unease that rose like bile in his throat, forcing himself to bring his ear closer to those two grotesque, blood-soaked shapes.

He had to know whose voice it was.

And in all that murmur, there was only one name he recognized… Clay Manderly. That alone was the most vital piece of information he had.

Northerners put their faith in the Old Gods, and Jon Snow was no different.

Looking at what lay before him, he could find no explanation — no cause — that did not somehow involve the gods themselves.

He listened intently, straining to catch every syllable in that ghostly whisper. Then, all at once, Jon's head jerked around.

For now he was certain: the voice was coming from the slightly parted beak of the black raven.

Yet just as he turned to study the creature more closely, all three of its bleeding eyes moved in perfect unison, fixing their gaze upon him.

In that instant, every hair on Jon Snow's body stood on end.

This thing… was alive!

And then he heard another sentence, low yet weighty, carrying the force of something more than mortal.

It said:

"Tell Clay Manderly everything you have seen here. He will understand."

"Remember, you must make him understand that we have no time left…"

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