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Clay had not expected that Daenerys would come as well.
Something must have happened in Dorne, forcing her to abandon her original plans and ride her dragon north ahead of time, seeking him out in person.
Thankfully, her arrival came now, at a moment when even if everything were laid bare, there would be little to lose. If this had been earlier, before Robb Stark's downfall, when the main strength of the North still stood intact, then… the Manderly family would have found themselves in a far more precarious position.
Had that truly been the case, Clay would have had no choice but to clash with both the armies of the North and those of the Riverlands before anything else could be resolved.
Guiding Gaelithox toward Drogon's position, Clay could not help but wonder why Daenerys had come looking for him. He certainly did not believe that the young queen had flown all this way out of longing for his company.
He shared this thought with Gaelithox through their bond, and the great beast responded with a sound of delight, a low rumble that vibrated in its chest.
What was there to be so excited about?
To Gaelithox, it was nothing more than going to meet Drogon, a game it knew all too well. Back in Dorne, it had made a habit of tormenting Drogon nearly every day, chasing and needling him just for sport. To Gaelithox, that had been endlessly amusing.
Clay leaned into the dragon's rhythm, and together they soared through the skies toward Drogon.
The two dragons closed the distance quickly. Gaelithox let out a booming roar in greeting.
Drogon's reaction was particularly interesting. Faced with Gaelithox, a beast that dwarfed him in size, Drogon instinctively pulled his head back, shrinking his neck in a flash of hesitation.
But the moment lasted only a heartbeat. In the next instant, he seemed to realize that this was Gaelithox… Gaelithox, the one he loathed most of all. His hesitation burned away as quickly as it had come. With a defiant snap, Drogon stretched his neck forward, gave a sharp, challenging glare, and roared back.
To Clay's ears, the exchange translated quite neatly.
Gaelithox's booming voice said:
"So it's you. Had your meal yet?"
And Drogon replied with nothing more than a disdainful:
"Hmph!"
The two dragons hurtled closer and closer, their calls echoing across the winter sky.
From Drogon's back, Daenerys finally caught sight of the familiar figure riding Gaelithox. The weight that had pressed on her heart lifted at last, as if a heavy stone had been removed. Relief washed over her in a rush, warm and overwhelming.
Clay could sense that she had something she wished to say to him. Without waiting for her voice to reach him, he leaned forward and urged Gaelithox into a steady descent, guiding the great dragon toward an empty stretch of ground where no one else was near.
Daenerys let out a soft hum, a sound that was half amusement, half satisfaction. This man still understood her so well. She had just been worrying about how to find the right way to speak to him while both of them were still perched on their dragons' backs, yet he had already thought ahead for her.
The massive blue-and-gold dragon beat its vast wings as it descended, stirring up a furious wind that sent the loose snow it disliked scattering from the ground in a flurry. First its enormous hind legs struck the earth, then its forelimbs followed, claws digging into the frozen soil with a deep thud.
Clay patted Gaelithox's scaled neck, a signal that he intended to dismount.
Not far away, the black shadow of Drogon also swooped down, landing with a guttural rumble that vibrated through the air.
The young queen moved quickly, agile and practiced, slipping down from Drogon's back with ease.
She was dressed in a long white robe, finely woven and elegant, the fabric flowing around her slender frame. A purple shawl was wrapped about her neck, adding a faint touch of color against the pale winter landscape. But it was hardly enough. When she had set out from Dorne, the heat there had still been oppressive, the air stifling and dry. Now, in the Riverlands, the world was transformed into a realm of whirling snow and biting cold.
The wind tore at her thin garments, and Daenerys shivered visibly, her lips pressed tight against the chill as her violet eyes lifted to him.
Clay smiled faintly. Without a word, he unfastened the thick fur cloak from his own shoulders and draped it over her. The warmth of the thick pelt wrapped her small figure almost completely.
He reached out with a playful hand, brushing against her distinctive eyebrows, a habit of his whenever he felt the urge to tease her.
"True dragons may not fear fire," he said with a mischievous smile, "but it seems true dragons are still very much afraid of the cold."
Daenerys shot him a glare, her violet eyes flashing. It was hardly her fault she was underdressed. Who could have guessed that the northern lands would be this bitter, bone-deep cold? And this was not even past the Neck yet.
She could hardly imagine what awaited further north. If the southern Riverlands were already frozen to such a degree, then what of the territories beyond the Neck? Wouldn't the whole of the North be buried under endless ice?
Clay stopped teasing her further. Instead, he slipped an arm around her waist with practiced ease, pulling her close. His hand gave a casual squeeze, as though testing the feel.
Hmm…
So the food in Dorne must have been plentiful indeed. Her waist had a softer curve now, a little more fullness than before. Compared to his earlier care, his "raising" of her had clearly been rather lacking.
His other hand stroked thoughtfully at his chin, as though lost in evaluation.
Daenerys was not the sort of woman to blush merely because Clay pinched her twice. They had been through far more heated moments than this, after all. Still, her instincts told her that this infuriating man was definitely mocking her in his thoughts again.
Her violet eyes narrowed like sharpened blades, and she glared at him fiercely. Then, without a word, she deliberately stomped down on his foot.
Clay only grinned wider. After spending so much time fighting alongside rough, sweat-soaked men, he had finally come face to face with his own woman again. Naturally, a little mischief was bound to come spilling out.
But there would be plenty of time for that later. For now, business could not be ignored.
"Dany," he said, still keeping an arm around her as he guided her to a flatter slab of stone nearby. Sitting down beside her, he asked directly, "you came all this way to find me. Is there some urgent matter I need to know about?"
Daenerys decided she would deal with this infuriating man properly later. For the moment, she chose to let him off the hook.
She pushed aside the stray thoughts circling in her head and fixed her gaze on his face. Her expression grew serious as she gave a firm nod.
"Yes. Something has happened in the south."
She lifted one slender hand and pointed toward Gaelithox, who was sprawled on the ground nearby with one wing draped dramatically over its head, feigning ignorance. Her voice carried a note of helpless exhaustion as she said:
"Your great treasure here… I can no longer keep it under control. Once it grew bored of bullying Drogon, it left Dorne on its own."
Clay had no idea what kind of trouble Gaelithox had caused in the Reach. He could tell Daenerys was not finished, so he simply nodded for her to go on.
"Your Gaelithox flew all the way to Starpike," she continued, her tone a mixture of disbelief and frustration. "I can only assume it went there in its foolish way, looking for food from House Peake."
Clay fell silent, speechless for a long moment. He did not need her to say more. He could already picture the rest in his mind.
The Peakes, faced with a dragon of Gaelithox's size, would have been terrified out of their wits. If they managed not to soil themselves on the spot, it would have been nothing short of remarkable.
And then Clay remembered. The moment not long ago when he had sensed Gaelithox injured… so this was the cause.
He pressed a hand to his forehead, his expression darkening, and asked, "Don't tell me it unleashed a blast of dragonfire and burned House Peake together with Starpike Castle?"
Seeing his reaction, Daenerys could not help the smile that tugged at her lips. Truly, if there was anyone in this world who understood Gaelithox, it was Clay.
She shook her head slowly, spreading her hands with a helpless gesture. "In any case, Starpike can no longer be called a castle. I flew there myself on Drogon. What remains is nothing more than one giant, charred heap of rubble."
"As for whether House Peake perished along with it… that I cannot say. I had no way of flying all the way to Highgarden to ask."
At that, Clay finally understood why Daenerys had come seeking him.
Because of Gaelithox's little escapade, the entire Reach was now certain to be in an uproar.
After witnessing the ruin of Starpike, every lord and smallfolk of that fertile land would be stricken with terror, suffering from what could only be described as dragon-induced trauma.
They would spend their days in fear, flinching at every shadow that crossed the sky, dreading the moment when another dragon might descend and turn their homes into ash.
Which meant that the careful plan they had once entertained, to sit back and watch the stag fight the stag while remaining untouched and profiting from the struggle, had now collapsed beyond repair.
For all they knew, Renly Baratheon might already have pulled back his armies.
The ripple of that alone would upend the whole balance of the war. Clay had been mired in battles without pause, while Daenerys had no way to openly contact him.
As it turned out, Gaelithox, that unruly child, had blundered its way north, and Daenerys had mounted Drogon to follow close behind.
Clay rubbed at his temples, his brows tight with fatigue, and let out a long sigh:
"What a mess."
He turned to her and asked, "Dorne has already begun fortifying, hasn't it?"
"Mhm, preparations are underway," Daenerys replied. Then her lips curved with a faint edge of pride. "Although… some Dornish lords are rather hot-blooded. They wanted to strike at the Stormlands and the Reach while both were still reeling, catch them completely unprepared."
"But that scheme never came to pass. I, along with Prince Doran, forced it down before it could take shape."
Her silver brows arched upward, a glimmer of satisfaction dancing in her violet eyes. She clearly thought well of the part she had played in quelling the unrest.
Yet when she looked at Clay again, she caught the strange look in his eyes.
It was a look she knew far too well. Every time she had done something foolish in her half-sleep, every time she had acted without thinking, Clay would give her that very same look.
The look a man gave when watching a silly girl trip over her own feet.
Her beautiful eyebrows shot higher, indignant now. Was she wrong, then? Had she not handled things properly?
Clay seemed to sense the storm gathering in her chest. He sighed, reaching out to run his fingers gently through her smooth, silver hair, his tone helpless but tender.
"Ah, tell me then. Use that clever head of yours. Who do you think is the strongest faction in Dorne pushing for war?"
The question caught Daenerys completely off guard. The young queen froze for a heartbeat, her lips pressing together in hesitation before she finally spoke in a soft voice.
"The Martells."
"Not too bad," Clay remarked at last, the corner of his mouth lifting with the faintest trace of humor. "At least you are not entirely hopeless."
He wore the expression of a man indulging a child who had just managed to stumble upon the right answer, and then he went on with calm explanation.
"So when you tell me that you and Prince Doran together silenced the war hawks in Dorne, Daenerys… now think again. Was that really the case?"
Her brows, which had been lifted high with pride only moments ago, crashed back down and knit together in a hard frown.
She suddenly saw where her thinking had gone wrong.
All this time, in the back of her mind, she had counted the Martells as her own allies. They had cooperated with her so readily, supported her so smoothly, that she had simply, unconsciously, put them on her side of the board.
But with Clay's quiet reminder, the truth revealed itself, sharp as a knife edge.
"So what you mean," she said slowly, each word sinking heavier than the last, "is that this so-called war faction… was actually Prince Doran himself, pulling the strings from behind the curtain?"
Clay inclined his head and said, "Exactly. What you thought of as the two of you suppressing the cries for war was nothing more than Doran Martell testing you, gauging you. A quiet trial."
He let his voice drop, the corners of his mouth quirking in a trace of regret. "Unfortunately, little Targaryen, you didn't perform all that well."
His eyes flicked to her face, catching the faint flush of anger and the tremor of wounded pride tightening her lips. She looked ready to argue, yet beneath it he saw the trace of hurt, like a girl scolded unjustly.
So Clay softened, his tone turning reassuring, his hand brushing once more against her hair. "But it doesn't matter. They cannot achieve their vengeance without us. This trial of his costs nothing, because I am still here."
"If you've let them believe your mind is not as sharp as theirs, then show them instead the power you do hold… the strength that only you command. The end result is the same."
Having said his piece, Clay rose to his feet. He took her hand and gently drew her up with him, his voice shifting as he changed the subject.
"Enough of these things for now. We'll speak more when there's time."
"Right now, I need to ask you something."
His gaze locked on hers, his eyes deep and steady, his voice carrying the weight of command.
"You saw it yourself… the battlefield before Harrenhal. Tywin Lannister, the Riverlands host, and within the castle, the lords of the North. Tell me, what do you plan to do with them?"
"For me, it makes no difference. I could burn every last one of them to ash here and now. If you wish to spare some, that is fine as well. The choice rests with you."
"I am a Manderly by blood. I hold no personal hatred for any of them. Because of that, I don't intend to decide who among them deserves life or death."
"So now it falls to you, Daenerys Targaryen."
This was something Clay had already decided long before.
From a purely military standpoint, two dragons facing three armies unprepared for such a fight could only end one way. If Clay wished, if he gave the order, then apart from his own men, almost none of the thirty thousand gathered there would leave that field alive.
But from the standpoint of rule, that path might not be wise.
For those forces, those banners, represented more than just soldiers. They carried with them the weight of the North, the West, and the Riverlands, the old order rooted deep in Westeros. To sweep it away in fire was simple. But once that foundation had been destroyed, how did one rebuild? What kind of order would rise from the ashes? That was an entirely different problem.
Clay waited a long while, watching her wrestle with the choice. At last, Daenerys spoke.
"The rest, I can ignore for now. But the Lannisters… the Lannisters must pay a price."
Clay nodded, as though he had been expecting nothing else.
His eyes drifted upward, to the swirling gray sky above, and his voice dropped to a quiet murmur.
"Then burn them!"
————————————————————
Tywin Lannister was already fleeing.
Yet his heart seethed with unwillingness.
Why now? Why did that cursed Targaryen girl have to appear at this exact moment?
He had not tried to withdraw his full host of Westerlands soldiers with him. That would have been madness, a lumbering army dragging itself across the land, presenting the perfect target for the dragon's fire.
Even so, the old lion was far from ready to concede defeat. As he rode, he gathered to his side the most powerful and prominent nobles of the Westerlands, men whose names and bloodlines still carried weight and command. With these lords following him back to Casterly Rock, the foundations of Westerland rule would, for the moment, remain unshaken. The pillars of his power would not crumble in a single night.
And if that base of strength could endure, then in theory there still remained a chance to turn the tables.
As for the ten thousand soldiers of the Westerlands left behind upon the field, Tywin's heart bled at the thought of abandoning them, yet he knew he had no other choice.
Even the fate of his own daughter and grandson, whether they might live or perish, was no longer something he could promise to secure.
All he could do now was leave it to the gods.
He had only just slipped away from the battlefield, not long gone at all.
Then, with terrifying suddenness, the dragon that had vanished from sight returned. Its roar shook the sky, a sound that froze every soul in place and made no one dare move a finger.
Before such a creature, born out of myth and nightmare, men could only feel the truth of their own smallness.
All eyes locked onto the great beast, watching the sweep of its massive wings. And then, behind the blue-and-gold scaled monster, another shadow fell across the sky. A second dragon, black and crimson, descended into view.
Another one!
The sight shattered Tywin Lannister's last scrap of hope.
He had not seen Clay climb onto the dragon's back with his own eyes, but faced with two of them at once, he felt his will to resist drain away entirely. His spirit could not rise to meet such a foe.
His face grew ashen, his proud features dulled into something almost gray, and beneath the brooding sky he looked suddenly older, worn and fragile in a way he had never allowed before.
Already, Tywin Lannister's thoughts had turned inward, not to the battle, but to the future of his house.
And then, all of a sudden, his emerald-green eyes caught the reflection of two blazing streams of fire racing across the air.
It seemed to him that even across such distance, he could hear the command carried on the wind, a voice sharp and unyielding from the rider on the dragon's back.
She spoke. Or perhaps it was the man beside her.
"Dracarys!"
The dragon's jaws split wide, magic surging like a rising tide, and from within poured a torrent of fire fierce enough to consume every living thing in its path.
Gaelithox's fire burned heavier than Drogon's, each breath pressing down upon the world like molten stone.
It was said in legend that once a dragon reached its full maturity, its flame no longer shone gold or red but turned black as the void of night. That fire was hot enough to melt solid rock itself. Balerion the Black Dread had done precisely that, leaving scars upon the world that endured even centuries later.
It was Balerion's black flame that melted the once-unconquerable walls of Harrenhal, a fortress built to withstand any mortal army.
Aegon the Conqueror, first of his name, used dragonfire and rivers of molten stone to forge a tomb for the cruel Harren the Black, entombing him alive in his towering halls.
Three centuries of storms and rain had passed since then, yet even now the ashes of Harren and his sons remained sealed high in the charred Kingspyre Tower.
The so-called "curse of Harrenhal" was less a curse than a memory, an eternal scar carved into the land itself, a grim reminder of the ruin that dragonfire could unleash.
Daenerys had chosen the path of destruction for House Lannister, and so Clay carried out her will.
In Westeros, highborn or low, nobles were all the same beneath their silks and armor. At their core, they were cheap and stubborn things. No one should expect them to bend their knees merely because a dragon circled above their heads.
If fire and blood had to be demonstrated, if someone had to taste the true weight of House Targaryen and House Manderly's wrath, then let it begin with this host of Westerland soldiers.
The dragonfire struck the ground, and every soul it touched was undone in an instant. The water in their bodies boiled away in less than a heartbeat, steam tearing through veins and organs.
Every combustible part of them ignited at once.
What remained afterward was nothing but a carbonized husk, fragile silhouettes barely recognizable as human.
There was no agony in their deaths. The fire was too swift, too absolute. Before their minds could register the torment of burning, life had already fled their bodies.
In that sense, it was a kind of mercy. But it was only that… nothing more.
The soldiers of the Westerlands were easy prey. Their red-and-gold armor, bright as coin, gleamed like beacons against the earth, visible from the heights of the sky.
Clay and Daenerys only needed to find where the crimson clusters gathered most densely, guide Gaelithox and Drogon into a steep dive, and loose the storm of dragonfire. In moments, whole swathes of soldiers were reduced to drifting ash.
It was almost like taking a grubby sheet of paper, so smeared with filth it was unreadable, and rubbing it again and again with an eraser, each stroke removing the parts he no longer wished to see.
Every pass of the dragons swept clean an entire row of Westerland soldiers. Some were reduced to ash on the spot, leaving nothing but blackened outlines on the scorched earth. Others, caught at the edge of the blast, flailed and writhed, only to be swallowed whole by the flames that coiled around their bodies and burned them to cinders.
Dragonfire was born of magic. It was no ordinary flame, and it did not sputter out at the first touch of water. It clung and devoured, burning until nothing at all remained.
As the two giant dragons fell upon them in their frenzy, the western soldiers below could not simply sit still and wait for death.
Loyalty, honor, the banners they marched beneath… none of it mattered anymore. Survival was the only thing worth clinging to.
And so, in the span of a few heartbeats, the once-proud ranks of the Westerland host dissolved into chaos.
Every man knew his best chance was to scatter. To huddle together in a mass was only to paint a larger target for the two beasts roaring overhead, circling like gods of fire and wrath.
The men of the Riverlands, who just moments ago had been locked in brutal combat with the Westerlanders, broke away at once, pulling back as fast as they could.
They seemed to understand now that the dragons' fury was falling solely upon the unlucky men of the West.
Some Riverland soldiers had the urge to cut down the fleeing enemy, to strike at them while they were broken and helpless, but the fear of dragonfire stayed their hands. None dared risk being caught in the inferno. So they fell back, retreating to a safer distance, leaving the Westerlanders to their fate.
A few of the Western soldiers began to notice something else: the dragons, for the moment at least, were not turning their fire on the timid men of the Riverlands.
That primal instinct to survive overwhelmed every shred of pride left in them. Dropping their weapons, lifting their hands high in surrender, they tried to push into the enemy ranks, desperate to lose themselves among their foes in order to live another day.
But no matter how they begged, no matter how they cast away their swords and raised empty hands to show they meant no harm, the only answer they received was cruel laughter. Riverland archers jeered at them, loosing arrows to drive them back toward the fire.
Better to watch their hated foes consumed by dragons than allow them to slip away. The satisfaction of seeing Westerlanders burned alive outweighed even the terror of standing so near to the dragons themselves.
More and more lords of the Riverlands were drawing back as well, gathering toward Edmure Tully's position, the very place where Clay had once held command at the center.
They came anxious and uncertain, desperate for guidance, eager to know what was to be done next. All of them sought the word of their commander, Clay.
Yet when they arrived, Edmure Tully spoke to them plainly:
Their supreme commander was none other than the rider of that blue-and-gold dragon.
In other words, Clay Manderly, the man who had been giving orders only moments before, was revealed as a dragonlord, one who had never before been seen, never named in record or song.
The first reaction of those who heard him was the same. They believed Edmure had gone mad with terror, that the sight of the dragons had shattered his wits and left him babbling nonsense.
But then they remembered how many men had seen it with their own eyes: Clay mounting the dragon, rising into the heavens with beating wings, commanding the beast as though born to it.
That memory gnawed at them until they had no choice but to accept this absurd, impossible truth.
And when they remembered how, only hours earlier, they had mocked Clay in private, cursing him behind his back and dismissing him with smug disdain, those memories suddenly returned to haunt them. Their faces turned pale as death. Cheeks that had once been flushed with wine and arrogance drained of all color, leaving them as white as the snow drifting down from the sky.
They could not make sense of it. A dragonlord, born of the Manderlys? That old northern house, obedient and unassuming for centuries, whose loyalty to Winterfell was known to all?
It should not be. It could not be.
Only Targaryens could ride dragons! Every noble of the Riverlands was certain of this.
But then came the question that none of them could untangle, no matter how hard they racked their brains.
Clay did not have the silver hair and purple eyes of the Valyrians. He bore no resemblance to Viserys, nor could he be Rhaegar Targaryen, whose skull Robert Baratheon had crushed with a hammer at the Trident.
Their thoughts were in turmoil, a hopeless tangle of disbelief and dread.
At last they began to understand why Clay Manderly, a man without title, a younger son who had not even inherited his lordship, could hold them all so firmly in his grasp.
The answer was simple, and it was terrifying.
What stood beside them was not merely a man, but a dragon disguised in human skin, biding its time among them, ready to devour them whenever it pleased.
Gods above. What in the world was happening?
————————————————————
The slaughter of Clay and Daenerys did not cease, though Clay himself never intended to kill every last Westerland soldier.
It would waste time, and it was unnecessary.
What he wanted was for the men of the West to understand what it meant when fire and blood shared the same root. Part of the reason was Daenerys. With her presence here, he could no longer afford to show leniency so casually, even if between them he was the one who held the greater authority.
But more than that, Clay had built for himself a stage, vast and undeniable, and now he intended to use it. He meant for the nobles of the Riverlands, the North, and even the West, unwilling witnesses who had been forced into the role of spectators, to watch and to remember.
This was the great drama of the dragonlord's return.
Just as in the days of the Field of Fire, war was nothing but the extension of politics. So long as he could force his enemies to bend the knee, his true purpose would be achieved.
Whether the Lannisters survived, whether they were wiped out to the last or left with only a few wretched stragglers… it did not concern him in the slightest.
Because the truth was simple: the Lannisters would, without question, be stripped of the dominion over the Westerlands that they had clutched for a thousand years. That crown of gold and crimson would be torn from them, and there was no force left in the realm that could prevent it.
Clay already carried within him a design for the political order of the Seven Kingdoms yet to come. And in that vision, there was no place for men like Tywin Lannister, men who could command one seventh of the realm's armies and hoard one seventh of its wealth, men whose sheer power allowed them to rival the crown itself. Such figures could never be permitted to rise again.
When a new dynasty rose, it was the best time to set things in order, to push through changes while the old was still smoldering and the new was not yet fixed.
Of course, that time had not yet come. Not today.
So once Clay had guided Gaelithox to scatter the main Westerland formations, he no longer pressed the dragon to tear apart the fleeing ranks. From above it seemed as though Gaelithox never ceased spewing fire, torrents of flame pouring from its jaws, but in truth the killing was already light, the destruction far less than it appeared.
It was Daenerys, not Clay, who became the reaper. Under her command, Drogon was no longer just a dragon but a black-and-red god of death, sweeping low over the field, burning men alive with every beat of his wings.
Clay did not stop her. Why would he? The enmity between Targaryen and Lannister ran deeper than the soil beneath their feet. When Tywin Lannister chose to betray her father, he should have known this day would one day come.
The Lannisters had debts to pay!
Debts of blood!
And when debts are left to rot for years, when interest piles higher with every passing season, sooner or later the creditor arrives to collect. That day had come.
It was just. And so Clay did not interfere.
Every throne in history was built atop bones, heaps upon heaps of nameless dead. That was the way of power, and there was no changing it.
Countless lives had already ended by Clay Manderly's hand, whether directly or through the weight of his decisions. He felt no mercy now for the soldiers of the Westerlands, no pity for the men being burned alive.
And he did not, for a moment, believe that Tywin Lannister was foolish enough to be standing here among them. The old lion would never wait idly in the ranks for Gaelithox or Drogon to descend upon him.
No. By now, the old lion had surely slipped away to safety. The only question was what he thought, now that he had seen this with his own eyes.
After all, Clay still held Joffrey Baratheon in his hands. He still had Queen Mother Cersei Lannister under his watch.
Tommen and Myrcella had been spirited away long ago, Jaime Lannister having carried them to Casterly Rock before the ambush struck. The knight, Christen had not managed to seize them.
As for Tywin himself, there was no possibility, none at all, that he could ever bend to the rule of Clay and Daenerys. Not in this new dynasty that was already taking shape.
What fate awaited him… that was a matter for another day.
But one thing was certain.
So long as dragons lived, their shadows would one day fall over Casterly Rock.
And that day would not be far off.
Clay thought of this as he split his focus once more, guiding Gaelithox down to harry the last of the Westerland stragglers.
A little while longer, he told himself. Once the main host of the Westerlands had been scattered, once the battlefield was cleansed enough to make the lesson plain, he would move to stop Daenerys.
Violence was a powerful tool, one of the best ways to resolve conflict, but it could never be relied upon too heavily.
Gaelithox skimmed low, its vast wings whipping the smoke into rolling gales and stirring the battlefield into a storm of ash and cinders.
It was then that Clay caught the scent, sharp and unmistakable, the acrid stench of charred flesh.
He knew exactly what it was.
…
[NOTE]
You're probably wondering why I haven't uploaded any chapters this week. I had college exams going on, so I couldn't post anything, but they finished today, and now I'm back on track.
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