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The snow had stopped, and with it, the killing had come to an end.
A heavy shroud of smoke hung over the wasteland outside Harrenhal's northern gate, spreading far and wide, refusing to disperse.
The thick layer of snow that had once blanketed the ground had melted away completely, turned into streams of dirty water that ran unchecked across the torn earth.
From above, if one were to look down upon the battlefield, every long, charred scar etched across the land marked the place where a dragon's fury had descended, fire raining from the heavens with merciless wrath.
The vast plains of the Riverlands had been burned into a patchwork of wounds, blackened and broken.
At last, Clay managed to restrain Daenerys, whose eyes had grown blood-red with rage.
Gaelithox flicked his massive tail, giving Drogon a light lash that made the beast halt its flight in mid-air.
Far away, Daenerys lifted her gaze and saw Clay astride his dragon, watching her from a distance. He gave the faintest shake of his head, a silent plea for her to stop.
She bit down hard, teeth grinding together, then exhaled heavily. With a helpless sigh, she forced herself to rein Drogon in, guiding him down to land outside Harrenhal's northern gate.
Clay descended soon after.
He had no concern for his own safety, nor for hers. With the two dragons crouched protectively beside them, who among the living would dare approach?
Dragons might not crave human flesh, but that never meant they could not devour it if they wished.
Sliding down from his dragon's back, Clay walked over to where Daenerys stood, her eyes fixed upon the battlefield, the dense smoke rolling and roiling before her.
He said nothing. After all, this vengeance was never his to claim.
The two of them simply stood there in silence, shoulder to shoulder, their eyes fixed on the land that still smoldered before them. Only after a long while did Daenerys turn her head. A fragile smile tugged at her delicate face, though it seemed to pain her just to wear it.
"Clay," she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper, "I have avenged my father. I have avenged my house."
Clay gave a small nod.
"I didn't stop you," he said evenly, "but I need to remind you of something. Do you truly hate these people? Before today, you had never even seen them with your own eyes."
He reached out and gently brushed her cheek, his tone calm, steady, without judgment. "I'm not here to tell you whether what you did was right or wrong. That choice is yours alone to make."
"I only want you to understand this. Every ounce of your hatred comes not from what you yourself have witnessed, but from what others have told you."
"Those who followed you across Essos told you. Your brother told you. They reminded you again and again that you are a Targaryen, and that it is your duty to avenge your family."
"Daenerys, I think… rather than hatred, what you're carrying is something else entirely. It is responsibility. The weight of your name."
A faint smile touched Clay's lips. Lifting his hand, he lightly brushed a strand of hair away from her brow.
"I want you to live for yourself, not for the demands of the dead who left you with nothing but their expectations."
"Do you understand what I'm saying?"
Then he pulled her gently into his arms. His hand moved slowly across her back, and he could feel the faint tremor running through the young queen's body.
He understood all too well the weight of the burden pressing upon her heart.
And yet, there was nothing more he could do.
As he had said before, this was not his hatred to bear… nor was it his burden of duty.
From within his embrace, he heard the faint, almost inaudible sound of Daenerys sobbing. Clay sighed quietly in his heart, and chose not to speak another word.
This shift in her way of thinking was something only she herself could achieve. No one else could force it upon her.
In his memory, the Dragon Mother who was driven at last into madness was, at her core, a woman trapped within the past, unable to break free from it.
Everyone around her had always told her who she ought to hate, and they had told her why, but not one of them had ever stopped to wonder whether she herself truly felt that way.
And over time, with voices whispering and hammering the same refrain into her, she had been made to believe it. She had hypnotized herself into thinking it was the truth.
Burn them all, she was told. Burn every soul who does not acknowledge you, for your ancestors did the same.
This, they said, was the birthright of House Targaryen.
And in a sense, it was true. But truth, when twisted too far, becomes extremity.
By the time Daenerys came to Westeros, every person she met sought to carve away a piece of her value, as if she were nothing more than a weapon to be wielded.
Jon Snow wished to use her fire to sweep away the White Walkers, to secure the Stark dominion over the North.
Dorne and Highgarden looked to her strength to topple the Lannisters and claim their vengeance.
And as for Tyrion Lannister, her so-called Hand of the Queen, who could truly say how much of his counsel was for her sake, and how much was guided by his own designs?
The truth was plain. The young queen stood utterly alone, with no one she could truly trust.
The only soul with whom she had ever shared her heart, her gentle handmaiden Missandei, had been murdered at last by Cersei Lannister's cruelty.
With so many wounds and betrayals piled upon her, how could she not fall into madness? Who would not, in her place?
It was said that when a Targaryen was born, the gods flip a coin.
One side for greatness, the other for madness.
This, the nobles of Westeros had always repeated with solemn certainty.
Clay's judgment was simple.
"Nonsense!"
He believed that fate lay in human choice. Madness or greatness, these were words that mattered only to the nobles and their self-interest.
Lead in such a way that everyone flourishes, and they call you great. Such as King Viserys the First.
In the mouths of the nobles, he was praised as a great ruler.
And yet, they conveniently forgot that it was his foolish politics that planted the very seed of the Dance of the Dragons, the brutal civil war that left House Targaryen broken beyond repair.
So this saying was nothing more than a falsehood, a convenient tale. No one is doomed to be mad forever, nor destined to be great forever.
It was nothing but the nobility twisting words and weaving stories to serve their own advantage.
Clay did not demand so much of Daenerys. For him, it was enough if she stayed true to herself.
As for everything else… Clay Manderly would shoulder that burden himself.
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Beyond the walls of Harrenhal, the two dragons crouched like dark mountains, their sheer presence radiating such menace that the northern lords who had survived the slaughter dared not set foot outside.
Yet neither could they remain where they were, for they had no choice.
Just moments ago, among the guards carrying the wounded King Robb Stark, someone had made a grim discovery.
Their king, His Grace Robb Stark the First, had quietly slipped away from the world at the very moment the dragons appeared.
His soul, no doubt, had already gone to join the gods.
But the body he left behind remained in the mortal realm, and it had to be dealt with.
There was no question of burying him in some foreign land beyond the North. On this, every northern lord was united. Their king must rest in the soil of his homeland.
The attack of the dragons had given them a strange reprieve. The Lannister soldiers who had been pressing them so hard scattered in panic, fleeing like startled birds and beasts.
It had taken every ounce of their strength, with the cost of many lives, but at last they had managed to capture the one who had once hunted them without mercy, the Mountain, now trapped and cornered in the tower.
For the moment, the threat of the Lannisters had been broken. But in its place, another far greater terror now loomed before them… the threat of the dragons.
When the northern lords looked out upon the devastation beyond the walls, the charred plains and the smoldering ruins left by fire, their throats went dry.
Against such violence, they truly had no recourse.
This was power far beyond anything mortal men could contend with. To the people of the North, it was a force they could neither match nor resist.
"What are we to do, my lords? Do we dare go out now?"
They had no time to grieve for the king who had just breathed his last. A far more pressing question lay before them, immediate and impossible to ignore.
Two dragons crouched outside Harrenhal's northern gate.
None of them dared to walk out to meet them.
"I think we can," someone ventured at last. "The armies of the Riverlands weren't attacked by the dragons."
"If they left the Riverlanders unharmed, then there's no reason they should turn their fire on us."
It was Theon Greyjoy who spoke.
Jon Umber let out a long sigh. He did not argue. He was simply tired of being trapped in this cursed place called Harrenhal.
He had thought that once the Westerlanders pulled back, he would finally be free to leave. Yet here he was, still penned in, still unable to set foot beyond the walls.
Why in the seven hells was it so hard to get out of Harrenhal?
And he knew perfectly well that hiding was useless. With dragons circling high above, there was no doubt they could see every last one of them cowering inside.
The last time Harrenhal had been reduced to rubble beneath dragonfire, House Hoare had been wiped out in a single stroke.
If the place was scoured by fire once more, then all of them would end up as grave goods, buried alongside Robb Stark.
No one was foolish enough to believe otherwise. So in the end, there was nothing for it but to grit their teeth and walk out.
At worst, they could bend the knee, if only for the moment, to the two riders upon dragonback.
After all, Torren Stark himself had once done the same in ages past.
If he could kneel, then so could they. There was no shame in it.
That was how they persuaded themselves.
————————————————————
Clay finished soothing Daenerys, then told her of the next step in his plan, "Let's go and meet the poor souls still hiding in this castle. We should see how many are left alive."
"You mean Robb Stark, the one who dared to crown himself king?"
Daenerys had drawn her emotions back under control. Her brows knit as she turned to Clay with the question.
Clay gave a small nod and explained his reasoning:
"Robb Stark's name may already stink to high heaven, and the Riverlands may have long since turned their backs on him. But in name, at least, he is still the ruler of the Trident and the North, whether you recognize it or not."
"So, as long as we deal with him, the rest won't pose any real problem."
"Otherwise…"
A thin, cold smile curved across Clay's face, "I don't mind killing a few more to make the point."
"And besides, the ten thousand reinforcements of my House Manderly should already be marching right onto their backsides by now."
"Thinking of running? Not a chance."
Even as he spoke, Daenerys, who was facing the castle gate, caught sight of something. She tapped Clay lightly, then broke into a smile.
"Enough of the posturing. Look… people are already filing out of Harrenhal."
Clay rubbed at his nose, pretending the bold words a moment ago hadn't come from him at all.
He turned his head toward the broken gates, watching the figures emerge from within, his mind already working through the possibilities.
He was weighing what to do about Robb Stark, for after all, the man had once been his king in name.
By the cold logic of rule, the simplest thing would be to strip him of his crown outright and keep him under tight control.
But Clay had no desire to take that step… not yet.
What he wanted most was for Robb Stark to kneel of his own accord.
As that thought lingered, the group emerging from Harrenhal's northern gate was already drawing closer to where he stood.
On the left and right, Gaelithox and Drogon stretched out their massive heads, jaws slightly parted. From between their teeth, faint glimmers of fire flickered in and out, like the breath of some half-slumbering furnace.
Their riders had given no command, so the dragons made no move to strike. Yet even in silence, the two beasts carried out their duty as guardians with absolute vigilance.
So long as these people behaved, there would be no cause for trouble.
But if they so much as twitched the wrong way, the dragons would make them understand, vividly, why flowers bloom so red.
Trembling, they passed through the narrow space left open between the two colossal bodies.
At the very front, serving as their spokesman, though in truth only sent to sound things out, was Theon Greyjoy. He stepped forward with painful caution, edging closer to where Clay and Daenerys waited.
All the while, he could not shake the nagging sense that the man standing beside the silver-haired woman looked strangely familiar.
The distance made it hard to be sure, his vision wavering with doubt.
But the moment he drew close enough to see that face clearly, his feet froze in place as if shackled to the ground.
He could hardly believe his own eyes.
That… that was Clay Manderly, wasn't it?
How could that possibly be?
Was it a coincidence? Or was he simply seeing wrong?
Clay caught the look on his face and instantly knew what thoughts were running through his head.
He cut through Theon's spiraling disbelief with a calm, unyielding voice.
"Theon Greyjoy. It is me, Clay Manderly. Speak your purpose, and stop wasting time."
The heir of the Iron Islands felt his pupils contract sharply.
"You… you… this… the dragons, they're… yours…"
His words tumbled out in broken fragments, shaken to the core. Two dragons, two dragonriders. And aside from them, there was no one else here at all.
He forced down the silence that choked him and at last blurted out, almost screaming, "You're not a Manderly! You're a Targaryen!"
Clay's brows knit together in irritation. The way people always bound dragons so closely to House Targaryen was something he found utterly maddening.
However, three centuries of rule had sunk too deep into the bones of Westeros. That kind of association was not something that could be undone in a day.
Clay chose not to answer, but Daenerys was already bristling with displeasure.
The moment Clay had said this man's name, Daenerys had taken him for what he was: an ironborn. After all, the name Greyjoy in the Iron Islands carried as much weight as Stark did in the North.
So when she heard Theon Greyjoy daring to question Clay's identity, she flared with anger at once.
Who her man was needed no validation from some pirate.
"He is Clay Manderly, ironborn! Answer his question! Otherwise, you'll share the fate of those Westerlanders we burned not long ago!"
On the continent of Westeros, the noble houses all held one another in contempt. Northerners sneered at southerners as soft and weak, while southerners mocked northerners as crude savages. Yet beneath all the scorn, they still considered themselves of one kind.
But the Ironborn… the Ironborn were something else entirely. They were the one people whom every noble house could despise without hesitation.
The rest of the realm prided themselves on being civilized. Wars aside, they lived by law and oath, not constant raiding. But the ironborn, forever boasting of their so-called Old Way, lived by theft and blood, little more than raiders masquerading as lords.
Daenerys, raised with the same lessons as any other highborn, had inherited that instinctive disdain for them.
And the moment the words left her mouth, Drogon swung his great head around with impeccable timing, loosing a deep, resonant growl from his chest.
The meaning behind that sound could not have been clearer.
Theon Greyjoy flinched and stepped back two paces before he even realized it, his eyes locked on the dragon's black-scaled bulk, watching every twitch of its nostrils, every flicker of heat in its throat.
He swallowed hard. He knew Clay's temper. He had learned that the very first time they crossed paths in the Wolfswood, when he had nearly died at Clay's hands.
Now, if this man truly was a dragonlord, then… what chance did he, Theon Greyjoy, have of walking away alive?
But Theon had always thought of himself as a bold man. And a bold man, he told himself, does not throw his life away over foolish pride.
Better to bend, better to answer truthfully. Survival mattered more than dignity.
So he forced himself to speak, pushing past the dryness in his throat.
"Clay… I came here… I only wished to see you, to see the two of you with my own eyes."
"There are many northern lords inside the fortress. You know it as well as I do."
"They…" Theon stumbled awkwardly over the words, but before he could finish, Clay cut him off.
"They want to ask me, the dragonlord, whether I'll grant them safe passage, is that it?"
Clay's gaze rested on him, calm but sharp, with a faint curve to his lips that was not quite a smile. In the depth of those steady eyes there was a pull, a weight that made Theon feel as though he might tumble into them and never climb back out.
"Yes… that's right," Theon admitted at last, biting down hard before forcing the words through clenched teeth. "Lord Jon Umber, and the other northern lords… you know the ones. They all think the same."
Clay's eyes narrowed slightly. He had caught the discordant note buried beneath Theon's answer.
His brow lifted, and he voiced the thought that rose in his mind.
"Jon Umber? Since when have you all been taking orders from Last Hearth? Has Robb Stark stopped giving commands altogether?"
Clay was northern himself. He remembered clearly how the order of power had stood the last time he saw those men gathered.
Robb Stark had been the leader, standing firmly at the head. Clay had come second, his own strength undeniable. Roose Bolton held the third place, cold and calculating as ever. After him came Rickard Karstark of Karhold, grim and stern, and only then, perhaps, would a Jon Umber's voice carry weight.
"Clay… His Grace…"
At that word "His Grace," Daenerys's brows twitched almost of their own accord. Women often kept score in places men might overlook, and she was no exception. To hear another man addressed with a title she reserved for herself and her husband cut against her instincts. The very sound of it roused a spike of distaste deep in her chest.
She opened her mouth, ready to interject, but caught sight of Clay giving a small shake of his head. So she bit the words back and forced her dissatisfaction down, though it simmered still.
"King Robb… just now, he has gone to meet the gods."
Theon Greyjoy finally forced the sentence out, as though dragging a millstone across his tongue. Once the words left him, his whole frame sagged, as if relieved of some crushing weight.
Daenerys's first reaction was a fleeting smile, a quick flash of satisfaction that lit her face. But just as swiftly, she remembered. Back in Essos, Clay had mentioned to her that he and this heir of Eddard Stark had, in their way, gotten along very well.
So she smoothed her expression at once. There was no need to paint grief across her face.
First, because as far as she understood, Clay's bond with Robb Stark had never run deep enough to demand mourning.
Second, because she knew better than most that her husband's eyes could strip the truth from a soul. He would see through any performance she put on, and he did not need her to act for his sake.
Clay held his silence for a long while. In his mind he ran through plan after plan, sketch after sketch, imagining how he would have dealt with Robb Stark, the young wolf, the King in the North, a man with whom he shared some measure of kinship.
Kill him, or let him live; Clay had weighed both paths, considered each consequence.
What he had never once imagined was that Robb Stark would die before any reckoning between them could take place.
Fate, as ever, delighted in its cruel turns.
"Tell me," Clay said at last, his voice low and heavy, "how exactly did this happen?"
His tone carried no grief, just as Daenerys had guessed. A man who stepped onto the battlefield always carried that price on his shoulders. Sooner or later, the day would come.
Those who lived by the sword always met the sword in the end. It had always been that way, and always would be.
Yet he still wanted to hear the tale, to know how it had unfolded. Robb Stark had fallen as a king, and that alone meant Clay no longer needed to strip him of his crown.
The honor due the dead could stay with him!
Clay listened quietly as Theon Greyjoy stumbled through his account. He sifted through the words, discarding what was muddied with fear or colored by the man's own emotions. When all was laid bare, when the story reached its end, Clay could only let out a long sigh at the fall of this king.
But perhaps it was for the best. Death was clean.
Clay had no desire to spend his strength wrangling with lords, no patience for the kind of endless negotiations that only left him irritated. With Robb Stark gone and Jon Umber standing as a makeshift leader, the North was already splintered into loose sand slipping through fingers.
That, in truth, saved him some effort.
"Enough. I understand. As for you and the others, know this: my wife, Daenerys Targaryen, has every reason to burn all of you alive within these walls of Harrenhal. You betrayed her family once, and by all rights the fire of vengeance could claim you here and now."
"But that is not what I intend to do. Do not mistake me… I am not moved by old ties, nor am I sparing you for sentiment. I simply refuse to see the North collapse completely into ruin."
"You can carry my words back with you. Three hundred years ago, here in these very riverlands, Torrhen Stark bent the knee to a Dragonlord. Today, I ask you to do the same."
"I know it will not sit well. For lords who once stood equal to House Manderly, bending the knee to them now must taste bitter."
"But that is not my concern."
"Kneel, or die. The choice is yours."
"Still, I am not without mercy. I will give you a way to save face."
Clay fixed Theon Greyjoy with a steady look, watching the storm of emotions flicker across his features. Then, without another word, he turned his gaze away, toward the ruins of Harrenhal looming behind him, all jagged stone and blackened walls.
"Give me Robb Stark's body. In the state you're in now, it would be near impossible to carry him whole back to Winterfell."
"I will take him myself. I will ride the dragon and return the King in the North to his hall."
"The crypts beneath Winterfell will be his resting place."
"This is my goodwill. Do not take it lightly."
Clay's words fell to an end.
Gaelithox, sensing the sourness in his rider's heart, lowered his massive head beside Clay. A blast of searing breath escaped his nostrils, rolling over Theon like a furnace. The heat melted the beads of ice caught in his hair, leaving droplets running down into his collar.
Theon opened his mouth as if to speak, but when his eyes met Clay's face, cold as ice and implacable as stone, the words died in his throat. He let out only a long, weary breath before turning away in silence and walking back the way he had come.
Clay had spoken. That was enough.
Whether he called himself Clay Manderly or whether he stood as one of the dragonlords mattered little now. Here, in this place, he had made his demand not as a man, but as a Dragon King.
And before a Dragon King, no one could ever be certain whether they would leave the shadow of the beast alive.
Theon Greyjoy carried Clay's message back with him.
Unsurprisingly, the reaction among the Northern lords was even sharper, even fiercer, than his own.
When he told them Clay Manderly was in truth one of the two dragonlords, every single one of them looked at him as though he had gone mad.
But the heir of the Iron Islands offered no defense, no explanation. Even he had not fully come to terms with what he had seen.
Once their first shock had ebbed and the room quieted, the Northern nobles began to turn over Clay's words in their minds.
It was the same as when Robb Stark had first changed his course: no one wanted to be the one to step forward first, to bear the weight of a decision that might doom them all.
Yet in truth, there was nothing left to hesitate over.
The blue-and-gold dragon, and the other black-and-red, had only just torn through Tywin Lannister's twenty thousand strong as though it were nothing.
Here, trapped inside Harrenhal with nowhere to run, what choice did they truly have?
A long time passed, long enough that Daenerys herself began to grow restless with waiting, before Jon Umber finally appeared. With him came a procession of Northern lords clad in silks and furs, their finery doing little to hide the heaviness in their steps.
One by one, they approached in silence, their eyes fixed on the man whose face they had known so well, the man who only months ago had shared laughter and talk with them in Winterfell's halls. Yet in their hearts, waves of shock and disbelief still surged, refusing to settle.
Clay Manderly truly was a Dragonlord.
But whatever words they might once have wished to speak, it was already too late. First, they had to survive what stood before them.
For even if Clay Manderly had not been there, Daenerys and Drogon alone would have been more than enough to turn every last one of them into ash scattered on the wind.
They came forward in a line, one after another, their expressions darker and heavier than the thick storm clouds hanging above.
Gaelithox, attuned to his rider's inner state, remained outwardly calm. He gave only the slightest movement, unfurling part of his vast wings to make his bulk seem even more threatening.
Drogon, bound to Daenerys's heart, was far less restrained. His long neck coiled like a serpent, that jagged, savage head lowering to sweep his gaze over the gathered nobles.
Every so often his jaws parted, not in a roar, but to spill out breaths of searing air, heat rolling from his mouth like molten magma.
He did not bellow, for Gaelithox, greater and stronger, had made no such display. And dragons, by their nature, obey the mightiest among them. Here, Drogon's rage was held in check only by Gaelithox's stillness.
"Enough," Clay said at last, his voice cutting through their silence. "You've looked long enough. Yes, it's me. Clay Manderly."
"I am the grandson of Wyman Manderly. The son of Wendel Manderly. And, as you've already guessed, I am also a Dragonlord."
"I owe you no explanation for how I came to ride a dragon. All you need to understand is that I can."
"And beside me stands someone you all have heard of… Daenerys Targaryen. Some of you may know her father's name more than her own, but that no longer matters."
"What matters is this. You will kneel to me, Clay Manderly, just as your forebears did three hundred years ago. You will bend the knee, and swear your loyalty."
"Otherwise, none of you will make it back north of the Neck. You know me well. You know what I do to those who stand against me. One by one, they are buried in the earth."
"Now," his voice hardened, each word falling heavy, "tell me your choice."
"Kneel, or die."
"And remember this… I do not have much patience."
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