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From the narrowest point of view, the act of bending one's knee is the simplest of gestures. A bend of the joint, a lowering of the body, and the deed is done.
One crouches this way, one sits down this way. It looks ordinary enough, no different from any other movement in daily life.
Yet, when the very same act is placed upon different people, at different moments in time, it becomes something else entirely, an image with an altogether different meaning and weight.
To bend the knee before Clay Manderly and surrender, whether or not it wounded one's pride, that was not the true concern. Nobles, after all, did not live or die by pride alone. Pride was not a requirement for survival.
What strikes at their hearts is something deeper. The moment they perform that act, under the laws and customs of Westeros as they now stand, much of what they own, much of what they can decide for themselves, will no longer be theirs to command.
This is why the Starks were long regarded as good rulers. They never pressed their vassals with harsh demands. They never crushed them with impossible burdens.
You prosper, I prosper. You suffer, I suffer. For thousands of years, all have shivered together beneath the northern winds, huddling for warmth, surviving side by side through bitter winters that seemed endless.
The North is vast, its land poor and sparse in wealth. So long as House Stark stands unshaken, no one is eager to draw steel against his neighbor for the sake of some small strip of frozen earth.
This is the political culture unique to the North, a fragile harmony born of shared hardship. Place it instead in the fertile and bountiful lands of the Reach, and such a way of life would be unthinkable.
The hesitation of the northern lords, then, comes down to one man alone: Clay Manderly.
There have been many meetings, many exchanges. The strength and decisiveness of the Manderly heir have left every one of them with a deep impression that will not fade.
The moment they kneel, the moment they perform that act of submission, Clay Manderly's immense reputation and the sheer force of arms behind him will make him unstoppable. Whatever he desires to do, he will have the means to carry it out.
And this, in truth, is something that runs against the very grain of tradition.
The system of knighthood and nobility was first brought into Westeros by the Andals, and over the course of thousands of years it has taken root and grown deep within this land.
Through endless struggles and contests between the highborn and the lowborn, through countless revisions, adjustments, and compromises handed down from age to age, the system has been shaped and refined. Now, in the present day, it has seeped so thoroughly into the lifeblood of the realm that it touches every man and woman who lives beneath its order.
The hierarchy of liege lords and vassals is, at its core, built on a balance of mutual interests.
Take Tywin Lannister for example.
He carried many titles, but before all else, he was the head of House Lannister.
It is from that role that all other relationships and obligations branch outward.
Because the Lannisters were the ruling family of the Westerlands, the lords of that land swore fealty to Tywin Lannister. To be precise, they swore their allegiance not to Tywin alone, but to House Lannister itself.
Yet this oath of fealty was always a weak and pliant bond, little more than a mutual agreement that both sides chose to honor.
For vassals did not, in any true sense, surrender their lands, their wealth, or their people into the hands of their liege.
In times of war, it is true, they were bound to send men to fight under their lord's banner.
But notice carefully: the responsibility lay with the vassal himself, who had to raise his own troops, equip them at his own expense, and then personally lead them to join the liege lord.
This gave the arrangement a strong personal stamp.
It was never the case that soldiers from Golden Tooth, once they marched to battle, suddenly became soldiers of House Lannister. They remained the men of their own lord, even while fighting under a greater banner.
And this fragile, loosely bound arrangement, held together only by duty, honor, and the weight of social expectation, was as brittle as thin glass. Anyone who has ever seen it shatter knows just how little it takes to break.
The clearest example can be found in Tywin's own father, Tytos Lannister, remembered with scorn as the "Laughing Lion."
Through nothing more than his weakness of character, the hard-won prestige of House Lannister collapsed within a single generation. Their vassals, emboldened by his softness, defied him openly, ignoring his summons and commands without the slightest fear of reprisal.
In the Westerlands, that decline might well have spelled the ruin of House Lannister. Had Tywin not succeeded his father and, with an iron hand, delivered the infamous lesson of the "Rains of Castamere," erasing House Reyne from the face of the earth, who can say what would have become of the land?
If he too had been a fool, one who cared only for comfort and idle pleasures, then within a few short years the whole of the Westerlands would surely have fallen into chaos.
For when the highest order collapses, without some outside force to step in, the only outcome is a savage free-for-all, where every lord scrambles to seize what he can.
Someone would have risen as a new lord, a king in the weeds, to replace the Lannisters and restore stability… but only after blood had soaked the land.
When Clay took the time to think carefully about the system that governed Westeros, this was what he saw.
And when he compared it to the history preserved in his own memory, the long line of absolute monarchies from another world, the difference became stark.
In those dynasties, even if the emperor never set foot in the villages and towns, the enduring strength, steadfast faith, and quiet devotion of the people beneath him were truly remarkable. The emperor could spend his life secluded within the gilded halls of his palace, absorbed in prayer, meditative contemplation, or the delicate labors of study and craft, and yet the workings of the realm would continue unceasingly, guided by the hands and hearts of the faithful.
Three worthless generations could pass in succession, and the state would still stand.
But Westeros? In Clay's eyes, the system before him was nothing but a sickly invalid, incurable and destined to collapse.
And even if he alone saw the truth with clear eyes, it did not mean he could cut through it all in one stroke. It was not a matter of simply seizing the Iron Throne one day and declaring himself king.
The weight of history, the inertia of centuries, made the cost of changing this rotten system impossibly high.
Clay had read many novels before. In those tales, the moment someone crossed into another world, they would sweep through the land with sword in hand, utter a few words, and as if by magic, an empire would rise at their feet.
He never believed such nonsense.
The simplest example was plain before him: take away all the nobles, strip away every lord in the traditional sense, and what would happen?
The poorest of peasants, those who had known nothing but oppression, would not rejoice in newfound freedom. They would be bewildered, left without bearings.
They would tremble in fear. Yes… fear that there was no longer anyone left to oppress them.
With the nobles gone, no one would stand to pass judgment in their disputes, no one to fill the void of power left behind.
To imagine that some "prefecture magistrates" from the world in Clay's memory, men with neither armies nor independent wealth, might step in to assume that role was impossible. First, there were far too few such men. Second, even if there had been more, they would never have had the means or strength to manage it.
Even if the peasants behaved with the meekness of lambs, a new problem would arise: where would so many capable, highly trained administrators come from?
And from there, the matter only grows more complicated.
An examination system would be needed, one that could truly test and select men of talent. The curriculum of those examinations would need to be unified, standardized across the realm. In the end, there must be a mechanism of selection, one that operates smoothly across every corner of the empire.
That, Clay thought, is the skeleton of an empire.
And to expect that he, alone, could construct such a framework in Westeros? That was beyond impossible.
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In the end, men like Jon Umber and the other nobles did bend the knee before Clay and Daenerys, swearing their oaths of fealty.
Their reluctance was plain for all to hear. Their voices carried no joy, no devotion, only the grudging tone of men forced by circumstance.
But as he had already reasoned, Clay did not care too much for such empty vows, which bound so lightly in practice. For him, it was enough to steady them for the moment.
Let them rest easy, let them believe that the fire and blood of House Manderly would not fall upon their heads… that was all that mattered.
Clay offered no extra gestures, no words to sweeten the moment. Daenerys, on the other hand, was visibly pleased.
She was a woman with a strong hunger for conquest. To see traitors of yesterday kneeling at her feet today filled her with a deep satisfaction, and in her eyes it marked the most auspicious of beginnings.
After all, since the day she set foot in Westeros, only Dorne had submitted without bloodshed, throwing open their gates when the shadow of the dragons fell across their walls. These were the first of her true enemies to bow their heads.
And to Daenerys, the significance of this moment was entirely different.
When the ceremony ended, Clay did not linger in conversation with them. He stood quietly instead, his gaze fixed upon the field, waiting for the return of Robb Stark's body.
He had spoken clearly before: a throne taken from the dead was not a throne worth claiming.
And that meant Robb Stark had fallen still bearing the title of King in the North.
At the very least, let him be sent on his final journey with dignity. Harrenhal lay far, far from Winterfell, and if his remains were dragged all the way back by land, it would be the greatest humiliation for a king.
Time passed. Upon the silent battlefield, the snow fell without sound, gathering in small, pale heaps upon Clay's shoulders.
At last, the men of the North placed their former king into the hands of their new one.
Looking down at the face that was still familiar, though the lips had turned faintly blue beneath the heavy snow, Clay let out a quiet sigh.
He gestured to those still able to move and asked them to find ropes that were strong enough to bear weight.
He then relayed his intentions to Gaelithox, and with deliberate care, helped lift Robb Stark's stretcher onto the dragon's great back.
Of course, there were easier ways to do this. It did not have to be so troublesome.
The claws of a dragon could easily lift a stretcher and hold it fast.
And Clay trusted Gaelithox; the dragon would never let the King of the North fall from his back halfway through the journey.
Yet the thought returned once more.
The man was gone. At least let him leave this world with dignity.
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The dragon spread its wings and rose into the sky, leaving behind a battlefield that felt utterly hollow and abandoned.
Before he departed, Clay gave a few last instructions to Jon Umber.
The Riverlands host could return to Riverrun. Whether they chose to remain gathered or to disband entirely was of no concern to him. Clay laid down no commands on that matter.
He was certain of one thing, though: not a man among them had the courage left in him to act rashly. Even now, many would likely struggle to sleep at night, their minds gnawed at by unease.
Only strong drink could help them shut their eyes.
Without it, fear itself would shred them to pieces, tearing them apart from within long before any blade touched their flesh.
Because they knew all too well what fate awaited those who dared turn traitor.
In the Riverlands, the lords whispered prayers for Clay's mercy.
He was a Manderly, after all, and their houses had little history of feuds or bloodshed with his. But his wife, Daenerys Targaryen, had more than enough reasons ready at hand if she wished to pass judgment. Her dragons alone gave weight to every grievance she might voice.
And so their hopes turned toward Clay Manderly, that he would remain firm, keep his dominance, and restrain Daenerys Targaryen's hand.
In their own eyes, their rebellion had been no rebellion at all. They had merely obeyed the summons of their liege lord, the Tullys. If there was fault, it lay not with them.
As for the fate of House Tully itself, to speak plainly… who truly cared?
Three centuries ago, all of them had been nothing more than "dogs" at the feet of Harren the Black. By what right had the Tullys suddenly risen above the rest to rule over them ever since?
Now that a stronger power had appeared, the lords of the Riverlands could not help but stir with secret thoughts.
That seat of power, that place above all others… who would not feel a shiver of longing for it?
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"Clay, you're just going to let them go like that?"
Clay and Daenerys were now camped in the Lord Harroway's Town, near the King's Road that wound north toward the Neck.
The place had long been completely ravaged by two years of war. It was battered, abandoned, and scarcely a soul remained.
Where swords were drawn, the people's livelihood always paid the price. The destruction of the common folk's world was complete, and here was no exception.
The two giant dragons, having spent much of their strength in battle that day, now lay sluggish and heavy with fatigue.
After sweeping the snow from beneath their bellies, they found a patch of meadow and folded their great wings over themselves like cloaks. Soon they were fast asleep, their deep, rumbling breaths rising and falling in the quiet night.
Clay gathered a bundle of brittle branches and dead leaves, coaxing a small flame into life for his own fire.
He had not asked Gaelithox for help, for dragonfire burned far too hot, searing the earth black instead of warming it. Such a blaze would have been worse than useless.
On a fallen log nearby, Daenerys sat with one leg crossed over the other. Her violet eyes caught the flickering glow of the flames, their depths reflecting both the fire's warmth and something sharper beneath.
Clay had known this question was coming.
The young queen truly wished to hear how he saw those lords who had once been, in some measure, his own people.
Between them, Clay had always held the stronger voice, the weight that decided.
Yet in matters like this, she too had her stake. She wanted to understand what her husband intended.
"If I don't let them go, then what?"
Clay tossed another handful of wood into the fire, his smile half amused, half weary, and threw the question back at her.
Daenerys raised her fine eyebrows slightly, displeasure flickering at his reply.
"Our ancestors gave us the gift of dragonriding. So why should we be so soft on traitors?" Her tone sharpened, conviction ringing clear. "They betrayed once. Of course they'll betray again.
"If we don't show this whole continent the weight of our power, then they'll take us lightly."
Her words came firm, righteous, brimming with certainty.
Clay could only smile, helpless and quietly amused.
It was not surprising that the young queen thought this way. The education she received as a child had shaped her mind to lean toward extremes, to see the world in stark contrasts.
Violence could solve the problems posed by certain people, that much was true. But clearly, it could not resolve all issues.
A throne only truly existed if it was recognized by others.
If there was only one man in the world to call himself king, then to whom was he truly king?
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