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"Dany, what you said isn't exactly wrong."
Clay didn't deny Daenerys' words. After all, what she proposed was one possible path.
There was an old saying: to kill one man is a crime, to slaughter ten thousand makes you a hero. And if someone were to cut down nine million… well, that would make them the greatest of heroes.
So what if it comes to that? Kill and keep killing until the seas fall silent and the rivers run clear again.
But even a conqueror as ruthless as Aegon Targaryen the First, once the fighting slowed, was not driven solely by the urge to burn and butcher.
If that were the case, then when Meraxes and Queen Rhaenys Targaryen perished so tragically in Dorne, Aegon would never have chosen compromise. The hatred of a murdered wife is irreconcilable, a blood feud that no man could swallow. The Iron Throne could have thrown the full might of the realm against Dorne, fighting until one side was utterly destroyed.
"The real issue," Clay continued, his tone calm but carrying weight, "is that when you display your majesty like that, it only solves the problem for a little while."
He paused, letting the words linger before reshaping them. "Let me put it another way. You burn a handful of people, you spare a few hundred or a few thousand. For those who oppose you, how much fear does that really create? How long does it last?"
"Don't underestimate the power of time."
"This kind of thing isn't true rule. On the contrary, burning people alive is a desperate, extreme measure, used only when your grip on power is already shaky and about to collapse."
Then he gave a small shrug and smiled, "But… we aren't even at the stage of talking about ruling yet. Right now, what matters most is pulling together everyone who can be pulled together, making sure that those who like us grow in number, and using that strength against the enemies who are already dwindling. That's the right path forward."
"As for the future… when your black banner with the red dragon and my golden trident with the merman can pass unhindered through every castle in Westeros, then whomever you wish to deal with, the choice will be entirely yours."
With that, the matter was set aside. Daenerys did not press him further, though inside she could not help but feel a faint bitterness. After all, if one were to speak of rebellion in its purest form, the first to raise their banner of defiance had always been the men of the North.
The Northerners, forever consumed with dreams of standing apart, yet still reliant on the South to bleed for them and feed them, were not a people the young queen found easy to admire.
Of course, in theory, her husband was also a Northerner.
But people are not all the same. Not every Northerner could be measured with the same yardstick.
The next morning, Clay set out again with Daenerys at his side.
The North as a whole had already bent the knee. All save one. The great house of Stark, their lords and masters, had yet to kneel.
But that was hardly their fault. When one counted carefully, among the massive host of Northern soldiers, there had only been a single Stark present… Robb Stark. And with his death, there was simply no one left to answer for the family. No one could be expected to salute from afar with the Gallic gesture of surrender.
So Clay's purpose in this journey was twofold. To return Robb Stark's body to his kin, yes. But also, through that act, to press his weight upon them, to remind them where true power now lay.
It might sound harsh, even cruel, almost like bullying Catelyn Tully, left widowed and childless. Yet extraordinary times demanded extraordinary measures.
Clay certainly could not wait around until young Bran Stark came of age.
And besides, it had been far too long since he last reached out to that crow. The threats beyond the Wall pressed closer with every heartbeat, every passing day.
Winter was almost upon them, and in the Land of Always Winter, trouble grew stronger with each sunrise.
Clay knew that sooner or later he would have to face those things head-on. This journey into the North was as good an opportunity as any to see the situation with his own eyes.
If he did not ride out in fury with his dragons, then the Wall, that immense and ancient bulwark, should still be able to hold for a long while.
Should be…
Perhaps?
The dragons were swift. Not so swift that one could blink and find oneself at the Wall in an instant, but fast enough that reaching Winterfell before nightfall would pose no problem at all.
Even so, familiarity did not make it easier to carry a corpse slung behind them. Clay disliked having that weight following at his back, silent and accusing.
Better to deliver him quickly into the Stark crypts, to rest alongside the long line of ancestors sleeping in the stone tombs beneath Winterfell. Let the boy return to his family's embrace.
He had even brought with him the ancestral Stark greatsword, Ice.
That, he had no desire to keep. During the battle with House Corbray, he had seized a similar blade. After inspecting it carefully, Clay had treated such weapons more as curiosities for study than treasures to be prized.
Anything that could not be reproduced, mass-forged for war, was of limited use to him.
During one pause in their journey, as they rested, Daenerys turned to him and asked, "Clay, shouldn't we stop by White Harbor, or perhaps the Twins, before Winterfell?"
"Hm?"
Clay blinked, not immediately catching her meaning.
"I mean…" Daenerys hesitated, then tried again. "Shouldn't we go and meet your family?"
In truth, she was curious. She rather wanted to see them. Clay's dragonlord bloodline had come into his hands in ways she herself could never have foreseen, yet that did not change the fact that the name Manderly still flowed in his veins, still bound him to the great house that bore it.
That made them, in a certain sense, her kin as well.
The young queen was deeply aware of the bond she shared with Clay. In this lifetime, whatever storms might come, even if affection waned and quarrels arose, there would be no ending in separation. That was not a future either of them would ever allow themselves to walk toward.
They were the last two dragonriders left in all the world. There was no reason and no possibility that they could part ways.
And ever since the death of her brother Viserys, the notion of family, especially the comforting presence of elders to lean upon, had been absent from her heart, leaving a hollow place that nothing else could ever truly fill.
She didn't fully understand why this yearning rose up in her now, but it was real. She wanted to see Clay's family, to look them in the eye, to feel the weight of belonging, however faint.
"Not for now," Clay said at last. His voice was calm and steady. "There will be plenty of time later. No need to rush it now."
He added, "Besides, in my family, only my grandfather knows that I can ride dragons. He was there through every stage of Gaelithox' growth. As for the others, because secrecy was necessary, I never told them. If we suddenly appeared, you might not get the sort of welcome or outcome you're hoping for."
Clay shook his head, firmly putting an end to the suggestion.
And truth be told, traveling to his family with Robb Stark's corpse in tow hardly seemed like a fitting visit.
Since Clay had spoken so firmly, Daenerys didn't press the matter.
The two of them ate a quick, rough meal. Out in this wilderness, hoping for anything fine was out of the question. Neither of them could cook, so they simply made do with what little they had.
Once rested, the dragons rose again, vast wings beating, carrying them swiftly into the skies.
Before long, they crossed over the Neck, the narrowest stretch that divided the North and South of Westeros.
From the air, Daenerys saw nothing but endless stretches of marshland, bleak and gray. The ruins of Moat Cailin's towers, once proud, were now so weathered and sunken into the mire that they were scarcely visible at all, little more than faint shadows melting into the horizon.
She studied the strange land spread out beneath her. And for some reason, the moment her dragon carried her beyond the line of Moat Cailin, Daenerys felt it, a vague and unsettling discomfort stirring within her body.
It was not the kind of discomfort that came with sickness, not the feverish heaviness of a cold or the burning heat of an illness.
This was something else entirely. It was a deep and disturbing chaos, as though every part of her body had slipped out of rhythm.
She didn't know if Clay felt it too.
Beneath her, Drogon let out a sharp, guttural roar. Clearly, he felt something as well, his unease echoing her own.
Ahead of them, Gaelithox flew on in silence. If he felt anything, he gave no sign.
At first, Daenerys tried to convince herself it was nothing more than the bitter Northern air. The chill here was sharper than anything she had known in the South, and perhaps her body simply wasn't used to it. Clay showed no reaction, and so she clenched her teeth and forced herself to bear it.
But as time dragged on, the sensation worsened. It no longer felt like a passing discomfort.
It was unbearable.
The world seemed to tilt and spin before her eyes, her blood racing wildly through her veins as though it had caught fire.
Realizing something was truly wrong, she acted quickly. She urged Drogon to send a roar forward, a signal to Gaelithox, then guided him down, lowering their flight until his massive body touched down upon a field of snow. Not far away stood a dark forest of heart trees, their red leaves stark against the white.
Of course Clay noticed her sudden descent. Without hesitation, he directed Gaelithox to follow, and soon his dragon landed heavily in the snow beside Drogon.
He had felt something too… different, but not quite the same. Even Gaelithox had rumbled in his mind that something about this land was amiss.
Clay swung down from the dragon's back and strode across the snow to where Daenerys sat slumped on a stone, one hand clutching her head as she drew long, uneven breaths. His brow furrowed deeply as he asked, his voice low,
"What's wrong, Dany?"
The young queen forced herself to lift her gaze to him. Her eyes were clouded with dizziness, and her voice trembled as she spoke. "I feel terrible… it is as if someone has taken my mind and torn it apart."
She drew another breath, then added in a strained whisper, "And Drogon feels it too. He says it is as though some powerful enemy is circling him, unseen yet always there, never leaving his side."
Hearing this, Clay frowned in confusion.
Why was her reaction so fierce, when his own, and even Gaelithox's, were nothing of the kind?
They were both human… what could possibly be different?
He stretched out a hand, catching a snowflake as it drifted into his palm. For a moment it glistened there, fragile and pure, before melting into a bead of water against his warmth.
Something was wrong.
"Did this start the moment you crossed Moat Cailin?" Clay asked.
Daenerys pressed her forehead, her face drawn with pain. "Yes… that's when it began. As soon as I saw the marshes, I started feeling unwell."
Just as he suspected! Clay understood now.
He too had felt something shift the instant he entered the North.
How to put it…
It was as if the land itself had become aware of him, and it did not welcome his presence. The whole of the North seemed to press against him in quiet rejection.
The feeling was not overwhelming, more like an itch at the edges of his senses, but compared to Daenerys' collapse, his own discomfort was nothing at all.
What on earth was happening here? Clay couldn't make sense of it.
It made no sense at all. The North, the land he had left behind once before, had not seemed any different back then. Why now? Why this sudden shift?
Something must have happened.
His eyes swept the landscape. Through the blowing snow, he noticed the line of trees standing quiet and solemn, the forest blanketed in stillness, as if the storm itself respected its silence.
Wait…
The trees.
The Heart trees.
The Three-Eyed Raven, that old wretch? A sudden thought snapped into place.
Clay walked toward one of the Heart trees. He placed his hand flat against its trunk, spreading his palm wide against the rough bark.
He let his eyelids drift shut and reached inward, calling to the power that slumbered in his veins.
The magic that had been lying dormant inside him stirred, sluggish at first, and then began to move.
And the instant it did, he felt it… the problem was glaringly obvious.
It was sluggish, clotted, moving with painful resistance.
Like the grinding of gears without a drop of oil, iron scraping against iron until the whole mechanism threatened to seize.
Now he understood why Daenerys had felt as if her very mind were unraveling.
His face grew dark, the weight of realization pressing down on him.
This disturbance, this distortion in the very air, could only have one source. It traced back to the Three-Eyed Raven, hidden deep in that cave beyond the Wall.
But what he could not fathom was this: when had the Raven's power grown so strong?
This was no longer some faint whisper or isolated influence. This was power spread across the entire North, woven into the very land itself. For someone like Daenerys, whose blood carried the fire-born magic of dragons, merely setting foot here was enough to mark her as… well, as an aberration. The land treated her as an intruder, warping her magic until it turned against her.
What the hell was that old bastard playing at? Had he gone mad?
Clay's face grew even darker.
He returned quickly to Daenerys' side and extended his hand. Forcing his magic to push through the sluggish resistance in the air, he let it spread outward, wrapping around her like a shield.
For him, the effort was nothing. He had carried the strength of a witcher for long enough that such resistance was barely a nuisance.
And sure enough, the moment his magic severed Daenerys' connection to the hostile air around them, her features eased. The tension drained from her face as though a heavy weight had been lifted.
The dizziness lingered, though. She clutched his arm for balance, swaying slightly as she pulled herself unsteadily to her feet.
"Clay… what did you do? I feel so much better now."
"Enough questions for the moment. Let's head back south of the Neck first. There's something I need to tell you."
"…Alright."
The two of them climbed back onto their dragons and wheeled around, turning southward.
It wasn't far… they had only just crossed the Neck. A short flight, no more than the span of a few breaths at dragon speed.
Ten minutes later, Clay and Daenerys landed beside the King's Road near the edge of the Neck.
And the difference was stark, undeniable.
The instant her feet touched southern soil, the crushing discomfort melted away. The gnawing dizziness lifted. Her face regained its color, her breath no longer coming in the desperate gasps of someone struggling against thin air.
Clay slowly withdrew his magic.
The North was not right!
Something had gone terribly, dangerously wrong.
He lifted his gaze to the sky, dark and heavy with brooding clouds over the northern horizon, and a deep weight settled in his chest.
The feeling would not leave him.
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[Chapter End's]
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