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When Clay opened his eyes again, he found himself standing in a place that felt strangely familiar.
From every direction, tiny flames cast their glow upon his face.
Yet, despite the firelight surrounding him, he felt no warmth at all.
Beneath his feet stretched a floor of polished marble slabs, their gleaming surface running straight ahead until they reached a pair of massive doors at the far end. The doors were painted a deep, heavy red, sealed tightly shut.
On both sides of the hall, ancient stone walls loomed, their rough surfaces almost completely hidden beneath the weight of old tapestries. In the dim, flickering light of the flames, the designs woven into the fabric could barely be seen.
Among them was the sigil of House Targaryen, a blood-red dragon with its wings spread wide against a field of black.
Clay did not need to turn his head or check again. He already knew exactly where he was.
"The Throne Room, of all places?"
He narrowed his eyes, muttering under his breath.
"So this is the first layer of Brynden Rivers' dreamscape… the place where he chose to hide himself at the very beginning?"
His gaze drifted upward to the ceiling, carved with countless ornate reliefs that seemed to press down from above, heavy with history. Speaking softly, almost as though in conversation with someone unseen, he continued:
"Is this truly the only place where you feel safe?"
"You've surprised me. Your humanity… it runs far deeper than I imagined."
The corner of his mouth lifted, forming the faintest trace of a smile.
"Interesting," he murmured.
He spoke the word, yet he made no move to push against the doors of the Throne Room.
Dreams could not be measured by the logic of ordinary space. Without the will of their master, those doors would remain sealed tighter than steel, untouched even by the breath of a dragon's fire.
Because here, such was the law.
"Come then," Clay whispered into the vast stillness. "Show me. Where exactly are you hiding?"
He turned, and before his eyes rose a scene he had seen once before.
On either side of the throne, enormous dragon skulls hung suspended, their hollow remains looming in grim majesty.
From their jagged jaws jutted rows of teeth, each one longer than Clay's forearm. Some were massive, others smaller, each carved into its own shape, yet every one of them terrifying in its own right.
And yet, within the hollow sockets of those skulls, candles had been placed, candles that would never burn out. Their flames wavered faintly, as if they were watching.
Watching the one who approached.
Or perhaps… watching the long line of kings and queens who had once sat upon that throne.
But Clay found nothing of what he sought in the throne itself.
The last time, within the dream, the Three-eyed Raven had ascended that very seat before his eyes, using the throne as a lure to tempt him.
Clay knew the trick well enough by now.
The hall at the heart of the Seven Kingdoms was vast, and despite all its grandeur, it offered surprisingly few blind spots. Within its walls, there were scarcely any corners where a figure could remain hidden.
So Clay did not need long. Step by step, he walked the hall, pacing it from end to end, inside and out, until every shadow had been examined.
And still, he found no trace of Brynden Rivers.
Not a single raven's feather lay in sight.
And yet his instincts told him otherwise. In this hall that belonged to Brynden alone, he was certain he would find some mark, some lingering presence of the man once known as the Lord Bloodraven.
Even if, at this very moment, the man's consciousness did not rest here.
So then… where was the problem?
Clay stretched out his hand and thrust it into the flames of the great hearth, the fire that was said never to burn out.
He felt nothing. No warmth, no pain, no sensation at all..
Perhaps such things could only be touched by the true master of this dream. To Clay, an intruder and uninvited guest, the world remained distant, as though he were nothing more than a spectator gazing through glass.
Unwilling to give in, he circled the Throne Room once more.
If only he had the proper tools, he thought with a wry smile. At the very least, he would have fashioned himself a monocle, something to help him scrutinize every last detail of the place.
Time here, in theory, stood still. Yet even in such a place, to linger without progress was no true solution.
Clay felt a flicker of unease as the thought came to him that perhaps his entire approach was flawed from the beginning.
This was the Throne Room as it had stood in the days of the Targaryen dynasty.
Or, to be more precise, it was a reconstruction of that chamber, summoned forth from the memories of Brynden Rivers himself.
And if this was the place that lived deepest in his heart, the place he held most dear, how could it possibly contain flaws?
After two more circuits of the hall, Clay finally noticed it. The hall was ancient, yet not a single surface bore the marks of age. The tables gleamed without even a trace of dust. The marble floor stretched smooth and unbroken, not a single crack marring its surface.
This was nothing like how a two-hundred-year-old building of that era should have looked.
Searching for imperfections in a place meant to be perfect… wasn't that simply going in the wrong direction?
Realizing the flaw in his approach, Clay stopped his restless circling at once.
"Tch. First layer, and I'm already stuck," he muttered under his breath.
To be thrown into the opening stage without even a hint or clue… how was this supposed to be fair play?
He slumped onto the steps before the throne, grumbling in silence for a while, venting the irritation out of his mind.
But in the end, he shook his head, casting aside the useless complaints.
Since he had already come this far, then no matter how hard it got, he would grit his teeth and push through. Even if it meant clearing the trial with tears in his eyes, he would do it.
"Hm… If I were Brynden Rivers, if I came here… what would I do?"
Clay rubbed at his chin thoughtfully.
Then, recalling how their last encounter had played out, he felt a sudden guess strike him.
He turned and began climbing the steps, one after another, until at last he reached the highest point of the hall.
The base of the Iron Throne loomed above him, raised deliberately high, no doubt intended to magnify the king's oppressive presence.
Clay cast a glance at the Iron Throne, that infamous chair of legend. Anyone with even the faintest sense of ergonomics would collapse in horror at the sight of such a monstrosity. Without a moment's hesitation, he settled himself onto it.
The instant his back touched the cold iron, a strange ripple of change swept through the hall.
How to describe it? It was like picking up a key item in a game, the kind that instantly triggers the next part of the story.
And what comes next?
Of course, the cutscene rolls.
Basic working, really.
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He could not tell when it happened. Perhaps it was in the space of a blink, perhaps even less, but all at once the fire in every brazier flared to life, their light swelling until it filled the chamber.
Armored soldiers appeared without warning, standing rigidly along both sides of the main aisle that led to the throne.
Clay's eyes fixed on a tall man who stood at the very bottom of the steps.
The man's face was… ordinary. So plain it left no impression at all. Yet his gaze remained calm, fixed directly upon Clay.
Only in his narrow eyes was there a betrayal, a faint spark of excitement dancing just beneath the calm surface.
Clay felt his stomach sink. Wonderful. Just what he needed. His knowledge of Targaryen history was patchy at best, and now he was left staring at this stranger. Who in the world was this man supposed to be?
Then again, he consoled himself, it wasn't exactly his fault. Even if he had memorized every page of the chronicles, how could anyone know what these long-dead figures actually looked like? In the end, it always came down to guesswork.
"Hand of the King," the man said suddenly, his voice low but carrying through the hall, "Aenys Blackfyre is already on his way to King's Landing."
Clay suddenly froze. Wait… was this man speaking to him?
Why him?
Then it clicked. Brynden Rivers had indeed served as Hand for a period of time. Which meant that in this dream, whoever sat upon the Iron Throne would automatically become the Lord Bloodraven, wearing his role like a mantle.
The Hand of King Maekar!
The man below, seeing the Hand seated expressionless upon the Iron Throne, went on speaking without pause.
"Your Grace, His Grace the King's body has already been brought back to King's Landing. After the funeral rites are concluded, he will be laid to rest. At that time, I'm afraid the ceremony will require your presence to preside."
What? Another king dead already?
Was he somehow cursed to clash fates with kings, dooming them wherever he went?
He had just escorted one monarch across a thousand miles, and he wasn't even sure if that one had been properly buried yet. Now, here in this dream, they were handing him another dead king to deal with? What kind of twisted, psychedelic nonsense was this supposed to be?
Forgive Clay his spotty grasp of Westerosi history, but honestly, he had no clue what exact moment in time this dream had dropped him into.
Still, even if he was fumbling in the dark, the words this NPC-looking fellow had dropped carried plenty of information.
First, whatever strange principle was at work here, he had now replaced Brynden Rivers, standing in as the Hand of the King at this particular point in history.
Second, someone from House Blackfyre was making their way to King's Landing.
The Blackfyres… an infamous, battle-hungry offshoot of House Targaryen.
They had tangled endlessly with the Iron Throne, waging rebellions that spanned nearly a full century.
In the end, it was none other than an old acquaintance, Ser Barristan Selmy himself, who brought that bloody saga to its close.
Third, a king had just died, and the funeral was now his to oversee.
And what did that mean? It meant that, for the moment, there wasn't a single person in the realm he couldn't afford to provoke.
With the king gone, who else held the real power? Aside from that eternal unlucky wretch Eddard Stark, when was it ever not the Hand who stood tallest?
And just look at what he was sitting on… the damned Iron Throne itself!
Even if he said something outrageous, no one would dare throw it back in his face. At worst, they'd cough politely and phrase a gentle reminder.
He reminded himself of the reason he had stepped into this dream in the first place.
There had to be a way out of it, a path that would lead him to Brynden Rivers' trace.
Yet for the moment, the pieces of information in his hand were still incomplete.
So he decided to meet the unknown with steadiness.
"Mm."
That single sound was all he gave, a curt acknowledgement.
And in the pause that followed, he considered his path. He would use this Aenys Blackfyre as his opening move, his leverage to shatter the deadlock.
Others' loyalties might be uncertain, their positions difficult to read, but when it came to that man, there was no ambiguity at all.
For the trueborn line of House Targaryen, there had only ever been one policy toward the Blackfyres: show no mercy, strike them down, and leave none alive.
The Golden Company itself had been born from such a purge.
"What plans do you have regarding Blackfyre?" Clay asked evenly.
The man who served as the realm's Master of Whisperers, a courtier from the Crownlands, tilted his head in faint surprise and studied the Hand of the King seated high above. His expression was odd, almost questioning.
Wasn't it you who approved Aenys Blackfyre's request to enter King's Landing and take part in the struggle for the throne?
Still, since the Hand was asking now, he had no choice but to answer honestly.
"Yes, Lord Hand. Aenys Blackfyre will disembark at the docks of King's Landing, and then join the Great Council to vie alongside King Maekar's two sons, as well as his grandchildren, for the crown."
"My lord, do you mean to say…?"
At those words, Clay's brows immediately knit together.
What sense did it make for a rebellious son to walk into a Great Council meant to decide the succession of the lawful Targaryen line?
A brief thought was enough for him to catch on to the Bloodraven's scheme.
This smelled like one of those false offers of amnesty, the kind designed to draw rebels into the open so they could be captured.
It was exactly the sort of sly, poisonous trick that suited Brynden Rivers and the reputation of that old bastard perfectly.
And since this dream belonged to him, best to play the part according to his design.
So Clay spoke again: "Is King's Landing secure of late?"
Both men were sharp enough to understand each other's meaning without spelling it out. The Master of Whisperers immediately shook his head.
"No, my lord. At present, the commander of the City Watch is nothing short of a pigheaded fool."
"Excellent," Clay said at once. "Then once this pig of a commander has finished escorting our honored guest, see that he delivers him to a… more suitable place."
"Yes, my lord."
With that, the conversation ended.
What Clay did not know was that, in the true course of history, Brynden Rivers, better remembered as Bloodraven, still carried within him a sense of honor. He would have chosen to oversee the capture of Aenys Blackfyre with his own eyes, taking upon himself the responsibility for the snare.
That choice would one day lead to his trial, his sentence of death, and finally to his exile to the Wall.
Before Clay's eyes, light rippled and the world twisted into something strange and dazzling again. The scene around him shifted in an instant.
He was still seated upon the Iron Throne, the weight of its jagged presence beneath him. Until a new king was chosen, he alone stood as the uncrowned ruler of the Seven Kingdoms.
But the Throne Room had changed. A moment ago it had held only guards and the quiet, watchful spymaster. Now it had blossomed into a sea of clamor and celebration.
It was a banquet. A grand and magnificent feast.
Nobles from across the realm, every house of consequence, had gathered together beneath the vaulted roof of the throne room.
The reason for such a spectacle was simple: today marked the Great Council that would decide the new king of Westeros.
A century ago, King Jaehaerys the First had convened a similar assembly of lords, and through that gathering the realm had chosen his successor.
Now, once again, that moment had come.
Those with the right to attend were brimming with excitement.
For what could be more thrilling, in lives otherwise marked by tedium and long stretches of idle years, than to use their own voices, their own votes, to decide the birth of a new monarch?
And so, by custom, before the true matter of succession began, the Hand of the King, once the great King Jaehaerys himself and now Brynden Rivers, was to host a lavish feast, offering hospitality to all the lords who had journeyed so far.
At this moment, Clay sat at the very highest place of the gathering.
Everywhere he turned, goblets were raised toward him. The nobles of the realm knew perfectly well who held the greatest power in the kingdom right now.
Just as Clay was finally piecing together the situation, he saw the Master of Whisperers approach with quick, careful steps. The man leaned close to his ear and murmured in a low voice:
"My lord Hand, Aenys Blackfyre's head has been struck from his shoulders."
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[Chapter End's]
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