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Even though it was only a dream, Clay had no intention of letting himself be dragged out and executed without first understanding what was happening.
After all, Brynden Rivers, Lord Bloodraven himself, was supposed to endure, was he not? King Aegon the Fifth had long since turned to dust, yet that man still lives, hidden within some hollow tree, half a spirit and half a root.
So naturally, Bloodraven was never meant to lose his head at this so-called death sentence. Clay was certain he would take the black cloak instead, to stand as a shield of the kingdom upon the Wall.
Yet at this moment, from the way the dream shifted, a fierce and dangerous undercurrent rippled through.
It was clear enough that Lord Bloodraven had no faith in the king's judgment on this night.
No matter how the histories might later try to polish the tale, claiming that Brynden Rivers, for the sake of peace and stability, had willingly given the rest of his life to the realm, humbled by the dishonor of his own deeds, anyone with a shred of sense could see the truth.
Even a man who did all his thinking with his toes would recognize it as nonsense.
Consider for a moment the weight of political power Bloodraven commanded in those days.
He had fought through three Blackfyre rebellions, quelling much of the realm's chaos with his own hand.
Later, after outlasting two kings, it was he who placed the new monarch upon the throne.
Hand of the King, master of the court, the very architect of the succession.
And the man he brought down was no petty rebel but a scion of the Blackfyre line, the family that had sparked endless uprisings.
In those days the very height of political virtue across Westeros was to strike at the Blackfyres.
Brynden Rivers had brought down a key member of that hated line without even raising an army. For the new king to withhold praise was one thing, but to seek his head for it was nothing short of madness.
It would have been stranger still if Bloodraven had bowed to such a verdict with quiet obedience.
Looking back on the history, Clay felt certain that the newly crowned Aegon the Fifth, the king many whispered should never have worn a crown at all and who was called Aegon the Unlikely, had simply taken fright. He had sensed the reach of Brynden Rivers's authority and saw it as a direct challenge to his own fragile rule.
So the young monarch seized upon a pretext that no one could openly dispute, a charge dressed in noble words, and used it to rid himself of the Hand of the King.
Brynden could hardly deny the act. It had been his doing, plain for all to see.
At most he could argue that he had done it for the good of the realm and that such a deed did not deserve death.
Clay, watching the scene unfold in the dream, thought that if the king had chosen silence instead, if he had simply accepted the Lord's methods, not a soul in Westeros would have dared voice an objection.
Bloodraven misfortune lay only in this: the king he had raised to the throne proved to be an ungrateful wretch.
Brynden Rivers chose to yield, yet the bitterness never left him. Even after a hundred years that grievance burned, impossible to set aside.
The dream itself played like a moving picture. The decision had been made long ago, the outcome fixed beyond change.
But now, with Clay wearing Brynden Rivers's face, he had no intention of indulging the petty habits of the royal court.
Who were they, these lords of King's Landing, to pronounce a death sentence on him?
Standing at the center of the throne room, Clay shifted the moment. Gone was the hint of weary surrender that had marked the real Bloodraven at this point in history.
His crimson eyes narrowed as he locked on the king seated high upon the Iron Throne. A thin, cold smile appeared at the corner of his mouth.
Many in the hall noticed the change in the former Hand's expression and felt their hearts jolt. Trouble, they thought, was about to erupt.
In truth, more than a few of them had never supported the king's move against Brynden Rivers.
It was not that they admired the former Hand, for his reputation was without question black and foul.
But for a ruler who had only just claimed the throne to strike so swiftly at his most powerful minister was an act that anyone with a trace of political sense would recognize as folly.
And Brynden Rivers was no clay idol that could be shattered without consequence. He was the true master of the realm's machinery, the Hand who had sat the Iron Throne in the king's stead and ruled the kingdom with the authority of a monarch.
To act against him without caution was to invite unrest across all of Westeros.
Only moments earlier, before the charges had been pronounced, the Hand had insisted that his actions were done for the good of the realm.
Most in the chamber, whether they admitted it aloud or not, accepted that claim.
He bore no private hatred toward the Blackfyres. Everything he had done had been for the stability of House Targaryen's rule.
But the young king now held power in his own right.
When the crown suddenly turned upon him, Brynden Rivers seemed to have no means of resistance. At least, that was what everyone believed.
Then they caught the faint curl of a smile at the corner of the Hand's mouth, a cold and deliberate twist where only weary resignation had been before.
A single heartbeat later they heard words none of them could ever have imagined in their lifetime.
"Aegon, I do not accept your judgment. If the purity of your throne must be proven by killing your own blood, then that is the most pitiful disgrace my Targaryen family has ever known."
"How can someone as foolish as you sit where a true king should sit?"
"Tie up a hound and place it there. It would rule better than you."
The words drifted into the vast chamber, soft as falling ash, yet every person in the hall heard them with piercing clarity.
In that instant, all understood that something was about to shatter. This was no longer a quarrel that could be patched over. This was open rupture.
King Aegon the Fifth stood frozen, struck dumb with shock.
His Kingsguard, however, did not falter. Ser Duncan the Tall, the towering knight famed throughout the realm and captain of the royal guard, had already drawn the long sword at his side and leveled the point straight at Clay's chest.
As the king's most trusted protector, he would never suffer such words to be spoken of his sovereign.
"Bloodraven, watch your tongue. No one here will shield you. Your Raven's Teeth are far away." His voice rang like iron across the hall.
Clay felt no tremor of fear. He laughed, deep and sharp.
"You?" he said, scorn curling through the single word.
He swept his gaze around the throne room, measuring every face, already certain of the path he meant to take.
"Since the king accuses me of sin, I claim the right to clear my name," he declared.
His eyes locked on the young monarch who had risen from the Iron Throne. Each word that followed fell like a hammer.
"I demand a Trial of Seven. You cannot refuse it, boy. And I alone will be enough. I will wash away this shame with the blood of your timid Kingsguard."
Gasps rippled through the gathered lords. Breath caught in noble throats as they stared at the former Hand of the King, who now stood laughing in wild defiance at the center of the hall.
Had he gone mad?
True, in the long history of Westeros no ruler had ever denied a Trial of Seven, a rite even more sacred than the common trial by combat from which it sprang.
But what had Lord Bloodraven just declared?
One man, facing every knight of the Kingsguard?
Madness. Absolute madness!
Did he feel no fear that these warriors, each one bred for battle and as deadly as a storm, would cut him down where he stood?
And after the words he had thrown at the king, he had already burned every bridge, leaving himself no path of retreat.
What in the Seven Hells was he thinking?
Aegon the Fifth felt his own anger rise and fade as swiftly as a gust of wind.
He could not fathom why Brynden Rivers, the master strategist who had always hidden a calculating mind behind those red eyes, would choose today to flaunt such reckless pride.
Aegon had already opened a path for him. He had offered the black cloak of the Night's Watch and, if that were not enough, even the right to march north with his Raven's Teeth at his side.
Go anywhere in the Seven Kingdoms, he had thought, so long as you do not stay here to challenge my rule.
That was the king's true mind.
Yet today Brynden's words had driven him straight to the wall with no escape.
By calling for a Trial of Seven, a judgment no king had ever refused, he had forced Aegon to face him before the gods and the realm.
A Hand of the King standing against his sovereign in a sacred fight to the death… what blessing could possibly lie in that?
Whatever the outcome, Aegon's honor would bleed. His reign had barely begun and already his authority would suffer a wound that could never fully heal.
And Brynden was a Targaryen as well.
Could Aegon truly strike down his own kin in the throne room and live with the name of kinslayer? If he did, his crown might as well be ashes.
But if he spared him, the insult would remain. The first words Brynden had hurled would still stain the king's honor beyond repair.
Either path was ruin.
Yet one thing was clear. This trial that Brynden demanded, Aegon had to accept.
To refuse would be to admit that the accusation defied the will of the gods themselves.
And what becomes of a king who dares sit the Iron Throne while standing against the gods?
A cold shiver broke across Aegon back, and sweat prickled down his spine.
He could feel the weight of every eye in the hall fixed upon his face.
At last the sharp prick of that silent pressure became too much to bear and he shouted aloud:
"I AGREE!"
"Brynden Rivers, since you reject my judgment, then your fate will rest in the hands of the gods themselves."
"Ser Duncan, bring the King's Seven and fight for my honor."
The king's words rolled forth with sudden force, yet across the hall Clay only answered with a low, contemptuous laugh.
Ser Duncan the Tall drew his brows into a deep frown.
The Kingsguard numbered seven, but seven men against one… was that truly honorable?
"Your Grace, this is not honor," he murmured to his liege.
Aegon's answer was a glare so fierce it cut the air between them.
Duncan felt a chill despite his size. He knew his king's temper, and in that instant he understood the boy was balanced on the edge of pure fury.
This was no prince raised in the sheltered life of a royal court. Whatever thoughts burned in that mind were a mystery no one could read.
Around them the common guards moved swiftly. With quick hands and sharp eyes they herded the nobles back and cleared the center of the hall, leaving a wide space of polished stone.
By custom this was no place for a Trial of Seven, yet everyone present sensed that their young king would not wait for the proper ground or the proper hour.
Clay himself wore no chains. In his hand rested the blade known through history as Dark Sister, the fabled Valyrian steel sword once carried by the Three Eyed Raven and steeped in centuries of bloody legend.
He measured the hall with a steady gaze and felt the moment settle around him.
Across the cleared floor the seven white knights advanced in a slow and measured line, their faces still shadowed with disbelief that this lone man truly meant to face them all. The sight stirred something fierce and hungry within him, a heat that spread through his chest and sharpened his senses.
Since the day he had become a witcher he had fought in precious few true battles. The deadliest had been the ambush of Jaime Lannister, and even that had been more trap than clash of steel. Afterward his rank had risen so high that the chance to test himself in open combat had slipped further from reach with every passing month.
Now nearly a year had gone by without a single drop of blood touching his sword.
Here, inside this dream, the chance finally returned. He could at last let the leash fall away.
With a sharp flick of his wrist the Valyrian steel sang free of its sheath, the black blade flashing like a shard of midnight.
He leveled the point at the Iron Throne itself, where Aegon the Fifth sat flushed with anger.
Clay threw back his head and laughed, the sound echoing off the stone as he lunged straight for Ser Duncan the Tall.
One man against seven. One sword against seven.
He knew the odds. In a drawn-out fight even his unmatched skill might falter.
But Clay had come armed with more than steel.
Here his magic answered his will without limit.
So let the ancestors of Daenerys Targaryen witness what a witcher's fury truly meant. If they could, let them carry the dream to that stubborn girl and warn her to move more swiftly when the time came. He had never met a woman so content to laze about.
His left hand traced a swift, sure sign, the Quen of deep power flaring to life around him.
Then the black blade darted forward, a perfect thrust aimed at Ser Duncan's throat, a strike meant to kill in a single heartbeat.
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[Chapter End's]
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