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Clay never liked seeing women cry. To him, there was nothing more tiresome or unpleasant.
Nor did he fear Catelyn Tully's vengeance. Whatever he had done in the South, his conscience was clean. He could stand before anyone and know he had no guilt to bear. If Lady Catelyn cared to investigate, even a little, she would discover that he had not the faintest connection to the death of Robb Stark. Not even a copper star's worth of blame could be laid at his feet.
And since that was the truth, once he returned Robb Stark's body to them, his duty would be complete. Everything beyond that had nothing to do with him.
Now there was only one thing that mattered: he needed to reach the Wall, and he needed to reach it swiftly.
Jon Snow, that riddler, remained an unsolved knot in his mind. Until Clay saw him face to face and demanded answers, there would be missing fragments, dangerous gaps in what he knew.
So he pressed northward with all speed.
Gaelithox, his great winged companion, had begun to adapt alongside him. Both rider and beast were slowly learning how to move freely beneath the oppressive shroud of Old Gods' power that cloaked the land in this part of the world. The further north they went, the heavier it pressed, but still, they cut through it with determined flight.
By the time dusk approached, Clay had already caught sight of the Wall. From afar, it rose like some slumbering beast stretched across the very edge of the world, its vast spine blocking out the horizon.
The sun, hidden behind heavy clouds, had long since disappeared from sight. Only when Gaelithox surged above the cloud line did Clay realize how late the hour was, for there the sky burned faintly with the colors of sunset. Below, however, the world lay drowned in shadow.
Through the veil of his magical sight, Clay saw the truth more clearly. Here, the strength of the Old Gods was thicker, more concentrated, than even at the node beneath Winterfell. The source of the malady was close at hand, and the answer he sought lay just ahead.
No one else knew what he knew… that beyond the Wall, hidden deep within a cavern in the Haunted Forest, lingered a soul that should have perished long ago. Such a presence could not endure without reason, and Clay felt he was owed an explanation for all of this happening.
As for the Wall itself, he wondered idly how many of the Night's Watch still remained awake. The once-famed brotherhood, hailed throughout the Seven Kingdoms as the shield of men, had been reduced to little more than a tragic curiosity. Most had frozen to death in their sleep, black brothers slipping quietly into the cold embrace of death without sword in hand or horn at their lips. It was a sorrowful fate, yet also a tale so strange that men elsewhere might recount it as a grim jest over wine.
Beneath him, Gaelithox loosed a roar, the thunderous cry rolling across the frozen air. The beast was warning its rider, letting him know with absolute certainty that danger thickened in every shadow of this place.
Clay was hardly surprised. He knew something was deeply wrong here. In truth, he understood well enough that the greater threat did not lie in the Wall itself, but further north, in the cave where the Three-Eyed Raven made its lair.
"Gaelithox, bring us down," Clay murmured at last. "From here on, there is little you can do to help me."
His hand slid across the dragon's scales, tracing the blue-gold armor of its hide. They radiated warmth beneath his touch, not the cold lifelessness of stone, but the steady heat of a living furnace.
He reminded himself, as he always did, that the dragon must never be taken beyond the Wall. No matter what.
No one truly understood how the White Walkers trained with those monstrous spears of theirs. Yet somehow, their aim was unnervingly precise. Even a creature as swift as a dragon, tearing through the sky at impossible speed, could be brought down by their ice-tipped weapons.
Gaelithox was larger than Daenerys's Drogon by half again, vast enough to blot out the sun when he spread his wings. Yet size was no shield. Even his thick scales could not guarantee safety against those cursed spears. One strike to the neck, and even Gaelithox might fall.
As long as the Wall stood, the Walkers were bound in theory, held at bay by the ancient wards woven into the ice. That bought men time, fragile though it was. But if someone were foolish enough to offer them a dragon, to deliver such a beast across the Wall, then everything would be lost.
Gaelithox rumbled low in his throat. He might have thought his rider underestimated him, but he was a loyal creature. Obedient. Patient. If Clay asked him to stay, he would wait.
"Remember," Clay whispered, pressing his palm once more against the warm, scaled nose. "No matter what happens, you must never fly across that Wall. Even if the sky itself falls, you are not to go beyond it. Do you understand?"
The dragon's answer came as a heavy, snorting breath, a sound like bellows blowing through iron.
Then Gaelithox turned his massive head away, refusing to meet his rider's eyes, sulking like a child denied its way.
Clay chuckled at the sight. There was a fondness in his smile, but no hesitation in his step. Turning from his companion, he set out toward Castle Black, each stride sinking deep into the drifts.
The snow lay heavy on the ground, swallowing his boots almost to the knee. Every step demanded effort, his body straining against the weight of winter.
For most men, such a march would have drained their strength long before the castle walls came into sight. But Clay was no ordinary man. His mutation had gifted him with a body far stronger than nature intended, and in the years that followed, he had grown taller, broader, harder still. With that strength, he could endure the cold bite of the wind and push through the heavy snow until the fortress rose before him.
Black walls, white snow. The castle seemed carved from the stark contrast of night and day.
Half of Castle Black itself had been swallowed by the drifts, wooden halls and stone foundations buried under layers of ice and white silence. It was plain that no one had cleared the grounds in a long time.
Clay narrowed his eyes, uncertain of what state the Night's Watch was in now. Whatever it was, it would not be good. That much he could be sure of.
At last, he stood before the gatehouse, a simple structure of wood facing southward. He studied it quietly, the wind tugging at his cloak.
And then, without warning, some instinct pricked at the back of his mind. His steps slowed, and in the very next heartbeat, an arrow came slicing out of the cold silence.
The shaft buried itself deep into the snow at his feet, vanishing beneath the drifts and leaving only the feathered tail quivering in the open air.
Clay did not tense, nor did his heart quicken. Instead, he let out a quiet breath. If someone had loosed an arrow at him, it meant there were still men here, still watchful eyes upon the Wall. That was a good sign.
Better this than emptiness. If Castle Black had truly become a wasteland, abandoned and lifeless, then that would have been the greater trouble.
The gate remained shut. Whoever had loosed the shot seemed content to stay concealed, convinced they were hidden from sight. Yet Clay's sharpened senses, honed by the mutations that marked him, had already found them out. His witcher's sight pierced through shadow and stillness alike, tracing the rhythm of breath and the faintest stir of movement.
The sentry was crouched beside a tower, half-concealed behind a makeshift barrier, peering out over the icefields. He had been watching Clay for some time already, struggling to make sense of this lone figure who had appeared so suddenly on the frozen plain before Castle Black.
One thing was certain… this was no wildling.
The wildlings had already had their spirit broken. Clay Manderly had shattered their spine, not only in battle but in will. They no longer dared rise against the Night's Watch.
And besides, his clothes betrayed him. The cut of the cloak, the leather, the steel at his belt all marked him plainly as a Westerosi noble. A wildling might have stolen such garments, perhaps, but they could never wear them with the same air. The difference lay as much in the bearing as in the cloth.
"Who are you?" the soldier finally shouted, voice sharp against the wind.
"Open the gate," Clay called back, his voice commanding. "I am Clay Manderly, heir of White Harbor."
Here, titles like "commander of the northern host" or "leader of the Riverlands alliance" would mean little. At the Wall, far from southern politics, those words carried no weight. But the name of White Harbor still meant something. The heir of House Manderly was a name the Night's Watch could recognize, and perhaps trust.
A pause stretched in the cold air. Then, at last, the dark timbered gates creaked and began to shift. Slowly, cautiously, they opened inward.
Two men emerged into the snow, black cloaks billowing, torches casting pale fire against the night.
Clay noticed at once that both men kept their other hand pressed firmly to the hilt of the swords at their waists, fingers resting with quiet tension as though they might draw steel at any moment.
There were two of them: one older, the other younger.
The elder's hair was streaked with white and bristled like steel needles, stiff and sharp against the wind. His eyes, keen and predatory, cut into Clay like the gaze of a hawk sizing up prey.
"So, boy," the man said at last, voice rough with age and command. "You claim you are Clay Manderly?"
Clay had been to Castle Black before, but he had never dealt closely with its sworn brothers. The men of the Night's Watch were a world apart, bound to their oaths, and so he had no idea who this stern-faced figure before him truly was.
"Yes," he answered simply.
"And how do you prove it?"
Clay's reply came calm, but edged with a touch of pride. "Must I prove myself to you?"
The words were not polite, nor were they meant to be. They fell with a certain weight, a noble's refusal to bend where he had no reason to.
Yet rather than take offense, the older man only bared his teeth in something like a grin. It was not a pleasant smile, more a grimace that spoke of habit rather than humor.
"You do not," he said after a pause, voice carrying the grudging acknowledgment of a man who had tested another and found his answer true enough.
"Then why have you come to Castle Black?"
"There are matters in Jon Snow's letter," Clay replied, his tone firm, "that I must confirm with him directly."
At those words, Alliser Thorne, for it was indeed him, understood. However reluctantly, he recognized that this well-dressed young noble truly was Clay Manderly, heir of White Harbor.
He could not fathom why the boy had come north to this desolate place at the edge of the world again. The reason remained hidden from him. Yet that ignorance did not stop him from stepping aside.
"Come in, then," Thorne muttered. "Night is falling soon. When the storm settles in, even a mammoth out there would freeze where it stands."
Clay inclined his head in acknowledgment, neither humble nor proud, and followed the glow of two torches as they led him deeper into the shadow of the Wall.
As they walked, he spoke, his voice low against the sighing wind. "And here, things are…?"
"The same," Alliser muttered under his breath, cutting him off with a single, gruff word.
Clay understood well enough. He said nothing more, but his expression showed that he had taken the measure of the situation.
"I want to see Jon Snow at once," he declared. "Now."
At that, Alliser Thorne did not answer, nor did he so much as glance back. He simply pressed forward through the snow like a bull lowering its head, intent on charging into the storm.
"You mean Lord Snow?" Thorne sneered, the title drawn out, weighted heavily, as if he wanted to grind it into the frozen air between them. "Hah… he's asleep."
The scorn on that single word "Lord" was unmistakable. The venom in his voice told Clay everything he needed to know about the state of things between the two men. Their relationship was poor, bitter to the bone.
Beside him, Edd Tollett leaned closer and spoke in a low murmur, his words meant for Clay alone.
"Jon Snow fell into a deep sleep some time ago. No matter what we tried, he wouldn't wake."
Edd sighed, his breath misting in the icy air. "And just as suddenly, he came to again. We still don't know what happened, but the moment he woke, he went straight to Maester Aemon and the Lord Commander."
His voice dropped further. "Later, we learned he was trying to send certain news into your hands."
Edd's eyes clouded as he went on. "But only a few days after that — four, maybe five — he collapsed once more, slipping into the same unnatural sleep. And this time, he wasn't the only one. One after another, brothers of the Watch started falling too, overcome by the same drowsiness, as though some invisible weight was pressing them into darkness."
"Ser Alliser was quick to call it a curse. Said it was Jon who had brought the gods' wrath down upon us."
His lips twisted faintly, as though he himself had little faith in that explanation. "But when we finally managed to send word south to Last Hearth, we learned the same thing was happening there as well. Only then did we know it wasn't Jon's doing."
So. The truth became clear. What plagued Castle Black was no different from what afflicted the rest of the North.
By the time they came to the base of the Lord Commander's Tower, night was almost upon them. Clay cast his eyes about, taking in the scene. By rights, Castle Black should have housed several hundred sworn brothers, yet in the gathering dark, the fortress looked nearly deserted. Only a scattering of lights flickered in a handful of windows, faint as fireflies.
Here, at the very edge of the world, so close to the source, the air itself felt heavier, thick with the old gods' unseen power. Clay sensed it pressing faintly against his skin like a silent hand.
"Your Lord Commander," Clay asked, his tone measured but edged with curiosity, "is he still awake?"
Alliser Thorne gave no answer. He merely pushed open the heavy door and, with an oddly stiff formality, performed the gesture of invitation that kind nobles used when greeting one another.
"Go in, Lord Manderly," he said slowly.
Then, almost as if in spite of himself, he stifled a yawn.
The moment the door swung wide, a wave of heat rushed out to meet Clay. The contrast was startling, after so much cold. Clearly, the hearth inside had been lit, filling the chamber with warmth.
The ground floor was empty, and Clay glanced around, quickly judging that no one was there.
Behind him, the door closed with a solid thud. It was not the sound of a trap, not the sealing of a prison, only the natural weight of thick wood and iron. Still, here at the world's end, every trace of warmth inside these walls felt precious, as if the very air was rationed.
Ascending to the second floor, Clay at last came upon Jon Snow. The young man lay motionless on a rough wooden bed, his dark hair spread across the pillow, his face pale against the firelight.
On the opposite side of the chamber, separated from him by the modest blaze of a hearth, sat the figure of Lord Commander Mormont. The old bear was huddled deep in a chair, the shadows of the fire etching harsh lines across his face.
When Clay stepped into the chamber, Lord Commander Mormont did not speak immediately, only studied him in silence. Yet in those watchful eyes, Clay read something layered and complex… surprise, yes, but also a faint glimmer of recognition, as if Mormont had half expected this meeting all along.
"It has been a long time, Lord Manderly," the old commander said at last, his voice roughened with age but steady.
"The same to you," Clay replied, allowing a faint smile. "And to see you still awake, that is a piece of news worth cherishing."
He crossed the chamber and lowered himself into the empty chair opposite, the wood creaking faintly under his weight.
Mormont did not ask how Clay had managed to come here, nor what business had driven him across the snows. The fact was plain enough. He was here, in Castle Black, and that alone carried meaning.
"Do you know what this is?" Mormont asked, his voice carrying the question that had been gnawing at him day and night.
Any fool could see that what was happening in the North was not something men could bring about. If any mortal held such power, they would already be king over all the Seven Kingdoms.
If it was not the work of men, then what remained? The thought unsettled even the Old Bear. Gods, perhaps. Yet the gods were always distant, and when such powers came so suddenly near, it left men wary, unprepared, their very bodies tense with fear.
"I know a little," Clay admitted, "but I cannot say for certain. That is why I came to find Jon Snow, the one who sent me word."
His gave a helpless little gesture toward the bed, where Jon Snow still lay in deep, untroubled sleep. For a moment he seemed at a loss, unsure how to put his thoughts into words.
"I hardly know what to make of this," he muttered.
"Can you tell me, then?" Mormont pressed.
Clay shook his head slowly.
"It is not that I refuse to tell you, Commander. Only that if you knew the truth, it would do you no good. For you, it would not be a blessing but a burden."
He leaned forward slightly, his tone sharpening. "Instead, tell me what Jon Snow said to you before this befell him. Leave out nothing. The fewer details lost, the better. If you can, give me his words exactly as he spoke them."
The Lord Commander of the Night's Watch regarded him for a moment in silence, the firelight flickering in his eyes.
It had been nearly half a year since their last meeting, yet Clay Manderly's manner was even more assured than before. The confidence in his bearing, the faint edge of pride in his tone, all of it had only grown stronger.
For a man of age and experience like Mormont, such changes spoke clearly of one thing: in the South, Clay must have won not only victories, but victories of real weight, the kind that alter the course of men and kingdoms alike.
"Hmm… it was like this…"
Mormont's eyes clouded as he sank into memory. Slowly, carefully, he recounted the state Jon Snow had been in, describing the boy's words as faithfully as he could remember. He lingered on phrases, tried to capture the cadence, and did his utmost not to let even the smallest detail slip away in the retelling.
Clay listened in silence, his expression calm, betraying nothing.
When the commander finished, the truth was plain: there had been little of practical use in Jon's words. No concrete information, no revelation that could be acted upon. Mormont had not managed to pry anything solid from the boy.
And yet Clay did not dismiss it. He knew too well that Eddard Stark's bastard son was not the kind to speak without purpose. If the letter had seemed like half-coherent rambling, that was all the more reason to take it seriously. Without that certainty, the message would never have left Castle Black, never have found its way south into his hands.
"Commander," Clay finally asked the question he had come all this way to ask in the far north, "the land beyond the Wall… is it still possible to go out there now?"
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