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"Clay, I still can't quite believe it. You have truly become a Dragonlord."
Wylis coughed twice before the words left his lips. A smile softened his weathered face, yet the weight behind his voice carried a depth of wonder that anyone could hear.
"It is a pity," he went on, "that such blood cannot be passed on. If it could, the Manderly name would sweep across Westeros without a single rival."
Clay answered with quiet certainty.
Wylis Manderly had already heard this explanation from the old lord himself, but the shadow of disappointment lingered in his eyes all the same.
Every highborn boy in Westeros grew up with the same dream.
Somewhere in a forgotten corner of the world he would stumble upon a long-buried dragon egg, and with the silent blessing of the gods he would wake the creature inside. He would take to the skies astride a living legend, win the gasps of the crowd below, and draw the gaze of every beautiful woman who dared to look up.
The history of the realm told of Targaryens and countless others who chased that vision, men and women who gambled everything to bring dragons back from extinction. But everyone knew the cost they paid.
Yet generation after generation, the reckless and the hungry still set foot on that road from which none returned. It was the ultimate temptation, the kind that no man of ambition could ever entirely resist.
Hearing Clay speak so plainly now, Wylis's disappointment became easy to understand.
His own body had grown frail. The long spell of unconsciousness he endured had only worsened his condition, and in this age of war there was no remedy for an illness that showed no clear outward sign. The maesters offered no cure, and the Manderlys could not scour the whole realm in search of one.
Nor would it have mattered. The family's ties with the Citadel had frayed ever since the day Clay dealt with that treacherous Lannister who betrayed them from within. From that moment the connection had grown stiff and cold.
The maesters liked to think of themselves as set apart from kings and lords. They swore their oaths of service, and in return a lord was bound to shelter them and keep them safe. Yet the Manderlys had treated their own maester as a captive from the moment he arrived, and in the end they had chopped off his head.
The archmaesters in their lofty conclave did not care what excuses House Manderly might offer. To them it was a clear and unforgivable taboo.
In their own eyes their order was almost sacred, a calling higher than the nobility they claimed to serve. They liked to say that without the maesters the entire realm would grind to a halt.
So when the Manderlys killed the Lannister maester, it was to the Citadel nothing less than open defiance.
And the archmaesters were not the sort to bend.
So, they invoked their "holy" authority and sent black-feathered ravens across the land, commanding every maester to cut ties with House Manderly and refuse them any aid.
The Grand Maester of the conclave even sent a formal writ, blunt and cold in its language, ordering White Harbor to surrender Lord Wyman Manderly and send him to the Citadel for the "fairest" of trials in Oldtown.
The old man only laughed when he read it. To him the words were nothing more than a child's fantasy, born of scholars who had never set foot beyond their library walls.
Even a king has no right to summon a great lord to judgment on such flimsy grounds. No crown in Westeros carries that kind of power.
The last monarch who dared attempt it was Aerys Targaryen, and everyone remembered the price of his madness. The dynasty that had ruled Westeros for three hundred years collapsed beneath the weight of his arrogance.
"Grandfather," Clay said at last, "I came back this time to set our affairs in order."
"I have already revealed Gaelithox before the eyes of the world. From this moment our family has taken its rightful place at the table, and no one can pretend otherwise."
He leaned back into the deep cushions of the chair and settled himself with a languid ease. Around him lay a scatter of bottles, each one filled with a different shade of amber or ruby light. His gaze drifted over them until he chose, at leisure, the one that pleased him most.
He did not so much as glance at the prized bottle of Qarth dreamwine that the old man had once boasted of, the one he had obtained with great difficulty and guarded with pride.
"Grandfather, your collection is missing a piece," Clay murmured, his lips curling in faint amusement.
The others glanced at one another, puzzled. None of them could make sense of the remark.
Wyman blinked, confused for a heartbeat, then gave a sudden laugh as understanding struck. He slapped his broad forehead. "Seven save me, look at this memory of mine. It's here, it's here."
With that he heaved his great frame from the chair and lurched toward the desk that stood by the wall. He pulled open a low cabinet and brought out two bottles whose glass held a faint blue shimmer.
The look of them alone promised something rare.
Now everyone understood the exchange between the grandson and the grandfather. It was the private language of two dedicated drinkers, a talk that meant nothing to those whose tastes were more ordinary.
"Grandfather, drink a little less," Wynafryd said gently to her alcoholic grandfather. She wore a gown of soft white trimmed with delicate gold, the light catching on every thread as she spoke.
Her warning carried no sting, only quiet affection. Wyman was already heavyset, and his fondness for strong drink had only deepened with the passing years.
In the past he drank alone, and that solitude dulled the pleasure. But Clay, by some twist of fate and for all his other gifts, proved to be just as fond of the cup. From the first moment they met, the two had fallen into easy company, their tastes and tempers perfectly matched.
The old lord completely ignored his granddaughter's soft protest. With a broad cheer he flipped two crystal cups upright on the desk and filled them both to the brim, one for himself and one for Clay.
When he finally settled back into his seat and noticed the three others watching, a flicker of impatience crossed his heavy face.
"Go on, pour your own," he said gruffly. "Do you have any idea how dear this wine is? Drink it wrong and you will only waste it."
Clay could not help but smile at the scene.
It had been a long time since he felt such easy laughter rising around him.
Three more cups were turned upright and the tall bottle of Qarth Dreamwine was emptied in a slow, fragrant pour.
Clay knew his grandfather's words were only for show. With the wealth of House Manderly, one bottle meant nothing to them at all.
Five glasses now rested on the table. Five hands reached to lift them high.
The air of the tower's highest room filled with a rich scent, the spiced wine warm and heady as it spread through the chamber.
A ritual… damn that.
Clay felt the weight of the moment. This was when someone should speak a toast, any words at all as long as they carried a spark of meaning.
Here at home there was no order to follow. Each person could speak and drink whenever the thought struck. Clay was still weighing his words when his nose caught something sharp.
This wine… This smell…
His eyes widened as sudden clarity seized him. In that instant he saw his sister Wynafryd, her red lips close to the rim of her cup, already lifting it after her own brief toast.
Before thought could catch him, he lunged forward. His hand came down in a hard slap.
The crystal cup flew from her grasp and shattered against the dark stone wall, exploding in a burst of blue glass and spattered wine.
The room froze. Silence fell as everyone stared in shock, stunned by the sharp crack and the shards glittering across the floor.
No one understood why Clay had struck so suddenly or what had driven him to act.
Then his voice cut through the stunned silence. "Do not drink. There is something wrong with this wine."
The warning struck them like a chill wind. Every Manderly at the table felt their grip falter, their hands trembling before they even knew it.
Something wrong?
What could possibly be wrong?
The old lord was the first to recover. He knew his grandson would never speak without reason. Slowly he set the cup he had just raised back onto the table.
Because the wine had come from far across the sea, he rarely tasted it himself. In recent years Stannis's fleet had controlled nearly the entire western Narrow Sea, and trade with Essos had grown ever more difficult.
For that reason, he had never noticed anything strange about the wine.
"Clay, what is it? What lies in the wine?" the old lord asked, his brow furrowing with concern.
Without the keen senses that came with a witcher's mutation, Clay would never have caught it. The heavy spice of the dreamwine masked a faint undertone, a trace so elusive it might have been imagined. But he had smelled it once before while mixing the ingredients for potions granted by his system.
A witcher's potion ingredient… a substance that was nothing less than deadly poison to any ordinary person.
That was why he had struck the cup from Wynafryd's hand. One swallow of that tainted wine and her life might have ended in an instant, her beauty fading like a candle in a sudden gust of wind.
"I cannot say for certain," Clay answered, his voice calm but cold. "Yet something is most definitely wrong."
Lord Wyman did not press him further. He trusted the boy's judgment. With a slight nod he cast a quick, deliberate glance toward his eldest son.
Wylis caught the meaning at once. He rose without a word, lifted his own glass, and strode for the door.
Clay knew what his uncle intended. Wynafryd understood as well. Only young Wylla, pale as fresh snow, still sat stiff with fear.
"My father… where is he going?" she whispered.
Clay bent close and answered gently, "He is running a small test. Do not be afraid. He will return before long."
———
The room sank into a heavy stillness that pressed on every chest and made each breath feel thick. No one found the strength to speak.
This was no trivial matter.
Nearly half an hour passed before the door swung open again. Wylis returned with his face drawn tight, his breath rough from haste.
One look told Clay that his own suspicion had been right.
"…A sheep and a dog," Wylis reported in a clipped voice. "Half an hour. Both dead, and the death was slow and very painful."
He dropped into a chair as if the weight of the news had drained him.
It had been a narrow escape. Had Clay not sensed the taint in time, the main bloodline of House Manderly might already have been wiped away.
The old lord felt the same icy realization. Fear pierced him for only a heartbeat before it burned away beneath a rising tide of fury.
Who could dare attempt this? No one in the room believed it had been an accident.
This was a murder… murder aimed at the very heart of the Manderly family. Far more vile than any killing done in open battle.
Lord Wyman's anger broke past restraint, the weight of it filling the room until every breath felt stifled.
Yet when the first rush of fury ebbed, a heavy helplessness settled over him. The world was no longer what it once had been, and he could not hope to track down the Essosi merchant who had supplied the wine.
Now it seemed plain that either the ship had never truly sailed from Essos, or someone along the way had already been bought and set upon this course.
But who could harbor such malice?
Wyman turned the question over and over, searching every corner of memory, and still no name came.
The wine had been purchased by his own order.
If Clay had not returned tonight no one would have offered him a cup. The poisoner's target was clear.
It was him alone… Wyman Manderly, former Lord of White Harbor, the man who held the rear steady while Clay fought to secure the North.
Someone wished to shatter the newly bound strength of White Harbor and the Twin, to strike at the foundation and in disguise slow Clay's rising power.
Was the hand behind it Northern or Southern? The old lord, who had weathered Westeros's storms for decades, felt the question break against him like wave after wave, his heart heaving with anger and unease.
Across the table Clay's gaze lingered on Wynafryd. His sister had not yet married, and only moments earlier she had come within a breath of leaving this world.
From the first days of war he had fought to keep his family far from the line of fire. Yet today someone had reached for them all the same.
That was the one boundary he would never allow to be crossed.
Clay's resolve hardened. He would uncover the hand behind this attack, no matter how deep it hid in shadow.
And when he found the culprit he would give them a taste of the witcher's mutagens and the bitter green decoctions he kept locked away. He swore that promise in the silence of his heart.
———
Reach of the Riverlands, Oldtown, the Citadel.
Theobald, not an archmaester but a lesser master of records, shuffled forward with slow and careful steps. His thin arms strained beneath the weight of a tall stack of reports gathered from the scribes below, and the papers trembled as much as his frail hands.
Over the Sunset Sea the light was fading into a deep gold. Its glow filtered through the long hall, slipping between the carved stone columns, where each pillar cast a pattern of shadow so precise it seemed chiseled into the air itself.
The ebbing sunlight fell across Theobald's gray-white robe in bands of bronze and black, marking him as though by deliberate design.
The faint clink of metal links followed each movement, the quiet music of a maester's chain, proof of knowledge earned link by link across a lifetime.
Dusk had settled, and the Citadel, that so-called peaceful refuge which liked to think itself apart from the quarrels of the world, was leaving behind a day of calm and readying for another night of study and silence.
Unlike much of the Seven Kingdoms, where darkness meant the end of labor and the call of sleep, life here rarely slowed. The standards of living were high, the healers strong, and so the hours of night belonged to learning. Across the vaulted halls countless apprentices bent over their desks, oil lamps burning low as they pursued the dream of forging their own chains.
The Archmaesters welcomed such tireless effort. The more sworn scholars they produced, the stronger their voice grew across Westeros, and all within the Citadel understood that simple truth.
For centuries the Citadel had taken pride in guiding the realm. Through the maesters dispatched to every great house it shaped the thoughts and decisions of lords and ladies, weaving a subtle influence that stretched unseen across the land.
But then Aegon Targaryen came with fire and blood. No quill could reason with the flame of Balerion the Black Dread, and the Citadel had already seen what became of House Gardener, so they did not hesitate for even a heartbeat. They bent the knee to House Targaryen and sent their own to serve the Conqueror in King's Landing.
When Aegon's rule spread over every kingdom except Dorne, the Citadel began to notice a change. Their quiet power no longer flowed as easily as before. Aegon stood above all nobles, his name and his dragons commanding a reverence that lifted the entire nobility with him.
Once, a single maester in a castle could wield a quiet authority. Backed by Oldtown, he might even shape a lord's choice of heir. That delicate leverage faltered after the Conquest. The nobles had their own strength now, for behind them stood a king with dragons.
The Citadel's long era of unchallenged influence slipped into history, and they could not bear to accept it.
So, in the years that followed, many of the great turning points in the Targaryen dynasty seemed to carry a faint trace of the maesters' hand. Their counsel was subtle, their learning deep, and again and again some quiet influence appeared to shape the choices of kings and princes.
They waited through two long centuries, patient and tireless, until at last their watch bore fruit. One by one the last dragons died. When the final great beast was gone, the crown's power waned as though a storm had passed, and the Citadel's own strength began to rise once more.
Yet this renewed season of comfort lasted for scarcely a hundred years. Then a report arrived that struck like a sudden blow.
A Targaryen heir had returned… and with her, a living dragon.
It seemed impossible.
For two full centuries they had labored, generation after generation, to see the dragons stamped out. How could the breed they had thought forever lost be born again?
The archmaesters of the Conclave fretted by day and brooded by night. They had studied dragons across lifetimes and counted themselves the world's foremost experts. They knew better than anyone the ruin a single beast could bring, and that knowledge weighed heavily upon them.
For weeks they combed through vaults of scrolls and crumbling manuscripts, searching desperately for some sure method to slay a dragon swiftly, yet nothing they unearthed offered a certain answer.
Scorpions might serve, massive engines of wood and iron that loosed bolts strong enough to pierce scaled hide, especially if the queen's creatures were still young and not yet grown to their full strength.
But the cost of mounting such weapons across Oldtown would be staggering.
The Citadel held wealth, true, but to spend a fortune on engines of war that might never be needed would bleed their coffers dry, and even the most learned masters hated to watch so many golden dragons slip away for no return.
That evening the bells tolled and the Conclave gathered to wrestle with the question.
Archmaester Theobald, keeper of records and quiet voice of order, went to take his place among them.
Some plan had to be found!
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