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In 301 AC, Clay Manderly, from within the walls of Twins, sent out a summons to every noble lord of the North and the Riverlands.
They were not asked to bring their armies; they only needed to come themselves.
And of course, none of them had the courage to bring one anyway.
For when they looked up and saw the dragon circling endlessly above Twins, their hearts lost all strength to resist.
Clay Manderly had not yet proclaimed his kingship to the Seven Kingdoms, yet who among them dared to treat him as nothing more than the heir of House Manderly?
So, a week after the ravens reached Riverrun, every lord from the North and the Riverlands arrived at the Twins.
For a time, the entire castle was filled with the fluttering banners of countless noble houses, each flag carrying its own pride and colors.
This was to be a formal assembly, and as tradition demanded, every noble came adorned in full dignity and ceremony.
If it had not been wartime, this gathering might have easily turned into a grand tourney, an occasion for songs, laughter, and feasts beneath shining armor.
However, Clay had not invited the Starks.
First, he had no wish to act in concert with that old crow, the so-called Three-Eyed Raven. Though he knew "Bran Stark" would play along if he had to, it still felt a little too much like bullying a fatherless orphan for the sake of convenience.
Second, inviting a Stark would make it harder for Clay to bring the rest of the North under his fold.
He had no intention of claiming their crown directly, nor did he plan to strip House Stark of its title as Wardens of the North.
Had Clay not been a Northerner himself, the Starks would surely have been summoned to this meeting without question.
Above the Twins, the dragon, heeding its master's will, made a spectacle of its strength each day.
Now more than two years old, it was enormous in size, and every time it appeared, its shadow spread across the towers and streets like the wings of doom itself. To the nobles watching from below, that sight alone was enough to crush whatever secret thoughts of defiance they might have nurtured.
When the lords finally arrived, none of them openly sought an audience with Clay. They could not even find where he was staying.
But behind closed doors, countless messages were quietly passed to the old lord, and endless little schemes were made to "accidentally" encounter Wynafryd or Wylla.
They had no idea what secret Clay carried, so they naturally assumed that every member of House Manderly possessed the gift of commanding dragons.
What truly piqued their curiosity was not the existence of that power, but where it had come from. Yet none of them dared to look deeper.
It was plain enough. They all understood that if Clay were to crown himself, the queen's place would be beyond their reach. But the two princesses — if one could find a way to win their favor — then a new house as powerful as the Baratheons of Aegon's Conquest might well be born.
The war was still raging, and to these lords, the downfall of both the Baratheons and the Lannisters seemed only a matter of time. When those great seats fell empty, would there not be space for new names to rise... especially if bound to the dragonlord's bloodline by marriage?
In the end, it was all just calculation, nothing more.
A dragonlord's family, unentangled by past alliances, was like a gleaming treasure waiting to be claimed.
And who would not find it a shame to let someone else seize that treasure first?
When Clay received a letter from his elder sister, Wynafryd, asking for help, he realized the situation was getting out of hand. She could manage on her own well enough, but his younger sister, silly and soft-hearted Wylla, clearly could not.
The Twins had suddenly filled with smooth-tongued suitors, each speaking sweetly and smiling as if the world had no sharper edge. Wylla loved it here, of course. She adored every bit of attention and every kind word.
Clay had no choice but to put an end to it. In his own name, he ordered both his sisters confined within the family keep.
If someone had to play the villain, he would do it himself.
It wasn't that he disapproved of Wylla's freedom to choose. Having lived two lives, his mind was far more open than most. But the timing could not have been worse. He stood at a crucial point in building everything he had worked for, and one foolish misstep — one careless marriage — could tie his fate to the wrong people and drag the entire house into their schemes.
That was something he could not allow.
It was still a matter of calculation, though his was done from the standpoint of the Manderly family as a whole.
That, he believed, was his duty.
…
When news spread that Wynafryd Manderly and Wylla Manderly had been placed under Clay Manderly's personal protection, the nobles instantly understood that the young dragonlord had already seen through every one of their little schemes.
Their quiet dreams of sealing the alliance early and turning rumors into reality had crumbled before they could begin.
They felt disappointment, of course, even regret, but not surprise.
After all, if the princesses of a newly rising dynasty could be won so easily, then they would have to question Clay Manderly's worth as a ruler.
History was full of kings who knew how to command an army but had no idea how to rule a realm. Such men were not only their country's misfortune, but also the misfortune of every noble who had to live under their reign.
Now that Clay, the yet-uncrowned king, had shown himself to be measured and cautious, the nobles began to feel bolder.
Many of them had met Clay before. Quite a few had even fought under his command in past battles.
Those who believed they had some personal connection, or who thought they could still speak freely in his presence, were now wracking their brains, trying to find any excuse to meet him in private.
Among them was Ser Brynden Tully, representing House Tully.
Clay had never given the slightest hint about how he intended to deal with the Tullys' old betrayal.
Though the matter had little to do with House Manderly directly, everyone present back then had seen the way the two dragons behaved toward each other. No one truly believed Clay would abandon House Targaryen's cause just to forgive a single Tully.
Before this, Edmure Tully had always found it hard to swallow his pride and bow his head before Clay, who held command over so many troops.
But ever since the dragon appeared, even proud Edmure Tully had been forced to admit to himself that what he did back then had been nothing short of foolish.
So this time, when Clay's summons reached Riverrun, Ser Brynden Tully knew there was no avoiding it. He had to find a way to see Clay first and do everything he could to show House Tully's loyalty and submission.
Any more defiance now would only lead to ruin.
The Twins was not large. It was hard for people of stature to avoid running into one another. Eventually, before the formal meeting even began, Brynden Tully managed to catch Clay.
"Clay… Your Grace."
He spoke the words awkwardly, as if the title itself weighed heavy on his tongue.
Since they had already met face to face, Clay saw no point in avoiding him.
He felt a trace of helplessness inside, but his tone remained cold as he asked, "Ser Brynden, what is it you want?"
His voice was sharp and distant, without a hint of warmth.
"Your Grace, I… I came on behalf of—"
The old knight's voice carried a hint of pitiful humility, but Clay cut him off with a wave of his hand before he could finish.
"I know why you're here. Come with me. This isn't the place for talk."
He had been planning to take Gaelithox for a flight around the castle, but now, it seemed that would have to wait.
They returned to the Manderly residence within the Twins.
Clay spoke as soon as they stepped inside: "The Tully family must repay the debt they owe for their mistakes in the last war."
At those words, Brynden's heart tightened.
That was already a bad sign.
He knew Clay was likely setting the tone high at the start, but even so, it showed one thing clearly — Clay Manderly had no intention of letting House Tully off easily.
"Your Grace… that is too harsh. The Tullys will do our utmost to fight for you, just like…"
Under Clay's strange, almost mocking gaze, Brynden's words faltered.
He had wanted to say, "just like during Aegon's Conquest three hundred years ago," but the problem this time was precisely that the Tullys had betrayed Aegon's descendants.
"Do you want to live?"
Clay's voice was calm but carried an undertone of killing intent.
Brynden Tully knew that tone well. He had heard it before, during the war, when Clay was about to show no mercy to his enemies.
At such moments, age meant nothing. Brynden Tully spoke in a near-pleading voice.
"Yes… yes, I do."
"That's better."
Clay lightly tapped the table and rose to his feet.
"You want to live. The Tullys want to live. But you know as well as I do that not one of the Riverlords who came here wishes for your house to survive."
He walked over to Brynden, gazing down at the old man's tangled, graying hair.
"You are a single man with a single mouth."
"How many Riverlords have come here to this place?"
"What can you give me? What promise can House Tully offer me?"
"Do not speak to me of loyalty. That is something that should have been thrown into the gutter long ago."
Clay bent down and pressed his mouth to Brynden's ear.
"You tell me this," he whispered, "sacrifice House Tully and win the approval of the other Riverlords. Cut your house into pieces and hand them out to be eaten. Wouldn't that be a useful approach?"
The words struck Brynden like a blow, and he shivered with fear.
He had thought of such a possibility before. Still, as one who had ruled the Riverlands for three hundred years he had developed a strange confidence in his control of his own lands.
He believed that long practice of favor would yield at least some true loyalty.
House Tully assumed itself to represent the Riverlands. It did not know that every other Riverlord kept a watchful eye on the seat beneath the Tullys' buttocks.
After all there was no shared memory of a single River King binding them together.
Clay watched the silent Brynden and continued, "Whether you come here today or not makes no difference. I will not change my overall plans because of the pleas of Brynden Tully."
"I can tell you now that if you wish not to be turned to ash by Daenerys's dragonfire you must give up the wardenship of the Riverlands yourself."
Though he had expected this in his heart, hearing the sentence still left him unable to accept it.
House Tully had never truly been a dominant house. Its centuries of rule in the Riverlands depended on the title of Lord of the Trident.
Now Clay Manderly, the man who had pressed them down from the start, in the name of king, removed House Tully's wardenship. Brynden Tully realized in despair that they could not even manage to resist.
Their vassals would not truly support them.
Because if the Tullys fell, their vassals would have a chance to rise.
"Leave and tell Edmure Tully to do his best to clean up the Riverlands mess. The more he does now the less House Tully will be weakened. If he harbors other thoughts…"
Clay pulled his mouth away from Brynden's ear.
"You do not need Daenerys for that. I could sentence your entire house to death right now."
Watching Brynden Tully walk away in a daze Clay shook his head.
The old man had come hopeful and left disappointed.
There was nothing to be done about that.
Clay did not feel any particular hatred toward Brynden himself, yet in his heart he knew one thing very clearly: House Tully's time had come to an end.
And truth be told, part of what he had just said had been nothing more than a calculated lie.
After stripping House Tully of its title, he had no intention of raising another family in their place.
In Clay's mind, the failure of King Aerys II had not only come from Rhaegar's defeat at Robert's hands on the battlefield but also from another deeper flaw; the royal household's power had been far too small.
Westeros, apart from the Iron Islands, was divided into eight major regions, and among them, the smallest was the Crownlands, centered around King's Landing.
To Clay, that structure was utterly unreasonable.
A king, when war broke out, should not find himself commanding fewer soldiers than one of his own vassals.
The royal domain was tiny, lacking any vast population centers or great cities that could supply the throne with strength.
So, when Rhaegar fell in battle, the Iron Throne had been reduced to clinging helplessly to King's Landing, unable to reach beyond its own walls.
That would not do.
In Clay's plans, once he completed the unification of the Seven Kingdoms, the Crownlands — those lands belonging directly to the Iron Throne — would have to be vastly expanded. It needed to be large enough to crush any single region by sheer weight, strong enough to outmatch even the alliance of two others.
The Vale in the north was out of reach, and the Stormlands to the south lay beyond the Kingswood.
Neither offered a good option.
So the blade had to cut through the Riverlands and the Reach.
The details could be discussed later when the time came to act, but the direction itself would never change.
…
The news of Brynden Tully's miserable departure from the Manderly residence soon spread through the Twins, a castle filled with ears and eyes.
Before long, people were whispering and toasting over their cups. To them, this could only mean one thing; House Tully had been abandoned by the new king.
Many took the chance to praise Clay Manderly, raising their voices in flattery.
How wise and perceptive their King Clay was, they said, to have seen through the true nature of House Tully so quickly.
Those dishonorable men who betrayed trust and oaths deserved exactly what they got. His Grace was right to deal with them before worse came of it.
And yet, beneath the polite laughter and words of admiration, some could not help but think quietly to themselves.
Your Grace, now that you've dealt with them… would there be a chance for me to take the Tullys' place as Warden of the Riverlands?
…
The Wall, Eastwatch-by-the-Sea
"Gods… this bloody weather. Is the Cold God himself climbing the Wall tonight?"
As the commander of Eastwatch, Cotter Pyke huddled inside his quarters, glaring at the swirling snow beyond the frosted window while muttering curses under his breath.
He was a coarse man by nature, yet that did not make him a fool.
To rise to command at Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, holding authority over every ship in the Night's Watch fleet, was no task for an idiot.
Some time ago, after that strange sleeping sickness had finally passed, a woman in a red robe appeared at Eastwatch without warning.
She was strikingly beautiful, her movements graceful, her presence unsettling.
She told Cotter Pyke that she wished to travel beyond the Wall.
When he asked for her purpose, the woman only smiled and said nothing. She called herself a messenger of R'hllor, but revealed nothing more.
That infuriated him! Who in their right mind would dare venture beyond the Wall dressed like that, half bare in the freezing wind? It was suicide.
After letting his eyes wander over her one too many times, Cotter Pyke refused her request outright.
The woman didn't argue. She turned away in silence and left.
Yet that very night, one of his men came to report that the red-robed woman had taken a small boat from the Eastwatch fleet and crossed the bay, slipping past the Wall into the lands beyond.
He was furious, but in truth, he understood.
This cursed place, the very end of the world, was no home for sane men. Anyone who stayed here long enough carried a certain madness in their bones.
Even with the rare chance to visit Mole's Town for relief, the women there were nothing compared to that red priestess. Every single one of them together could not rival her beauty.
So, if she had used a little charm to get what she wanted, how could any of his men have resisted?
Cotter Pyke certainly wasn't no fool.
Once the first shock of her beauty had passed, once the instinctive reaction in his gut had cooled, every inch of his skin had begun to scream in warning.
That woman was very dangerous!
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[Chapter End's]
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