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Staring at the red-haired woman before him, disheveled and covered in grime, Cotter Pyke wondered if he was trapped inside a dream.
Not long ago, from the top of Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, the lookout in the tower had sent a signal down from the heights:
Cavalry approaching!
Cotter Pyke had once received a letter from Lord Commander Mormont, a vague and cryptic warning that urged him to stay vigilant for anything unusual beyond the Wall.
Now, he began to think that perhaps he was the most unusual thing out here.
In this gods-forsaken cold, cold enough to freeze a man's balls clean off, he actually thought he might be hearing things.
Because right now, the woman before him, hair tangled and wild, was shouting in a furious rush for him to send word to Clay Manderly. She wanted to meet him... immediately.
By the Drowned God… who in the seven hells was this woman?
His men had reported that the red-haired woman's horse bore strange claw marks across its hindquarters. The beast had been restless and uneasy since its arrival, trembling as if it had been driven half mad by terror.
That, of course, caught Cotter Pyke's attention.
As an old crow who had watched a sapling outside the Wall grow into a full-grown tree, his instincts were keen as ever.
He knew Jeor Mormont hadn't been exaggerating; there truly were dangerous things lurking beyond the Wall.
This mysterious red-haired woman, desperate enough to risk her life crossing it, had already been under his watch for some time.
He had no intention of letting Melisandre pass through; a man like him always had his own ways of handling trouble.
He was, after all, the master of his domain.
But when he learned that she had somehow managed to slip across the Wall regardless, he hadn't ordered his men to stop her.
Because part of him wanted to know — what exactly was watching them from the other side?
Yet what stood before him now was not at all what he had expected.
On the horse's flank, they had found a long, ragged gash.
Judging by the size and shape of the wound, it looked as if it had been made by some kind of wolf.
Direwolves did exist beyond the Wall, rare though they were, but they were real enough.
Yet Cotter Pyke was certain of one thing. When he leaned close to that festering wound that refused to stop bleeding, he caught a strong, unmistakable scent of sulfur.
What in the name of the gods was going on here?
"Did the woman say anything? Or is she still just shouting for us to contact Clay Manderly?"
Cotter Pyke turned to the man standing beside him, his second-in-command, Glendon Hewett.
The knight from House Hewett shook his head at once, "No. She seems badly frightened. She was pale enough when we found her, but now her face is so white it looks like snow."
Cotter clicked his tongue in displeasure. That answer wasn't nearly enough for him.
He pointed toward the warhorse, which was swaying on its legs, barely able to stand, and fixed his gaze on the gash along its hindquarters.
"Take a look. What kind of thing could've made a wound like that?"
Both men were seasoned veterans, the sort who could read a wound almost like a map. One glance at that torn flesh was enough to give them an idea of the attacker's size and strength.
Glendon rubbed his chin thoughtfully before replying.
"A direwolf, perhaps?"
The commander of Eastwatch let out a long breath. That was exactly what he had thought, yet he knew it couldn't be the truth.
"Go on, smell it. Tell me what you notice besides the blood."
Glendon shot his superior a puzzled look but obeyed. He crouched beside the horse, leaned close, and took a cautious sniff. His brow furrowed, and then his expression shifted into one of surprise.
"Wait… is that sulfur? Yes, it is! The smell's unmistakable."
When he lifted his head and met Cotter Pyke's eyes, understanding flickered between them. Now he knew why the old crow had made him smell it.
It was strange... unnerving even. Why would a wound carry the stench of sulfur?
No one had ever heard of sulfur deposits anywhere beyond the Wall. Where in the seven hells had that woman gone?
Cotter exchanged a glance with Glendon, then spoke in a low voice.
"The situation beyond the Wall might be worse than we imagined. That woman's hiding something. Come on, we're going to see her. First, we need to find out exactly who she is."
"No ordinary woman who looks like that would head beyond the Wall, alone, with a purpose."
Those last words, spoken by the commander of Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, carried the weight of certainty.
…
Melisandre was indeed shaken, though not because of whatever had attacked her horse.
Things like that no longer frightened her.
What truly made her tremble was what she had seen just moments ago, after being brought inside Eastwatch and shown into a chamber where a fire burned fiercely in the hearth.
In the flames, she had witnessed a vision.
On a sea so dark it shimmered blue-black beneath the light, an enormous ship with towering black sails was cutting through the waves, moving swiftly in a single direction.
And upon that ship were the very same beings she had just encountered beyond the Wall — the servants of the Cold God.
The Lord of Light, R'hllor, had shown this sight to his high priestess.
Their destination was obvious. They were sailing south, beyond the Wall.
Where exactly they were heading, she could not tell. But that hardly mattered.
The fact that the Cold God's servants now possessed the power to build ships of such scale, and could freely navigate the frozen seas, was a revelation that chilled her more than the northern wind ever could.
If this was true, if those creatures could sail, then the Wall itself had become nothing more than a decoration.
Melisandre knew all too well how thinly stretched the North was. Should the servants of the Cold God attack the Wall from both sides — from within and without — the entire realm would collapse before anyone could mount a defense. The North would be swallowed whole by that endless black throat of death.
And when that happened, all of R'hllor's designs would unravel like ash in the wind.
Clay Manderly, what in the flames are you doing? How can you remain idle when such things are stirring?
If the Night's Watch refused to send word to Clay, Melisandre had already made up her mind. She would head south herself, make for Winterfell, and find a way to use one of their ravens to contact him directly.
She could only hope that he was still in the Twins.
Otherwise, the heavens themselves might soon be overturned.
…
"Your Grace, after we're done with the Vale, we must be ready for trouble from the two Baratheons brothers and the old lion as well."
Inside the great hall of the Twins, the air was no longer heavy and cold. Since Clay had approved the plan to make the Vale their first target, the silence had given way to a rising heat of anticipation.
The lords present were all eager for war, especially when they believed victory was on their side.
For victory meant land, and with land came people, wealth, and power.
In this world or any other, there was no enterprise more profitable than war.
Winning a war and seizing the fortunes that one's enemies had spent generations building was far easier, far quicker, and far more thrilling than years of patient labor and creation.
Otherwise, how could a people like the Ironborn exist? They had built an entire way of life upon plunder alone, and even made it flourish.
Their so-called "Old Way" was nothing more than a desperate method of survival, taken to its extreme.
Clay listened to the voices rising around him and gave a slow nod.
"Yes, we must remain vigilant," he said, his tone calm and steady, "but our forty thousand troops are positioned right in the center. The initiative on this battlefield belongs to us."
He looked over the nobles gathered before him and allowed a faint smile to appear.
"My lords, I have a task for you. Use your influence to contact the other lords of the Westerlands and the Vale. Tell them that my army could march in at any moment. If they wish to resist, then fire and blood will fall upon their keeps. I trust they will make the wiser choice."
Laughter broke out among the gathered lords, followed by the rhythmic pounding of fists and palms against the table.
Clay had no desire to take one castle after another by force. Such conquests would only breed resentment, with little gain to show for it.
Wherever his troops went, the dragons would go with them. The fewer enemies they faced, the better.
To establish authority, the fall of the Eyrie and Casterly Rock would be more than enough.
Destruction was easy. Building was what took strength and time.
Several nobles stood up at once, pledging they could persuade a few allies to join their cause.
It was precisely because Clay Manderly now wore the crown that they dared speak so boldly. They all knew this king was a man of clear rewards and punishments. Under another ruler, not one of them would have opened his mouth.
After all, the more men they convinced to join the campaign, the fewer targets there would be left for them to plunder.
In the end, it was the nobles who reaped the real spoils, while the king merely stood as the banner that drew every grudge and every arrow.
But Clay's reign was still new, and not long ago, he had shown them a glimpse of the firestorm that once swept across the land during Robert's Rebellion.
No one in the hall had yet found the courage to play tricks on him.
Dragons, after all, do not reason with men.
"Lord Karstark. Lord Blackwood."
Clay called the names of one great lord from the North and another from the Riverlands.
Both men rose and bowed deeply.
"Your Grace."
Clay gave a curt nod and issued his command.
"You two will take four thousand horsemen and ten-thousand-foot soldiers. Station them at the Lord Harroway's Town. The earthen fort there still stands, make good use of it. Ensure that before our army finishes preparations to move against the Vale, their troops stay quiet and do not stir up trouble."
The two lords straightened and answered in one voice.
"Yes, Your Grace!"
Lord Harroway's Town was, in truth, far more important than the southern fortress of Harrenhal.
The Bloody Gate lay just beyond it. The Kingsroad ran north through its heart. To the west stretched the River Road that led straight to Riverrun.
Clay had always found it strange that a place with such strategic advantages remained nothing more than a humble town.
Anyone with the faintest grasp of trade would know that a crossroads like this held the potential to grow into a vast and prosperous city.
Its network of roads rivaled that of King's Landing itself, and to the northwest the three forks of the Trident met to form a mighty river, offering excellent conditions for water transport.
With such perfect geography, in Clay's past life it would have been called a military stronghold — land that every king would fight to claim.
Yet here in Westeros, it seemed no one cared about this poor little town but him.
During the Battle of Harrenhal, under Clay's orders, Lord Rickard Karstark had taken several thousand men to that very site, building a network of earthen forts over the course of several months.
Those defenses still stood strong and would now serve their purpose once more.
As long as the Vale's armies remained contained, the mission of Karstark and Blackwood would be complete by the time Clay finished his unification efforts.
"Lord Glover."
Clay called another name.
The Lord of Deepwood Motte stepped forward in response.
He and Clay went back a long way. From the days when Clay first marched south with Robb Stark's host, the two had worked closely together on the battlefield.
In the years that followed, Clay Manderly's string of decisive victories had carried him all the way to the Iron Throne itself.
From a personal standpoint, the lord of Deepwood Motte fully supported Clay's rise.
"Your Grace," he said, bowing his head, his tone sincere. "What are your orders?"
Clay regarded the northern lord, one of the few he still trusted, and his expression softened slightly.
"I'll give you five thousand men. They're veterans — lightly wounded or a little older. Take them back and station them at Winterfell."
He knew those words would make more than a few northern nobles uneasy, wondering what he intended.
"Do not worry," Clay continued. "I have no designs on Lord Eddard Stark's heirs. When you return, keep watch in two directions: toward the Wall, and toward the Iron Islands in the west."
The previous war had drained the North of its strength.
If their homeland were struck now, it would be disastrous.
He had only one dragon, and a dragon was not the best answer to raiders who could scatter and vanish across the sea at will.
Clay no longer had a clear grasp of the Ironborn's movements. No one could guess what madness the followers of the Drowned God might attempt next.
The North was his great rear stronghold, and it could not be allowed to fall.
Once he had secured his foothold in the South, it would not matter if the North were lost. But for now, its safety had to be ensured at all costs.
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[CHAPTER END]
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