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As expected, Clay once again took command of all the cavalry forces in the North—and not a single voice rose in protest.
Their last victory had been swift and decisive, so this time, handing over military authority went even more smoothly.
Of course, some families had already begun to worry that House Manderly was growing too powerful quickly. With Clay, a seasoned commander who held real power on the battlefield, there was always the possibility of… unforeseen consequences in the future.
But for most of the Northern nobles, what mattered first and foremost was making sure the majority of the troops they sent out would actually come back alive.
Family interests always came first. Loyalty to House Stark? That, more often than not, had to give way when family survival was on the line.
The North was vast but sparsely populated. If they lost ten thousand men in a single war, it would be a devastating blow to the region—not just in numbers, but in strength. These were their laborers, the backbone of every field and forge. In this era, strong, able-bodied men were irreplaceable in the engine of production.
If a minor noble house lost his entire force in the war, it wouldn't just be a matter of compensating widows and families. That kind of loss would gut the strength of the entire domain—economically, administratively, and defensively.
Taxes, local governance, public safety, even war potential… all of it rested on the shoulders of those same men. Without enough of them, forget prosperity. Forget defense. In times like these, a shortage of manpower was the end of the road.
So they didn't care how powerful House Manderly became. As long as Clay Manderly could lead their soldiers to crush every enemy in their path and—ideally—bring most of them home alive, preferably laden with spoils just like last time, then he was the kind of commander every house prayed for.
Given that, no one could shake Clay's position as cavalry commander. Anyone who tried would only be making enemies of the entire camp.
This war carried weight on two fronts. First, it was the Stark family's war of vengeance, a cause that held even greater legitimacy than the last one. Back then, people had still been arguing about whether Eddard Stark was truly a traitor. But this time, there was no such doubt. The truth was as clear as day.
And second, this was the first time in hundreds of years that a Stark had donned the crown of the King in the North. That alone changed the meaning of this war entirely. The North, alongside Dorne, had always been a cradle of separatist spirit in all of Westeros. Their desire for independence had never truly faded, no matter how many kings sat the Iron Throne.
For Robb Stark, victory in this war would mean the South would no longer have the power to interfere with the North's sovereignty. The Northerners had once bowed to the Targaryens only because they had dragons, because they could fly over the natural fortress of the Neck as if it did not even exist. But the Baratheons? Compared to that, who were they?
There were still two days left before the army set out for the South. Clay was patrolling the camp outside the city walls when a Stark soldier on horseback rode up and stopped in front of him.
Clay didn't understand what was going on at first, but the Lord of Deepwood Motte, who had been following behind him, frowned and spoke sharply, "What's the matter? Speak up quickly. The commander's still making his rounds, and the men's gear has to be inspected carefully."
"Lord Clay, Ser Rodrik sent me to say that His Grace wants you back at the castle immediately. He said someone has arrived from the Wall, ser. What are your orders?"
"The Wall?" Clay raised an eyebrow, his gaze sharpening with curiosity. "Alright. I understand. Head back and tell Ser Rodrik I will return to the castle as soon as I finish handling this."
He nodded without making things difficult for the Stark soldier in the direwolf tabard and waved him off, signaling for him to leave. The soldier gave a quick salute and turned his horse around without another word.
The Lord of Deepwood Motte looked puzzled and said hesitantly, "Someone from the Wall? The Night's Watch has business with us? Don't tell me Lord Eddard's younger brother, Benjen Stark, has come back again? Even if it is him, that's a Stark family affair. What's it got to do with you, Lord Clay?"
What the Lord Glover said was exactly what Clay had been wondering himself—but it wasn't something he could talk about openly. So he simply said,
"No idea. Let's go see. Here, you keep patrolling the camp. Do a full inventory of the soldiers' equipment. I need to know exactly what shape my forces are in. A commander who doesn't know his own troops is asking for trouble on the battlefield."
After giving his orders, Clay handed things over to the Lord of Deepwood Motte. The man still served under him, just as he had during the last campaign—they were already well acquainted from that war.
Once he'd confirmed everything was in order, Clay pulled the reins and galloped toward Winterfell. As the wind bit at his face, a sudden thought struck him. Aside from the Vale, he'd been overlooking a place far more critical.
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When Clay stepped into the great hall of Winterfell's main keep, his eyes fell on two figures waiting—one old, one young. He didn't recognize the elder, but the younger one, with that lean, sharp-boned face… he remembered it vividly.
"Jon? What are you doing back here?"
Clay was genuinely caught off guard. Had the flutter of his little butterfly's wings really reached as far as the Wall, that place so sealed off from the world? Wasn't Jon supposed to stay there until the end of time? What on earth had happened?
"Clay, I… I'm really glad to see you again. Robb told me all about your campaign to the South. Your achievements were truly impressive."
Jon Snow's tone was firm and measured, maybe even a little too serious. But Clay could tell right away. This was just a young man trying a little too hard to sound calm and mature. The Jon he remembered never spoke like this.
"Alright, alright. Sounds like the cold up there at the Wall's frozen your tongue stiff. Can't even talk properly anymore, is that it?"
Clay chuckled as he stepped toward him, his voice light with amusement. Then his eyes drifted past Jon to the other two figures in the room. One was an elderly man standing quietly. The other, seated near the hearth, was Robb Stark himself.
He pulled out a chair and sat down, removing his gloves as he turned to look at Robb—who didn't look particularly pleased—and asked without preamble:
"Robb, what's so urgent that you had to call me back?"
Robb unfolded his hands and gestured toward the grey-haired man beside Jon, a figure dressed head to toe in the black of the Night's Watch. His expression was serious as he spoke.
"Clay, let me introduce you. This is Jeor Mormont, the nine hundred and ninety-seventh Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. He's the one who brought Jon here."
Jeor Mormont? The Old Bear himself? Gods… what was he doing here? What could have happened at the Wall that even the Lord Commander had come south in person?
Clay's mind raced. Based on the timeline he knew, it would not be long before this widely respected commander of the Night's Watch was betrayed by his own men and murdered beyond the Wall. But now? Clearly, something had changed. The course of fate was shifting.
"Lord Commander, it's an honor. I'm not a Stark, so I cannot formally welcome the brothers of the Watch to this keep… but White Harbor will always receive the Night's Watch with open arms. If you need men, I'll immediately contact my uncle Wylis and have him empty the dungeons for you."
In the North, the Night's Watch still commanded a measure of respect—far more than they ever did in the South. South of the Neck, black-clad rangers were often treated no better than witchers out of some half-forgotten tale from another world. They were feared, shunned, and ridiculed. The difference between the two was not all that large. One mocked the other, but neither was ever welcomed with warmth. The only reason the common folk did not go too far was that the Night's Watch still bore the king's name behind them.
But in the North, the Watch had always maintained strong ties with the noble houses. After all, the Watch stood guard on their behalf. If the Watch fell, if the Wall was breached, then it would be the Northern lords who had to shoulder the burden of defense.
Here, the title Shield of the Kingdom still meant something. So, every castle in the North would welcome a black brother's arrival, and few would turn away when asked to provide new recruits.
"Then I won't be polite about it. The Wall really does need help right now. I didn't come bearing good news."
Lord Commander Jeor Mormont's weathered face showed a trace of helpless and weariness. There was a cup of water on the long table in front of him, but it had long gone cold—clearly he hadn't had a moment to drink.
"Clay Manderly, is it?" His voice was calm, yet carried the weight of command. "Apologies, I haven't followed Southern news in some time. To be honest, if you hadn't made such a name for yourself on the battlefield, I might not have known of you at all."
He wore a faint, polite smile on his face. Clay's eyes drifted to Jon Snow beside him, dressed in the same black, with a long sword strapped to his hip. If he wasn't mistaken, that had to be the Valyrian steel sword "Longclaw," once the heirloom of House Mormont.
"Lord Commander, perhaps we can talk about all that later," Clay said, his tone steady but direct. "Right now, I'd like to know what this 'bad news' actually is. After all, with so many armies gathered here, I don't see how things could be that bad."
But deep down, Clay already had a guess.
The rumors of White Walkers—Northern folk might laugh them off as ghost stories told to scare children, but Clay knew better. He knew they were real.
As the magic-bound counterpart to the gods and monsters of the old world, the White Walkers were the most unpredictable of them all. And if what the Three-Eyed Crow had told him was true, then that being, that ancient presence aligned with the Old Gods, was trying to maintain balance. Supporting Clay had never been about his success—it was about stopping R'hllor's influence from spreading too far.
"Well then…" the old man said, a faint glint of amusement behind his tired eyes, "sounds like the young commander thinks I'm being long-winded. Very well, I'll tell you."
"Clay, have you ever heard the legends of the White Walkers?"
The Lord Commander's voice shifted, growing serious in an instant.
Of course Clay knew. But at this moment, he couldn't appear to know. So he played along, eyes widening slightly, his voice hesitant.
"White Walkers… I always thought those were just old stories. Fairy tales."
"Yes, that's what most people believe. I used to think the same way… but not anymore. I came here to Winterfell for one reason—to tell all of you that the White Walkers are real… and they've returned."
Something stirred in Clay's chest. So it had happened after all. Despite all his efforts to change the flow of things, the warning about the White Walkers had still made its way south to Winterfell, the heart of the North.
Though, if he remembered correctly, there was supposed to be a magical barrier across the Wall. Unless something catastrophic had occurred… something like Daenerys Targaryen recklessly sacrificing one of her dragons to the enemy… that Wall should still be standing strong. But even so, was this truly something that required the Lord Commander himself to ride south?
"Lord Commander, I believe you completely. I'll admit, it sounds like something from a child's tale, even a poorly thought-out prank… but if it is you standing here telling me this, then it must be the truth. I trust the White Walkers are real. Please… go on."
Clay's reaction caught everyone off guard. Robb Stark had pressed the Lord Commander with question after question when he first heard this, demanding confirmation over and over. But Clay had accepted it without hesitation.
"…Thank you for your understanding, Lord Clay. Then I'll continue."
"It all started with three of our ranger brothers who ventured beyond the Wall. They were led by a young man named Waymar Royce. They were chasing a group of wildlings… and then we lost all contact."
"When we finally found them, they were already dead, their bodies frozen stiff. One of them, it seems, deserted. King Robb told me he was executed by Lord Eddard Stark."
"I was there," Clay added softly. "I remember that execution."
"Later, the frozen corpses were brought back to Castle Black. And then, one night… their eyes opened. They were glowing—ice blue. The dead… had come back."
Clay furrowed his brow. To anyone else, that might've sounded like utter nonsense, pure fantasy… but he knew better. He knew it was real. The threat of the White Walkers wasn't just possible. It was inevitable.
"We had no choice but to raise our swords against men who were once our brothers. But our steel could not kill them. You could cut off their arms, carve through their flesh, and they would still keep moving. They were not men anymore."
"In the end, it was a Valyrian steel sword that finally finished it," Jon Snow added, quietly but firmly. He had seen it with his own eyes.
Clay didn't respond immediately. He sat in silence, brows drawn together. He remembered fragments of these events, just enough to know they were true. But still, the Night's Watch numbered nearly a thousand men. Surely that was enough to handle this? This shouldn't have been serious enough to bring them begging for help at Winterfell's gates.
The Lord Commander Mormont's took a deep breath and finally reached for his cup of water. It was ice cold, but he drank it all down in one motion before continuing.
"We killed those things. But after that, the wildlings from the far North began to gather. Under the leadership of their so-called king, Mance Rayder, they started marching south, toward the Wall. Once we realized the danger, I ordered our First Ranger, Benjen Stark, to lead three hundred men beyond the Wall."
"They did finally come back. But only about a dozen of them made it."
"Those brothers who returned from the brink of death brought back confirmation that the White Walkers do exist. They said our comrades were slain by creatures cold as ice itself… and then turned into the walking dead."
"And there was one survivor," he went on, his voice heavier now, "a ranger who had been at the front alongside Benjen. He was shaking all over as he spoke. He told us there were not two enemies beyond the Wall… but three. The White Walkers. The wildlings. And something else."
He paused for a moment, then said it flatly.
"…He said there were figures wearing grotesque armor. Creatures in hideous plate, riding warhorses clad in matching armor, capturing and hunting wildlings without mercy."
Clay fell quiet, sinking into thought as he processed this twisted version of events. In his memory, wasn't the expedition beyond the Wall supposed to have been led by Lord Commander Mormont himself, going out to find the missing Benjen Stark?
But now the story has changed. Mormont had stayed behind, and it was he who sent Benjen north to push back the wildlings—only to have the patrol run straight into the White Walkers. The outcome was similar. The dead were the same. But the context… the roles had shifted. What was going on here?
And more than that, it was the Commander's last sentence that caught Clay's attention—those grotesque suits of armor. That detail hadn't been there before. That was new.
The White Walkers themselves were not mindless shadows or formless spirits. No, if anything, they were creatures of intelligence, beings born from ancient cold and shaped by the old winter magic into something wholly unnatural. Not ghosts, but thinking entities.
They were the icy reflection of the dragons, creatures wrought from fire and flame. Clay understood that much. But in all his memories, the White Walkers never wore grotesque plate armor or anything of the sort.
Their pale bodies were always shrouded in ice-forged gear, formed through arcane means in the heart of the far North. No smiths. No forges. No steel. There were no forges north of the Wall, so how could there be iron armor? And besides, what would they even need armor for? It seemed completely unnecessary.
The image that flashed through Clay's mind was so ridiculous it nearly made him laugh. A White Walker hunched beside a blazing furnace beneath the cold, watchful gaze of the Great Other, hammering glowing metal as sparks flew and bellows hissed. The idea was impossible.
But if that survivor had not been mistaken… then this was far more interesting than he had expected. This was something new. Something that had not existed in the timeline he remembered.
"Later," Lord Commander Mormont continued, "the King Beyond the Wall, Mance Rayder, began moving toward the Wall at speed. It all happened quickly. He sent an envoy ahead, asking to be let through."
"The reason he gave was this. They said two terrors hunted them from the North."
The pale White Walkers, who slaughtered their people and raised their corpses into walking wights… and those other knights, clad in terrifying iron armor, riding warhorses armored the same way, capturing the living with ruthless precision.
"Mance Rayder said they had already lost twenty thousand people along the way. They couldn't hold out any longer. Otherwise, he swore, they would never bow their heads and beg us crows for mercy."
As Mormont spoke, his voice carried a faint trace of disdain and mockery… but hidden beneath it was a thread of real concern.
He knew very well what kind of people these so-called "Free Folk" were. They boasted of liberty and freedom, but truthfully, they weren't ready—nor willing—to reconcile with the people of the South. Put plainly, they were too proud to live and too stubborn to die with dignity.
The wildlings' stubbornness rivaled that of Stannis Baratheon himself. Yet to force the King-Beyond-the-Wall, a man who despised the Night's Watch and had mocked them as black crows, into surrendering… what kind of fear must have driven him to such desperation?
The White Walkers and their raised dead were essentially enhanced zombies—imbued with some level of magical power. But even so, they weren't impossible to counter. Dragonstone, for example, held vast reserves of dragonglass, which contained traces of fire-based magic.
That was precisely why the Three-Eyed Raven feared Clay so deeply. When magic from one source invades a body shaped by a different kind, it causes that structure to collapse from the inside out.
So to Clay, the White Walkers and their so-called Army of the Dead didn't pose any real threat. Even if every living creature beyond the Wall dropped dead and turned into wights, it wouldn't matter—as long as their numbers didn't grow out of control.
"The Lord Commander means," Robb Stark added, "that we should let the wildlings in. Because if we leave them outside the Wall, and they're all turned into wights, the pressure on us will be overwhelming."
Clay nodded. Then, turning toward Mormont, who had gone quiet, he asked directly, "Lord Commander, just tell me straight. If not a single wildling is allowed through, they're going to lose their minds, right? With the strength of the Night's Watch as it stands… can you actually hold them back?"
Because if the Night's Watch shut them out, even knowing the White Walkers and some unknown enemy were closing in, what would Mance Rayder do?
When survival is the only goal, there's only one solution… storm the Wall. Attack the Night's Watch, take the Wall by force, and flee south. Even if only a single person makes it through, it would still be better than dying to the last man beyond the Wall.
And hearing Clay say that, Mormont knew… this young battlefield commander had already grasped the core of the issue.
The Night's Watch had, at most, a thousand men at this moment. And they were tasked with guarding a Wall that stretched the entire width of the continent. In truth, only three castles along the Wall still had anyone left to defend them.
Mance Rayder claimed to have a hundred thousand under his command. Even if only ten thousand of them could actually fight, that was still far beyond what the Night's Watch could handle. And Clay was well aware of another problem—the massive canyon to the west of the Wall. In theory, a force could bypass the Wall entirely by going around it.
Even if just a few hundred slipped through and launched a surprise attack on the Watch, it would be a disaster the brothers in black could never afford. After everything the Watch had already been through, Clay doubted there were even seven hundred of them left. If there were, it would be the gods' mercy.
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(Author's Note)
I imagine some of you sharp-eyed readers have already noticed what I've changed or added here. Yes, for quite some time now, the protagonist's system hasn't activated. It might seem like the witcher elements are becoming a bit of dead weight—but don't worry. Their moment is coming. After all, they're witchers. Eventually, they'll have to do something worthy of the name, right?
Trust me. The convergence of spheres isn't happening just yet. The main plotline is still focused on the war to unify the Seven Kingdoms. But there are some things I had to lay the groundwork for ahead of time.
This Game of Thrones fanfiction runs on a very simple engine: civil war, then victory in the civil war, then overwhelming the White Walkers with sheer strength, and then… either wrapping it up or burning out.
But to me, the White Walkers—bosses handpicked by George R. R. Martin—shouldn't be this weak. In the show, they were basically just fancy zombies. But that's not how I see them.
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