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"This is the territory of the Old Gods. Keep heading north, and you'll step right into the domain of your master R'hllor's sworn enemy…the Great Other. Are you sure you want to have this conversation here? For all we know… every little move we make right now is being watched by something."
Clay raised a finger and casually pointed at the top of the tent. The meaning behind the gesture couldn't have been clearer—talking here was no different from whispering directly into the Three-Eyed Crow's ear. That… wouldn't end well.
"And besides," he added, his tone still calm and indifferent, "I should remind you… the ones you crippled just now, in a way, they're part of that Three-Eyed Raven's camp too. The way you 'greeted' them… I doubt He'll be very pleased."
Melisandre's gaze drifted lazily toward the group of skinchangers lying half-dead nearby. But the faint smile on her lips didn't waver in the slightest, and not even a hint of worry surfaced on her delicate, flawless face.
"You don't need to fret for me," she replied softly, her voice steady with absolute confidence. "The Three-Eyed Raven wouldn't dare spy on me. If His eyes dared linger upon me… it would be no different than staring directly at my lord, R'hllor. And should that happen… the light and heat of my lord's flame would bring Him pain beyond imagining."
The red-haired woman stretched out a pale, graceful hand, reaching toward the little 'mouse' resting on the table. But, unfortunately for her, the nimble creature darted away, easily slipping from the witch's fingertips.
Melisandre's lips pressed together ever so slightly, a flicker of puzzlement flashing across her eyes. By all logic, the young man sitting across from her should never have dodged that. After all, his gaze had been fixed on her chest far longer than anywhere else. Melisandre knew men of his age far too well — she could practically read their thoughts like an open book.
In her mind, Clay wasn't supposed to dodge at all. And yet… reality played out differently.
Clay had avoided her touch. And Melisandre didn't believe for a second it was because he was shy.
Expecting a man who had bathed in blood on the battlefield — who cut down men, women, and children alike without hesitation — to blush like some sheltered boy? That notion didn't hold up in the slightest.
Her gem-like eyes narrowed as she studied his expressionless face, those calm, unwavering eyes as still as a frozen lake. A sudden tightness coiled in Melisandre's chest as a quiet realization crept over her.
This bastard… he was putting on an act for her all along. That look of infatuation with her body… every last bit of it had been faked!
No matter who Melisandre was — priestess, sorceress, or shadowbinder — at the end of the day, she was still a woman. And for a woman… few things were more infuriating than a man pretending to lust after her body.
A flash of irritation danced across her face, vanishing in the blink of an eye. She fixed her gaze on Clay, who sat there like a silent statue, unmoving and unreadable. A quiet sigh stirred in her chest.
In all her travels… all the kingdoms and cities she had crossed… every time she tried to spread the faith of the Lord of Light, it was men like this who proved to be the most exasperating. You say your piece, they listen or at least pretend to, but in the end, they remain unmoved. You talk, they nod. You persuade, they stay indifferent. No matter what words you weave… they refuse to believe.
"We should not waste any more time, Lady Melisandre," Clay's voice broke the silence, smooth and unhurried, yet carrying that unmistakable weight of finality. "I am willing to tell you about the agreement between me and the servant of the Old Gods. But before that…"
His finger tapped lightly against the map of Westeros sprawled across the table. His voice remained steady and calm, free of impatience, but every word landed with quiet certainty.
"I need to know what you can offer me in return."
"After all… in this world, everything comes with a price written in invisible ink. If you expect to gain something valuable from me, something that might actually benefit you… then show me your sincerity first."
A long silence followed. The tent remained quiet, the air heavy with unspoken tension, until finally… Melisandre's voice broke the stillness. There was a faint weariness clinging to her words, but they still carried their usual sharp, cutting edge.
"Clay Manderly… you really are completely lacking in manners. But I suppose that's not surprising. You managed to stir up such a storm across Essos, and now… I imagine those crown-wearing fools scattered across Westeros are already nothing more than pieces on your chessboard, aren't they?"
"Manners?" Clay let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head as if the very idea amused him. "Manners aren't exactly made for people like us, Lady Melisandre. And as for those crowns…"
His right hand lifted slightly, tapping the side of his temple with a faint, careless gesture as he spoke, his tone cool and unhurried.
"If a pile of gold hammered into a pretty shape is all it takes to be called a crown… don't you think that's rather laughable?"
"As long as I want it… that thing can appear on my head anytime," Clay continued, his lips curling faintly. "It's just… I don't feel like it right now."
The two of them let the topic drift away after that. Melisandre circled around him with words and questions, but before the wall of Clay's flawless indifference, she made no headway whatsoever. In the end, she finally chose to lay her cards on the table and reveal her true purpose for coming here.
"Clay," she said slowly, her beautiful eyes dark and steady, "if I, and my companions, guided by the will of my lord, acknowledge you as king… if we help you seize the throne and unite all of Westeros… in exchange, your new kingdom will accept the light of my lord. What do you say?"
There was no need to overthink it. Compared to the Three-Eyed Raven's offer, the meaning behind Melisandre's words couldn't have been clearer. She intended to bring all of Westeros under the influence of the Lord of Light.
"You people really don't lack ambition, do you?" Clay's fingers again tapped lightly against the tabletop, his expression growing slightly peculiar. "Let's set the Faith of the Seven aside for now. Their spine was snapped by royal power long ago. They're in no shape to stir up trouble. But what about the North and beyond the Wall? What's your plan for them?"
"The Old Gods have held sway over the North and the lands beyond for thousands of years… probably even longer than that. I highly doubt your religion will ever be accepted here. And tell me… why would they? Are your red-robed priests planning to wander into the villages and put on firework shows for the peasants?"
Clay's voice remained calm, but there was a faint trace of mockery hidden beneath his words.
"And another thing… if I go along with this, it'll mean openly standing against the entire world of the Old Gods. I imagine you're well aware of where my roots lie on this continent, aren't you?"
His gaze sharpened slightly, though his tone remained as smooth and steady as ever.
"Last question… what do you plan to do about those creatures beyond the Wall? They are your master R'hllor's sworn enemies, not mine. And if it were not for the simple fact that their minions make peaceful coexistence impossible… I might have been willing to sit down and share a drink with them."
Truth be told, when you laid the two options side by side… the proposal offered by the Three-Eyed Raven actually sounded far more reasonable.
Under that arrangement, the Great Other would remain coiled up beyond the Wall, the Old Gods would continue ruling over the North, and his own new kingdom… would serve as a buffer zone, blocking R'hllor's westward expansion..
But Melisandre's terms… in reality, they were no different from marching an army right up to someone's doorstep, swords drawn and torches blazing. You'd have to be mad to think that wouldn't end in chaos.
"The Great Other will be destroyed. That much is inevitable," Melisandre declared firmly, her voice carrying the absolute certainty of a zealot. "On that point, Clay Manderly, you should never doubt my lord's resolve."
"You know perfectly well what kind of creatures serve the Great Other. For the human kingdoms you value so much… they are nothing short of a deadly threat."
Clay's lips curled faintly, his expression unreadable as his eyes remained fixed on her.
"Now that's where I find things… curious," he said slowly, his voice calm, but carrying a sharp, subtle undertone. "If R'hllor considers the Great Other such a serious threat, treats Him as a mortal enemy… then why hasn't He destroyed them already? Why is it that instead of wiping them out, you people have come knocking at my door?"
"Tell me… do you know how that looks to a soldier like me? That reeks of weakness."
Melisandre didn't answer, but a faint smile tugged at the corners of her lips. Her silence, paired with that calm, composed look, said plenty on its own.
"Of course…" she finally spoke, her words carrying the same steady, composed tone, as though none of this rattled her in the slightest. "My lord discovered that individuals like you… those who can wield both fire magic and the forbidden cold magic… seem capable of passing that trait on to others. Your guards, the ones who fight beside you, they appear to be proof of that, aren't they?"
In that moment, realization dawned on Clay.
So… that's what this was all about.
It wasn't just him as a person they were after. It was his identity as a witcher — a unique existence that had mastered a form of magic utterly unlike the mainstream powers of this world. The ability to command both ice and fire, to bend them to his will in open defiance of their so-called opposition.
It makes sense now. R'hllor, the so-called Lord of Light, must have been utterly incapable of understanding how fire magic and cold magic could coexist within the same body. And if that were true…
A thought suddenly struck Clay like a bolt of lightning.
If beings like him could exist… didn't that mean…
The grand worldview that R'hllor, the Lord of Light, and the entire Red God faith so proudly proclaimed — the eternal, irreconcilable duality of ice and fire, the destined clash where R'hllor represented justice and the Lord of Darkness embodied evil — was nothing but a farce.
If ice and fire could coexist within one body, in perfect balance…
Then the whole foundation of their dogma… fell apart.
Clay's gaze lingered on Melisandre's face, his expression unreadable, his mind racing with possibilities.
And more importantly… if you followed that logic to its conclusion… once the Great Other, the so-called greatest enemy, was destroyed…
Wouldn't he, a living contradiction to R'hllor's worldview, become the next target for the Lord of Light?
It was simple… really!
His existence — the coexistence of ice and fire within him, the power of the witcher — was living proof that R'hllor's rigid, black-and-white vision of the world was nothing but nonsense. Proof that ice and fire could exist together.
A faint, thoughtful look flickered across Clay's eyes as he stared at Melisandre, lost in silent contemplation.
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[Chapter End's]
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