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Clay understood well enough what the Three-Eyed Raven was talking about, yet he had no desire to let the old creature glimpse too much of his own thoughts.
What puzzled him far more was the purpose behind those beings who had crossed into this world. Their intentions lay hidden like shapes lost in a heavy fog, impossible to read, impossible even to guess.
He could only admit the truth to himself: the path ahead was veiled. The future remained blurred, a landscape where nothing could be seen clearly.
"I do not know," he said at last, his voice low and even. "But this land beyond the Wall… I dislike it more with every moment I stay."
"I feel the same," the raven replied, the sound of its words carrying a faint rustle like dry leaves. "If there were any other way, I would never linger here either."
On that point, the Three-Eyed Raven offered a rare note of agreement.
"Enough," Clay continued after a pause. "Tell me now why the power of the Old Gods burns so strongly across the North. I cannot believe such strength belongs to you alone."
He tilted his head, eyes glinting. "And look at yourself. It is plain that your little game has gone badly awry."
Clay had no intention of discussing the knights from beyond the stars. That matter could wait until he met them face to face. There were other concerns pressing on him now, matters of far greater weight.
"Well…" the Three-Eyed Raven murmured after a thoughtful silence, "you are right about one thing. The power is not mine."
"To be precise," he said, "it comes from years upon years of devotion stored within the heart trees, a power born of the faith of the Northmen."
"Faith?"
The word slipped from Clay before he could stop it. Could so-called divine might truly spring from nothing more than belief, an unseen force shaped by worship? The thought struck him as almost quaint, like an old tale told too many times around a hearth.
The raven gave a slow shake of its head.
"It cannot be explained so simply," it murmured. "One can only say that my master's strength has its roots in such a way. And you, after all, are proof that exceptions always exist."
Clay considered this and had to admit the creature was right. The magic he had drawn from this world owed nothing to worship. Faith did not grant him even the worth of a half-copper coin.
The Three-Eyed Raven's voice deepened, the air around them carrying the sound like a cold breeze through pine. "You should already know why I have woven so many dreams. Do you understand what it is I seek?"
"…I do," Clay answered after a pause. "Go on."
"I cannot allow the gaze of the Cold God to fall upon me. Only by weaving this endless tangle of dreams can I scatter that divine attention."
"At first I released only a trace of power through the heart trees, brushing against a few sleepers and gathering fragments of their dreams."
"But in time I realized such efforts were far too meagre. The Cold God hunts me with tireless resolve, and so I was forced to hide again and again."
"My own strength is limited. I could gather only a small handful of dreams. So I turned instead to the vast and tangled memories buried deep within the weirwoods."
Here the raven's dark face seemed to droop with weariness, a rueful smile forming as though mocking its own ambition. "I overestimated myself. I cannot command such overwhelming power."
"When my essence seeped into that ancient store, the forces within awoke of their own accord. I stirred them without meaning to."
"They began to surge outward, slipping beyond any control, devouring dream after dream."
"At first I meant only to draw upon the dreams of passing nights," the Three-Eyed Raven went on, "but those powers… they cared nothing for boundaries."
"That is what led to the scene you witnessed outside. All whose will is fragile find their dreams torn from them and carried away."
"I have fled into the dreamscape myself, powerless to stop what follows."
Clay inclined his head slowly. He listened without interruption, though the details stirred little concern in him. He had no way to test the raven's tale and no patience for its regrets. What mattered was not how the chaos began but how it could be ended.
"So," he asked, his voice steady, "if I pull you out of here, can you rein in that power? Can you make it fade, or draw it back into the heart trees where it belongs?"
The Three-Eyed Raven hesitated before dipping its head.
"It should be possible," it said after a pause. "But it is too dangerous beyond the Wall. I must move south of the Wall to be safe."
He lifted one withered arm and gestured toward his frail body. "Besides, this shell can no longer travel. Which means…"
His eyes drifted toward Bran Stark.
Clay understood the meaning without a word. He felt no flicker of guilt at the thought of the Three-Eyed Raven consuming Bran. After so many years in this world, he had long since forged his own sense of belonging.
He was a Manderly first, everything else came after.
Now he weighed only the risks.
This was not the crippled boy from his memories who had been dragged into the frozen wilderness. Bran Stark, after the death of Robb, stood in every sense as the Lord of the North.
Clay might have forced many northern lords to bend the knee, winning their obedience through the threat of dragons and the debt of lives he had spared, yet he knew true submission was still far away.
If he allowed the Three-Eyed Raven to step into Bran Stark's place, he would in effect deliver the North into that ancient power's grasp. Clay understood how fragile his own hold truly was. Two years of campaigning had granted him soldiers and the shadow of authority, yet little of the deep-rooted loyalty that bound a lord to northern soil. Beyond his armies he possessed almost no lasting strength.
What if the raven carried ambitions of its own? Could he strike first and crush it in an instant if it turned against him? Could he sweep through its hidden den and leave nothing but silence behind? He weighed the thought carefully, the silence stretching as he considered. At last he judged that he could still keep the upper hand.
"All right," he said. "How much time do you need?"
Brynden Rivers crouched low. A withered hand slipped from the black folds of his robe and came to rest upon Bran Stark's head.
"As long as he is willing, the process will not take long," the old greenseer replied. "Have a little patience. In dreams there is no measure of time."
"The real question," he added with a faint shrug, "is that this Stark has not yet agreed. Which means…"
He opened his palms and offered a helpless smile. Clay understood at once and let out a quiet breath. He crouched beside them and stretched out his own hand.
The Three-Eyed Raven watched the scene with keen interest.
He had always envied Clay's raw talent for imposing his will directly on another mind. Among all the powers Clay displayed, this was the one the raven feared most.
Because it was brutally simple.
Sometimes the twisting paths of persuasion only wasted effort and still failed. A straight strike often worked far better.
Power stirred within Clay. Magic surged down his arm once again, gathering at the shape formed by his left hand. A pale green sign, a triangle etched in light, flickered across Bran Stark's forehead and vanished.
At once the young direwolf, who only a heartbeat before had lain in deep sleep, opened its eyes. The pupils held no focus, as though its sight had turned inward.
Clay watched Brynden Rivers' face brighten with a flash of sharp excitement and said softly, "Now, speak your request."
He inclined his head, his voice low and firm. "Tell him exactly what you want. If he hears the truth from your own lips, he may be far more willing to yield."
The Three-Eyed Raven, startled by this unexpected display, caught the warning in Clay's expression and abandoned any thought of prying further into this spell. There would be time to unravel its secrets later. For now it was wiser not to provoke the man who carried such a dangerous calm.
His attention returned to the vessel it had chosen. The kindly, almost gentle tone it had used before fell away. What followed rasped like dry bark scraped across stone, harsh and ancient.
"The strongest roots sink into the darkness beneath the earth.
Darkness will be your cloak and your shield.
Darkness will feed you.
Darkness will make you strong.
Accept this gift and you will bear the most sacred of charges.
I am you, and you are me.
The last greenseer.
I…"
The voice trailed into a silence as deep as the cavern itself.
Clay listened without a word. Through the mark he had carved, he felt Bran Stark's mind forced open, felt power seep into the boy in slow, relentless waves.
There was nothing more for him to do.
He rose and stepped aside, his movements quiet and deliberate. Trusting this black-feathered creature was out of the question. When he pressed the sign upon Bran Stark's brow, he had hidden a thread of his own magic deep within the boy's thoughts. Should the raven ever turn its will elsewhere, should it reach for a power beyond the bargain they had struck, then the last greenseer would find two alien currents locked inside him… and who could say if that fragile vessel could endure such a clash?
He remembered how the creature had flinched earlier at the mere taste of his strength. By that measure it would likely fall if the clash ever came. Since it had forced him to make his choice, he would grant it no courtesy in return.
Every sip of water and every grain of food is already written, he thought, a quiet truth that no one escapes.
He leaned against the shattered stones of the ruined tower and let his eyes drift shut, resting in the dreamscape where day and night never trade places. Time lost meaning there, yet he kept his senses sharp, listening for the slightest change around the Three-Eyed Raven and Bran Stark.
Even without clocks or the sun he felt the shift. The raven's withered body weakened little by little while Bran's own frame filled and strengthened, as though the current of life itself had begun to flow from one vessel into another. No poem, however beautiful, could ever conceal the ugliness of that exchange.
Yet there was no judge to condemn it. His own sense of right and wrong gave him no reason to intervene. He had allowed this to unfold and knew it served his purpose better than any interruption ever could.
The South remained restless and divided. What he needed now was a North that would hold steady. Yet the children raised beneath Eddard Stark's hand were the most difficult to sway.
They clung too fiercely to honor and to the weight of the Stark name. Because of that, there were things they would never compromise on, no matter what bargain was placed before them.
So he chose another safeguard. He would leave behind a greenseer marked with his own hidden path, a vessel he could reach should the need ever arise. At the very least this one treated honor, virtue, and all the fine words about courtesy and shame as nothing but empty air. Clay preferred dealing with men who understood that only advantage truly mattered.
With such men there was no talk of loyalty or affection. There was only the language of gain, and Clay found comfort in that.
Interest could be weighed and measured, counted and divided until its value stood clear before every eye. Favor or affection could never be tallied in such a way, and what cannot be given a price is always the most costly of all.
At last Brynden's old body gave out. The heart within that frail chest ceased its slow beating, and the shell toppled into the meadow. At that same moment Bran Stark's eyes began to clear, the haze lifting from their pale green depths. Clay knew then that the transfer had succeeded.
He offered a calm, almost indifferent blessing.
"Seems you didn't disappoint me, Bran Stark."
Brynden Rivers, now wholly settled within the younger flesh, rose slowly from the grass. His former shell collapsed in an instant to drifting ash, leaving behind only a black robe as proof that it had ever stood beneath the sky.
The face that turned toward Clay was young yet burdened with the vicissitudes of a long life, a strange and uneasy mask. "Good. Now… I feel much safer."
Clay let the words linger in the air. He gave no reply. He already knew what would follow. When they stepped back into the waking world, Brynden Rivers would open his eyes inside the small chapel at Winterfell.
No one could guess how strange the sight would seem when a servant of the Old Gods awoke beneath the sevenfold gaze of the Faith.
"All right," Clay said at last. "If you are ready, we can leave this place. Once you stand north of the Wall, the Cold God will not be able to find you."
The Three-Eyed Raven inclined his head. "Yes. That is true," he said with a faint trace of regret. "A pity about the Children of the Forest, though."
Clay turned a questioning look upon him, a look that all but asked, You have already shown how cold and ruthless you can be. Why waste a thought on them now?
The last greenseer caught the meaning in Clay's eyes. He let out a slow, weary breath before he spoke again. "I never liked them," he admitted, "but they understand certain basic workings of magic. When the moment grows desperate their skill can still be of use."
A thin, wry smile crossed his borrowed face. "You saw it yourself. Even as a greenseer I cannot command every heart tree across the North at once. Brynden Rivers or Bran Stark, it makes no difference. No mortal body can endure the flood of power it would require. With the Children still alive, if a true crisis came, they might help me hold a few more trees."
Clay frowned at that. "I am in your old cave now. I should be able to drag a few of them out without much trouble."
The Three-Eyed Raven slowly shook his head. "It will not work. They will never follow you. If they wish to hide south of the Wall, they have a hundred ways to vanish, and you will never catch them."
He straightened, the black robe settling upon Bran's shoulders like a living shadow.
"Enough. We should go."
Clay gave a short nod. "Remember what you must do once you are awake."
"I know," the greenseer replied. "After all, I carry the name Stark now. The Northerners are my people. I will see to it."
The world around them began to splinter. The pale light of the dream broke apart, its edges fraying like torn cloth. With Bran Stark's will withdrawing, the vision itself reached its end.
The Three-Eyed Raven did not hear the silent words that shaped themselves upon Clay Manderly's lips as everything fell away.
"You are wrong. They are my people…"
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