Rayder was oblivious to the shadow creeping into his soul.
All his attention was fixed on the boiling surge of magic inside him — wild, molten, intoxicating.
The power flowed through his veins like liquid fire. Each breath drew in more strength; each heartbeat echoed like thunder in his chest.
With it, he could raise legions of wights — silent, loyal soldiers of ice and death — who obeyed his every thought without hesitation.
And as more Savage Tribes fell to him, his system energy points soared past ten thousand.
But Rayder did not stop. He couldn't.
The ecstasy of power drowned every whisper of restraint.
---
Beyond the frozen wastes, fear spread like wildfire among the wildlings.
In less than a month, over a dozen tribes vanished. Camps that once filled the tundra with song and smoke became silent graveyards buried in snow.
To the tribes, it was as if stars had fallen from the sky — one by one, snuffed out by an unseen hand.
The Green Prophet was the first to understand the truth.
Through the roots of the weirwoods and the whispers of the forest, he felt Rayder's corruption — a mortal mind swallowing the Cold God's divinity piece by piece.
It was blasphemy beyond measure.
And worse, it was working.
"He is no longer merely human," the Prophet murmured, fear in his ancient eyes. "He is becoming something else."
He knew that if Rayder continued unchecked, he would not remain the Cold God's thief for long — he would become His vessel.
To stop him, the Prophet needed an equal and opposite flame.
And so he turned to the Red Priestess.
---
After a long search through the blizzards, the Prophet found her.
She stood amidst the ruins of a Savage Tribe, red robes billowing in the frostwind, a living flame amid endless white.
"Rayder has touched the Cold God's power," the Prophet said without preamble. "He's in the territory of the cannibal tribes. Soon, he will not be Rayder anymore."
The Red Priestess's eyes flickered like twin embers beneath her hood.
She turned toward the brazier beside her, where the fire's reflection danced across her pale face. Within the flames, she saw visions — a dragon's shadow against ice, a man's heart divided between frost and flame.
"If he falls to the Cold God," she whispered, "then the prophecy burns to ash."
The Prophet said nothing. He could only watch as she drew a blood-red gem from her robes — smooth as glass, alive with inner fire.
She placed it in the brazier. The flames leapt instantly, turning crimson. The gem pulsed like a living heart.
"This," she said, "is not to destroy him. It will awaken the fire within him — the blood of old Valyria. If the two flames unite, perhaps they can smother the Cold God's ice."
But in her heart, another plan took root.
If not, then I will make him burn — body and soul.
She would not confront him here. The cold beyond the Wall was the Cold God's domain.
She would lure him south, to the land of light and warmth, where R'hllor's will was strong.
She wrapped the gem carefully and began her journey north, following the Prophet's directions through the howling snow.
---
Meanwhile, Rayder began to feel strange changes stirring in his body.
Through the mental link with his dragons, Im and Yigen sensed his turmoil — their worry and warmth brushed against his mind like flickering candlelight in the dark.
But Ghidorah… Ghidorah reveled in it.
The golden three-headed dragon drank in Rayder's rising bloodlust like nectar. It thrived on slaughter, its scales thickening, its body growing larger with every massacre.
The deeper Rayder fell, the more Ghidorah awakened.
---
When the Red Priestess finally found him, the scene before her was one from a nightmare.
Rayder stood at the head of his undead host — dozens of wights trudging behind him in grim procession. His three dragons loomed above like black storms.
Even the ground beneath his feet seemed to shudder at his presence.
The Priestess's breath caught in her throat. So this is the man they fear…
Rayder turned his head as she approached. His expression held no alarm, only curiosity.
He had thought himself far beyond the reach of others. Yet this woman, draped in scarlet flame, had found him effortlessly.
He studied her as she walked closer — step by step across the snow.
Her face was flawless, ethereal. Her eyes glowed like molten rubies, filled with a fire that refused to die. Her copper-red hair cascaded down her shoulders like living flame, and her crimson robes blazed vividly against the icy expanse.
The contrast was mesmerizing — fire walking through winter.
And yet, beneath the allure, Rayder sensed something ancient, something dangerous.
So this is the Red Priestess, he thought. R'hllor's messenger… or his weapon.
The Red Priestess stopped before him, her gaze unwavering. The wind whipped her robes around her form, revealing the curve of her body, but her poise remained regal — untouchable.
"Rayder," she said softly, her voice echoing through the frozen air like a bell. "You are walking a path that leads only to darkness."
Rayder smirked. "Darkness… light… those are just names for power."
Her eyes narrowed. "Then you already stand where the Cold God wants you — half man, half monster. But I can still bring you back."
He laughed quietly. "Bring me back? You should be careful, Priestess. Even gods lose their hands when they reach into fire."
The Red Priestess stepped forward, holding the red gem between her palms. Its light reflected in Rayder's eyes, mingling with his faint icy glow.
"Then let us see," she whispered, "which flame burns hotter — yours, or mine."
The snowstorm stilled.
The air between them shimmered with heat and frost.
For the first time since his corruption began, fire met ice, and the world itself seemed to hold its breath.
Ãdvåñçé çhàptêr àvàilàble óñ pàtreøn (Gk31)