She looked at the scene in the flames and murmured softly, "He really is a ruthless person."
Her tone carried a complex mix of emotions—admiration, wariness, and faint unease.
Melisandre understood that Rayder was not someone to be underestimated. His methods were cruel and decisive, yet she could sense an internal struggle within him—something human, fragile, and unresolved.
Still, she couldn't quite discern what he was truly fighting for.
Although she disapproved of his brutality, she could, in some way, understand his reasoning.
Her crimson eyes lingered on the image in the flames for a long while, glinting with shifting emotion. Then, with a gentle wave of her hand, the fire dimmed and vanished, erasing Rayder's image from sight.
She knew they would meet again soon. And when they did, things would be far from simple.
---
Meanwhile, Rayder sat in his tent, deeply engrossed in a thick, weathered tome, trying to unearth some fragment of genuine magical truth among its countless falsehoods.
But just as his mind reached complete concentration, a faint, unsettling feeling crept into his heart.
It was as if someone—or something—was watching him.
The sensation was sharp and fleeting, like a cold breath at his neck.
Rayder's heart tightened. His instincts honed from countless battles instantly brought him to full alertness.
He stopped turning the page and glanced around the tent, his senses straining.
Nothing seemed out of place. The air was still. The sound of distant wind was the only noise.
The feeling passed quickly, vanishing almost as soon as it had appeared.
Still, suspicion lingered.
> "Could it be that old man, the Green Prophet, peeking again?" he thought grimly.
To confirm, Rayder decided to check his surroundings.
He pushed aside the tent flap and stepped into the frigid night. The mountain wind bit into his skin, yet his gaze was steady as it swept across the area.
He examined every shadow, every cluster of rock, every swaying branch—nothing.
After circling the tent once, Rayder found no trace of an intruder, and the strange feeling did not return.
He exhaled quietly, half amused and half annoyed.
> "Perhaps I'm just overthinking," he muttered to himself, shaking his head.
Returning inside, he decided to ignore the unease and resume his studies and meditation.
After all, the Ghost Shadow Forest was vast and full of mysteries—paranoia would only slow him down.
---
Elsewhere, the savage tribes beyond the Wall were anything but calm.
The unexplained disappearance of more than a dozen tribes had thrown the entire region into chaos and terror.
Tribal leaders, once fierce and proud, now huddled within their camps, too afraid to wander far.
They feared that their own people might vanish next—swallowed by the same unseen force.
The warring and raiding that once defined the Wildlings' way of life came to a sudden halt.
For the first time in generations, the brutal north entered a fragile, eerie peace.
---
On the other side of the Wall, the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, Rosser Borelli, was shocked when the first reports arrived.
He was an old man now—his face deeply lined with the marks of countless winters—but his mind remained sharp.
When the first scout spoke of entire tribes disappearing overnight, he dismissed it as exaggeration.
But when three separate patrols returned with identical accounts, he could no longer deny the truth.
Rosser Borelli's expression darkened.
He knew better than anyone that the Wall was not merely built to guard against Wildlings.
Its true purpose was far older—and far grimmer.
The Wall stood to hold back the Others.
Most men of this age considered the Others a myth, the ghost of an old tale told to frighten children.
But Borelli had read the ancient records himself. He had studied the archives of the Long Night, and he knew the truth.
The Others were real—and their threat was beyond imagination.
The sudden disappearance of so many tribes filled him with dread.
No creature other than the Others could accomplish such devastation in so short a time.
Without hesitation, Borelli gave his order:
> "The entire Night's Watch is to enter full combat readiness!
Send more men north into the Ghost Shadow Forest.
We must determine whether the Others are on the move!"
The command spread swiftly through every outpost.
Bells rang. Torches flared to life along the ramparts.
The Great Wall, usually silent and cold, became alive with movement and alarm.
Men shouted the ancient warning that had once echoed through every dark age—
> "Winter is coming!"
---
Far above, Rayder remained unaware of the panic he had caused.
He did not know that his merciless eradication of the savage tribes had been misinterpreted as the work of the White Walkers' army.
He continued his quiet vigil atop the isolated peak, waiting for Yigen to awaken.
Ten days had passed.
In that time, he had nearly finished every magic book he had brought from the Valyrian ruins.
Through tireless study, he had finally grasped the fundamentals of the arcane.
It was no exaggeration to say—Rayder had stepped across the threshold of a true mage.
Among all his discoveries, none fascinated him more than the ancient art of Bloodfire Magic—the lost secret of the Valyrians.
The deeper he delved, the more connections he found between that forbidden magic and the fall of Valyria itself.
He came to understand why the Lord of Light had once destroyed the Freehold and turned the Valyrian Peninsula into a wasteland of fire and ash.
The Valyrians, it turned out, had walked the same path he now tread—
drawing recklessly upon divine power, reshaping the world through blood and flame.
Bloodfire Magic, at its core, was an evolution of ordinary fire magic, refined through the dragons' might.
Once they learned to harness dragonfire, the Valyrians refined this art endlessly, blending the life-force of blood with the destructive energy of flame.
Through conquest, they amassed not only riches but knowledge—arcane secrets collected from every land they subdued.
This vast reservoir of lore became the foundation upon which they perfected their Bloodfire Magic, advancing it to terrifying heights.
At their zenith, the Valyrians wielded this power to channel the earth's fire itself—excavating volcanic veins and drawing pure fire-energy
from the molten heart of the world.
It was the flame that had built their empire.
And in the end, it was the same flame that had consumed it.
---Ãdvåñçé çhàptêr àvàilàble óñ pàtreøn (Gk31)