Chapter Seventeen

Mark continued his journey through the winding tunnels beneath Eden. The sterile halls were dimly lit, and the soft thrum of the ventilation system created an almost meditative atmosphere.

The lift soon reached the warden's office in the re-education facility, where the real work happened. Mark strolled through the cold, sterile halls, nodding at the guards he passed. His destination was the deep cells, where Melisandre had been held since her capture. The re-education facility—what most would call a prison—was a sprawling, clinical space. It had grown along with Eden, just like everything else. Except here, they weren't rehabilitating just anyone—they were reshaping minds. Mostly young Dothraki prisoners.

The irony wasn't lost on Mark as he passed the cells, peering into each one as he walked. Young men and women, no older than eighteen, sat in various stages of their "re-education," or what Mark secretly referred to as "the program." They had been savages once, part of the roving hordes that believed in pillaging and burning as their way of life. Now? They were becoming loyal citizens of Eden.

He paused outside one cell where a particularly stubborn young Dothraki sat. The boy, no older than sixteen, had been a problem since day one. Wild-eyed and furious, he had spat at the guards, tried to gouge out one of their eyes, and even attempted to escape twice. It had earned him a spot in solitary confinement and a trip through the more intensive phase of the re-education process.

Mark pressed a button on the control panel beside the cell, activating the intercom. "How's our friend doing today?"

A guard's voice crackled through the speaker. "He's... compliant, sir. Much more so than before. After the last chemical session, he hasn't put up any resistance. In fact, he's been asking for lessons in reading."

Mark grinned. "Good. Very good. He'll make a fine citizen yet."

He moved on, passing several more cells. Each one contained a former Dothraki, most of them sitting quietly, their once fierce eyes now dulled by the indoctrination process. Some of them were further along in their re-education, working with mentors to learn trades—blacksmithing, carpentry, or even agriculture. Others were still in the early stages, restrained and medicated, their memories being scrubbed clean of their barbaric past.

Mark reached a large observation window that overlooked one of the classrooms. Inside, a group of teenage Dothraki were being taught by one of the facility's instructors, a former Essosi slave who had fully embraced Eden's values. The lesson today was about basic mathematics—nothing fancy, just enough to make sure the students could handle currency and trade. Mark watched for a moment, his arms crossed over his chest.

"Give a man a sword, and he'll fight for a day," Mark thought to himself. "Teach him math, and he'll balance your books for life."

Just as he was about to move on, the door to the classroom opened, and one of the older students stepped out, escorted by a guard. The boy, barely fifteen, had a blank expression on his face, his once feral nature completely wiped away. He glanced up at Mark, recognition flickering in his eyes.

"Supreme Leader," the boy said, his voice monotone but respectful.

Mark's lips twitched at the title. "Good day, citizen. How are your studies?"

"They are going well, Supreme Leader," the boy answered, his tone robotic. "I am learning many things. Thank you for this opportunity."

"Excellent," Mark replied. "Keep up the good work."

The boy bowed his head and was led away by the guard. Mark watched him go, the smallest hint of satisfaction creeping into his mind. These kids, once feral, were now obedient citizens, ready to serve the greater good of Eden. It was a system that worked, as long as you didn't think too hard about the methods used to achieve it.

Mark turned and continued his journey deeper into the facility. Eventually, he reached the coldest section of the building, where the temperature dropped significantly. The air was frigid, a product of Mark's own powers maintaining the chill in this part of the facility. This was where they kept the more dangerous prisoners—the ones who required extra measures to keep under control.

At the end of the hall, in a cell colder than the rest, was Melisandre. She lay strapped to a gurney, a thick straightjacket binding her arms, her legs shackled to the bolted gurney. Her breath came out in frosty puffs, her pale skin already showing signs of discomfort from the extreme cold. Her fiery red hair, usually so striking, now lay limp against the gurney.

As he entered, her eyes fluttered open, and she looked at him with a mixture of anger and confusion.

"Why am I being kept here?" she asked, her voice hoarse. "Why am I in this... prison?"

Mark stepped into the cold cell, his arms crossed casually over his chest. "Prison? That's a bit dramatic, don't you think? It's more of a re-education facility. The folks here used to be... less civilized. A few barbarian Dothraki. Now they're learning to be productive members of society. A little conditioning, some education... and most of them come around."

Melisandre's brow furrowed. "You think you can strip them of their culture?"

Mark smiled. "Culture? Is that what we're calling murder, pillaging, and slavery these days?" He took a few steps closer, his boots echoing in the cold, sterile room. "We're doing them a favor. Most of the kids here have already given up their old ways. They've converted to Catholicism, accepted Eden as their home. Religion's not my thing, but it's good for keeping them in line."

"You brainwash them," Melisandre spat. "You strip away their identity."

Mark tilted his head, his eyes gleaming with amusement. "Sometimes, yes. When they resist too much, we give them a little... extra help. Chemicals, a bit of power from my mother and me. It works wonders. They go from wild animals to perfect citizens in no time."

Melisandre's eyes burned with fury, but she couldn't move, bound as she was. "You're playing god."

Mark shrugged. "I prefer 'effective leader,' but call it what you want."

There was a long pause before Melisandre spoke again, her tone more measured this time. "I need your help. There's a threat rising beyond the Wall in Westeros. An army of the dead. The White Walkers. They're real, and if they march south, they will destroy everything. You have the power to stop them."

Mark raised an eyebrow. "An army of the dead? Really? Sounds like a bad zombie movie."

"It's real," she insisted. "The Night King's forces grow stronger every day. If they reach Essos—"

"They won't," Mark interrupted, waving his hand dismissively. "Eden's defenses are impenetrable. But," he paused, considering, "if it's as bad as you say, I'd rather deal with it before it becomes a problem. Being proactive is better than being reactive."

"So you'll help?" Melisandre asked, her voice filled with hope.

Mark sighed. "I'll send help when the time comes. But I'm not leaving Eden. My powers are tied to this place. I'll deal with it from here."

Melisandre looked frustrated but nodded, understanding the compromise. "Thank you."

Mark stepped closer to her, leaning down slightly. "You're free to go, by the way. My guards will escort you back to Volantis. Consider this little visit a warning. Stay out of my turf next time, or you won't get off so easily."

With that, Mark turned and left the cold cell. As he walked back through the prison's corridors, his mind was already racing with plans. The undead threat would be dealt with soon enough. For now, he had other matters to handle in Eden. The fire hag could wait.