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Clay stayed on the island for two days. Seeing how well Gaelithox was adapting to the environment, he finally set his mind at ease and returned to the harbor alone.
When the personal guards, who had been holding back their urge to enter the island and look for him, saw their young lord finally appear, they let out a long-held breath of relief.
All of them noticed that when Clay returned, the large wooden chest that used to be on his back was gone. However, none of them dared to ask about it. If the young lord did not mention it himself, they would never inquire.
What they were meant to know, they would naturally be told. What they were not meant to know, they would never question. That was the quality expected of a true personal guard.
With matters on the island resolved, Clay boarded the warship and gave the direct order to return home.
Although they sailed against the wind, by the evening of the second day, Clay arrived back at White Harbor along with the second fleet transporting the native inhabitants of the Three Sisters Islands.
This time, he informed no one of his return. There was no need for any welcome ceremony to emphasize his status anymore.
After disembarking, escorted by his personal guards, Clay galloped straight toward his grandfather's chambers.
As he reached the study, he happened to run into his father, Wendel, who had arrived just moments before him.
"Seven gods, Clay. Who in the world gave you that haircut? You must not follow in the footsteps of me and Wylis. We've lost our hair, but you still have yours, so do not go about ruining it."
With one glance, his father noticed the most obvious change in him—his neatly combed hair was now shorn so close that one could almost see his scalp. It was nearly identical to the bald heads of Wendel and his elder brother, Wylis.
Wendel had always been secretly proud that his son had finally escaped the curse of hair loss and possessed a head of hair so fine and thick that even women envied it. To see it now like this was heartbreaking for him.
Clay instinctively reached up and touched his head. When he had entered the Tower of the Sea God, he had forgotten himself and taken off his hat without thinking.
"Ahem… my scalp had some issues, so I had to shave it all off to take better care of it."
He offered a dry explanation. After all, how could he possibly explain the real reason? In Westeros, there was no such thing as performance art. The issue of baldness in the Manderly family was a source of great frustration for its male members.
Seeing the deep furrows forming between his father's brows, Clay quickly changed the subject and, with a quiet gesture, put his hat back on.
Out of sight, out of mind. Hopefully that would help.
"Father, regarding the army… do you have any advice for me? This will be my first time leading troops into battle."
Though he felt a deep yearning and excitement for the battlefield, the idea of commanding one or two thousand soldiers still made Clay feel uneasy.
For once, Wendel's usually kind and cheerful expression grew serious.
He gazed into his son's eyes and spoke with unprecedented gravity:
"Clay, I cannot defy your grandfather's will. But I must tell you, truly commanding troops in war is nothing like a leisurely outing. You may have seen blood before, but the battlefield is a completely different world."
"Every decision you make—no matter how small—should be discussed with Ser Marlon. It's not that I don't trust you. It's just that some things only become clear through experience."
"And here's one piece of advice, though it may not be the most honorable. When the charge begins, do not be the first to rush forward. Honor is one thing—your life is another."
"Remember this: no matter what happens, never allow yourself to drift too far from the White Harbor army. That is extremely important."
"And finally, treat your soldiers well. In critical moments, they will fight to the death for you."
He patted Clay's shoulder. His tone was heartfelt and sincere. There was more he wanted to say, but he could not find the words. At the moment, he had to return to the barracks. The old lord had issued him a strict order to prepare the finest troops to entrust to Clay.
Silently reflecting on his father's words, Clay pushed open the door. He needed to report to his grandfather and receive the next steps.
As expected, the old man was drinking again. This time, however, it seemed to be a new variety. Clay glanced at the bottle but couldn't recognize it.
When Lord Wyman saw his grandson return, his brows lifted, and he let out a chuckle.
"You're back. Is your Gaelithox settled in properly?"
Clay nodded. He was already familiar with the routine and pulled over a chair to sit before his grandfather. Then, picking up an overturned wine glass from the tray, he extended it toward the old man.
Lord Wyman was momentarily stunned, not quite understanding what his grandson was asking for. But when he followed Clay's gaze to the bottle of wine in his own hand, he immediately understood.
"You little rascal…" he muttered, grumbling as he poured Clay a full glass.
Clay raised the wine glass to his nose. The dark amber liquid gave off an intriguing fragrance, as though some sort of spice had been added.
He took a sip. As he suspected, the sharp acidity of the wine was completely masked by the mysterious flavor of the spice. To be honest, this was a wholly novel experience for him.
"Quarthian Dreamwine. I just dug it out from the cellar, no idea when we got it. But it tastes excellent," Lord Wyman said, shaking his head and motioning toward Clay's glass.
But even more than the luxurious wine, he was concerned about the matter of the dragon. So, he repeated the question.
"No need to worry about Gaelithox. Dragons are stronger than any other creature. Only by flying freely can they grow faster."
That was Clay's response. He could feel the faint joy radiating from Gaelithox as it soared through the skies.
Satisfied, Lord Wyman nodded. Since Clay was the dragon's master, he had no need to ask further. Even now, in dreams both fleeting and vivid, he often envisioned the Manderly family's brilliant and boundless future.
But in the waking world, he remained Wyman Manderly, the lord of White Harbor.
"Clay, steel yourself. Three days from now, report to the barracks. I've prepared for you five hundred fully-armored cavalrymen, sixteen hundred heavy infantry, and two hundred longbowmen. In total, twenty-three hundred soldiers."
He paused, his tone growing firm and commanding.
"Lead them well. Fly the banner of House Manderly high. March westward. On the Kingsroad, join the great host led by Robb Stark."
Clay understood what this meant. The size of this force surpassed even what House Manderly had dispatched in the alternate timeline. In both numbers and equipment, it was a significant escalation.
With this army at his command, Clay's influence within the Northern forces would undoubtedly grow. For as always, these men, like him, were Manderly first—and Northern soldiers second.
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Three days later, Clay rose with the dawn. After finishing a hearty breakfast with great care, he stood in the grand hall of the Merman's Court.
There, his elder sister, Wynafryd's, personally helped him into the finely crafted armor made especially to fit his form.
Her pale hands fastened a deep blue cloak onto the pauldrons on Clay's shoulders. Then, Wynafryd paused.
"Be careful out there. We'll all be waiting for your safe return," she whispered softly, her voice meant only for his ears. Her eyes met his for a moment before she slowly stepped back.
His younger sister, Wylla, approached next, holding Clay's trusted longsword in her arms. With reverent care, she offered it to her brother.
To take up the sword was to embark on the expedition.
Before the eyes of Lord Wyman, his uncle Wylis, and his father Wendel, Clay grasped the hilt in a single, decisive motion.
"NO CURRENTS MIGHTIER!"
Lord Wyman's voice echoed through the Merman's Court. The next moment, every member of House Manderly present shouted the ancient family motto at the top of their lungs, their voices filled with power and pride.
With great strides, Clay departed the hall. Under the watchful gaze of his personal guards and the White Harbor army, he mounted his pitch-black warhorse. He raised the Manderly banner high and gave it a fierce wave.
The thunder of hooves filled the air. The merman sigil billowed in the wind.
The army marched westward.
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[Chapter End's]
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