Read 20+ Chapter's Ahead in Patreon
Clay couldn't just bring up that man's name in front of the old lord. The logic behind it didn't hold up under scrutiny. As a witness to everything, Clay was well aware that this guy was up to something… but from the old man's point of view, there was simply no way he could understand why Clay was so suspicious.
"Grandfather, I'm certain. This has to be the work of the Vale. Ever since Ser Brynden Tully left the Bloody Gate, we haven't been able to get any intel on who's been passing through there. And in that region, the only ones capable of pulling something like this off would be an organized, elite military force. Aside from the Vale, there's no one else."
"I get that, I do. But what I don't understand is what these people are doing. What is Lysa Tully playing at?"
Clay understood. But he had no intention of explaining to his grandfather what it meant when a woman was thinking with her heart instead of her head.
Instead, he replied, "Grandfather, we don't need to figure out why they're doing it. There are too many people in this world who've lost their minds. If we try to understand the logic behind every single person's behavior, it'll kill us from exhaustion. Since that's the case, the only thing we need to figure out is… what's our role in all of this?"
"Our role? What do you mean by that, boy?"
The old man rolled the word around on his tongue, not entirely sure what his grandson was intending to say to him.
"Grandfather, from now on, we stop thinking about what's good for the North. We think only about what's good for House Manderly. Those Vale folk didn't kidnap Wylla, or Wynafryd. If they did, then fine, let them. That would've been a problem for us. But as it stands, this is House Stark's mess… not ours."
Clay understood very well that if it were not for his existence, House Manderly under the old man's leadership would've remained one of House Stark's most loyal vassals. Even after Winterfell fell and the family was scattered, his grandfather had never stopped scheming to help House Stark return to their seat.
And that was exactly the problem. The old man had a kind of subconscious reflex… if something happened in the North, then it must involve House Manderly. But that line of thinking no longer made sense. Since betrayal was inevitable, then it was better to prepare for it now rather than wait for it to come.
The two of them spoke for a long time. They talked about Clay's journey—how he had flown to Essos on dragonback, found Daenerys, forged an alliance, sealed a marriage between their families, captured Astapor, taken command of the Unsullied, negotiated with the Iron Bank, and eventually landed in Dorne.
While other nobles his age were still full of energy, honing their riding skills and enjoying the prime of youth, Clay hadn't had the chance to enjoy any of that. He wanted to fight for a future—for himself and for his family.
The old man told him that House Manderly had already gathered more than two thousand men at the Twins. But none of them could be called elite troops. At best, their training was merely average.
That, of course, was no surprise. A large portion of these soldiers had originally belonged to House Frey. Yet after being handpicked and disciplined by the old lord, they now pledged loyalty to their new masters—the Manderlys.
House Frey, after all, had always favored brute-force numbers. They were the kind of house that could muster four thousand men on their own. If you expected them to train a well-equipped, elite force, the cost would be astronomical.
Given that reality, the old man had only recruited two thousand people. No children, no elderly—just able-bodied men. Then he diverted a portion of infantry gear from the Manderly armory, added in the old Frey stockpile, and finally managed to fully equip the entire force.
The kind of soldier who just carries a wooden shield and thrusts a spear doesn't really amount to much on the battlefield. As a cavalry commander, Clay naturally favored leading a smaller, more elite force with solid training, and if he ever had to take charge of infantry, he'd prefer soldiers with real skill and discipline over large numbers of untrained men.
As for plugging gaps in the lines, well… with so many minor noble houses scattered across the North and the Riverlands, there would always be enough ragtag levies to throw in. But the Manderly forces were meant to serve as the backbone of the army. They couldn't afford to waste themselves on cannon fodder duties.
And so the Manderly soldiers waited at the Twins, holding their position until King Robb Stark's main host began its march south. When that happened, they would join the Northern army. Technically, the region they occupied belonged to the Riverlands, but with House Manderly sworn to the North, that boundary was already beginning to blur.
"Grandfather, when the time comes to lead troops, I should still be able to secure some degree of command," Clay said calmly. "But if Robb Stark decides not to divide his army any further, then I'll have no choice but to follow his orders. After all, he's the one wearing the crown, isn't he?"
"I understand. So, what about White Harbor? Are you still planning to move forward with your previous arrangements?" the old lord asked.
"Of course. We must have a grand fleet… no matter what. I'll be needing it later. Grandfather, our house words are 'No currents mightier,' remember? We can't afford to ignore the power of the sea."
"Alright then. As long as you've made up your mind. That's settled. Go on to White Harbor. I've already instructed your uncle Wylis to prepare the troops for you. This time, it's an all-cavalry unit—two thousand men, all yours. That should make things a little easier for you later."
Clay gave a short nod. "Well… Robb Stark won't try to make things hard for me, not right now. Vengeance comes first, across both the North and the Riverlands. No one dares lay a finger on me while that still takes priority."
———————————————————
With everything that needed saying already said, the rest was unspoken, yet clearly understood by both Clay and the old man: this might very well be the final war that House Manderly would ever fight for their liege lords, House Stark—loyalty that had endured for nearly a thousand years.
The next morning, just after dawn, Clay gathered a small guard detachment and rode straight for the port that had recently been rebuilt by the family at Bay of Bite. Ever since Bite was taken as a private inner sea of the house, a permanent fleet had been stationed at the port connecting both sides.
By the time Clay had crossed the bay and arrived at White Harbor, a royal summons from Robb Stark had already reached the city.
The letter was brief and to the point: Hurry! Clay Manderly was to report to Winterfell at once. As for the troops, they would be dealt with when the march south began.
It wasn't something Clay could refuse. Since his departure hadn't been carried out in total secrecy, it was clear there were eyes in the Twins planted by Winterfell. It might not have been Robb Stark himself who arranged it, but the arrival of that letter meant he had certainly allowed it to happen.
So Clay, who had barely taken a sip of water and hadn't even sat down long enough to warm his butt, could only sigh and set off for Winterfell.
The last time he had visited the Stark stronghold, he'd been just a little-known heir to White Harbor, barely a footnote in the Seven Kingdoms. But now, everyone in Winterfell—from the guards at the gate to the lords in the great hall—knew exactly what his arrival meant.
This war, at least on the surface, was aimed squarely at the Lannisters in King's Landing. But the Lannisters sat safely behind the walls of the capital, and if the North truly wanted revenge, they'd have to take the city itself. And that... that was no easy feat.
And even if they did manage to take King's Landing, how could anyone expect Renly and Stannis Baratheon—both with armies of their own, both hungry for the throne—to simply sit back and watch?
Originally, before Robb Stark had declared himself king, there had still been room to maneuver. He could have gone straight to Renly and Stannis and said, plain and simple, "Whichever one of you helps me take King's Landing and kill the lions, I'll bend the knee to you."
But that door had been shut the moment Robb put on the crown. Now, the number of enemies they faced had grown from one to three—at least in theory. The North could have endured in isolation, living quietly in peace, but neither Renly nor Stannis would ever accept the idea of the North and the Riverlands breaking away from the Seven Kingdoms to govern themselves.
And honestly… just look at the map. If they agreed to that, what then? Look at where Harrenhal sits, wedged between the Riverlands and King's Landing. If war broke out again, all it would take is a single well-trained cavalry force stationed at Harrenhal. In two days and nights of hard riding, pushing their horses to the limit, they could be at the gates of the capital before anyone had time to react.
And more than that, if the North and Riverlands were allowed to go free, the road between the Vale and King's Landing would be cut off entirely. And when that happened, could the Iron Throne really count on the Vale's loyalty anymore? The Baratheons didn't have dragons—they couldn't just fly over the Bloody Gate.
So unless things reached an absolutely desperate breaking point, none of this could be allowed to happen. And with Robb Stark uniting the North and the Riverlands under one banner, his military strength was enough to stand on equal footing with any of the other three powers.
And that, really, brought them back to the same old question: why should House Stark give up its crown for the sake of House Baratheon? Why should they bend the knee to the Iron Throne again?
In the end, there was only one real way this was ever going to be resolved. There had to be a war. Whoever stood tall at the end, that was who would be king. Bloodlines didn't mean a thing. If you couldn't prove it on the battlefield, then your so-called legitimacy wasn't worth a damn.
All that talk of claims and rightful succession? Useless. It was the sword that settled things…not scrolls or words.
And in the last two centuries of Targaryen rule, nothing like this had ever happened. Because Targaryen had become synonymous with the throne. That truth had been burned into the bones of the Seven Kingdoms… only a Targaryen could sit the Iron Throne. Anyone else would be seen as a rebel.
Clay took the same route as before, riding north along the White Knife River, then cutting across to the Kingsroad. After passing through Cerwyn, he entered Winterfell through the East Gate.
When Clay finally dismounted, covered head to toe in dust from the road, it was an old familiar face who came to greet him—Ser Rodrik Cassel. The master-at-arms of Winterfell looked far older now, the years clearly catching up to him, but his back was still straight as a sword.
"Thank the gods you're finally here, Clay," he said, his voice full of relief. "Why in the world did you head off to Essos at a time like this? Do you have any idea how furious His Grace Robb was when he heard the news?"
"That's not on me, Ser Rodrik," Clay replied, his tone dry. "I had no way of knowing the gods would choose this moment to call Lord Eddard away from us. I thought the war was over. Turns out… it was only just beginning."
**
**
[IMAGE]
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Chapter End's]
🖤 Night_FrOst/ Patreon 🤍
Visit my Patreon for Early Chapter:
https://www.patreon.com/Night_FrOst
Extra Content Already Available