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Winterfell was much colder than it had been the last time he was here. Back then, his breath hadn't even fogged in the air… but now, Clay suddenly noticed it.
Winter was coming, and this time, it wasn't just some hollow saying. The words the Stark family had recited for thousands of years were finally proving their weight.
The guards stationed at the gate—Stark men, loyal and sharp-eyed—immediately recognized the figure walking toward them. One of them raised his arm in salute and called out loudly, "Lord Clay! Welcome back to Winterfell. His Grace, King Robb and the lords are in the great hall. They've all been waiting for you."
"All of them?" Clay asked, a faint edge of curiosity in his voice. "Everyone's here?"
"Yes, my lord. Every single one of them."
With that, the guards pushed open the heavy oak doors. As the thick panels creaked apart, the sounds of laughter and conversation grew clearer, drifting toward Clay's ears. It was the same everywhere, every time there was a gathering… but it had been a long while since he'd felt that warmth for himself.
A gust of cold air howled in behind him, sweeping pale daylight into the hall, where the flickering candlelight suddenly looked dimmer and duller in comparison.
The sudden brightness and icy draft pulled everyone's attention toward the doorway. And when they saw who had just stepped inside, all the noise immediately stopped.
They stared in silence at the young man slowly making his way forward. No one said a word.
Clay strode to the center of the great hall and glanced around at the banquet laid out before him. Long tables surrounded the room, piled high with roasted meats and steaming dishes. Seated along both sides were familiar faces—northern lords and bannermen, gathered in full force.
Under their watchful gaze of everyone, Clay turned to face the man seated at the high table—no longer a boy, his face covered in a full beard, all traces of youth long vanished. Robb Stark, King in the North.
Clay spread his arms wide and laughed aloud.
"Lords and friends! I, Clay Manderly, have returned! What, has Winterfell stopped welcoming me home?"
For a heartbeat, the room stayed silent—then erupted with booming laughter. The tension on Robb Stark's face melted away, replaced by a smile that said it all.
Just as Clay had said, there was no way Winterfell would not welcome Clay Manderly.
"Come," Robb called, patting the empty seat beside him. "Sit over here, Clay."
Clay grinned and walked over. To his surprise, seated on the other side was his sister, Wynafryd.
As soon as he sat down, the atmosphere in the hall instantly became lively again. Old acquaintances who had marched south with Clay came over one after another to toast and drink with him. Clay welcomed them all with open arms. This was how Northern men greeted one another, and he was long used to it.
He took a moment to study Robb Stark more closely. The change was startling.
The last time he saw him, Robb had still been young. He had looked like a youth, plain and simple. But now, even though only a little time had passed, everything about him felt different.
The war in the south, the crushing pressure that followed his father's death… those things had taken the boy and forged something new.
Sitting beside Clay now was the King in the North.
"Should I be calling you 'Your Grace' now?" Clay asked with a smirk.
Robb's expression twitched slightly, just for a second. Unlike the others, Clay knew him too well. They had been close for years and shared a strong bond. And though Robb now wore a crown, he clearly wasn't used to hearing such titles from someone like Clay.
"No need for that. When we're out there in front of everyone, sure… say it for the sake of this damned crown. But in private, let's keep things the way they've always been. Don't stand on ceremony."
Robb tugged the corner of his mouth into a crooked smile, then handed Clay a full tankard of ale.
"Did you know I was right in the middle of business in Essos? Winter is coming fast, and if we can strike the right deal—get a good supply of grain from over there—we'll be under a lot less pressure when the cold truly sets in. And then—bam. You go and yank me back here with one letter."
"I don't have a choice. My father passed away so suddenly. Maester Luwin says it was the Lannisters' doing. And now they've pushed me into this role. This feud—this war—it has to be answered. I didn't ask for this, but there's no avoiding it now."
Robb's expression dimmed slightly. Deep down, he knew that launching a war at this moment wasn't ideal, but the tide of events had swept him along. And now, he had no choice but to keep moving forward.
"So, how's the grain harvest going? I've been on the road for months now. It should be just about done, right?"
"Mostly. But there are still some fields left unharvested. It might've looked like we had time, but for the soldiers, it really wasn't much. A lot of the grain's already gone bad. What a waste."
"Well, nothing we can do about it now. We'll find another way. As long as your uncle's house is still cooperating and the Riverlands can keep sending supplies north, no one's going to starve. Might be a rough winter, but we'll get through it."
"I hope so. But right now, we have to head south. Only by winning can we ensure the stability of the Riverlands. They don't have a natural fortress like Moat Cailin—no way to hold the line down there. That land's a crossroads, open on all sides, impossible to defend."
Hearing that, Clay's mind turned to the current state of the Riverlands. He gave a helpless smile and gently reminded him:
"Robb, I came to Winterfell from White Harbor, but before that I passed through the Twins. Just so you know—your uncle, Edmure Tully, has pulled all the troops out of Harrenhal. Says he's moving them to Riverrun for a full reorganization."
"What? That's… That's completely insane!"
Robb Stark was dumbfounded. He might have inherited his late father's lack of political finesse, but when it came to military matters, he had a sharp instinct… and right now, that instinct was screaming. He immediately realized just how foolish Edmure Tully's move really was.
"Are you sure? Didn't Lord Hoster Tully or any of the other Riverlords object to this decision?"
"I'm sure. I had people look into it. And from what I've heard, Lord Hoster's health is failing fast—he's barely holding on. It seems Edmure has already taken full control of Riverrun and is handling all affairs in his father's stead."
"My uncle couldn't lead a pig to water, let alone an army! Someone! Bring Ser Rodrik over!"
Robb snapped the command, his voice sharp with irritation, and a soldier immediately darted off to carry it out. All around the hall, curious nobles turned their heads, murmuring among themselves, still unsure of what was unfolding. But Robb didn't bother hiding it—there was no time.
"Forget it, don't bring him. Just go tell him instead—have him find Maester Luwin and send a raven to Riverrun at once. Tell them to send troops back to Harrenhal immediately. If someone else gets their hands on it, we'll end up paying five or six times the cost just to take it back. Now go!"
The soldier responded at once and dashed off without delay. Robb Stark had originally asked for Ser Rodrik not merely for formality's sake. Now that he was king, there were many orders that could no longer be passed along through ordinary soldiers. Ser Rodrik, once the master-at-arms of Winterfell, now served as the captain of the King in the North's household guard.
And as the nobles closest to Robb overheard his command, they began to understand what was happening. In no time, the room filled with angry curses aimed at Edmure's stupidity. This was the North, after all, and thinking poorly of southern lords had long been something of a tradition here.
"Clay, we were already all set to march south. The armies of every house have been camped just outside Winterfell, ready to move. We were supposed to depart in the next couple of days. But then word reached me that you'd returned to White Harbor, so I stayed back and waited here."
Clay nodded. He didn't bother asking where that news had come from. There was no point. Forcing Robb Stark to name the source would only put him in a tight spot at a delicate moment like this.
"Mm. But Robb, I need to ask you something…and I need a straight answer. What exactly is your goal this time as you march south? You have to be clear with me."
His tone was quite serious. Clay needed to understand exactly what Robb Stark intended to do, so he could coordinate properly with Daenerys. He hadn't brought his dragon with him, and for now, he would have to remain embedded within the Northern army.
Over such long distances, maintaining close coordination would be nearly impossible. Messages would take time, and plans could change in the blink of an eye. The most they could do was ensure that their overall strategy stayed aligned. For the time being, the most important thing was simple…buying time.
"Isn't it obvious? I'm avenging my father."
Robb spoke as if it were the most natural thing in the world, leaving Clay at a loss for words. "Robb. The one responsible for Lord Eddard's death was the Lannisters, right?"
"Yeah. The evidence is ironclad."
"Then where exactly are you planning to get your revenge? King's Landing? Casterly Rock?"
"King's Landing, of course. The old lion and that Queen Regent Cersei are both holed up there."
"Oh, my dear King Robb... What are you thinking?" Clay let out a deep sigh. "You're just going to march straight to King's Landing and storm it? Do you even realize Renly Baratheon's already laying siege to the city? Are you planning to join forces with him? Don't forget—you're not a Northern lord anymore. You're the King in the North now."
This wasn't how a war should be fought. Clay understood the need to take up arms—of course he did—but charging in without thought or strategy? That wasn't bravery. That was recklessness, plain and simple.
"Didn't anyone bring this up to you, Robb?"
"They did. Lord Roose Bolton and Greatjon Umber nearly came to blows over it. Greatjon wants us to march straight for King's Landing and deal with Renly when the time comes. Lord Roose, though, thinks we should head to Casterly Rock first and capture the lion cub again."
Now it made sense. Clay understood why Robb had said what he did. To Robb, vengeance came before all else—everything else could wait. If they went west instead, it would feel less like justice and more like looting. After all, the true culprits were still in King's Landing.
Well then, there wasn't much left to say. Clay couldn't help but wonder how the Lannisters would react when they learned another thirty thousand Northerners were coming for their heads.
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