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A faint sense of unease had begun to creep into Clay's heart.
In the last war, everyone—including himself—had overlooked the Vale as a factor. But this time, with Roose Bolton and Medger Cerwyn vanishing without a trace, Clay couldn't help but sense that something else was brewing beneath the surface.
But for now, the most pressing matter for Clay was to bring those thirty thousand precious prisoners safely back to White Harbor. The interests of House Manderly came before all else. As for the so-called interests of the North… those had already fallen far behind in his list of priorities.
Following the course of the White Knife southward, even if Clay had wanted to send word to Robb Stark as soon as possible, there was simply no way to do it. He had no ravens at his disposal, nor any means to contact Robb Stark, whose whereabouts remained unknown.
Given that… well, it could hardly be considered his fault, could it? Besides, the main cavalry force had already been handed over to Lord Glover. No one could accuse him of hoarding troops for his own benefit. At worst, they might say he was a little too focused on protecting the interests of his own house… a touch of localism, perhaps.
But in truth, that was hardly a crime worthy of contempt. Everyone thought the same way. No one's hands were clean. If they really wanted to use that excuse to condemn a noble, then they'd be setting a terrible precedent for the entire realm.
By the time the hooves of Clay's horse finally crossed the threshold of White Harbor's towering white gates, another half a month had quietly slipped by. And that was after Clay had pushed the pace relentlessly all the way. The wildlings, terrified after their previous slaughters, didn't dare resist.
Waiting there, as expected, was his uncle, Wylis. Clay had sent a letter ahead at the fastest possible speed to inform Wylis of the situation. After all, Wylis was the chief steward of House Manderly here in White Harbor. Matters like this were hardly suited for a military man like Clay to handle directly.
"Uncle, these prisoners are now in your hands. Keep a close watch on them. Aside from five thousand we'll hold back, arrange the rest as best you can. If it really doesn't work… didn't we clear out the Three Sisters recently? The ones who won't behave, just ship them over there. With the fleet in place, they won't be able to run."
Inside the grand hall of House Manderly, Clay, finally able to catch his breath, laid out the arrangements for what came next.
Naturally, Wylis Manderly agreed with Clay's thinking. In truth, with a prisoner force this large, there was only one place in the North capable of absorbing them, even temporarily — and that was White Harbor. The population here made all the difference.
Any smaller castle would be overwhelmed. With only a few thousand inhabitants, suddenly bringing in thirty thousand outsiders… well, it wouldn't take long before it became unclear who truly ruled that land.
"Clay, no problem on my end. Getting them settled isn't difficult at all. In fact…" Wylis chuckled, "From what I've seen, the vast majority of them are women. That makes it even easier. We've got plenty of unmarried men here in White Harbor."
Clay nodded slightly. His uncle Wylis was indeed a man who understood the way of things. Though these prisoners were, at least in name, meant for all of the North, ever since Clay's brief stay at Winterfell, everything had quietly changed.
After all, Winterfell could not possibly accommodate so many people. And now that he had taken them away… they had best forget about ever getting them back.
Wylis, of course, understood that perfectly. Which was why, in all his words and every line between them, there had not been the faintest mention of setting these people aside for the time being and waiting until after the war to divide them up fairly. No… the only proper way was to swallow them down as quickly as possible and make them their own.
"Uncle, pick the better ones if you can. Give them to the men who are potential recruits for our forces. Our family still does not have enough soldiers. Look at White Harbor, so many people, but how large is our army? It is not enough."
Clay gave that reminder, though Wylis didn't quite grasp his meaning. In his mind, the family already had a four-thousand-strong army out there. How could that not be enough?
But within House Manderly, from top to bottom, everyone knew that Clay was the future of the family. So long as it was not a matter of principle, no one ever asked too many questions about his decisions.
"Alright, I'll tell them. If they are getting women from us, then they have a duty to answer the family's call and march to war whenever we ask."
"Good, that's enough. Uncle, how's the progress with our fleet?"
Clay raised another question. There was no need for formalities between them. Quick, direct conversation was always the most comfortable way.
"It's still the same. We've launched five new ships this year, that's about it. You know as well as I do, shipbuilding isn't like forging armor. It takes time, a lot of time. You can't rush it… we'll just have to wait."
Wylis chuckled. When it came to Clay pouring family gold into building ships and expanding the family's fleet, Wylis was fully supportive. After all, trade had long surpassed land in importance when it came to House Manderly's income.
A massive fleet didn't just mean more ships could join the trade itself. The strength of such a fleet would lower the risks and costs of doing business across the Narrow Sea, which meant greater profits flowing back into the coffers of House Manderly.
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Clay didn't linger in White Harbor for too long. Once he confirmed that his uncle Wylis had indeed arranged those thirty thousand prisoners in a neat, orderly fashion, his attention quickly returned to the battlefield in the south.
After thinking it over for a while, Clay decided to send a letter to Daenerys in Dorne. The two of them were never the sentimental type, so the letter contained almost no words of affection or personal feelings.
Clay simply wanted to remind Daenerys to speed up the process of unifying Dorne. He had a nagging feeling that the war across Westeros had already begun to shift in ways he had not anticipated. Some of their plans… needed to be moved ahead of schedule.
Once everything was properly arranged, Clay gathered the troops who had accompanied him back to White Harbor, boarded a ship, and set off along the fastest sea route, heading swiftly southwest towards the Bite.
With the Bite now entirely under the control of House Manderly as an inner bay, the journey with the wind at their backs was smooth and easy. Along the way, they passed many of House Manderly's ships, and every single fleet, upon recognizing Clay, greeted him with respectful salutes across the waves.
There wasn't a pirate in sight anymore. The ones who weren't lying at the bottom of the Bite were already fleeing across the Narrow Sea, putting as much distance as possible between themselves and this cursed stretch of water.
But when Clay finally arrived at the Twin, he discovered that there wasn't a trace of the army to be seen. The entire caste, aside from the two thousand foot soldiers and cavalry that House Manderly had left to defend it, was completely devoid of troops. The rest had followed Robb Stark onto the battlefield.
Thankfully, the old man was still in the Twins. And to Robb Stark's credit, once he realized House Manderly was giving him their full support, he had returned Wynafryd Manderly—their hostage—without hesitation.
Clay didn't have the time to concern himself with his sister right now. He went straight to his grandfather's study. He needed to know what was happening on the southern front as soon as possible. After all, he currently held no army in his hands.
"Grandfather, it's just the two of us here. So I'll speak plainly."
Inside the damp tower chamber, the fireplace blazed with a strong, crackling flame. The heat pushed back the faint smell of mold that clung to the room. Clay and Lord Wyman sat across from each other. On the table between them… sat an entire row of empty bottles.
"Go ahead, say what's on your mind. There's no one else here. I know you've been holding it in for a long time. A true dragon forced to crawl on the ground… of course that feels suffocating. Speak freely. It's not like you can tell anyone else. If you did, you'd probably scare them to death."
The old man chuckled, clinking his bottle lightly against Clay's, the clear sound ringing through the room.
In the reflection of the firelight, the old man's face, already flushed with health, looked even ruddier. Over the past year, he had personally witnessed the astonishing rise of their family under his grandson's leadership, all happening in near-total secrecy, catching everyone off guard.
If they truly laid it all bare, their influence stretched across the entire Bite, their territory rivaling half the Riverlands, with nearly five thousand well-equipped foot soldiers and cavalry at their command.
But the most crucial part was this: behind this family stood four real dragons soaring across the skies, and the entirety of Dorne quietly responding from the background. With such power behind them, who among the Seven Kingdoms would dare look down on them?
If Clay were to crown himself king right here in the Twins, with four dragons circling above the heads of the great houses, they would have no choice but to pinch their noses and accept it for now. At most, they might question Clay's bloodline… but the crown itself? They would all have to acknowledge that.
For nearly three hundred years, the idea had been ingrained in the hearts of Westeros… dragons equaled kings. That wasn't something that would fade overnight.
"Daenerys Targaryen has already raised the Targaryen banner in Dorne. Have you heard of that yet?"
Clay was not entirely sure how things were progressing for Daenerys in Dorne. He could not say with certainty how much resistance she was facing from within. Even though Prince Doran had personally vouched for her success, Clay could never bring himself to fully trust the man.
Strictly speaking, Daenerys was now his granddaughter-in-law… so naturally, Lord Wyman had a favorable impression of her. He smiled and nodded, his gaze resting on Clay as he replied.
"Of course. News like that travels very fast. I heard about it long ago. I reckon the kings and lords down south have all heard by now too."
Clay quickly understood. It seemed things were progressing smoothly in Dorne. Prince Doran had not pulled any tricks. Not that it was surprising… after all, Gaelithox was still there, and the pressure of the dragons was more than enough to keep everyone in line.
"Grandfather, I won't be staying in the Twins for long. For now, we still need to remain in the North's camp. I believe you would not want things to get too ugly between us and the original Northern nobles either."
The old man nodded in wholehearted agreement. Clay couldn't have been more right. He truly didn't want to completely fall out with his old friends from the North. Even though, in Lord Wyman's eyes, most of the North was filled with fools and scoundrels, there were still a few good men left who were worth calling brothers.
"As long as you know what you're doing, that's all that matters. I won't interfere. But remember this… no matter what happens, your life comes first."
In truth, the old man didn't know what more he could say to advise his grandson. No matter how he looked at him now, this young man was already more than capable of standing on his own. In fact, he had surpassed him long ago.
But still, he couldn't help but want to say something. Especially now, with Clay about to ride off to war, he remembered how, back in his youth, when he had marched off to the battlefield, his old father — already gone to meet the gods — had said the same thing to him.
Clay nodded, saying nothing more. Instead, he skillfully opened another bottle of wine for his grandfather. Between men, words were not always necessary. There were other ways to speak.
Outside the window, winter was drawing ever closer. In the Twins, where snow hadn't fallen for over a decade, faint, scattered flakes were now drifting down from the sky. The cold wind so familiar to the people of the North howled through the window without restraint.
This was destined to be a short autumn!
Everyone had to treasure what little time they had left.
Feeling the bone-chilling wind of the North against his face, Clay mounted his warhorse, waved goodbye to the old man, and behind him, the silent cavalry followed closely.
One by one, they disappeared into the falling snow.
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[Chapter End's]
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