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The raven flew, soaring tirelessly across the boundless sea beyond Bite Bay. Within its brownish-yellow eyes, the distant outline of White Harbor gradually emerged, reflected in a flicker of recognition.
The poor raven was utterly exhausted. Once this message was delivered, it deserved a double ration of feed, no question about it. That was the thought bouncing around inside the little raven's tiny head as it flapped its wings and flew toward the tallest structure in New Castle, the towering Sea God Tower.
Inside, Lord Wyman Manderly's plump figure rested heavily in a broad chair on the balcony of his study. He lounged in comfort and ease, gazing down at the ever-busy city of White Harbor below, lost in thought.
Suddenly, a small gray bird drifted into his line of sight, flying at a leisurely pace toward the Sea God's Tower. At first, the old lord paid it little mind. But in the next moment, his expression shifted, for he realized this was no ordinary bird—it was a raven from the south.
That made all the difference. On any other day, messengers from the south rarely carried news of substance. But now, with more than half the Northern army stationed far in the south, every noble of any consequence, save those unfit for war like himself, had joined the campaign.
Thus, every raven from the south now carried the weight of uncertainty, as though each letter were a sealed box of mystery, waiting to be unwrapped with bated breath.
With Clay absent, and the intelligence network of the Wolf's Den under his direct command, Lord Wyman had a fairly clear grasp of southern developments, even if the information sometimes arrived with delay.
Ten days ago, he had received word that the Twins had refused to join the Northern host. The gates had been shut, the drawbridges raised, and House Frey had declared their intent to resist to the bitter end. Ever since that letter arrived, Lord Wyman had been muttering all manner of unkind greetings toward Walder Frey's children and kin.
White Harbor was not far from the Twins, so he knew very well what sort of place it was. Without the Freys' submission, the Northern army would never be able to enter the battlefield of the Riverlands. The entire middle and upper stretch of the Green Fork had only that one crossing point.
Thus, a battle there was inevitable. And with that certainty, a new worry began to gnaw at Lord Wyman's heart—a growing concern for his grandson.
On the battlefield, swords and arrows showed no mercy. They did not care whether one bore a noble title. Blades would not shy away, and neither would volleys of arrows. If a young man, driven by a surge of passion and bravery, were to launch a reckless assault on a fortified stronghold, the risk would be very real and very grave.
Though Lord Wyman was fully aware of the power his grandson possessed, he still could not suppress this nagging worry.
***
After twenty long minutes of anxious waiting, the message from the raven was finally brought to his hand. He cast a sharp glance at the guard, then shut the oak door of his study with a heavy thud. Taking a deep breath to steady himself, he tore open the envelope.
He had barely read the first sentence before he froze in place. Then, in an utterly unbefitting gesture for a man of his stature, the old lord rubbed his eyes furiously, as if he had seen a ghost.
The truth that now buzzed through his mind was simple and staggering: the letter he held had been written by his own grandson, Clay, in his own hand.
The letter began bluntly with one astonishing line:
"Grandfather, I have taken the Twins. House Frey is no more in Westeros. The castle, along with all lands and estates on the eastern bank, now belongs entirely to House Manderly."
What was the meaning of this? How had he taken the Twins? That was a castle defended by four thousand men. Had he really just taken it, just like that? And what did he mean, House Frey is no more? Did he kill them all?
The most astonishing part was the latter half of that sentence—the claim that the entire eastern bank of the Twins now belonged to them.
By the Seven, Lord Wyman knew all too well how vast that stretch of land was, how rich in fields and teeming with people. That was a land of abundance, a true jewel.
Gods above, what in the world did that boy do in the South? He had breached another man's castle, wiped out its ruling family, and now claimed half their lands as his own.
If the contents of this letter are even remotely accurate, then Lord Wyman Manderly could not help but admit one thing to himself.
This boy was ruthless beyond belief!
He took several deep breaths, trying to calm the surge of excitement and allow his intellect to reclaim control over his heart. Then, with steady hands, he continued reading.
Yet with just one glance at the next line, he was stunned once more. His mouth fell open, his eyes wide with disbelief.
The second sentence written in Clay's letter read:
"I now hold command over the full host of five thousand cavalry. Tomorrow, I will lead our forces southward to lift the siege of Riverrun. Lord Robb shall command the infantry in person and march down the Kingsroad to intercept Tywin Lannister."
At this point, Lord Wyman no longer knew what to feel. He even began to wonder whether the letter had been switched, or if his grandson was simply playing some grand joke on him.
How could this be? Five thousand horsemen? That was practically the entire cavalry strength of the North.
And now, within less than half a month, his grandson had claimed a stretch of land in the south of the Neck vast enough to be called a proper county. He had taken the Twins, the most strategically vital city on the Green Fork, and secured the entire eastern bank as well.
Moreover, his grandson—his very own flesh and blood—now commanded five thousand cavalrymen. Judging by the timing, he was likely already locked in a fierce battle with the Kingslayer's forces.
In Lord Wyman's original plan, the only goal for this war against the Lannisters was for his grandson to return alive safely. If they could simply delay things until the young dragon, Gaelithox, grew strong enough, then everything in the realm would bend to the will of House Manderly.
But now, it seemed he had underestimated his grandson's ambition and capability. The boy was even more eager than his grandfather.
If he won this battle as well, then Clay Manderly, the one who held the reins of the Northern cavalry, who would lift the siege of Riverrun and reverse the tides of the war, would become a figure of immense influence—not just in the North, but across the entire Riverlands.
And to think, he was still not even eighteen.
Just imagining it was enough to stir one's blood. Even if they did not claim further victories after this, so long as they secured their current holdings, the Manderlys would already stand taller than ever. With nearly the entire eastern coastline of the Bite and a vast swath of land along the Green Fork under their rule, their strength would grow at an astonishing pace.
If one looked at the map, it became clear that once House Manderly truly consolidated this territory, the traditional southern gateway to the North would no longer be the Neck. No, any who sought to invade the North would first have to pass through lands held by House Manderly.
This was simply too good to be true.
No, he had to read it again.
Gripping the parchment tightly with both hands, the old lord turned once more to the letter. Beneath the radiant sunlight that poured down upon White Harbor, he read and reread those few lines again and again, as if they were not words on a page, but a treasure map concealing secrets of boundless wealth.
He did not know how long he remained like that, until a knock at the door pulled him from his dreams of a glorious future. With a long breath, he returned to the present and glanced about the now-empty study.
The one who entered was his granddaughter, Wynafryd. At nineteen years of age, she had become a young woman of striking beauty, one who would draw attention no matter where she stood.
It was precisely for this reason that Lord Wyman had long hesitated, ever since Clay's return, over whom to choose as her future husband.
He had once spoken with Clay about this very matter. Clay's answer then had been brief: wait a while longer. It was too early to decide.
At the time, the old lord had not fully grasped what his grandson meant. In his mind, Wynafryd was already nineteen, and as a daughter of House Manderly, she was duty-bound to shoulder her family's responsibilities. She ought to wed the son of another noble house, forging an alliance that would strengthen both families and expand their influence.
But with the war now raging, and dragons having returned to the world, and with House Manderly's lands swelling to a scale rivaling those of a lesser dukedom, the old lord finally came to understand what Clay had meant back then.
Originally, his plan had been for Wynafryd to marry the son of a vassal lord within the North. Through such a union, the two families would deepen their alliance, bolstering their strength through mutual support in both political and military affairs.
But when the war broke out, when Clay brought the stone-born dragon back and returned magic to the world, Lord Wyman had stopped considering matches with minor houses altogether. Even among the middling noble lines, none seemed worthy of his granddaughter now.
The list of potential suitors for Wynafryd had grown beyond the North. It now stretched across the length of Westeros, encompassing all the great houses known by name and fame, including the Royces of the Vale, the Hightowers of the Reach, and many more besides.
And now, after Clay's bold campaign had claimed the Twins for their banner, doubling the size of their holdings and placing him at the head of the North's most formidable cavalry host, the old lord's ambition swelled anew.
Perhaps it was time to add a few more names to that list. Names like Stark, Arryn, Tyrell, and even Martell.
His grandson had urged him not to act in haste because he had full confidence that, in short order, he would raise the family to even greater heights and, in doing so, offer Wynafryd a far broader realm of choices for her future.
"Wynafryd, come take a look at this."
The old lord did not ask what had brought her here. At this moment, he could not care less.
Puzzled, Wynafryd took the slightly crumpled raven-letter from her grandfather's outstretched hands. She had barely read more than a few lines before her soft, rosy lips parted in a gasp, a light "Ah?" escaping almost without thought.
By the time she had read the full weight of that letter, her face bore an unhidden mix of delight and worry. As the eldest daughter of a noble house, she understood perfectly what the contents of that letter truly signified.
No matter what may come, from the moment this letter arrived in White Harbor, the Manderly family was no longer the family it had once been.
Seeing her standing there, gazing out the window and too stunned to speak, even more overwhelmed than himself, Lord Wyman could not help but sigh inwardly. Wynafryd and her younger sister, Wylla, truly were blessed. To have a brother like Clay—a brother so fierce, so capable—was a stroke of great fortune.
Wherever they might marry in the future, they would never suffer injustice or humiliation. For with Clay's fiercely protective nature, as long as he still drew breath, the mere whisper of ill news reaching his ears would be enough to summon an army to their gates. And in the days to come, perhaps even a torrent of dragonfire would rain from the skies in the name of House Manderly, bringing fire and blood to those who dared threaten his kin.
"Wynafryd, I believe you and your sister Wylla will have to come with me to Twins. That castle has only just become part of our family's domain, and we must send our own to govern it properly."
Wynafryd, having gradually pieced her scattered thoughts back into order, softly asked in return, "Grandfather, what about White Harbor?"
The old man waved a hand dismissively, his tone utterly unconcerned as he replied, "Your father and second uncle will see to everything here. Prepare yourself, Wynafryd. That boy Clay only knows how to keep his head down and charge forward, and now he has left us with a mess that needs tending."
Wynafryd understood well. Though her grandfather grumbled about Clay with feigned irritation, the truth was that he could not have been more pleased.
This was the greatest expansion since House Manderly had first set root in White Harbor. And to be one who had personally lived through such a moment—how could he not feel a deep thrill rising within his chest?
It was time, she thought, to see the South with her own eyes.
**
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[Chapter End's]
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