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Clang—a crisp sound rang out, the unmistakable noise of glass containers knocking against each other.
Gulp gulp gulp—that was the sound of two people tipping back their heads and chugging deeply, their throats rising and falling with each swallow.
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With a long, drawn-out exhale, Clay finally set down the half-empty bottle in his hand. He was inside one of the remaining intact towers in the Twins, gazing up at the birchwood rafters above, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, he let himself relax.
Sitting across from him was Lord Wyman, who looked just the same. Back when Clay had first left Westeros for Essos, the old man had been deeply worried… but there was nothing he could do to stop him.
The truth was simple and impossible to ignore: once dragons had fallen into the hands of House Manderly, there was only one path left for the family—become stronger, stronger still, and keep pushing forward until they surpassed all others.
It was a one-way road with no turning back. There wasn't even the luxury of stopping to catch one's breath.
Thankfully, Clay had returned, and with him, he brought the one answer Lord Wyman had been desperate to hear. House Targaryen and House Manderly had, in practice, already formed an alliance through marriage. The most pressing concern had been resolved, and resolved perfectly.
"You brat," the old man said, leaning in slightly. "Come on now, tell me the truth. You and the Mad King's daughter, the two of you really… you know."
He made an obscene gesture, one that all men understood. Clay caught the meaning instantly. In this age, arranged marriages among the great houses were as common as grass in the fields. Out of ten couples getting married, it was considered lucky if two of them were truly in love with each other.
Under those conditions, Lord Wyman wasn't expecting any foolish romance or passion-filled declarations of undying love. All he cared about was whether Clay and Daenerys Targaryen had crossed that crucial threshold—because if they had, then the union was real.
In some sense, that was the whole point of marriage, wasn't it? To give men and women the legal right to do what they pleased and ensure that the children born of it had the rights and legitimacy to inherit.
They were both men. Clay wasn't some delicate princeling raised behind silk curtains. He had personally beheaded more Lannisters than he could count. Did anyone really expect him to blush over something like this?
Without hesitation, he gave a simple nod and replied in a completely calm voice, "Yeah. The Targaryen girl… not bad at all, actually. Tch. Saying that makes it sound like I've slept with a dozen women."
"Oh, give me a break," Lord Wyman snorted, puffing out a cloud of wine-laced breath as he twirled his beard. "Your father had more notches on his belt than you do now, even when he was your age. And I never stopped you, did I? You made your own choices. So who else is there to blame?"
In this day and age, people are married young. Clay, though nowhere near being considered an old bachelor, was still behind the curve compared to certain noble youths. On paper, he didn't even have a formal engagement.
The only family ever rumored to be betrothed to the young master of House Manderly—the Freys—had been completely wiped out by Clay himself. By his own hand. If that didn't scream "ruthless," what did?
And yet, as the days passed and Clay grew older, the power of House Manderly continued to rise. Naturally, there were always those bold enough to try their luck, hoping to win the coveted position of the future Lady Manderly.
After extending their influence across two entire regions, the size and reach of House Manderly had already surpassed what was expected of an ordinary comital house. While they still weren't quite on par with the Great Houses who ruled entire regions, they had certainly reached a level that few dared to casually approach or make marriage proposals to.
In the North, Lord Wyman had originally planned to send his granddaughter Wynafryd over. The Lord and Lady of House Stark had tacitly agreed with this arrangement, and from all angles, it was shaping up to be the early stages of a formal betrothal. The North was willing to play hardball—offering up a future Lady's position in exchange for tying down the rapidly ascending House Manderly to them.
And now, under those circumstances, the North had no reason whatsoever to marry their daughter to Clay. It was not a matter of unwillingness or pride. The truth was much simpler—it was no longer possible.
To give away their eldest daughter as well would have meant binding the two houses so closely together that it became almost unthinkable. In all the long centuries of Westerosi history, no house had ever done such a thing.
And as for the rest? Only House Bolton remained—the same ancient house that once called itself the "Red Kings," before being crushed beneath the heel of the Starks. Unfortunately, the old flayer had no suitable candidates left.
With the North out of options, the only direction left to look was south. But even in the Riverlands, House Tully had no viable matches. Edmure Tully was still unmarried himself, and Lord Hoster Tully had no daughters of an age close enough to Clay's. It simply wasn't feasible.
Among the remaining river lords, to be blunt, none were even remotely qualified to negotiate a marriage alliance with House Manderly. This wasn't about marrying off a lesser son or daughter, where the stakes were lower and family interests barely affected.
This was the heir's marriage—the equivalent, in King's Landing, of choosing a queen. Simply getting through it without shattered skulls littering the floor would already be considered an act of restraint.
Originally, with Westeros being so vast, there should have been someone suitable for Clay somewhere. But now, with war raging across the realm, the Reach and the Stormlands had temporarily united, leaving no chance of intermarriage with a northern house like Manderly.
And as for the Lannisters, what hope could there possibly be? Who would Tywin even send? The man intended for marriage was already soaked in Lannister blood. What kind of union could possibly be forged out of that?
Myrcella? That little girl was barely ten years old at most. And while custom in Westeros might not have found her age to be a problem, some invisible force—call it instinct, morality, or perhaps something else—told Clay he could never go through with something like that.
Who else was left then, by the Seven?
Cersei Lannister?
Unless Jaime didn't mind watching someone take his sister away, that would end in blood for sure.
Winning a war on the battlefield was one thing, but… snatching away the woman too? That would be cruelty far beyond mere strategy, an act that wounded deeper than any blade.
So in the end, there really wasn't anyone Clay could marry. And in a way, that worked to his advantage… it silenced a great deal of gossip.
For a noble to reach a certain age without a betrothal, unless there were special circumstances, always meant one thing: the family had grand ambitions. No exceptions.
"Grandfather," Clay suddenly asked, shifting the conversation, "what's the current state of the family? I've just returned from Dorne, and the things I've heard… it's all messy. Nothing concrete."
He wasn't planning to let the old man continue rambling about women. Clay knew him all too well. If he didn't steer the topic elsewhere, his grandfather would probably start asking about positions and stamina next.
"It's not looking great," Lord Wyman replied, his tone serious now and the mischief in his smile fading. "Clay, I think you understand. This war… this isn't good for the family, even with you performing brilliantly on the battlefield."
With a heavy sigh, he leaned back in his chair. The current situation truly wasn't optimistic. A lot of the family's plans—both those already set in motion and those still on the drawing board—had been forced to halt. Supplies were being diverted. Recruitment had begun again.
"I get it. Lord Eddard's death came at the worst possible time. The gods called him too soon. Honestly, I don't think the North was ready for any of this. Winter is coming, and this final harvest—it's more important than anyone realizes."
"Exactly. Unless you're a family like ours, Manderlys who can rely on sea routes to supplement supplies, most inland houses have no choice but to rely entirely on their own grain stores. Even Winterfell isn't an exception. But then again, who could possibly stop the Young Wolf from avenging his father?"
Clay shook his head and said nothing. The truth was right there for anyone to see. Eddard Stark was dead. But how exactly did he die? Once again, it came down to the same question. He had survived just fine down south, where the heat and humidity made wounds fester easily, but then suddenly collapsed after returning to the Winterfell? Without a convincing explanation, no one could believe it.
"Tell me, boy—do you really believe that Lord Eddard Stark died at the hands of the Lannisters?" the old man asked, his voice tinged with hesitation. "When I saw him in the Twins, he looked fine. Seemed clear-headed enough."
He didn't want to believe that Robb Stark would ever raise a hand against his own father. But Eddard's death had been so strange, so out of place, that he couldn't help but harbor doubts.
Clay thought for a moment. He poured himself a cup of wine, took two slow sips, then finally spoke.
"I don't care, Grandpa. I truly don't. What matters is this. Lord Eddard Stark is dead. He died at the hands of the Lannisters. And he could only have died at the hands of the Lannisters."
"Robb Stark has already crowned himself the King in the North. Unless we are prepared to deny his kingship altogether, then Eddard Stark must have died at the hands of the Lannisters. And we, in turn, must send men to support King Robb's war of vengeance."
Thunder cracked in the distance. Clay looked up at the overcast sky. Rain was coming.
With a heavy sigh, Lord Wyman, clearly dispirited, filled his own cup to the brim, downed it in one gulp, then flung the cup aside and muttered under his breath, "What a load of horseshit…"
Clay understood how the old man felt. For over a thousand years, House Manderly had stood loyally beneath the banner of the Starks. Eddard Stark's honesty and integrity were well known throughout the Seven Kingdoms. Yet now, his downfall—and his death—reeked of conspiracy.
It was the cruelest irony. A man who had lived his life with unwavering honor had died by the very thing he hated most… deceit. There was nothing left to say.
"Oh, right, Clay. There are two things you might find interesting. Would you like to hear about them?"
It seemed something had just occurred to the old man. He lifted his head and looked over at Clay. "I might? All right, Grandpa, go ahead."
"Remember when you first came to the Twins? Someone ambushed our convoy carrying medicinal herbs, remember that?"
"I remember. Why?"
"Well, ever since I took over this region near the Twins, I've stumbled across something quite curious. The spot where you discovered the ambush—that was near the holdings of a small landed knight, wasn't it?"
"Yeah. I always thought that guy was suspicious. But we never had the chance to follow up."
"He wasn't just suspicious. He was a damn disaster waiting to happen. I found out that not long after you left, his entire family—along with his manor—were completely engulfed by a mysterious fire. By the time the Freys sent someone to investigate, the whole place had been reduced to ash. Not a single soul left alive."
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[Chapter End's]
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