In the end, Clay didn't bother entangling himself any further with Harry Rivers.
The man was nothing more than a pitiful fool, a half-witted bastard from the small and unremarkable castle of Stone Hedge. There was little point in wasting breath on him.
If he had already made up his mind to side with Edmure Tully, then so be it. Clay had no reason to care.
And since he was here, there was no need to let anything go to waste. Not out of spite, of course… he simply believed in using every resource to its fullest.
So Clay emptied the warehouse of the last two thousand sets of winter coats and distributed them, one by one, to the soldiers who had fought alongside him and distinguished themselves in the recent battles.
With that done, there was really no reason left to exchange words with Harry Rivers.
As far as Clay was concerned, the man no longer served any purpose.
And if Stone Hedge managed to avoid any further attacks in the wars to come, then perhaps, just perhaps, Clay would never have to see him again.
Everyone had the right to make their own choices. There was nothing wrong with that.
So long as they were willing to bear the weight of the consequences that followed.
————————————————————
Clay's army began its period of rest and recovery right here in Stone Hedge.
There was no need to seek anyone's permission. Without a word of negotiation, the entire force marched straight into the castle and picked the warmest spots they could find to settle down.
He would never allow his men to spend their nights out on the open Riverlands plain, day after day, shivering beneath the bitter winds.
Since every lord and knight across the Riverlands already saw Clay Manderly as some kind of domineering commander, then why not lean into the image and play the part thoroughly?
If I'm a commander, then I'll act like one. Rough around the edges, dismissive of noble customs, concerned only with the welfare of my men. Doesn't that all seem perfectly reasonable?
If he went around pretending to be some lofty, untouchable noble, concerned more with etiquette than the reality on the ground, wouldn't that just go against everything the Riverlands lords believed about him?
That kind of dissonance… was troublesome.
It simply wouldn't feel right.
"Christen," Clay said, lifting his cup of stolen wine without ceremony, "take our men, along with a few of the soldiers who proved themselves in this battle and know how to follow orders. Form a proper unit and station them at the granary. I want the food stores guarded, understood?"
Without a hint of hesitation, Clay had already seized most of the main keep's chambers for his own use. He now sat comfortably in what had once been the lord's private hall, surrounded by warmth and quiet luxury, sipping on the fine wine that the former master of Stone Hedge had once hidden away for himself.
Across the table sat Christen Manderly, brows slightly furrowed, clearly puzzled by the order.
"My lord Clay," he asked hesitantly, "why do we need to post guards at the granary?"
"Oh, no, that's not what I meant," he quickly added when he saw the strange, unreadable look in his lord's eyes. "I mean… is there really anyone in Stone Hedge who would dare lift a hand against us?"
Clay let out a quiet sigh, then pushed a cup of the vintage wine across the table toward him. He didn't bother answering right away.
"Christen," he said slowly, with a weary sort of patience, "sometimes the things we do aren't just about the obvious meaning on the surface."
Without waiting to see whether Christen would drink or not, Clay tilted his head back and downed a full cup in one long gulp. A heavy breath followed as the warmth spread through his chest. Then he spoke again, his tone quieter now, almost thoughtful.
"It's true. Right now, in this Stone Hedge, no one dares challenge our authority."
"But you must remember… things aren't the same as they used to be."
"Back then, the Riverlands people only saw us as a helping hand, a temporary solution to their problems. They were the hosts, and we were the guests."
Clay chuckled softly, then leaned back in his chair. His gaze drifted toward the window, where outside, the snow had begun to fall again, light and quiet, dotting the world in a cold white mist.
"But now, thanks to that idiot Edmure Tully and his string of stupid decisions, along with his cowardice… and also, because Robb Stark lost a battle he should never have lost…"
His voice trailed for a moment, and his eyes narrowed.
"…I, your lord, have been forced to take charge. If I want to turn this disaster around, I can no longer remain a guest. I've had to become the mountain that now sits on top of these Riverlands lords, pressing down hard enough they can barely breathe."
He gave a faint smile, filled with something between irony and amusement.
"And the funniest part is, this mountain? They built it themselves, piece by piece, with their own hands."
"They invited me here, and only now are they realizing that, somewhere along the way, guest and host have quietly swapped places."
"The Riverlands lords want to survive, so they have no choice but to hand me their armies. But once those armies are in my hands, they can no longer sleep soundly at night."
"After all, we're Northerners. And not long ago, without so much as a polite knock, we marched right into their lands and swallowed up Twins and the whole stretch of territory surrounding it for ourselves."
"They don't dare say it out loud, but I can guarantee you, every single one of them is quietly stewing inside."
"They're wondering, deep down, just how long it'll be before Clay Manderly turns his longsword on them too. Because if you think about it… we've already got a bit of a history, don't we?"
Clay spoke the words in an easy, unhurried tone. There wasn't the faintest trace of anger or spite in his voice. In fact, he sounded almost amused.
Christen, on the other hand, stared at him, utterly dumbfounded.
He wasn't a noble by upbringing. Politics, power balances, hidden tensions — these things were far beyond his understanding. He simply couldn't feel the undercurrents the way Clay could.
In his mind, Lord Clay had always been a bridge between the North and the Riverlands, a key figure that held both sides together. He never imagined that the Riverlands nobles would actually regard his lord with such suspicion, even now.
And what confused him even more was why Lord Clay would say such things out loud, especially here and now. Because it wasn't just the two of them in the room.
Sitting not far away, silent but clearly present, was none other than Ser Brynden Tully, the Blackfish himself. He had fought side by side with Clay in recent battles, yet in theory, he remained one of Edmure Tully's most loyal supporters.
However, as Clay finished speaking, the old knight looked up from his wine and cast a quiet glance in Clay's direction. His expression didn't shift much, but the faint, crooked smile that curled on his lips was hard to read.
He said nothing.
He didn't bristle with offense, didn't rise in defense of his kin, didn't scowl or frown or even blink in surprise. He simply continued sipping from his cup as though nothing had been said at all.
As if the sharp words Clay had just spoken had drifted past his ears like smoke on the wind.
Clay turned to glance at Christen, then gave him a small wave of the hand, signaling he was free to go take care of his assigned task.
These kinds of conversations, these deeper matters, Christen would understand in time. As Clay's own status continued to rise, so too would the weight and value of his personal guard. That elevation would bring understanding with it.
But for now, Christen simply wasn't ready. And what came next wasn't something he needed to hear.
Once Christen had left, Clay let himself relax back into the soft cushions of his chair. This was comfort. This was peace. Far better than bouncing up and down on horseback all day in the freezing wind.
"Lord Clay," came the calm voice of the old knight, "Edmure… though he's of age, never had the right person to teach him. My brother—" his tone softened slightly, "—he spoiled him far too much."
Even now, it seemed, the Blackfish was still inclined to speak up for Edmure Tully. Blood was blood, after all. A Tully would always be a Tully.
Clay gave a low chuckle and tilted his head.
"Mmm… so this is grown-up time now, huh?"
He smiled, light and easy, then reached over and plucked a decent-looking bottle from the table, tossing it casually in Brynden Tully's direction.
The Blackfish caught it without missing a beat. He didn't even glance at the label, and he didn't bother inspecting it either. He simply tilted his head back and took a long, generous swig straight from the bottle.
His armor gleamed faintly in the firelight, a suit of black mail crafted in the tight, overlapping pattern of fish scales. In Clay's memory, the old knight almost never took it off, as if it had become a part of him over the years.
"You know something, Lord Clay?" the Blackfish said, lowering the bottle and giving it a little twirl between his fingers. "You strike me as strange. There's something about you I can't quite put my finger on, this constant sense of distance, like you're always… out of reach."
Clay glanced at him sideways, then turned his gaze away again, back to the window, where snow still drifted down in an endless, silent curtain. It had been falling all day without pause, the way it often did in the dead of Northern winter.
"Oh?" he said lightly, voice neither defensive nor dismissive. "And what makes you say that, Ser Brynden?"
Since the old knight had already brought it up, Clay couldn't very well ignore him. He had a feeling Brynden was leading up to something.
"You probably don't even notice it yourself," the Blackfish said, voice calm and even. "But to those of us on the outside looking in, your rise has been… far too quick."
"I've spent some time digging into your past," he continued, swirling the bottle now in slow, absent circles.
"Back when the war hadn't even shown its face, before there was any real sign of open conflict, you made a trip, quiet and brief, to the Twins, while it was still under the control of House Frey."
At the mention of that name, Clay tilted his head slightly. He had a pretty good idea where this was going.
The Blackfish didn't stop.
"To me, that castle should've been a wall you Northerners had no hope of breaching when you finally marched to war."
"But what actually happened?" he said, looking steadily at Clay. "You, Clay Manderly, snuck in with a small group of men. Not long after, the entire Frey family was dead. The Twins changed banners, and the fortress became yours. Just like that."
"And now you're going to tell me that your little visit beforehand had nothing to do with it?" He raised an eyebrow. "Forgive me, but I don't buy that."
He leaned forward slightly, tone sharpening, not in hostility, but in focused curiosity.
"So that got me wondering… how did you even know there was going to be a war?"
"Without that one, perfectly timed and utterly unexpected victory, you'd have been just another Northern soldier. One more name in the ranks, nothing to set you apart."
"And that's not even mentioning your first campaign leading troops down south," he added, his voice growing quieter, tinged now with something like awe.
There was no accusation in Brynden Tully's words, only deep puzzlement and the kind of respect tinged with suspicion that came when a man saw something he couldn't explain.
After all, he had witnessed Clay's rise firsthand.
From an obscure heir of the Manderly line, a young man barely known outside his own halls, to a commander now holding massive sway, with an army that made even the proudest of lords struggle to breathe beneath its weight.
All in just two years…
Too fast!
So fast, in fact, that it defied all logic.
Maybe, if you looked at it in isolation, it seemed plausible enough… just the story of a sharp young lord with talent and ambition. But the moment you compared it to other nobles of his age, that illusion started to crack. That was when things stopped making sense.
Clay didn't refute Brynden Tully's words. He simply nodded.
Because it was true.
He had done those things. There was no reason to deny it.
As for what happened at the Twins… well, there was no one left alive to prove anything now. If Aenys Frey hadn't been so foolish as to walk straight into a trap, the Freys might not have fallen so quickly. Their downfall had come fast, but only because they'd practically delivered it into his hands.
If someone charges headfirst into their own death, who else is there to blame?
All he'd done was go along with the current and push when the moment was right.
But Clay understood perfectly well what Brynden Tully was really saying beneath all those words.
He was warning him, without saying it outright, that his rise had come too quickly, and that the foundations beneath him weren't as stable as they seemed.
Brynden wasn't indifferent to what Edmure Tully had been stirring up behind Clay's back. Far from it. He was worried… no question about that.
After so many years of war, a man like him knew all too well how others on the battlefield thought. He could read between the lines because he'd lived those lines himself.
And if he hadn't been concerned, he wouldn't be sitting here tonight, speaking in circles, carefully feeling out the edges of what he couldn't say outright.
Right now, Edmure Tully had no command over any troops. The only thing he had left was an empty, meaningless title, the Lord of the Riverlands in name alone, stripped of all real power or influence.
The most he could do now was throw the occasional wrench into the gears, slowing down supply lines or making things difficult in the rear lines where the fighting didn't reach.
And if Clay really wanted to deal with Edmure Tully, he had more than enough ways to do it.
Yes, Clay was a Northerner. No matter what he did, he would never be handed the title of Warden of the Riverlands. That position belonged to House Tully, and there it would stay.
But if he pushed too hard, if he humiliated Edmure, crushed him completely, and dragged the Tully name through the mud in front of every noble in Westeros, then what good would that title even be?
Once, Tywin Lannister's father had held the title of Warden of the West. They called him the "Laughing Lion," though there wasn't much strength behind the name. He'd been soft, weak, a Lannister only in gold and name.
And under his rule, House Lannister fell to such a low point that it became fair game for anyone to take advantage of. It wasn't until Tywin rose to power and responded with ruthless, unforgettable fury during what came to be known as the Rain of Castamere that their house clawed its way back up from disgrace.
Had Tywin not taken the reins and restored their name by force, there was no telling whether the Lannisters would even still hold that title today.
Because in this world, weakness was the original sin. And strength… strength made everything permissible.
That, more than anything, was what Brynden Tully feared.
The stronger Clay became, the more he ignored Edmure Tully, the less respect the Tully name would command in the eyes of others. With every step Clay took forward, House Tully slipped just a little further down.
What they had now was the result of Clay holding all the military power firmly in his own hands, while still leaving Edmure Tully free to run amok behind the scenes, creating chaos, unchecked and unpunished.
And the nobles? They weren't fools.
Brynden knew that better than anyone. He understood very well that his nephew's ability… was, frankly, difficult to praise.
And yet, Edmure refused to quietly fade into the background. He wasn't content to be just a ceremonial figure, a harmless emblem of House Tully. No, he still wanted to prove himself… again and again.
But the truth was, he couldn't.
What troubled Ser Brynden Tully most wasn't just Edmure's repeated failures. It was the missed chances, the people who could have guided him, had they chosen to.
Someone like Tytos Blackwood.
A man like that could have steered Edmure in the right direction. He had the standing, the insight, the gravitas. He could have tempered Edmure's recklessness and taught him how to carry himself like a true lord of the Riverlands.
But instead, the great lords simply watched from the sidelines, their eyes cold and distant, as Edmure stumbled time and again, each mistake more embarrassing than the last.
What they were truly thinking, what motives they held in their hearts… only Edmure himself remained blissfully unaware.
As Edmure's uncle, Brynden couldn't just sit back and watch this happen.
And now Edmure had acted foolishly once more, meddling with the logistics of Clay's army, trying to pull strings where he had no business interfering.
The old knight had felt a chill of dread the moment he caught wind of it. He knew trouble was coming. So the moment Clay returned and set foot back in camp, Brynden had come to see him. Sat down. Waited.
"Ser Brynden," Clay said quietly, giving him a glance before waving his hand, his voice carrying a trace of weariness, maybe even resignation. "You don't need to overthink this. Lord Edmure… I won't get too involved with him. For now, this is wartime. Life and death. A temporary arrangement, nothing more."
Brynden Tully let out a long sigh. His tone had turned bleak.
"Alas, Lord Clay… That's exactly what I was afraid you'd say. The more you let him do as he pleases, the more likely he is to make an even greater mess of things."
House Tully, in this generation, had only one legitimate male heir… Edmure.
Whether he was fit for it or not, it had to be him. There was no one else.
And yet… this was who he was.
It's not stupidity that's dangerous. It's when a man refuses to listen.
A fool who can be taught is still worth something. But someone who clings to their illusions, who lives trapped in a world that only exists inside their own head—there's nothing anyone can do for someone like that.
"Ser Brynden," Clay said quietly, "I need to remind you of something."
Of course, he knew exactly what the Blackfish was implying. Without looking away, he raised his finger and pointed lightly at the center of his forehead. His voice turned cool, edged with a hard calm.
"I don't carry the Tully name. So it's not my duty to teach Edmure Tully how to be wise."
He almost added,"I'm not his father."
But after a brief pause, he decided against saying it aloud. It didn't feel appropriate, not now. So he let that part hang in silence, unspoken.
"He can't even handle the vassals under his own banner. If he can't manage that… what exactly can he do?"
Clay's eyes narrowed slightly, then he continued, his tone still even but gaining a quiet intensity.
"Let's not even go far. Just look at the past three hundred years under House Targaryen. Wars were won not because the king could fight, but because he knew how to use the right people. There's no shortage of those examples."
"Edmure Tully being useless on the battlefield, that's not the end of the world. It's not even a fatal flaw. As long as he can manage his own house properly, govern the Riverlands cleanly, and be a dragon in domestic affairs… that alone would be enough."
"But, Ser Brynden… you know full well how Edmure Tully has actually behaved."
Clay hadn't wanted to air this mess, not at first. But since they were already here, and Brynden had come to confront him, he saw no point in holding back.
"Do you remember that Vance I executed? The one I beheaded? I only found out later, after asking Tytos Blackwood, that Edmure Tully was the one who forced him into that position."
"Your good nephew personally patted his chest and swore up and down that this man could do the job. And Tytos, as one of his vassals, had no choice but to go along with it, even though he knew better."
Clay paused for a moment, then added with a trace of quiet disgust, "I'm not interested in digging too deeply into what role the Lord of Raventree Hall played in that whole affair. There's no need."
"But you were there in that battle too, and you saw it. The battlefield was more than ten miles wide, and that man couldn't even tell which direction was which."
"Later, I looked into his record. The truth? He had absolutely no real experience in war."
"The only reason he was given a command was because his name was Vance… and because he was close with Edmure Tully."
"Your fine nephew wanted to stuff his own people into the army."
Clay leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping into something colder, heavier.
"So tell me, Ser Brynden… because of your nephew's stupidity and arrogance, the Riverlands lost nearly a thousand cavalrymen. Trained, well-bred, expensive horsemen… gone. How many more times are you willing to pay that kind of price?"
"I'll say this plainly. That kind of tuition? It's too expensive. I can't afford to keep paying it. And I won't."
His palm came down on the table with a light, precise tap. The sound wasn't loud, yet it carried enough weight to silence Brynden Tully completely. The old knight opened his mouth, then closed it again, unable to utter a single word.
"Your House Tully is old, vast, with deep roots and deep coffers. If you want to let Edmure ruin it all, that's your business. But my House Manderly… we're small. A humble house, with limited means. We simply don't have that kind of luxury."
Clay's voice had cooled even further now, but underneath it was a steel edge that couldn't be missed.
"It's not that I won't teach him. All I ask is that he calm down a little. Just open his eyes, pay attention, and start using his head. It's really not that hard."
"What he shouldn't be doing… is pretending to be some kind of genius, stubbornly insisting on his own way without listening to anyone."
Clay rarely spoke this much. He was a man who preferred action over long speeches. But this time, Edmure Tully's behavior had genuinely disgusted him. It had crossed a line he couldn't ignore.
From where he stood, yes, the Riverlands did need a weak lord. That was true. A soft hand at the reins meant more room to maneuver for everyone else. But weak didn't mean reckless. Weak didn't mean chaotic.
There were still enemies out there. Plenty of them. The North couldn't afford to descend into disorder right now.
Clay fell silent then, closing his mouth as the last of his words settled into the air. He had said everything that needed saying. As for how much of it Brynden Tully would pass on to Edmure… that wasn't something Clay cared about, nor something he intended to worry over.
Coming to the North and getting dragged into this chaotic war on someone else's behalf had never been about honor or loyalty. It had always been about one thing: ensuring the North remained stable and protecting the long-term interests of House Manderly.
And once that was achieved, once his own side was steady and secure again, he had no intention of continuing to play the part of this so-called "commander," a thankless role that offered no real gain and even less appreciation.
He had never cared for the kind of hollow honor people liked to talk about. When the day came that he flew in with his dragon, when his enemies were reduced to ash, and the rest knelt in the dust…
Then, and only then, would all glory belong to him.
Or rather… to the crown that would rest on his brow.
**
**
[IMAGE]
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Chapter End's]
🖤 Night_FrOst/ Patreon 🤍
Visit my Patreon for Early Chapter:
Extra Content Already Available