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That very night, Clay issued his orders without hesitation. The family's guards burst into Maester Theomore's chambers, not bothering to listen to his explanations. Without affording him any opportunity to defend himself, they placed him under strict watch.
The ravens he controlled were imdiately taken from his side to prevent him from sending any more ssages beyond the keep. Clay did not order a search of Theomore's personal belongings or correspondence. After all, his grandfather had conducted such searches many tis before and had never managed to uncover anything suspicious. This ti, Clay held no expectations of finding direct evidence either.
Once Clay had settled Elric's affairs, he would then turn his attention to this two-faced traitor.
At the break of dawn, Clay mounted his horse and rode straight for the Wolf's Den. He had a great many tasks awaiting him today.
The blood-red gemstone ring on his finger caused every guard who laid eyes on it to stop and bow low in deference. Without a word, Clay rode directly toward the rear of the Wolf's Den, into the main stronghold of the White Sea Guard.
As soon as word reached the ears of the various intelligence chiefs, they abandoned whatever tasks they had been engaged in and rushed toward the conference room where their commander awaited. They had known Clay had returned to White Harbor just the day before, but none had anticipated he would co here so quickly.
Seated calmly upon a chair, his gaze steady and unreadable, Clay watched the familiar figures file into the chamber one by one. Only after they had all taken their seats did he speak, his voice cold and devoid of emotion.
"You're all here. While I was away, it seems you all perford admirably."
No one in the room was foolish enough to take his words at face value. These were all seasoned minds who knew full well that this was no complint. They also understood that during the commander's southern campaign, their actual contributions had been minimal.
Whatever little had gone according to plan had been the result of Clay's personal arrangents before his departure. The ones they had overseen and maintained had proven ineffective. In truth, they had been of little use at all.
When exactly had the Kingslayer left King's Landing and led his army west? Their agents within the capital had provided no such intelligence.
After Eddard Stark's escape from the capital, not a single report from the White Sea Guard could confirm his whereabouts or condition.
And when Clay, the commander of the White Sea Guard, led his army to the very gates of the Twins, what preparations had their forces within the castle made? What operations had they carried out? He had received no effective guidance.
It was only after he managed to slip into the Twins that, by great fortune, he encountered the local overseer of the White Sea Guard stationed there. Only then did he finally regain control of the castle's hidden forces, and with coordinated efforts both within and without, he succeeded in capturing the stronghold.
Their intelligence network had grown sluggish, unable to keep pace with the thundering advance of Clay's cavalry. Truthfully, it was not the hounds who cleared the path for their master during this southern campaign—it was the master dragging a pack of slow, useless hounds behind him.
This was a fundantal problem. Clay's dissatisfaction with their performance was completely justified. Had he dismissed them all on the spot, not one would dare to utter a word in protest.
"My lord… we failed you. Please, forgive us."
Snow, one of the most respected among the overseers, sensed the silence thickening in the room. Unable to endure it any longer, he forced himself to speak on behalf of them all.
Clay gave a quiet scoff, waved his hand, and replied in a voice that had turned cold and sharp,
"What use is my forgiveness? Even if I dragged you all out and had your heads cut off, what difference would that make? What I want are results. What I demand is intelligence, real intelligence, the kind that only you are supposed to provide. Do you understand that?"
"Your own lives are not that valuable. Whether your heads remain firmly on your shoulders depends entirely on the work you deliver. Not on how well you beg before ."
No one dared speak. Not a single voice was raised in protest. None among them wished to provoke the commander's fury at a ti like this. He was not so pampered noble who hid behind castle walls, giving orders from a gilded chair.
He was a man who had personally led troops to the south, and without assistance, had crushed more than ten thousand Lannister soldiers with his own strategic command. A man who could kill so many without a flicker in his eyes would not hesitate for a mont to cut down one of them if he deed it necessary.
They had failed. That much was undeniable. So there was nothing more to say. Whatever the commander ordered, they would obey.
"I have other matters to attend to, so I will not waste words with you. From now on, set aside your own thoughts and listen carefully to my commands."
Clay raised the hand bearing the ring that symbolized the authority of the White Sea Guard and slamd it down onto the table with a resounding thud.
"You need not concern yourselves with the affairs in King's Landing anymore. Let the three kings nad Baratheon fight to the death over that stinking city. It is no longer our concern."
"Send more n to garrison Harrenhal for . Rember this: if any southern force begins to lay siege to Harrenhal, you must send word at once to White Harbor or the Twins. I repeat, at once. No delays, no excuses."
"The Iron Islands have struck the western lands with such force that the Westerlands can barely respond on both ends. This is the perfect opportunity for you to infiltrate their territories. I want reports on everything—whether the Ironborn lose or the West suffers another defeat, I want to know all of it."
"And lastly, pay close attention to Lord Eddard's condition. Sothing feels wrong about him. The Lannisters let him go far too easily. There's more to this than ets the eye."
As for the Vale, Clay made no ntion of it. He imagined they were likely embroiled in internal strife. One faction, led by Lysa Tully, stubbornly clung to their reclusive, long-standing policy of sealing the Bloody Gate, hiding away like a tortoise retreating into its shell.
On the other side, headed by House Royce and others of similar resolve, voices grew louder in opposition, condemning this slow march toward death and ruin. They demanded that the Vale take an active role in the war.
The Vale possessed the most formidable cavalry in all the Seven Kingdoms, yet they chose to remain caged behind their gates, rely watching as rivers of blood flowed across Westeros.
Clay did not know whether Littlefinger had arrived yet at the Eyrie, to face that woman who loved him so blindly she would sacrifice anything for his sake.
If he had, then the Vale had beco an unstable elent, one whose eruption could occur at any mont. No one could predict just when Petyr Baelish might decide to unleash the Vale's knights through the Bloody Gate and onto the battlefield.
At present, Clay had no ans of contacting the opposition within the Vale, those loyal to House Royce and the others who defied Lysa's policy. He truly had no viable plan to sway the Vale. Even the mory of the so-called Justice League had faded into nothingness without leaving a mark.
Littlefinger maintained a tight grip on the Vale, treating it as his private garden, and Clay had no intention of drawing the attention of the cunning Lord Petyr by interfering without cause.
It was not that he feared him; rather, he was soon to depart and saw no point in provoking unnecessary entanglents with Baelish at such a critical mont.
"I will be leaving White Harbor for so ti. During my absence, all reports, as well as the full command of the White Sea Guard, will temporarily be handed over to Lord Wyman. However, the orders I have issued must be carried out to the letter. I will not tolerate the slightest hint of idleness or negligence."
"As you command, Commander."
…
Clay's departure left him with no ti to reorganize the White Sea Guard from top to bottom. For now, he had no choice but to maintain the existing structure and strip them of their arbitrary authority to act on their own. His focus was to seize control of several crucial points and ensure they remained firmly within his grasp.
After erging from the Wolf's Den, Clay wasted no ti and imdiately sought out Ser Marlon, the man who had returned to White Harbor with him. His uncle, Wylis, who remained as the garrison commander of White Harbor, lacked the aptitude for leading soldiers. Clay needed soone reliable to whom he could entrust the command of the army.
After much thought, he concluded that Ser Marlon was the only one in all of White Harbor who truly fit the role. None of the others held enough authority or presence to command the proud and hardened warriors who had fought and triumphed under Clay's banner.
Ser Marlon, who was nearly the sa age as Clay's grandfather, was at that mont standing in the training yard, watching a group of spirited young lads practice their swordsmanship. A lifelong devotee of martial training, he remained just as enthusiastic now as he had ever been.
When he noticed Clay approaching, he imdiately understood the reason for the visit. On their journey back from the Neck, Clay had spoken to him about this matter once. Though he had not revealed the purpose of his departure to Essos, he had clearly stated that he would be leaving soon.
"Clay, have you settled matters on your end? Co, let's speak elsewhere. This place is nothing but dust kicked up by these brats."
With a hearty laugh, the old knight rose from his seat, gave a firm kick to a lad whose footwork had gone wildly astray, and led Clay toward a quieter part of the keep.
Clay's departure from White Harbor—and even from Westeros itself—was a tightly guarded secret within the family. Though the truth might eventually co to light, that would only be long after he had gone. For now, not a word could be allowed to slip.
The Riverlands and the current Tully family were like a beautiful woman with her dress half undone, surrounded by n whose eyes burned with desire. The only thing stopping them from pouncing and ravishing her was the terrifying elder brother looming behind her.
The North was that brother, and Clay was the very embodint of his ferocity and strength.
If news of his departure from Westeros leaked now, there was no telling who might be emboldened to act on their sinister thoughts regarding the Riverlands. Not to ntion, his own grandfather was still stationed there.
That was why Clay had to deal with Elric and the Lannister maester behind him. At the very least, he needed to ensure the area around the Sea God's Tower remained clean and free of prying eyes.
Ser Marlon led Clay to the second floor of the Sea God's Tower, where a quiet balcony overlooked the garden below. It was a secluded spot, undisturbed by others and offering a wide view of the surrounding grounds. Anyone who tried to sneak a look would be spotted at once.
"All right, Clay. Now tell in detail. How long will you be gone?"
"I won't ask where you're going. You've already made up your mind, and both your grandfather and I support your decision. Rember, the family stands behind you."
Clay smiled faintly, his gaze drifting toward the garden beyond the balcony. A maid was sweeping away the fallen leaves in silence. When she noticed Clay watching her, she quickly lowered her head, pretending not to have seen him. But the way her hands gripped the broom so tightly that her knuckles turned red—matching the flush on her cheeks—betrayed her emotions.
Ser Marlon noticed as well. The old knight pursed his lips, nudged Clay with an elbow, and chuckled in a low voice.
"You rascal. Do you even know how popular you are? Not just here in White Harbor, but throughout the entire North?"
Clay shook his head and smiled:
"Let's not exaggerate. It's not about who fancies . It's about who the family would actually approve of. And truth be told, there isn't a single suitable candidate in all the Seven Kingdoms right now."
"Ha! What a boast. Even the king doesn't speak so boldly."
The old knight laughed heartily, treating Clay's words as little more than jest. But as the laughter faded, he fell into a brief silence. Inwardly, he reviewed the situation once more, and it dawned on him that perhaps Clay's claim was not so far-fetched.
An awkward expression crept onto the old knight's face. He muttered under his breath, almost to himself,
"Sotis I wonder… if it would have been better not to fight this war at all. At least then, you wouldn't be having such trouble finding a bride, boy."
But soon, his expression hardened. He straightened his posture and spoke with a solemn tone,
"Clay, no matter what happens, our family must have an heir. You must begin thinking seriously about marriage. Your grandfather sent Wynafryd to the Starks for a reason, and I'm sure you understand what he ant by that."
At the ntion of this matter, a flicker of anger surged within Clay. He was not enraged at the fact that his sister, Wynafryd, had been handed over to the Stark family. Rather, what burned within him was fury at his own weakness. His strength had not yet reached the point where he could defy others. He had not yet grown powerful enough to choose freely for those he wished to protect.
If the current Gaelithox possessed the size and might of the Black Dead, would the Manderlys have handed Wynafryd to the Starks so readily?
At that point, Wynafryd would be the one standing at the heart of Westeros, choosing the man she loved from a sea of suitors. She would not have been treated like a bargaining chip, passed along without voice or choice. This, too, was the helpless sorrow that ca with insufficient power.
"I understand, Ser Marlon. My grandfather and I have already made plans for this matter. Do not worry. The legacy of House Manderly will continue through my hands."
"I never doubted that." Marlon nodded with conviction. "Very well. Let us leave that matter for now. Tell instead about the army you brought back. Is it truly necessary to disband them and send them ho? That would be a sha."
Clay nodded in agreent, his expression earnest.
"You're right, ser. While I was away, the n who followed south were all seasoned veterans, n who've seen blood on the battlefield. Especially those several hundred cavalryn—they stayed with from beginning to end. Tell them they're not to return ho and take up farming. As compensation, give them double pay."
He paused for a breath, his tone carrying weight.
"Also, the family's current financial strength is enough to expand our cavalry force. This is sothing you must keep in mind. Focus our resources on enlarging the cavalry as much as possible. As for the infantry, maintaining the current numbers is sufficient."
To Clay's instructions, Ser Marlon offered no objections. He agreed at once. After all, he had followed Clay closely throughout the campaign and knew well how terrifying a force of cavalry under his command could be on the battlefield.
The na Clay Manderly had earned its place in the minds of Westeros's lords through one thing alone: the cavalry under his banner. Their display of might against the Lannisters had left an indelible impression.
"Understood. I know how formidable you are with your cavalry. You can count on not to hold you back. Anything else?"
"There is. And it's more important than what I just ntioned."
Clay's smile faded as his expression grew serious, his gaze sharp.
"Ser Marlon, I want you to do everything in your power to build a fleet strong enough to rival Stannis's royal navy. Aside from the funds required for the basic operation of the household, invest everything we have—every last gold dragon—into it."
The request caught Marlon completely off guard. He had assud Clay would be focused on expanding his own land forces, strengthening the troops directly under his command. That would have made sense. He had not expected this—the sudden proposal to create a naval force comparable to the king's own.
"Why? Maintaining a fleet of that scale would place enormous pressure on the family's finances. That would an sinking nearly half of White Harbor's total tax inco into it."
Marlon's eyebrows shot up in astonishnt. He simply could not comprehend why Clay would ask for sothing so demanding. But he was not to bla for this lack of understanding. Among the nobles of Westeros, few ever thought to cast their eyes toward the sea. Almost no one understood the true value of mariti power.
To the vast majority of noble houses, even those bordering the sea, any spare wealth would go toward raising more cavalry. Not a single extra coin would be spared for a single plank of wood on a warship.
But Clay had never seen it that way. In his mind, if he could seize control of the seas, then even if the dragon in the future were weakened by any number of black technologies or unforeseen factors, he would still hold an unshakable advantage in any war.
If he could command the seas on both sides of Westeros, imagine how many nobles would dare leave their castles unguarded?
Casterly Rock, the Citadel, King's Landing, Storm's End—were any of them truly invulnerable from the sea? Even the Vale, with its fad Bloody Gate, could be rendered defenseless if troops landed from the coast.
Indeed, if before the war even began, the North had already established a naval force on the western shores equivalent to the royal fleet, then the Lannisters would be hard-pressed to send more than twenty thousand n. At least ten thousand would have to remain behind to guard the long, exposed coastline.
Because they would never know where North might land its troops. And on the sea, the speed of deploynt far surpassed anything possible on land.
Before even a single blade was drawn, North would have already pinned down a third of the enemy's forces, forcing them to remain immobile. That was the true power of sea supremacy.
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[Chapter End's]
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