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Following almost the exact route he had taken from White Harbor to the Twins, Clay now traveled back. However, where he had once turned east at the Kingsroad to head straight for the coast, this ti, he had to continue northward—toward the site of the attack.
They rode day and night, pushing their horses to the limit. Along the way, Clay heard countless curses and complaints from the Frey soldiers. But for those whose grumbles reached the ears of Aenys Frey, the only response was the sharp crack of a heavy riding whip slicing through the air.
In contrast, the two hundred cavalryn from White Harbor, who rode under Clay's banner, rarely uttered a word of complaint. For them, this was not just a mission—it was vengeance. The brutal slaughter of their people, the rchants of White Harbor, had filled them with burning rage. Their northern temperant, forged by hardship and cold, left no room for words. They had only one thought—to hunt down those bastards and hang them from the nearest tree.
The journey was long, and the farther north they traveled, the more treacherous the road beca. The once broad and well-maintained Kingsroad had fallen into neglect under Robert Baratheon's rule. In all his years on the throne, the king had not spent a single gold dragon to repair it.
Weeds and saplings had taken root in the hardened soil, their roots burrowing deep, cracking and breaking apart the road beneath them.
Even in sothing as seemingly trivial as road maintenance, one could glimpse the decay at the heart of King's Landing's rule. The Baratheons' reign was but a gilded façade—gleaming on the surface, yet rotten to the core. And when the mighty Robert Baratheon finally fell to the tusks of a wild boar, his fragile kingdom was bound to crumble with him.
That night, Clay and Aenys Frey made camp near the Kingsroad, their force of over three hundred soldiers settling in for the evening.
With so many ard n at his back, Clay felt no fear of attack. If anyone dared to ambush a fully equipped company of three hundred cavalry, they would need at least a thousand n—no fewer. The sentries were dispatched far and wide, ensuring no enemy could approach unnoticed.
Seated before a roaring fire, Clay and Aenys Frey watched as a recently caught deer was skinned and gutted by the guards, its at strung up on a spit to roast over the flas.
It was their third night since leaving the Twins. Clay had been waiting. Back in Lord Walder Frey's study, Aenys had left sothing unsaid. And tonight, it seed, he had finally co to finish that conversation.
Drawing a sharp dagger that glead coldly in the moonlight, Aenys Frey sliced off a strip of at from the deer's leg, still streaked with blood. He speared it on the tip of his blade and brought it to his mouth. As Clay watched, he could hear the crunch of his teeth sinking into the half-cooked flesh.
"Lord Clay," Aenys Frey finally spoke, breaking the tense silence. "Who do you think could have done sothing like this? You and I both know that such a massacre could not have been carried out by anything less than hundreds of n."
He had been patient until now, but today, he had finally left his camp to seek out Clay. According to their route, they would arrive at the scene by noon tomorrow.
"Ser Aenys," Clay replied, his tone cool and asured. "That is a question you should be asking yourself. A force of over a hundred n—ard, organized, and moving through Frey lands without leaving a trace? How could I possibly know? If you believe it was re bandits, then tell —are there brigands of such scale lurking near the Twins?"
Aenys frowned, his face turning red in the firelight. One hand unconsciously twirled the small tuft of hair above his lip as he thought. At last, he exhaled and answered.
"You know as well as I do that I oversee most of what happens beyond the Twins. According to my knowledge, there are indeed so small bands of outlaws in our lands, but none of them are significant. The largest group numbers barely thirty n."
"So," Clay mused, "if all these little bands joined together, they could make a hundred, couldn't they?"
Clay was unsurprised by the presence of bandits. The North had few outlaws, not because of any supposed moral superiority, but because the land itself was vast and harsh. Any would-be bandit king would starve before he could rule.
But in the South, where the population was dense and law enforcent weak, things were different. A handful of deserters from so battlefield could slip into the woods, ard and desperate, and soon enough, they'd be raiding travelers and villages. Unless they caused too much trouble, no lord would bother sending troops to wipe them out.
Aenys Frey scoffed. "Them?" He shook his head with a bitter laugh. "Yes, by numbers alone, it could be them. But you think these outlaws would ever work together? They're more likely to slit each other's throats than cooperate. Unless, of course, King Robert himself ca marching into the forest with a bag of gold dragons—then maybe, just maybe, they'd unite for a ti."
The conversation lapsed into silence. Clay knew Aenys had not sought him out rely to discuss the perpetrators of the attack. They had been over that topic countless tis in the past three days. If Aenys had co to him tonight, it was for sothing else entirely.
"Lord Clay," Aenys finally spoke again. "There is no one else here. I think it's ti we spoke of another matter—one far more important. Your marriage. And your sister's."
Once again, the conversation circled back to the very thing Clay had hoped to avoid. His expression darkened, his voice turning cold.
"Ser Aenys Frey, I believe I made myself quite clear back on the east wall of the Twins. This is not sothing I can decide."
Clay was growing weary of this. Why was Aenys Frey so determined to tie himself to House Manderly? The Seven Kingdoms were filled with noble families eager to marry off their daughters—desperate, even.
Yet, to his surprise, Aenys Frey did not seem the least bit angered by his rejection. Instead, an enigmatic smile crept across his face. He took a long swig of ale before speaking in a hushed tone.
"Lord Clay, there's no need to say such things to . You weren't so hesitant about taking action when you killed a Lannister in Winterfell, were you?" His voice dropped lower. "Listen. I am offering you a deal."
Clay narrowed his eyes, intrigued.
"My father is ninety years old," Aenys continued, his voice edged with frustration. "And the only person he trusts is that decrepit old steward who has been by his side for decades. Not my elder brother Stevron—not anyone else. You saw how he treated Stevron in your presence, as though they were the closest of kin. Let tell you the truth—he does not trust him in the slightest."
"Deep down, he knows. My eldest brother Stevron is over sixty. And who's to say he won't outlive him? Do you understand what that ans? Not just Stevron, but his sons and grandsons as well—all of them, waiting for my father to die."
There was no mistaking the loathing in Aenys Frey's voice as he spoke of his family. His lips curled with disdain, his words dripping with venom.
"To protect himself, the old man has stripped so of Stevron's power and handed it to . Otherwise, it would be Stevron riding with you now, not ."
Aenys exhaled sharply, his gaze distant for a mont before settling back on Clay. "Stevron made a promise once," he murmured. "He swore, before the Seven, that if he ever beca Lord of the Crossing, he would see dead."
His bloodshot eyes, glistening with emotion, locked onto Clay's.
"So tell , Ser Clay—if that is his intent, should I not act first?"
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[Chapter End's]
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