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Four large sailing ships, each bearing the sigil of a rman, cut through the chaotic waters of the Bite like an untouchable force.
Though the pirates infesting these waters might outnumber and overwhelm Clay's fleet in sheer numbers, any such action would co at a dire cost. It would an incurring the wrath of House Manderly, a power not to be trifled with. While twenty warships might not be an impressive fleet across the Seven Kingdoms, they were more than enough to crush the longships of the pirates lurking in these waters.
Along the journey, Clay had spotted several pirate ships trailing the White Harbor fleet from a distance, no doubt observing them cautiously. But the mont Ser Marlon ordered the sails unfurled and the fleet turned toward them, the cowardly raiders disappeared faster than mist in the morning sun.
---
On an afternoon heavy with dark clouds, with an impending storm looming over the horizon, the fleet of White Sea Guard finally returned to its ho port, carrying its young lord safely back.
Standing at the bow of the ship, Clay inhaled the briny sea air, letting its salty tang wash over him. His gaze swept across the bustling docks, where workers toiled to unload cargo, and then toward the distant hills, where the towering fortress of New Castle stood proudly against the storm-darkened sky.
A little over a month ago, he had arrived in White Harbor much the sa way—by ship. But back then, he had rely set foot on Westerosi soil, a stranger to these lands. Now, though the city remained just as lively, he no longer felt like an outsider.
Docking a large vessel was always a complex endeavor, but fortunately, White Harbor boasted the largest deepwater port in the North. Unlike so lesser harbors, where passengers had to row ashore in small skiffs, Clay could step directly onto solid ground.
Waiting for him at the docks was a familiar figure. Among the crowd, he imdiately spotted Wynafryd, standing in the center with an air of quiet elegance. Dressed in a simple yet refined white gown, she was surrounded by several maids, making her presence all the more striking.
Clay noticed that his younger sister Wylla was absent. Given her usual fiery temperant, he was certain she would have co to greet him if given the chance. Most likely, she had angered their grandfather again and was confined to her chambers as punishnt.
Stepping off the gangplank, Clay's boots touched the northern soil once more. After briefly adjusting his attire, he didn't wait for his horse to be brought down from the ship but instead strode directly toward the gathered crowd.
As he approached, the people instinctively parted, making way for him. Clay walked straight to his elder sister and, with a teasing smile, remarked, "Sister, dressed so beautifully today—just who were you waiting for?"
Wynafryd responded with a subtle yet unmistakable roll of her eyes before taking his hand, her voice warm but composed, "Grandfather sent to welco you back. I brought your horse—he's been restless, eager to hear about your journey to the Twins."
Clay knew well enough that their grandfather would never share the details of the so-called "Valyrian" super-soldiers with Wynafryd. Matters of such gravity were not for a lady's ears.
Glancing around at the crowd that had gathered to receive him, Clay offered a polite smile in gratitude. His gaze lingered on the outer ring of guards, where he caught sight of several familiar faces—warriors he had personally selected as candidates for his fledgling order of Witchers, his future personal guard.
It seed that during his absence, their training alongside the White Harbor garrison had yielded so results. Before departing, he had instructed his grandfather on how to test them, and judging by their presence here, it appeared the selection process had been completed.
The realization sent a thrill of excitent through Clay's heart—he was about to establish the very first Witcher order in all of Westeros. His pulse quickened at the thought. But just as swiftly, his mind darkened with mories of the White Harbor rchant convoy that had t its grim fate south of the Neck, and of Ser Marlon's warning aboard the ship.
He could only hope that nothing had happened to the ingredients for his Decoctions of the Grasses. If anything had gone wrong, his entire plan would be thrown into disarray
---
After exchanging pleasantries with those who had co to greet him, Clay assisted Wynafryd onto her horse before mounting his own. Surrounded by his guards and personal retainers, the company set off toward the grand fortress of New Castle.
As they rode, Wynafryd turned to him, her tone carrying a hint of concern, "Clay, was your trip to the Twins successful? The Freys..."
She hesitated, unwilling to voice her worries outright.
Clay understood what she was asking. Before leaving, he had made her a promise, and he would not go back on his word. He adjusted his posture in the saddle, allowing the horse's steady rhythm to carry him along, and flashed his sister a reassuring smile.
"The Freys did ntion the engagent, but don't worry. No Frey will ever take you from White Harbor—I swear it."
A wave of relief washed over Wynafryd's features. Though she had always known that as the heir to White Harbor, Clay held significant influence over her future marriage, she had spent many sleepless nights dreading the possibility.
During Clay's absence, she had lived in constant fear that one day, a raven would arrive from the Twins bearing news that her brother had arranged a match with so hideous Frey. That she would have to prepare herself, don a wedding dress, and climb into a carriage—never to return to White Harbor again.
More than once, such nightmares had jolted her awake in the dead of night.
But now, hearing Clay's firm assurance, she knew that tonight, at least, she would finally sleep soundly.
---
Atop the Sea God's Tower, within the study of Lord Wyman Manderly.
Wynafryd did not follow her brother inside. She stopped at the door, understanding that whatever was about to be discussed was not ant for her ears.
Inside, their grandfather had changed little. Seated comfortably in his chair, he drank Sumr Red wine like it was re water. But upon seeing Clay enter, the elderly lord imdiately perked up. Rising from his seat with surprising agility, he circled around his grandson twice, muttering sothing under his breath too quickly for Clay to catch.
"Boy, it seems the Freys weren't much of a match for you after all. I half-expected them to keep you trapped in that wretched den of theirs."
The words were spoken with the air of solemn authority, but Clay could hear the teasing beneath them.
With a resigned sigh, he pulled out a chair and sat down under the old man's watchful gaze. Reaching for the bottle, he poured himself a goblet of Sumr Red. Unlike his grandfather, who drank straight from the bottle with no care for propriety, Clay preferred a more asured approach.
"Grandfather, I can still manage myself just fine."
"Is that so?" Lord Wyman scoffed, eyes twinkling with amusent. "You sound just like your father did at your age. And yet, the very next day, I caught him—ah, but never mind that."
Clay rolled his eyes. He had no interest in hearing whatever youthful indiscretions his father had committed. The debauchery of noble heirs was hardly a secret, but Clay had little patience for such things. Not out of any sense of purity—he simply found it distasteful. The thought of sharing a bed with soone who had already been passed around was enough to make his skin crawl.
Lord Wyman's expression grew serious.
"Enough idle talk. You want to know why I summoned you back?"
Clay straightened in his chair.
His grandfather continued, his voice low and grave, "That rchant convoy in the Neck—it was carrying the very cargo we needed. Aside from the North's own shipnts, every other trade route has been scrutinized. Legally, of course. But there's more. News from King's Landing—Lord Eddard Stark is searching for the king's bastard."
The old man exhaled slowly, his gaze dark and calculating.
"That city..." He murmured, almost to himself. "I can sll sothing foul stirring within it."
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[Chapter End's]
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