Wynafryd's Thoughts

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After assigning the tasks, Clay did not leave the training grounds immediately. Instead, he sat down and began chatting with the anxious-looking cadets from the collateral branches of House Manderly.

Unlike last time, there was no need for Clay to resort to subtle tricks to reinforce his authority. He listened attentively as each of them introduced their backgrounds and circumstances, making a deliberate effort to remember every detail.

Once all twenty had finished—some giving brief introductions while others provided longer accounts—Clay mentally summarized their common traits. In short, three key points stood out:

First, although their families had declined and could no longer be considered noble, they still possessed modest savings. This meant they could afford to equip themselves with a full, or at least a partial, set of simple armor.

Second, most of their fathers had participated in battles under Clay's grandfather's command. Some had fought in Robert's Rebellion, while others had served alongside Stannis Baratheon's royal fleet during its campaigns against the pirates of the Narrow Sea. The latter group was more common, ensuring that, at the very least, they had some practical understanding of warfare.

Third, House Manderly had lived in White Harbor for generations. Even among the collateral relatives still bearing the Manderly name, their numbers reached into the hundreds, if not thousands. Yet, despite this vast and intricate web of kinship, his grandfather and Ser Marlon had managed to select individuals with simpler family backgrounds and fewer social ties—men who would be easier to manage. That alone must have been quite a challenge.

Clay singled out a few men and casually asked them about the battles they or their fathers had experienced. Then, he posed a question: "If you were the commander, how would you lead the battle?" This was a test of their ability to think independently. Until now, these men had always been common soldiers on the battlefield, obediently following the commands of their noble lords without question.

As the conversation deepened, the initially hesitant and reserved farm boys gradually relaxed. The atmosphere grew livelier, and soon they were enthusiastically offering their own perspectives.

Although Clay regarded most of their battle plans as utterly impractical—essentially suggesting that they were merely sending their own men to their deaths—he was nonetheless satisfied. At the very least, none of them resorted to flattery by saying, "Whatever you decide, my lord." Had anyone dared utter such a sycophantic remark, Clay was sure his blood pressure would have shot through the roof.

The afternoon passed quickly in discussion. The young men from the collateral branches of House Manderly, all of whom would soon be under Clay's command, found themselves increasingly impressed by him. Their soon-to-be lord possessed an undeniable charisma, and his analyses of past battles—some of which they had fought in—were sharp and insightful, far surpassing the crude ideas they had initially offered.

Although Clay's wisdom likely exceeded all of theirs combined, he never looked down on them. Instead, he encouraged them to think for themselves and express their views.

More importantly, when they tentatively voiced their opinions, they were met not with scolding or ridicule, but with a genuine sense of importance, as if they truly mattered in the eyes of this young lord—the future heir of White Harbor, whose status was far above their own.

None of them noticed how quickly time had passed. Only when the towering walls and high castle towers cast long shadows over them did Clay finally conclude the conversation.

At a distance, the White Harbor guards had been waiting. They stepped forward, surrounding Clay and escorting him away under the watchful eyes of the cadets. Meanwhile, a tall, stern-faced captain of the guard approached them, ordering them into formation before leading them to their meal.

From today onward, they would officially be members of the White Harbor Guard.

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As the bells of the clock tower rang out in a steady, melodious chime, Clay stepped into the Manderly Court. Ever since his return, Lord Wyman Manderly had adopted a new habit—every night, he invited all the direct members of the family for dinner, something he had not done before.

Watching his grandson—young and handsome, sipping from a goblet—Lord Wyman chuckled and asked, "So, what do you think? Do these men meet your requirements?" As he spoke, the old man gave Clay a subtle wink.

Clay smiled knowingly. Of course, he understood what his grandfather meant—he was reminding him not to accidentally reveal the true purpose behind selecting these men. But honestly, there was no need for concern; Clay was well aware of the importance of keeping this matter secret.

Pulling out a chair cushioned with silk, he took his seat beside his sister, Wynafryd. Unlike the strictly disciplined household of Lord Eddard Stark, their grandfather did not forbid his grandchildren from drinking. After all, he himself was quite the lover of wine, so forbidding them would have been hypocritical.

Wynafryd, always gentle and reserved, offered him a gentle and elegant smile. She picked up a jug and poured him another cup, speaking softly, "Clay, the white salmon is particularly good tonight. You should have some."

Returning a natural smile to his sister, Clay took the cup from her and sipped the wine before turning his attention to the salmon on his plate.

Tonight's dinner was attended by his father, Ser Wendel Manderly, who spent most of his time at the barracks. Clay's uncle, Ser Wylis—often unwell and in need of medication—was absent.

Wendel had long wanted to have a proper conversation with his son, but the White Harbor forces were in the middle of upgrading their equipment. As the commander of the infantry, he had to oversee everything personally. If he left matters entirely to his subordinates, who knew how much corruption would creep in?

"Clay, are you selecting your personal guards?" Wendel asked, turning to his son.

"Yes, Father." Clay nodded as he chewed his food.

"Have you chosen them yet? Let me tell you—personal guards are the ones who stand between you and a sword or an arrow. You can't pick men who are too small. If you don't have enough men, I can pull a few from the army for you. It's no trouble—they're all seasoned veterans who've survived real battles."

Wendel was a straightforward man. He had never been good at communicating with his son, so he offered help in the area he was most familiar with. Unfortunately, Lord Wyman had already dismissed this idea the moment it was suggested.

"Enough, Wendel. Just focus on managing your soldiers," Lord Wyman interjected. "Let me handle Clay's guards. As for you—keep your sword sharp, and if anyone dares embezzle military supplies, cut them down on the spot. I don't want to see our soldiers in worse armor after an upgrade."

Wendel instinctively nodded. For decades, he had followed his father's commands without question. Like his older brother Wylis, he was a good soldier and a competent general—but that was precisely what Lord Wyman found frustrating.

Meanwhile, across the table, young Wylla Manderly—who had finally shaken off the gloom that had lingered since their trip to Winterfell—was back to her usual mischievous self. She chattered endlessly into the ears of Clay and Wynafryd, sharing sailor stories she had picked up from who-knows-where.

After dinner, as Clay was about to retire for the night, Wynafryd gently stopped him.

Puzzled, he followed his sister into the castle garden. After hesitating for a long time, Wynafryd finally spoke.

"Are you planning to visit The Twins and meet the Freys?"

Clay raised a brow. "Did Grandfather tell you?" He doubted Ser Marlon would have mentioned it, which meant it could only have been Lord Wyman.

"Yes." Wilfreda hesitated again before pleading, "Clay, can I ask you for a favor?"

"Of course. What is it?"

"If any of the Freys bring up the subject of my marriage… please—please refuse them!"

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