The Wolf’s Den

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The Wolf's Den was the oldest castle in White Harbor, its history stretching back nearly a thousand years.

Long ago, when House Stark still ruled as Kings in the North, a king named Jon Stark built this stronghold at the mouth of the White Knife—where White Harbor now stood—to defend against pirate invasions.

The first occupants of this fortress were the younger sons, brothers, and uncles of the Stark kings. Over generations, their descendants formed a cadet branch of House Stark, much like how Clay's personal guards were chosen. These offshoots eventually formed a lineage known as the Gray Starks.

For five centuries, this cadet branch of the Stark family held the Wolf's Den. However, when the Red King of Dreadfort clashed with the Wolf King of Winterfell, they chose the wrong side.

While most members of House Stark were known for their generosity, they could not tolerate traitors—especially those who shared their own blood.

A brutal purge followed, and the Gray Starks were wiped out. Heads rolled, and when the Red King of Dreadfort finally knelt in surrender, the Wolf's Den was left without a master.

In the years that followed, the castle passed through several hands. It was first held by House Flint, then House Locke, followed by the Stark vassals House Slates, House Long, House Holt, and House Ashwood. Eventually, it came into the possession of House Manderly.

As White Harbor grew and expanded, House Manderly rose to become the wealthiest family in the North. A small and aging fortress like the Wolf's Den was no longer a fitting seat for such a powerful house.

Thus, atop the high hills within the city, they built the New Castle. Towering white walls encircled both the city and the stronghold, while the old and isolated Wolf's Den—now an abandoned relic outside the city's heart—became known simply as the Old Castle.

Today, it served as both House Manderly's prison and the headquarters of the White Sea Guard.

Clay had been here before, though only to its outskirts. A grove of ancient weirwood trees once stood here, but over the years, the sacred wood had dwindled, leaving only a single heart tree—one that had long since lost most of its magical power.

Now, mounting his horse once more, Clay rode into the ancient fortress under the escort of White Harbor guards, following behind Ser Bartimus.

As they passed beneath the raised iron portcullis, Clay noticed something odd—Ser Bartimus suddenly seemed more at ease, as if visiting the New Castle and facing his lord had been an unpleasant ordeal.

Clay also observed that the guards here—or rather, the jailers—were different. They did not wear the gleaming silver-and-white armor of the White Harbor guards. Instead, they were clad in dark grey uniforms.

A group of silent sentries approached and took the reins of their horses. Despite having a missing leg, Ser Bartimus dismounted with surprising ease and handed his reins to a scar-faced guard.

It was then that Clay heard Ser Bartimus speak for the first time.

His voice was harsh and grating, like ceramic scraping against sand, as he said:

"Young Master Clay, Welcome to the Wolf's Den"

A dry, emotionless greeting. His tone lacked warmth and even carried a faint edge of coldness.

Pointing toward the surrounding buildings, Ser Bartimus continued, "What you see before you is the prison sector of the Wolf's Den. All those found guilty are judged here. We also ensure they meet the Old and New Gods when their time comes."

Clay wanted to take a closer look, but Ser Bartimus blocked his path. Leaning on his oaken cane, the knight fixed him with a firm gaze.

"Once the handover is complete, you may inspect this place as much as you wish. But for now, Young Master Clay, we should first see to the formalities."

Clay had no reason to argue. Though he had only been a nobleman's heir for a short while, he had already grown accustomed to flattery and ingratiating smiles. Ser Bartimus' detached indifference, by contrast, felt… unfamiliar.

As they passed several aged and weathered buildings, Clay became increasingly aware of the vast underground space beneath them. Given White Harbor's immense population, a prison large enough to house all its criminals had to be enormous.

Their destination lay beyond these prison buildings—a towering, thick-walled gray keep, the tallest structure within the entire Wolf's Den.

As they approached, Clay took note of the numerous gray-cloaked guards stationed around the keep. Their disciplined movements and the way they held their weapons caught his attention. He quickly assessed their skill and concluded that in a fight, he could take on at most five at once—assuming they attacked together.

Climbing the stone steps, Clay entered the keep—a fortress that had withstood nearly a thousand years of wear.

He had expected a dark, damp ruin—perhaps cobwebbed corners, rotting wood, a suffocating and oppressive atmosphere, like the infamous Tower of Rats from the Witcher's tales.

Yet to his surprise, the place was remarkably well-kept.

Torches burned steadily in their sconces, casting flickering light across the stone walls. Though the wooden beams showed their age, the structure was clearly maintained, with a patchwork of old and new planks interwoven throughout.

The tower had many windows. Sunlight streamed through them, painting bright patches across the floors and tables, making the space feel far less oppressive than he had anticipated.

Inside, three or four men sat at a long table, engrossed in their work. Slips of parchment lay neatly arranged across the tabletop, each one tied with a thin string—Clay immediately recognized them as messages meant for ravens.

Now, he understood why the keep was so heavily guarded.

This wasn't just a prison—it was a hub of intelligence.

With so much raven-borne information flowing through this room, security had to be airtight.

Noticing Clay's curiosity, Ser Bartimus, whose duty included explaining things, said:

"This is where reports from thirty-four locations across the North, the Riverlands, the Westerlands, the Crownlands, and parts of the Vale are gathered and compiled."

Clay nearly whistled.

Thirty-four locations? That was nearly as many as the great noble houses ruling those regions. White Harbor had spies in almost every major domain.

He masked his astonishment, keeping his expression composed. He didn't yet know how valuable these reports were, but one thing was clear—White Harbor's financial power had to be immense if it could sustain an intelligence network of this scale.

Ser Bartimus led him into a chamber that resembled a council room. A long wooden table stood at its center, with a large chair at the head and several smaller chairs surrounding it.

Five men were already seated, watching Clay in silence.

Ser Bartimus gestured for him to take the largest chair. Clay did not hesitate—he was about to take charge of this place, and now was not the time to show weakness.

"These five men oversee the regions I mentioned earlier," Ser Bartimus explained. "They are responsible for managing operations and issuing orders. If you have questions, they are better suited to answer than I am."

Having said that, Ser Bartimus removed a dull-colored ring from his finger and slid it across the table toward Clay. Then, turning to the five men, he declared:

"The ring has been passed. From this moment on, Clay Manderly, grandson of the Earl, is the new commander of the White Sea Guard."

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