Intelligence Summary
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Clay extended two fingers and picked up the ring, which seemed to serve as a token of identity.
The ring itself was likely forged from pure gold, with a prominent trident emblem at the top. Around the band, an inscription ran along its surface, though time had worn it down, making it difficult to read. However, Clay, deeply familiar with his own family's motto, managed to decipher it with some effort—"No Currents Mightier!"
At the center of the trident sat a blood-red gemstone. Once, this ring had undoubtedly been a symbol of wealth and power, its luster commanding attention. But time had dulled its brilliance, leaving behind a somber relic of recognition.
By coincidence, Clay had seen an identical ring before. His grandfather had worn one just like it, from its shape to its embellishments, except for a single difference: his grandfather's ring bore a deep blue gemstone, likely symbolizing the vast sea beyond White Harbor.
The moment Clay slipped the ring onto his finger, the expressions of the five men standing before him shifted. The scrutiny in their eyes faded, replaced by the silent deference of subordinates toward a superior. It was clear—they acknowledged the ring more than they acknowledged the man wearing it.
Ser Bartimus, who had long presided over this chamber, issued his final command:
"This will be my last time sitting in this room. Snow, starting with you, each of you will report to Lord Clay on your current assignments and the latest intelligence."
Within these walls, Bartimus's authority still held weight. But the moment he stepped outside, he would no longer have the right to enter—unless Lord Wyman himself commanded it.
The man called Snow gave a small nod. Seated in his chair, he opened a wooden folder resting in his hands. Clay noted that the pages within had yellowed with age, though he could not immediately make out what was written.
"The majority of my spies are stationed in Winterfell, Dreadfort, Last Hearth, and House Hornwood," Snow reported. "The rest are evenly distributed across other major castles and their surrounding villages according to population density."
This was Snow's report on the distribution of White Sea Guard's spy network within the North. Clay made no immediate comment but instead posed a question:
"During the king's stay at Winterfell, aside from matters concerning me, what else have you learned?"
Snow gave a small nod. "Yes, my lord. I will summarize the intelligence shortly."
Clay nodded in return. In truth, his real intent was to test the capabilities of these spies. After all, he had been present in Winterfell himself, and his original memories provided him with certain knowledge. Comparing their reports with what he already knew would give him a rough idea of their investigative skills.
After asking a few more questions, Clay noticed something odd—Snow never once mentioned Bran Stark's fall from the tower.
That was a significant event. There was no way their network could have overlooked it. This could only mean one thing—the Three-Eyed Raven had altered its approach in influencing Bran Stark, likely due to Clay's own presence.
Yet, Clay did not find this change entirely unwelcome. Compared to the original course of events—where Bran fell from the tower, was force-fed his prophetic visions, and was ultimately condemned to flee beyond the Wall to inherit the Three-Eyed Raven's mantle—it was an undeniably cruel fate. If that outcome could be altered, then so much the better.
Next came the report from the Riverlands Overseer, Rivers. Until now, the man had remained inconspicuously in the shadows, but the moment he began his report, he revealed explosive news:
"Lord Hoster Tully is gravely ill and bedridden. He has fallen unconscious multiple times, requiring repeated resuscitation from the maester. However, the old lord's life is nearing its end—he is merely lingering on his deathbed, awaiting the moment he returns to the gods."
Rivers had expected a shocked reaction from his absurdly young superior. However, to his disappointment, Clay merely furrowed his brows slightly before giving a small nod, signaling him to continue.
Clay had long been aware that Hoster Tully did not have much time left. In the original timeline, the old lord had died during the Lannister siege of Riverrun. His own butterfly effect shouldn't be capable of influencing the lord's lifespan… probably, Clay thought uncertainly.
Rivers, noticing Clay's composed reaction, cast him a brief glance of approval before continuing his report:
"A scion of House Frey attempted to flee from the Twins but was captured by Frey soldiers. According to the latest intelligence, he has already been hanged. My agents are currently investigating the reason for his escape."
House Frey?
Clay's brows furrowed. In just a few days, he was set to depart for the Twins at their invitation. It seemed he needed to gather more information on that house before then.
Tapping his fingers lightly against the table, he spoke in a measured tone:
"I need a summary of all major events concerning House Frey from the past five years. Can you manage it in a day?"
"As you command, my lord," Rivers responded without the slightest hesitation, as if such a task were routine.
From Rivers' description, the White Sea Guard's presence in the Riverlands was primarily concentrated around the Twins and Riverrun—the only two locations of true significance. Perhaps one could also count Harrenhal, though the once-mighty fortress now lay in ruins.
Clay found this allocation of resources reasonable. Whether it was Robb Stark's march south or the back-and-forth battles of the War of the Five Kings, the Riverlands nobility had repeatedly proven themselves utterly useless. There was little need to concern himself with their affairs.
The root of the Riverlands' weakness had been planted long ago, when Aegon the Conqueror took Westeros. The region had always been fragmented among rival houses, and Aegon had simply chosen the most prominent among them to rule.
Thus, when House Tully was elevated to Lords Paramount of the Trident, many of their vassals resented the decision—especially House Frey. Isolated along the upper Green Fork, the Freys had always been defiant, never truly loyal to their liege.
A weak liege ruling over powerful vassals—it was the same issue House Tyrell faced in the Reach. But unlike the Tyrells, who wielded immense wealth and political instincts to keep their bannermen in check, Hoster Tully, weakened by age and illness, lacked the means to do the same.
Next to speak was Overseer Hill, responsible for the Westerlands. As he introduced himself, realization dawned on Clay—each of the five overseers had adopted a surname from the bastardy names of their respective regions. Until now, he had assumed Snow and Rivers were simply bastards by birth.
Hill's report, however, lacked the significance of the previous ones. His intelligence was outdated, and as he explained, White Sea Guard operations in the Westerlands were exceptionally difficult, often coming at high costs in manpower and resulting in heavy losses.
After all, this meant competing with the wealth of the man sitting in Casterly Rock—the one who, as rumors claimed, even "shat gold"—Lord Tywin Lannister. The Westerlands had its own highly efficient intelligence network, and their agents frequently clashed with White Sea spies—often with casualties on both sides.
If not for the fact that he had nothing else to add, Clay would have assumed Hill was subtly asking for more funds. If so, he would be sorely disappointed—Clay himself barely had a few gold dragons to his name. What could he possibly give them?
As for the Vale of Arryn, most failed infiltrations had occurred at the Bloody Gate—a natural chokepoint that made slipping past undetected nearly impossible. Spies were only human—they weren't dragons. They couldn't simply fly into the Eyrie the way Queen Visenya Targaryen once had.
Moreover, in recent years, the Vale had grown increasingly isolationist, shutting itself off from external affairs. The White Sea Guard had gathered little intelligence of true value. The only certainty was that young Lord Robert Arryn's health remained precarious, and that his mental faculties seemed impaired.
The Vale's nobles frequently expressed their discontent about this matter, but nothing more.
Finally came the report on King's Landing—where the White Sea Guard had suffered its greatest losses.
Just last year alone, over ten of their spies had either been captured or turned traitors.
But there was no helping it. Operating in the capital, far from White Harbor, meant playing a game where the rules were set by two masters of deception—Petyr "Littlefinger" Baelish and Lord Varys the Spider.
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[Chapter End's]
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