The Unspoken Understanding Between House Stark and House Manderly

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"Robb, you made a hasty decision to grant the Twins to Clay Manderly."

Leaning back against the carriage, Eddard Stark gazed into the distance at the surface of the Green Fork, where the great castle still bore scars of recent war. Not a single banner bearing the twin towers could be seen fluttering above it. House Frey, once the masters of this fortress, had been utterly swept into history by the fierce onslaught of the Northern host.

Now, every corner of the Twins displayed the sigil of House Manderly — the merman standard. And yet, they still understood who truly held dominion over the North. Upon the gates of the two castles, east and west, flew the direwolf of House Stark, its banner rustling proudly in the wind.

Eddard Stark had grown deeply uneasy upon learning that his son had granted the Twins to House Manderly, placing them in the hands of Clay, a youth of that family.

Before his march south, Eddard's world had rarely brushed against true schemes and plots. As a lord of the North, he had been capable enough to deal with any challenges that arose. Yet, after being trampled by the brutal intrigues of King's Landing, and having once believed himself in firm control only to be overthrown with ease, his perception of politics had veered to the opposite extreme.

Now, he saw conspiracy lurking behind every act.

As the Warden of the North for so many years, he knew well the strength of House Manderly and the immense wealth that lay behind White Harbor, the greatest port in the North.

Traditionally, the southeastern reaches of the North had long been a battleground between the Manderlys and the Boltons. Given House Bolton's notorious history, they had often held the upper hand in those struggles. To maintain the balance, House Stark had for centuries followed a policy of supporting the Manderlys, ensuring they would never be so weakened that a "Red King" might one day rise again.

But the Twins? That place was no minor holding. Why give it to the Manderlys, a house whose influence over Bite Bay was already so strong?

Now, Eddard found himself seeing treachery in all things, a consequence of his own overcorrection.

"Robb, do you understand just how much this decree will swell the power of House Manderly?"

His face was flushed with emotion as he breathed heavily. The air had turned colder, yet instead of discomfort, he felt a kind of comfort and calm return to him. In his heart, he longed only to be as far from the South as possible.

"Father, I understand that this will indeed strengthen House Manderly somewhat. But it is no more than Clay deserves. He was the one who personally led the assault from within, opened the gates, and secured the capture of the Twins. House Frey has no worthy heir, and we needed stability in our rear guard. At that moment, I had no choice but to grant the Twins to Clay."

Robb did not see the matter as nearly so grave. In his eyes, House Manderly had always been the most steadfast ally of House Stark. Clay Manderly, the rightful heir of his house, was also his close friend. There seemed little cause for concern.

Hearing these words, Eddard fell into silence. Not because he lacked a response, but because the deed was already done. There was no justifiable reason to wrest this land back from Clay's hands.

May this Clay Manderly remain your lifelong friend, Eddard thought quietly. If that truly comes to pass, it will be your greatest fortune. But the descendants of House Stark are not often blessed with such luck.

Clay Manderly could not be more than seventeen or eighteen years of age. With Lord Wyman Manderly — that shrewd old fox — guiding him from behind the scenes, give them twenty years and they would almost certainly unite their two domains completely.

Eddard Stark was certain that House Manderly would then be capable of raising an army of nearly seven thousand men. A family with that kind of force, backed by wealth in gold dragons, a sizable fleet, and led by a young lord who had already proven himself a commander on the battlefield — such power was no trifling thing.

House Stark had ruled the North for thousands of years. Even at the height of their strength, they could barely muster ten thousand troops on their own. This time, marching south, their forces numbered no more than eight thousand.

Aside from the title of Lord Paramount of the North, the true advantage held by House Stark over House Manderly was no longer as great as it once had been. And when one added the unpredictable factor that was Clay Manderly into the equation, if House Manderly ever nursed any ambition, how would House Stark withstand it?

Consider this: at present, the vast majority of the Northern cavalry remained firmly under Clay Manderly's command. The strength of the foot soldiers was uncertain, but in matters of cavalry, Clay's command ability was already exceptionally high.

If war were ever to erupt, and House Stark summoned its bannermen, who was to say those bannermen would not be ambushed on their way by cavalry under Clay's command?

He had taken down twelve thousand Lannister men with just five thousand troops. Even if his strength were diminished upon returning to White Harbor, crushing isolated bands of noble reinforcements would still be well within his reach.

How long could Winterfell, alone and cut off from aid, hold out against the bloodthirsty and battle-hardened Manderly cavalry?

Eddard Stark dared not let his thoughts continue. For now, Lord Wyman Manderly had already come out of the castle to greet him. The stout figure appeared on the road not far ahead, accompanied by two young girls.

Eddard recognized one of them. The younger one was Wylla Manderly, Lord Wyman's granddaughter. As for the other girl, it was not hard to guess her identity either.

"Lord Eddard, by the gods, you have returned!"

Whatever thoughts he might have harbored in his heart, outwardly Lord Wyman Manderly showed nothing but sincere loyalty to House Stark. There was no hint of pretense in his manner.

Eddard mused silently and forced a slight smile to his reddened face. He waited until the greetings were complete before slowly speaking.

"Wyman, just as I told you back at Winterfell, you have a fine grandson."

As for Wyman himself, an old man seasoned by years of political storms, how could he not understand what his liege lord truly meant? But what could he say? Clay had never discussed this plan with him beforehand. Only after the Twins had already fallen did he send word to his grandfather, who had been entirely unprepared.

And yet, upon receiving the message, Wyman had not hesitated for a moment. He brought his kin and immediately made his way here. With the Freys gone, the entire domain of the Twins had been plunged into a deep power vacuum.

The Northern army stationed there could only maintain control over the castle and a small portion of surrounding lands. The vast lands granted to House Manderly existed more as a nominal reward than a practical possession.

Thus, Lord Wyman, fully aware of this reality, brought with him not only his two granddaughters but also a thousand troops who had remained in White Harbor. They traveled swiftly by ship across the Bite, now regarded as an inland sea under the rule of House Manderly, and sailed with all speed to take control of the Twins.

The lands granted to House Manderly extended far beyond the small patch occupied by the Twins themselves. They included numerous manors and holdings tied to the castle, where knightly lords held authority. Though counted among the lowest ranks of nobility, these local figures still possessed considerable influence.

These men had once been staunch supporters of House Frey. Now that the Freys had been struck down in one fell blow by Clay and sent to meet the Seven, what were they to do?

They could easily become a source of unrest at any moment. That was precisely why the old lord had to bring a thousand men with him. If nothing else, maintaining public order was already a pressing concern.

"My lord, the Twins are yours. House Manderly remains loyal to House Stark, as we always have."

Lord Wyman bowed deeply as he spoke. He could not gauge what had changed in his former liege since he had gone south and endured so much. Thus, the old man adopted the most cautious and humble attitude he could.

What House Manderly needed now was to keep a low profile. Having suddenly acquired such power, it was as if they had swallowed a feast in one mouthful. Now, they had to sit still and focus all their effort on digesting it. Only after that would they possess the strength to face the many envious enemies surrounding them.

Originally, had Eddard Stark simply returned to Winterfell by following the Kingsroad north, the Twins would not have been along his path. Yet he had still chosen to come here. His purpose was to meet with the greatest bannerman under his command.

But there was another reason as well. His eldest daughter, Sansa Stark, had already been retrieved and safely returned. However, the problem lay in the fact that his younger daughter, Arya, was still missing without a trace.

Back when they had scattered for safety, Eddard had assigned Arya a group of loyal guards. Later, he had sent Robb to look for them specifically, but not a single one had returned.

He had hoped that perhaps they had simply missed each other in passing, and that as she moved northward, Arya might pass through the Twins. After all, the lands east of the Twins, including stretches of the Kingsroad, were now, at least in theory, under the control of House Manderly.

"I understand, Wyman. There is no need for such words between us. I only want to ask you one thing. Have you seen my youngest daughter, Arya?"

This question took Lord Wyman by surprise. Arya? Lord Eddard's youngest daughter?

He was certain he had not heard any news of the sort. With the recent acquisition of new lands, matters had been chaotic and overwhelming. But if there had been any information concerning a member of House Stark, the Lord would surely have remembered.

He searched his memory carefully, combing through every detail. After confirming that he had not heard even a whisper of such news, he frowned and solemnly shook his head, then gave a serious answer.

"My lord, I am quite certain. I have heard nothing regarding Lady Arya. Though I am old and my memory may falter, I would not forget something of such importance."

Father and son of House Stark exchanged a glance. Wyman's expression held no trace of falsehood, and he had no reason to lie. That made it all the more puzzling. Had Arya truly never passed through the Twins?

Could she still be near the battlefield at Harrenhal? But that did not make sense. Robb had forced Tywin Lannister to retreat, and afterward there had been negotiations, followed by the slow advance of the foot soldiers heading north. So much time had passed. If Arya had still been near Harrenhal, she ought to have found her way back to him by now.

Yet now, even Lord Wyman, who held sway over the Twins and commanded influence over a long stretch of the Kingsroad to the north, had no news of Arya. What could this mean?

It was unlikely she had been captured by the Lannisters. If the war were still ongoing, the Lannisters might have used Arya as a hostage to pressure House Stark. But now that a truce had been reached, that possibility no longer held.

Moreover, the North still held over a dozen noble lords from the Westerlands. Even though Arya bore the name Stark, in terms of inheritance, she was the last of the line and held little actual value.

If she had truly fallen into the hands of Lord Tywin, then why had the old lion not used Arya to bargain for the release of those captured Westerland lords? Especially since negotiations were already underway.

Robb Stark felt a chill creeping up his spine. A vague and uneasy feeling settled in his heart. He had a growing sense that Arya might be in serious trouble. If she was neither at the Twins nor near Harrenhal, then where could she possibly be?

…

Arya Stark tugged the thin fur blanket more tightly around herself. It was of little help, really, against the fierce wind that howled in from the stone balustrade, sharp as blades and cold enough to pierce through skin.

She stared in boredom at a large bird flapping its wings as it soared beneath her feet. The little girl had no idea what species it was. She only knew she had never seen such a large bird in the North before.

Footsteps echoed nearby. A small wooden tray was passed into Arya Stark's room by a large, rough, dark-skinned hand. Arya, her back turned to the door, did not bother to look around.

She had no idea where she was. All she knew was that she was somewhere very high. It did not feel as if she were on the ground, nor did it feel like she was in the sky, yet the birds flew beneath her.

Just moments before, she had watched birds flit and dive below her feet. Stretching out beneath her was an endless expanse of dense, ancient forest. If she were to fall from this height, there would be no hope of survival. Her body would be smashed and broken in the most miserable way imaginable.

Arya had no idea how she ended up here. Her father had arranged for a guard to escort her northward, and along the way they had carefully evaded the Lannister forces that scoured the roads in pursuit.

After much hardship, they had managed to break through the Lannisters' blockade. They heard that her brother Robb and his army were camped near the small town belonging to Lord Horwyck. Arya, who had behaved obediently the entire journey like a quiet and well-mannered little girl, could finally drop the act and return to her true, wild self. She had jumped with excitement, demanding to go see her brother at once.

But their joy had lasted only briefly.

As they marched toward Robb's camp, they were ambushed by a mysterious group of horsemen. It had happened at dusk, when the fading light made it difficult to see.

Arya remembered it all very clearly. The captain of her guard, a seasoned and battle-hardened middle-aged man, had shouted desperately that they were men of Lord Eddard Stark. At the same time, he ordered his men to protect Arya and flee at once.

But those attackers were definitely not Lannister knights. They ignored the captain's words entirely and charged straight at them without hesitation. The captain had quickly realized that these men meant to kill and drew his sword in defense.

The next thing Arya saw, when she turned back in horror, was his head flying through the air, blood spraying in a vivid arc across the dying light.

After that, they were hunted down and overtaken. Every single one of her guards was slaughtered. Only Arya survived.

Those men bore no sigils on their armor. Clearly, they did not wish for anyone to know who they were. Their goal had been very specific. They had come for her, and only her.

Arya had tried to fight back, swinging a bloodied sword in trembling hands. But it was no use. She was struck down, and when she awoke, she found her hands tightly bound with ropes, and a thick cloth was wrapped around her eyes.

She was dragged away, guided by someone she could not see, and taken to an unknown place. There, she heard a voice—a man's voice—one that felt oddly familiar, though she could not quite place it. She had heard it before, back in King's Landing.

"My lord, this is Arya Stark."

"Yes, I know. You have done well. Go now. You understand what must be done."

"Yes, my lord..."

The man who had brought her left. The owner of the second voice, with that slightly mocking tone, began to circle around her, taking slow, deliberate steps, as though he were studying something of great interest.

"Lady Stark," he said, "I imagine your disappearance will be quite the weight thrown onto the already fragile balance between the North and the Westerlands. A heavy stone, indeed, one that might just shatter what little remains of their uneasy peace."

"But worry not. I have no particular interest in you. It is a pity, though. You bear not the slightest resemblance to your mother."

Even though her eyes were still covered, Arya could sense the sly, taunting smile on the man's face.

Damn it. Why couldn't she remember who he was?

She bit her lip in frustration. It was all her fault for being so foolish, so careless, so eager for adventure.

"That is enough for now. You must be tired, Lady Stark. It is time to return to your room. Do not die. Stay alive. Live well..."

These were the last words Arya Stark heard before she was locked away.

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