Where To Go Next?

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Eddard Stark did not linger long in the Twins. After repeatedly instructing Lord Wyman Manderly to locate Arya Stark as soon as possible, he set off with his son, Robb Stark, beginning their journey back toward the North.

The Northern army urgently needed to return home. The fields, heavy with grain, waited for their harvest, and any further delay would mean watching all that precious food rot away in the soil.

Even Lady Catelyn, whose heart ached with worry for her missing daughter, did not stand in her husband's way. After so many years as Eddard Stark's wife, she understood all too well how fragile food security was in the North.

The ancient words spoken by generations of Starks over a thousand years, Winter is coming, were never an idle phrase. Without enough grain stored away, a single bitter winter could claim a third of the North's people.

For that reason, from one generation to the next, every Stark, whether crowned King in the North or titled Lord of Winterfell, had always placed the harvest above all other concerns. Even during the brutal years of the Dance of the Dragons, Lord Cregan Stark had not ridden south to join the war until he had personally ensured that every last stalk in his fields had been harvested.

Now, that same duty loomed large before Eddard and his son. They had no choice. They must lead their army northward without delay, back to their land, back to the grain.

Meanwhile, in White Harbor, where wealth abounded and commerce across the Narrow Sea thrived, concern over food shortages was far less pressing. For the merchant lords of Essos, grain was never a true problem — not as long as one could pay the price that satisfied them.

Moreover, now that Lord Wyman Manderly and his house had taken control of the Twins, they held the keys to the gates of the North. Should the harvest fail, the Manderlys would find themselves in a position to manipulate grain prices throughout the region.

And if Winterfell did not intervene directly, what would happen then? Grain runs short, and only White Harbor holds any to sell. Will you buy, or will you not?

Shortly after Lord Eddard Stark had departed, Clay arrived with five thousand mounted riders. His host halted before the walls of the Twins.

As Clay looked up at the merman banner fluttering proudly over the battlements, a strange feeling stirred within him. The last time he had stood before these gates, the Freys still ruled here, arrogant and secure in their power. Now, he himself had become the master of this castle.

The army did not enter the castle. Clay ordered his men to camp outside the walls. They had strayed from the Kingsroad for a brief rest. At dawn, once the troops were well-fed and rested, they would continue their march northward.

After settling matters of defense and the positioning of the camp, Clay rode toward the eastern gate of the Twins with Ser Marlon at his side. The two men passed through the gate and entered the stronghold.

Inside the hall, Clay found only his grandfather seated in his usual spot at the head of the table, his younger sister Wylla — who was at that moment was locked in a fierce battle with a plate of greasy chicken wings. His elder sister, Wynafryd, was not present.

The old man had not changed. As always, he cradled a fine bottle of Summer Red in his hand, sipping leisurely and thoroughly enjoying his moment of ease. The sudden sight of his grandson entering the hall caught him off guard, and he choked on his wine, coughing violently.

Clay stepped forward without a word and patted his grandfather on the back until the man could breathe again. Then, without ceremony, Clay took a seat beside him as if this were the old study in White Harbor. He opened a bottle for himself and began to drink in long, deep gulps.

Wylla glanced up at the pair of them, these two hopeless drunkards, then turned her attention back to her plate. In her opinion, the chicken wings were far more interesting. She waved casually to her brother before slipping out of the hall with her dish in hand.

Though still young, Wylla was not without sense. She understood that her brother and grandfather were about to discuss important matters, things that concerned nobility and power — subjects far beyond her reach yet ones she knew would still affect her life in the end.

She gently closed the doors behind her, leaving the two men to their own devices. They sat in silence, drinking heavily, the only sounds the rhythmic glugs of wine being swallowed. At last, as the wine began to cloud their minds, they both set down their cups and looked at one another wordlessly.

Then suddenly, laughter burst from their lips, loud and unabashed. They raised their bottles and clinked them together with force. This, for them, was a greeting more genuine than any embrace — the shared ritual of two men bound by blood and ambition.

"Not bad, boy. Really, not bad," the old man said, his voice thick with admiration. "I never would have guessed it before, but you… you've got a real gift for the battlefield. Seven Gods, to think you shattered Tywin Lannister's forces and crushed over ten thousand of his men in a single battle. Seven hells, I still can't believe it happened."

His tone was full of wonder. He was older than Tywin by a few years and had witnessed the Lord of Casterly Rock rise and reign over the Seven Kingdoms. He had seen Tywin's cunning, his cruelty, and his unshakable grip on power.

Wyman Manderly had felt it all firsthand — Tywin's iron will, his ruthless methods, his relentless hunger for dominance.

And yet, that same great man, this towering figure of Westeros, had been brought low by his grandson. In one decisive battle, Clay had forced Tywin to the negotiation table, his pride wounded, his power diminished.

And then there was the matter of the Twins. Never in his life had Wyman imagined he would become lord of this great crossing. When the raven had arrived in White Harbor bearing Clay's message, he had thought it a joke — a tall tale spun by a bold and ambitious youth.

Seven save us, did the boy truly understand what he had seized? The size of this territory, the number of its people… Clay had spared no opportunity in pursuit of his ambitions.

"Grandfather," Clay said, his tone steady and full of quiet pride, "this is the greatest prize of my southern campaign. What do you think? Are you satisfied?"

The old man did not respond to his grandson's words. Instead, he opened another bottle of wine and pushed it toward his grandson's hand.

After a long pause, Wyman finally asked, "Boy, you need to tell me clearly what your plans are from here on out. Everything in the family now has to align with your actions. You've earned both military merit and public prestige through this war, and the family has grown tremendously because of it. But boy, this still isn't enough."

Clay nodded. Of course, he understood exactly what the old man meant by "not enough." No matter how great his achievements were, they were still confined within the framework of the North. The more merits he earned, the deeper he became entangled in this system.

Gaelithox was growing by the day. Sooner or later, the small island of Longsister would no longer be able to contain him. And when that time came, how would House Manderly find its place, both in the Seven Kingdoms and in the North?

It was a question that could no longer be avoided. Before heading south, the old man had gone to Longsister himself to see Gaelithox with his own eyes. And when he beheld that enormous figure soaring through the skies, his breath nearly caught in his throat.

The dragon had grown far too quickly. When Clay had first left, it had been barely the length of a forearm. Now it has become a massive beast, more than twice the size of the largest horse. Its wings stretched wide across the sky, casting vast shadows on the ground below.

The blue-and-gold giant was still in little danger of being discovered. But if it continued to grow at this pace, it would soon need much more food to sustain its development. And when that time came, it could no longer remain hidden here.

Thus, Clay had to make a decision about Gaelithox. As its master, he bore the responsibility. And given the immense symbolic weight a dragon carried, whatever choice he made would undoubtedly shape the future path of House Manderly.

"Grandfather, once this matter is over, I'll return to White Harbor. Then I'll go to Longsister, take Gaelithox with me, and leave Westeros for a time."

After much thought and hesitation, Clay finally chose to lay everything bare before the old man.

The old man's eyes widened in disbelief. This answer was entirely unexpected. He immediately asked, "Leave? You want to leave Westeros at a time like this? What if another war breaks out?"

Clay understood his grandfather's concern. He was right to ask. But there were some things that simply had to be done, and for him, there would be no better time than now.

"Grandfather, I'm going to Essos. I need to meet someone."

"Who?"

"Daenerys Targaryen. The daughter of the Mad King. The exiled princess of House Targaryen."

At the mention of that name, the old man's pupils shrank sharply. A man well-versed in the politics and power games of nobility, he instantly realized what his grandson was planning. After a long silence, he spoke in a strained voice.

"You… you mean to restore the Targaryen dynasty? To bring back the daughter of the Mad King and place her once more upon the Iron Throne? Using your dragon?"

"No. She has dragons of her own."

With a single sentence, Clay made his grandfather look up in shock. The news that Daenerys had brought forth three dragons was something the old man had never heard before. In truth, there were few in all of Westeros who knew of it.

"What do you mean? Could it be... she... that's not possible..."

"There's nothing impossible about it, Grandfather. You weren't in the South, so there are things you've not heard. My decision to go is not made lightly. It's the only path left to me."

"Do you even know where she is?"

The old man was starting to feel that he could no longer keep up. His grandson's thoughts, his vision, had never been bound to Westeros or the lands of the Seven Kingdoms.

"When I arrive, I'll find her."

"And when you do? What then? Do you plan to drag her out from those barbarian tents?"

The old man still did not know that Khal Drogo was already dead, but Clay knew better than anyone.

"Grandfather, the Khal is dead. I intend to bring her back, and I do not care in the least whether she's had a man before or whether she has children. What I desire is not her person, but the crown above her head. A crown that shines far brighter than those worn by the likes of Stannis or Renly."

"You're right, Grandfather. From the moment Gaelithox was born, House Manderly was left with no other choice. So tell me, why shouldn't I place my bet on something grander?"

Clay knew well that his words would take his grandfather a long time to process. But there was no helping it. Not to mention whether Gaelithox could defeat Daenerys's three dragons alone, even if he won, what would that victory amount to?

In Westeros, the concept of legal right and legitimacy held immense weight. For three centuries, House Targaryen ruled over the Seven Kingdoms. Though their reign eventually came to a dramatic end, the image of the red dragon on a black field, symbol of royal authority, still remained deeply embedded in the subconscious of the people.

By using Daenerys, a trueborn Targaryen, as his bridge to deal with the nobles of the Seven Kingdoms, Clay would encounter far less resistance. In fact, without needing to say more, House Martell of Dorne would almost certainly become their natural ally.

More than that, the Targaryen name itself carried the most powerful claim to the Iron Throne. Why did the Seven Kingdoms fall into chaos so quickly after Robert Baratheon's death? Much of it had to do with the fact that the man seated on the throne no longer bore the name Targaryen.

When a Targaryen king died, the next Targaryen in line would inherit the throne. This was viewed as just and proper, grounded in the principles of lawful succession and upheld by the authority of tradition. However, when Robert Baratheon seized the throne, the underlying logic quietly shifted. It was no longer about rightful succession. It became a matter of the victor taking all.

That shift sent an implicit message to the noble houses of Westeros: the Baratheons rose to power by rebellion, relying on military strength alone. If that was the case, then why couldn't others do the same? As long as one had soldiers, what was to stop them?

The title of King lost its sanctity. It had become something tied not to blood or law, but to the size of one's army. The current fractured state of Westeros was the ultimate outcome of this logic.

"Clay, tell me, you intend to marry her, don't you? Then what of your name? I cannot bear to see my only heir become a Targaryen."

The old lord had remained silent for a very long time. At last, he spoke in a quiet, subdued tone, asking his grandson the question that weighed heaviest on his heart. In that moment, he had already accepted Clay's decision, but as the head of his house, he could not set aside his concern for the family's legacy.

"No, I will not. My name is Clay Manderly. Not even the gods themselves could make me change it. What I seek is her crown, but I will never kneel and pledge allegiance to her."

Seeing the faint look of relief that appeared on the old man's face, Clay added with a teasing smile,

"Don't worry, Grandfather. Even if she were as beautiful as the songs claim, it would make no difference to me. If a daughter of House Frey could have brought me a crown, I would have long since become their son-in-law."

The old man chuckled and clinked bottles with his grandson. He needed time to digest this idea. To speak plainly, he had believed himself prepared. After all, his granddaughter Wynafryd had already departed for Winterfell with Lord Stark and his son.

That decision had been mutually agreed upon by himself and the Stark couple. Anyone with even a rudimentary understanding of noble dealings could easily discern its true meaning.

In his original plan, that union, combined with the friendship between Clay and Robb, would firmly bind House Manderly to House Stark, just as the Starks had once allied with House Tully through marriage.

Afterward, with Clay's return from the march south, the presence of a dragon, and the support of both the Tullys and the Starks, their position would be greatly strengthened.

That foolish woman, Lysa Tully, had managed to shut out every threat behind her Bloody Gate, had she not? But this time, the dragon would once again soar through the skies above the rear gardens of the Eyrie.

Lord Wyman believed that Lysa Tully would bend the knee to the new Dragonlord for the sake of her precious son, Robert Arryn. Once the Vale was secured, the only territories remaining would be the West, half-dead and crumbling, and the Stormlands, torn apart by ceaseless civil war.

As for the fertile and fragrant Reach, the memory of the Battle of the Burning Mill surely still lingered in their minds. They would know the meaning of dragonfire.

In the end, there would be only Dorne left. If need be, they could present the head of the Mountain to them as a token. Prince Doran of Sunspear would not oppose them over such a gesture.

But now, when compared to his grandson's ambitions, the old lord's own schemes suddenly appeared hopelessly cautious. His gaze had remained fixed on Westeros, utterly neglecting the far side of the Narrow Sea, the land of Essos.

With a Targaryen claim in hand, Dorne's allegiance would be secured without question. And if what his grandson said was true, then there would not just be one dragon. The significance of that was something entirely different.

Lord Wyman weighed every possible outcome with great care. As the head of the family, he had to rely on six decades of experience to provide the wisest counsel.

Night had fallen. The candles in the great hall burned slowly, casting flickering shadows across the stone walls. The old man's contemplative face was half-hidden in the wavering glow. He drank bottle after bottle, and those who knew him well understood that this was his habit whenever he was deep in thought.

Clay said nothing to hurry him. He simply sipped his own drink in silence, waiting patiently for his grandfather to finish thinking. At least for tonight, he had enough time to spare.

At last, the old man drained another bottle with a fierce gulp. The dark red wine had already soaked his collar through, but he seemed not to care in the slightest.

He drew in a heavy breath and looked at his grandson, who wore a calm smile. Clenching his teeth, he said,

"You must move quickly. Tomorrow, take your forces and depart. After that, return to White Harbor at once, and take the dragon across the Narrow Sea. Leave the rest here to me. You need not trouble yourself with it any longer."

"I have a feeling that the peace in the North will not last. Clay, you must return to your family before the next war begins."

"I will. I promise."

Clay replied.

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