Return to White Harbor

Read 20+ Chapter's Ahead in Patreon

This cavalry force, five thousand strong, had followed their commander, Clay Manderly, all the way south. Along the way, they swept through cities and forts like a tempest, breaking enemy lines with unstoppable momentum. Every campaign was a triumph, every assault a resounding success. Glory followed in their wake, and with it, wealth—each soldier's spoils were enough to weigh down his saddlebags.

Many of them secretly thought, should another war arise, they would gladly follow Lord Clay again, ride with him to seize plunder from those unlucky southerners. After all, their foes' armies, when set against Lord Clay, had proven no stronger than clay dolls or paper tigers, collapsing at the first blow.

Yet no feast lasts forever. After the army departed from the Twins and began its northward march along the Kingsroad, passing through the Moat Cailin, the moment of parting finally arrived.

Here, Clay would lead the entire cavalry force of House Manderly eastward, separating from the main host. Their destination was White Harbor, the city by the mouth of the White Knife. The rest of the soldiers would continue onward toward their own distant homes.

"Lord Cerwyn, I entrust this force to you now. At the very least, I've brought most of them back alive. I'm glad the households of the North won't hold Clay Manderly in bitter memory."

Clay's voice carried a quiet note of emotion, not because he was overly sentimental or unable to face separation, but because, as a commander of such a mighty host, he had grown fond of the feeling that came with leading an army across the land. These men under his banner were not mere footnotes in a ledger but a formidable force in which he had poured and displayed his skill and spirit.

Now it was time to return home. Yet he could not help but wonder when he would again command such a strong army, sweep through enemy lands, and crush all opposition that dared stand in his path.

"Lord Clay, returning to the North means you are home. But before you go, there is something I feel you ought to hear."

The Lord of Cerwyn, mounted upon a warhorse clad in barding bearing the battle-axe of House Cerwyn, gazed at the young man who now stood relieved of his post as commander, yet whose sharp presence and innate authority still burned through every gesture. In truth, the older lord could not help but feel a pang of envy.

At Clay's age, his own days had been filled with pleasure and indulgence—rolling around with chambermaids and living without a single worry. He hadn't married yet, and the heavy weight of responsibility was still far from his mind. Those were the easiest, most carefree days of his life.

But Clay Manderly—barely eighteen at most—had already carved out a legacy upon the battlefield that many could only dream of. He had won honor not just for himself, but for his entire house and for the North. His martial prowess had earned the wariness, even the fear, of many who once looked down upon him.

"Lord Cerwyn, I am in no hurry. White Harbor lies just to the east, and it is not going anywhere."

Clay smiled as he spurred his horse a little closer. This Lord of Cerwyn, along with Lord Glover, had been one of the few Northern lords who had accompanied him from the very beginning. If he had something on his mind now, Clay had no reason to refuse him.

The lord cast a glance to either side. The closest guards stood ten paces away, too far to overhear through the howling northern wind. Reassured, he straightened his expression and spoke without hesitation.

"Lord Clay, I know that as you led the men southward, you did so with little thought of personal gain. You are a fine commander. I have no complaints about serving under you on the battlefield. On the contrary, it was a blessing bestowed upon me by the gods themselves."

"My lord, there is no need for such praise. Everything we achieved, we accomplished together. To say otherwise feels like too much."

Clay waved a hand, dismissing the flattery. So many battles they had fought together, side by side. Now that they were parting ways, such formal words only felt empty.

"But that is exactly what I mean, My Lord. You should not downplay your role. You wiped out more than ten thousand Lannister men, captured the Kingslayer alive, and in the end, saved Lord Eddard Stark himself from Lord Tywin's clutches. Think about it—was there a single one of these feats you did not take part in?"

Lord Cerwyn fixed his eyes on Clay, his tone steady and slow but firm as iron.

"In truth, you played a part in every one of them. And not merely a part—you were the very keystone of those victories. All of us know this well. And that, I fear, may not be such a good thing for you."

Clay understood now what the older man wished to say. It caught him a little off guard. This Lord of Cerwyn was an interesting fellow indeed, to speak to him with such honesty, as if laying his own heart bare. Clay could no longer brush his words aside.

He turned to gaze across the wide, open fields of the North. For a long while, he said nothing. Then at last, in a calm and steady voice, he replied.

"Lord Cerwyn, I believe Lord Stark is not the kind of man to be petty or vengeful. His house has ruled the North for thousands of years. It is unthinkable that, just as I have earned some merit, he would suddenly turn against me. That is not the kind of thing a Stark would do."

The lord did not argue. What Clay said was true. He nodded in agreement, but also shook his head slowly, his voice soft and weighty with concern.

"You are right, Lord Clay. The House Stark, whether it is Lord Eddard or the rising young Lord Robb, would never act against you openly or unjustly. But they will be wary of you. Because you and your house have already grown far too powerful."

In Lord Cerwyn's view, the current Clay Manderly, as well as the House Manderly behind him, now stood precariously at the edge of a cliff.

The people of the North were deeply xenophobic and wary of outsiders. Ever since the Manderlys migrated from the Reach, there had been a quiet undercurrent of distrust. The fact that they still clung to the Faith of the Seven, even here in the heart of the old gods' domain, did not help matters.

And now, with Clay's glittering military achievements shining too brightly, and the castle of the Twins, like White Harbor, falling under the banner of the merman, the situation has grown even more delicate.

One had to wonder whether House Manderly still counted as a true house of the North. The sheer size and strength of the family would undoubtedly stir unease among the other northern lords.

The reason Lord Cerwyn chose to speak so openly with Clay today was because he did not wish to see such a promising young man, through a single misstep, become the target of the collective hostility of all the North's great houses.

…

Clay and Lord Cerwyn had spoken at length, exchanging thoughts and concerns. Yet, much to Clay's dismay, amidst the army's advance, he could find no suitable wine to accompany their talk.

As he looked at Lord Cerwyn, whose ancestral seat lay but half a day's ride from Winterfell and who should have been a staunch ally of House Stark, Clay could not help but sigh inwardly. A war, it seemed, truly had the power to change a man.

He was not ignorant of the fact that he had already become the eye of the storm. Ned Stark and his son had not uttered a single word of reproach, but that did not mean their hearts were free of doubts. No matter how upright a man may be, once he stood upon the seat of power, such thoughts would inevitably arise. This was not something to be surprised at.

Moreover, there was Lady Catelyn, cold toward him, and Theon Greyjoy, who was at odds with him, adding fuel to the flames. Clay and House Manderly had already been quietly marked in the hearts of the Starks.

Eddard Stark was no Tywin Lannister. The Rains of Castamere would not fall upon House Manderly. Yet from this point forward, it would be nearly impossible for the family to rise any higher.

The path through the North had already reached its end for him. In this treacherous game known as the Game of Thrones, the victor claims all, and if you do not move forward, you will fall behind. Clay knew he must now find a second path.

After bidding farewell to Lord Cerwyn, Clay led his household cavalry and spurred his steed into a full gallop, charging toward the direction of White Harbor. He longed to return home as swiftly as possible. He had had his fill of delays on the road. Besides, many matters still awaited his attention.

The old lord had not accompanied him to the North. Instead, he had remained behind at the Twins to oversee the reorganization of the family's newly granted lands. The old man was well aware of the delicate nature of the present circumstances, and it was his task to ensure that House Manderly swiftly filled the vast power vacuum left behind by the crumbling of House Frey.

Only by uniting the strength of every holding under their banner and by preparing an army ready to be mustered at any moment could House Manderly secure its place and ensure that none would dare covet their domain.

He had already given his granddaughter, Wynafryd, to House Stark—a gesture of temporary submission, a living token of goodwill. As to whether she could one day become the future lady of the North, Lord Wyman made no demands of her.

All the restraint being shown now was to buy the family precious time. When the dragon returned from across the Narrow Sea, when its roar shook the Seven Kingdoms to their core, then all this waiting would prove worthwhile. As head of the house, he had no path of retreat. His grandson, Clay, had even less.

…

After four days of relentless riding, Clay finally saw once again the thick, grey-white outer walls of White Harbor. Upon the battlements fluttered the banners of House Manderly.

He drew his mount to a halt, carefully surveying the scene before him. This was the point from which he had once ridden south. And now, at long last, he has returned. Behind him, the cheers of the White Harbor cavalry broke out, soft at first, then swelling into a deafening wave of jubilant shouts.

Their joy was well earned. Though Clay had led them from one victory to the next, war never came without a cost. White Harbor had seen its sons fall. Though no one spoke of it aloud, no man wished to live forever beneath the shadow of such uncertainty.

Now, they were finally home. The towering walls of White Harbor brought with them an overwhelming sense of safety. Behind those walls were their wives, children, fathers, mothers, brothers, and sisters, each one waiting for their return.

For reasons he could not quite explain, Clay suddenly recalled the young, unmarried guard he had encountered outside the old man's study just before setting out. He still remembered the shy expression on that guard's face as he presented the small shield-shaped token from his betrothed. That look of contentment had lingered in Clay's mind.

He did not know whether the young man had survived the war. As the commander of the cavalry, it was neither his place nor his role to know which individual soldiers had fallen and which remained. Yet once things had settled down, if time allowed before his next departure, he thought he might ask. And if the young man still lived, perhaps he could fulfill the promise he had made and serve as his witness on the wedding day.

"Let's ride, everyone. We're home now."

Clay turned around and raised his right fist high as he called out to the extremely exuberant cavalrymen behind him.

His voice sparked a new wave of spirited responses from the riders, who followed the lead of their young lord and surged toward the western gate of White Harbor.

"Clay, you've done magnificently. The family is proud of you."

As the garrison commander left behind in White Harbor by the old lord, Wylis Manderly formally welcomed Clay back within the halls of the Merman's Court, honoring the return of a hero of their house.

Unfortunately, Clay's father, Ser Wendel Manderly, was still away. Ever since Stannis had pulled his fleet together and set sail toward King's Landing, the seas east of the Narrow Sea had descended into chaos, with pirates flooding in from every corner.

One of White Harbor's trading fleets bound for Pentos had been attacked and looted by pirates. Outraged by this audacity, Ser Wendel had led White Harbor's own fleet into the Narrow Sea, hunting those foolhardy sea-thieves across every corner of the waters without rest.

"Uncle, all I want right now is to take a long, proper bath, and then have a full platter of our best codfish. The real White Harbor kind. Back then, Wylla always fought me for it, so I never really got to eat my fill."

Clay gave his uncle a bear hug, then helplessly spread his hands and pointed at his own belly.

Wylis burst into loud, hearty laughter and responded at once.

"That's easy. I'll have the kitchen start preparing it right this moment. In the Manderly family, if there's one thing we take seriously, it's food. No one under this roof shall ever be shortchanged when it comes to eating. You go take your bath first and leave the rest to me. When you're done, just come straight here. Everything will be ready and waiting."

With a broad smile and a reassuring nod, Wylis gave his beloved nephew his word. Honestly, he had expected Clay to come back from this journey hardened and brooding, soaked in the blood of battle and cloaked in a chilling aura that kept others at bay. He remembered clearly how his own father, Lord Wyman, had returned after the Rebellion. The war had carved something cold into him, a transformation Wylis could never forget.

But now, looking at Clay, he realized the boy hadn't changed all that much. The youthful innocence of a seventeen-year-old was gone, never to return, but beyond that, Clay remained Clay. In every meaningful way, he was still the same.

"All right, we'll talk more later, Uncle. I'll go clean myself up first. If not for the conditions in the army being what they were, I would've done it long ago. Truly, I can't bear the stench on me anymore."

"Heh, you really know how to live. Go on then."

Wylis waved a hand, signaling him to go. Truth be told, he himself was having a hard time enduring the foul stench clinging to Clay. Not even the incense burning in the Merman's Court could smother that overpowering odor—it was just too strong!

After a long, satisfying bath that required three full buckets of clean water, Clay finally stepped out fresh and renewed. He was dressed now in a nobleman's robe of vivid color and intricate embroidery, presented to him by the servants. The transformation was complete—no longer the bloodstained warrior of the battlefield, but once again the beloved young lord of White Harbor, admired wherever he went.

"Ah, this is how I ought to look. My image management has been truly appalling. That needs to change. And really, this is the trouble with being single. If I had a woman in my life, we would have finished a romantic bath together by now…"

Clay muttered inwardly with mild frustration, feeling as though he was failing in his role as a noble heir. Other young lords his age, as long as they had a bit of daring in them, were well ahead in these matters. Forget about the outrageous tales of bedding a thousand women—even the household maids would've long been thoroughly 'taken care of.'

The more audacious ones already had several bastards to their name. After all, noblemen with wealth and power possessed a natural advantage in such affairs. One need only look at the richness of Tyrion's personal life to understand.

Now that he was cleaned up, it was time to eat. After more than a month of subsisting on hard military rations, Clay had all but forgotten the simple joy of a good meal. At last, he could finally relax. Just thinking about the culinary skills of White Harbor's chefs made him swallow helplessly. He could almost taste it already.

Damn it, he was truly starving!

He strolled toward the grand hall of the Merman's Court, his pace slow and unhurried. Along the way, familiar greetings of "Young Lord Clay" echoed warmly through the corridors. By the time he reached the entrance, the aroma of food had already reached him.

Yes. This was it. That unmistakable scent of fried codfish. And today, finally, there would be no one to fight him for it!

"Come, Clay, eat as much cod as you want today. No need to hold back."

Wylis sat comfortably in a tall-backed chair, beaming with delight as he watched his nephew approach. He raised his goblet with a lazy swirl and gestured to the seat beside him. Upon the table, an enormous platter stood piled high with golden, crisp-fried codfish strips, their savory fragrance filling the hall.

With practiced ease, Wylis uncorked one of his father's prized vintages and poured a generous glass for Clay. He himself had already taken up a large mutton leg, which he was happily devouring. When it came to food, the fighting spirit of House Manderly was unmatched across all the Seven Kingdoms.

The two of them said nothing at first. They simply focused on their meal with single-minded devotion. Whenever thirst struck, they drank deeply, then resumed their noble battle with fork and hand.

When the feast finally drew to a close, Clay leaned back in his chair with a deep sigh of contentment. He savored the lingering flavors on his tongue, at last feeling truly at peace.

"Clay, Father wrote to me saying that now you've returned, all responsibilities shall still remain mine. You'll be leaving again soon. Where are you headed this time?"

Clay picked up a napkin and gently wiped the oil from the corner of his lips. Then he exhaled a long breath and spoke just one word.

"Essos…"

**

**

[IMAGE]

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

[Chapter End's]

🖤 Night_FrOst/ Patreon 🤍

Visit my Patreon for Early Chapter:

https://www.patreon.com/Night_FrOst

Extra Content Already Available