The Unexpected Before Departure

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Night fell, and a gentle sea breeze swept across the top of the Sea God Tower. The very room once set aflame by Clay to hatch Gaelithox had long since been thoroughly cleaned and restored to its original state by Lord Wyman.

At dinner that evening, Clay's uncle, Wylis, did not seem particularly surprised to hear that Clay was preparing to depart for Essos. Though unaware of what arrangements his nephew had made on Longsister Island, he had already come to a clear judgment about Clay.

In Willis's eyes, his nephew had already grown into a pillar capable of shouldering the entire weight of the family. In some ways, Clay even understood the old lord's intentions better than he did. And besides, Wylis had his own concerns to consider.

Although, when the day came that the old lord would finally close his eyes and go to meet the Seven, the title of Lord of White Harbor would nominally fall to him, Wylis knew his own body well. He was painfully aware that he did not have the strength to support such a vast and sprawling house as the Manderlys.

Thus, both he, his younger brother Wendel, and even the old lord himself had quietly reached an understanding: they would bypass Wylis altogether and entrust all the family's resources to Clay, the heir of the third generation.

Wylis himself harbored no resentment over the arrangement. The Seven had already blessed him with two daughters, and the absence of a son was perhaps simply fate. He saw no reason to compete with such a dazzling nephew.

As long as Clay pursued his goals while safeguarding the family's interests and safety, Wylis would offer him unwavering support.

And so, under such tacit consensus, Clay's journey to Essos met with not even the slightest resistance. Yet before he could truly set foot beyond Westeros, there were still matters that required careful tending before he could leave with peace of mind.

"So this is what White Harbor truly looks like… it's actually quite beautiful. All this time since I arrived in Westeros, I never even took a proper look at this harbor. And now, I'm about to leave again. Tch… this so-called Young Lord of White Harbor—what an empty title. I truly don't live up to the name."

The lights of White Harbor twinkled like stars in the night, while beyond the port, the lighthouse continued to cast its resolute beam across the dark sea, guiding a few brave captains who dared to make port under the cover of night toward the unloading docks.

At present, from the southernmost reaches of Dorne to the frigid North, all of the Seven Kingdoms were ablaze with war, save for the two outermost regions. Even the Riverlands, which had recently come to a ceasefire with the Westerlands, were rife with chaos, their lands crawling with bandits as the remnants of ruined armies gave way to despair and suffering. Cries from starving commoners filled the countryside.

The Iron Fleet of the Iron Islands was attempting to seize a few more strongholds along the western coast before Lord Tywin's reinforcements could arrive. After all, the lords of the Westerlands kept vaults brimming with gold dragons.

Meanwhile, the fleet of the Reach had been summoned to the vicinity of Storm's End by their king, Renly, in preparation for a potential surprise attack by his older brother, Stannis, from the sea. The Baratheon ancestral castle lay woefully under-defended.

As for Stannis himself, after persistent persuasion from the Onion Knight, he had finally agreed to leave the red priestess Melisandre behind on Dragonstone. She had warned him against making a rash landing. With grim resolve, he gathered all his ships and set sail directly for King's Landing.

Thus, along the entire eastern coastline of Westeros, there remained not a single fleet capable of independent movement—except, that is, for the ships of the Manderly family in White Harbor.

Because of this, trade at White Harbor did not suffer during these turbulent times. On the contrary, it flourished and grew more prosperous. While trade with King's Landing and the Stormlands had collapsed entirely, and Gulltown remained under constant threat of blockade by Stannis's royal fleet, White Harbor had become a rare haven.

Do not be fooled by Stannis's notoriously rigid temper, likened by many to a reeking stone in a latrine. Though he held the law in high regard, the current circumstances had forced him to act with ruthless practicality. Any ship arriving in Westeros, even those carrying vital supplies like grain, would be confiscated without hesitation if it dared to sail anywhere near his waters.

As a result, trade between the Free Cities and the eastern shores of Westeros had nearly ceased altogether. Merchant vessels now made for White Harbor en masse, and the taxes alone had already yielded great profit for the port.

It could be said that the longer the war dragged on, the more White Harbor stood to gain. Yet now, Clay had no choice but to leave it behind.

Before his departure, however, there were still several matters he needed to attend to.

First, he needed to compile a detailed outline concerning the potions and training methods used by the witchers. These potions would require agents of the family to collect rare ingredients across various regions. After this battle, Clay believed that no one in either the Riverlands or the North would dare touch a Manderly caravan again.

Second, Clay had to properly sort out the White Sea Guard. These people had once proven useful before the war, but once the flames of conflict ignited, they were rendered all but useless. Clay had resolved to reform their operational methods, and more importantly, shift the focus of their surveillance to new targets.

Third, as the de facto commander of White Harbor's land forces, Clay needed to reorganize the army and prepare to hand command back to his father, Wendel, who was still at sea in pursuit of pirates. The old lord had already taken a thousand men with him to the Twins, but even that was not enough.

Clay needed to ensure that if the South was ever struck by a surprise assault, White Harbor would be able to swiftly dispatch two

thousand troops through the Bite and reinforce the Twins at a moment's notice.

The Riverlands were a treacherous and unfortunate territory. In a place like that, one had to prepare for every contingency. Fortunately, White Harbor lacked for neither food nor supplies, which gave Clay the confidence to pursue such bold plans.

Once these matters were settled, Clay could afford no delay. He had to set out immediately for Longsister Island. According to his grandfather, Gaelithox had grown to a point where it could be ridden. If that were true, Clay would be spared the trouble of bringing it across the sea by ship to Essos.

He dragged over a chair and seated himself at the highest point in all of White Harbor. There, with the sea wind brushing against his face, Clay allowed his thoughts to drift toward Gaelithox's future form. He could not help but wonder—what kind of majestic presence would this dragon, which had no place in the annals of history, possess once it reached maturity?

Based on the vivid memory of its shimmering blue scales, streaked with radiant gold at birth, Clay believed it would be even more magnificent in appearance than Daenerys's famed three dragons.

To be honest, although he still held a certain preconceived image of Daenerys in his heart, there was no telling what kind of "Mother of Dragons" he would actually encounter in Essos.

Her beauty, often lauded in countless rumors, was not the point. The truth was, with Clay's current status, he now stood among the ranks of noble heirs on par with Edmure Tully or Robb Stark.

More importantly, he carried no marriage pact, bore no burdens from the past. If he so much as breathed word of seeking a beautiful bride, there was no doubt that across the Seven Kingdoms, every house that believed their daughter to be worthy would come flocking to White Harbor to vie for the opportunity.

It was no exaggeration. The Manderlys of today were not the same as they had been in the past. Now they commanded both White Harbor and the Twins, their lands spanning nearly two-thirds the size of the Riverlands. As a noble house under the crown, they stood among the most powerful families in all of Westeros.

And with Clay, a seasoned and battle-hardened young heir at the helm, who would not seek to align themselves with such a house? If a family could marry off a daughter to become the future lady of this rising lordship, it would mark a profound strengthening of their own lineage and influence.

So if Clay ever desired it, there would never be a shortage of women willing to become his bride. Yet therein lay the problem—not one of these women could help him realize his grand ambitions. None could offer the kind of assistance he truly needed.

Across all of Westeros, he had yet to find a single truly suitable marriage candidate.

Asha Greyjoy, whom he had met once, left him with the impression of a mere female pirate. And as for her rather liberal personal affairs, Clay found her attitude somewhat excessive.

As for the Riverlands, Hoster Tully had but one beloved son, Edmure, and two daughters, one being Lady Catelyn, the mother of Robb Stark, and the other, Lysa Tully of the Eyrie, hopelessly bound to Littlefinger. Clay had no sexual interest in women of such age or disposition.

Turning to the Reach, ah, the famed Rose of Highgarden, Margaery Tyrell, was likely still watching her so-called husband as he spent every day with his beloved brother, Ser Loras, the Knight of Flowers, while she sat alone in her empty room, living like a widow.

Then there was Dorne. The Sand Snakes were said to be beautiful, yes, but none were of legitimate birth. As for Princess Arianne, daughter of Prince Doran—Clay, as a northern lord, would gain little from marrying a Dornish princess. To be honest, there was not much to be gained from such a match.

In times of war, even the logistics posed insurmountable difficulties. Just consider a practical issue—how would their armies coordinate in battle? Sending a raven back and forth would take over a month. Even if Clay had a dragon, he could not be expected to play messenger between two distant realms. Such a war could not be fought.

Finally, there was House Stark. Lord Eddard's two treasured daughters, Sansa and Arya Stark… As for the younger one, Clay had no idea where she even was.

It was not as if Clay had never considered becoming Lord Eddard's son-in-law. But that thought had vanished the moment his grandfather handed over his elder sister, Wynafryd, to the Starks.

He understood his grandfather's reasoning. In this delicate time, the Manderlys had to send someone as a token of loyalty to the Starks. Clay himself was out of the question, so the duty naturally fell to Wynafryd.

As for whether she became a handmaid within the Stark household or Robb Stark's consort, no matter the role she assumed, as long as Clay and House Manderly stood behind her, no one would dare mistreat her.

And Lord Eddard was no fool. If Wynafryd were to suffer under his roof, Clay would know, and that would only inflame the already sensitive relations between their houses.

Among the northern lords, a certain rumor was circulating that Clay's brutal actions against House Frey stemmed from an insult toward his sisters. It was said that a certain Frey youth, devoid of discernment, had foolishly proposed marriage to Wynafryd or Wylla.

Whatever he uttered must have ignited the protective wrath of Clay Manderly, who then personally brought ruin upon House Frey. A single blaze, and a once-prosperous house was reduced to drifting ash in the pages of history.

After all his deliberation, it was truly laughable. Clay could not find a single suitable bride in all of Westeros.

The sea breeze stirred his bangs, and the moonlight stretched his shadow long across the stone-paved ground. After so much noise and turmoil, he had at last found a moment of rare tranquility.

However, this stillness did not last long!

Footsteps echoed from the spiral staircase below, breaking the silence. As a witcher, Clay possessed an extraordinary sensitivity to sound. Though the steps were still a long way from the top floor, he heard them as clearly as if they were right outside the door.

He did not recognize the sound of these particular footsteps. Yet he remained completely calm. First, his sword rested within arm's reach, a habit he had developed after countless battles. Second, this was the Tower of the Sea God, the very heart of House Manderly. Who would dare harbor treacherous thoughts in a place like this?

He sat quietly in his chair, his gaze still lingering on the harbor below, shrouded in the elusive hues of night. The lights scattered across the water flickered like restless stars. He was rather curious to see who this unexpected visitor might be.

"Come up. It's all right."

Clay spoke toward the doorway of the spiral staircase. He had caught a subtle peculiarity in the way the footsteps echoed. The closer they drew to him, the more hesitant they became, as if each step carried an increasing weight. In the end, the footsteps came to a complete halt, as though that final step were burdened with the weight of a thousand pounds.

"My lord… I am sorry to disturb you at such a late hour."

The voice from the darkness was young and strangely familiar, laced with a nervous tremor that betrayed an unspoken fear of facing Clay directly.

"It's quite all right. Come here and find yourself a chair. It seems I'm not the only one sleepless tonight. That makes for an interesting coincidence. Besides, lingering in the shadows like that makes it rather hard for anyone to see you clearly, doesn't it?"

Clay smiled faintly as he gestured to the spot beside him. Whoever the visitor was, to have come at such an hour, they must surely have something they could not say in broad daylight.

At last, the cold moonlight stretched across the visitor's face. Clay turned his head and caught a glimpse that made everything suddenly fall into place. No wonder no one had tried to stop him as he made his way through the Sea God Tower to reach this very room.

This was the very same guard Clay had seen standing outside the old lord's study before his departure. They had once shared a brief conversation—about a keepsake gifted to the young man by his fiancée, a token of their promise. Clay had even pledged to serve as the witness at their wedding.

That he would come to Clay now, at this hour, could not possibly be to remind him of that promise. Of course, Clay would fulfill it when the time came. But he did not believe for a second that the guard would be foolish enough to bring up such a matter in the dead of night.

"Sit down. No need to be so stiff. You know what I'm like within the family. There's no reason to be so nervous, is there?"

If Clay recalled correctly, this guard's name was Juven. Yet, despite the young lord's easy tone, Juven could only manage a stiff smile. He quietly fetched a chair, placing it carefully beside Clay, though he barely sat down, resting only the edge of his weight upon it as if afraid to truly settle.

He knew Clay wasn't like the other noble sons. When they were alone, Clay never acted proud or showed off his status. There was no need to be too polite with him. In fact, that might even annoy him.

"Go on. Tell me what brought you here. I imagine your fiancée isn't so eager for the wedding that she sent you to fetch me, is she? But if she is, I don't mind. I could be there as soon as tomorrow. Of course, you'd have to give me the details first."

Clay chuckled lightly, his fingers tapping rhythmically along the armrest as he waited for the young man's reply. He was genuinely curious what sort of answer Joven would give.

"My lord… you jest. Mana… she, she's not in a hurry…"

Juven stammered through his answer, his lips twitching as though every word brought him pain. It was clear that whatever had brought him here tonight was far heavier than he was ready to bear.

Clay waited patiently, keeping his gaze fixed on the moonlit harbor beyond the window. He had come here tonight to savor the nightscape of White Harbor, and he had no reason to rush. Time was something he had plenty of.

"My lord… do you believe that one who commits patricide… would truly be forsaken by the gods? That after death, they would never be able to return to the divine embrace?"

Juven finally spoke after a long and suffocating silence. His face, caught in the pale starlight, shifted with conflicting emotions. And what he asked was something strange and unsettling.

Parricide?

The question caused Clay's brow to knit in a faint frown. He turned slightly, casting a glance at the young guard before replying in a measured tone.

"A man should strive to live well in the present. To dwell too much on what comes after death is a fruitless endeavor. If one cannot even live with clarity and dignity, then what meaning is there in pondering the afterlife?"

Another long, stifling silence fell between them. Clay had no way of knowing whether his answer had brought Juven comfort or further confusion, for he still did not understand what the young man was truly grappling with.

"My lord… I… I wish to report something. My younger brother, Elric… he… he serves as the eyes and ears of the Southerners. He has been working for them."

Clay's tapping fingers came to an abrupt stop. The corner of his lips tugged slightly into a smile that did not quite reach his eyes.

Now this was getting interesting!

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