A Clean Cut to Sever the Chaos, the Silent Wolf No More

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Sometimes, persuading someone to betray everything they once stood for is frighteningly simple. All it takes is enough gold dragons and the promise that these dragons can buy him things he could never dream of obtaining in the place he once called home. That is all it takes.

Clay did not even bother listening to Elric's explanation for why he had become the Spy. Everyone has their reasons. Each person, from their own standpoint, can claim that their actions were sincere and born of desperation. But that does not mean they are worthy of forgiveness.

After being corrupted in the South, Elric returned to the North and began working in this shadowy role. According to his own confession, he had managed to uncover the daily movements of the key figures within the Sea God's Tower, the schedule of the guards' rotations, and even certain pieces of military intelligence concerning the family's army deployments.

And all this information, he had handed over—without reservation—to that golden-haired scholar, the one who had always been shunned by his kin. The thought alone sent a cold chill creeping down Clay's spine.

As a witcher known for his keen senses and extraordinary vigilance, Clay had never truly feared assassination, not even in his sleep. But that did not mean the same could be said for every member of his family.

One must never assume that wars are only won or lost on the battlefield. Sometimes, a blood-soaked dagger concealed within the shadowed corners of a castle can determine the fate of an entire house.

Had Clay not been born the heir of White Harbor, a noble steeped in the ancient traditions of his lineage, and had he not possessed the power of a witcher, he might very well have become one of the finest assassins this era has ever seen, surpassing even the faceless men of the Black and White House.

That was why the leak of such internal family secrets stirred far more rage within Clay than any mere exposure of their military positions. This betrayal ignited within him a killing intent toward the man who now lay under house arrest.

In his original plan, Clay had not intended to kill this peripheral spy. If the damage had not been catastrophic, and given the man's current condition—completely stripped of the ability to move—Clay had seen no reason to stain his hands.

But now, he had changed his mind. He could not allow someone who had posed such grave danger to his kin to continue breathing. Since the crime had been committed, the price must be paid.

Yet Clay had no intention of delivering the punishment himself. Every debt has its debtor. Since this matter had started with Juven, it would end with him as well.

He waited until the wedding had concluded. Then, with a single command, Clay summoned Juven, who was forced to part from the wife he had only just married. Hastening with hurried steps, Juven came before Clay.

His heart had been filled with unease from the very beginning. When faced with Mana, who remained entirely unaware of the situation, he could only force a strained smile, suppressing the turmoil that churned within him.

"My lord… about Elric…"

Juven's voice was breathless, laden with apprehension. He looked nervously at Clay, whose expression was unreadable. Clay simply stared at him, silent for a long while, before finally speaking.

"Do you understand, Juven? What your brother has done to this family… is far more damaging than any of the information you uncovered from those crates—whether it was about the family's weapon reserves or the cargo throughput of the harbor."

Juven's face went pale in an instant. Having once served as a guard to Lord Wyman, he understood full well the weight behind Clay's words. And yet, he still could not bring himself to believe them. His lips quivered as he muttered, voice faint and uncertain.

"No… Elric just looks fierce. I know him. He is timid. Always has been."

He was, after all, his elder brother. At such a moment, his instincts pushed him to defend his sibling, as if he had never even been the one who first reported the incident to Clay.

"Your dear brother used a key copied from your own belt to sneak into the Sea God's Tower again and again. Through your mouth, he learned when the guards changed shifts. He mapped out the positions of every important member of House Manderly. What do you think he planned to do?"

Clay's voice grew colder with every word.

"Accept the reality, Juven. For this alone, your brother Elric will never leave White Harbor alive. I, Clay Manderly, cannot allow such a thing to go unpunished."

"Your brother. Your responsibility. You will see it done. Afterwards, you will have two choices. First, you may leave White Harbor and head north. Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell may receive you and your family. Second, you may choose to remain here. But the gates of House Manderly will be closed to you forever. Forget all that once tied you to the Sea God's Tower. Find a new path. It will be better for everyone."

…

Clay did not care what Juven chose in the end. Stories of brothers betraying brothers were hardly rare on this continent. One could never tell when such a drama might play out again.

But no matter what path Juven took, one thing was certain—House Manderly would never again allow him to serve as a guard. Clay would issue a direct order to Ser Marlon: if Juven chose to stay in White Harbor, all guards were to be informed that he was never to set foot in the New Keep.

This was not about punishment. It was about safeguarding the lives of those within the family. Whether or not Juven harbored resentment toward Clay was irrelevant. Precaution was essential. And truthfully, if Clay were acting entirely on instinct, the most thorough solution would be to execute Juven as well.

Yet he could not bring himself to do it. To do so would be to silence those at the bottom who dared to speak up. That sort of precedent could not be allowed to take root, for its consequences were plain to see.

After dealing with the matter concerning Juven, Clay wasted no time. Without pause, he returned directly to the Sea God's Tower. There, another far more troublesome figure awaited his judgment.

Theomore Lannister sat quietly in his chair, idly toying with the various chains that hung around his neck. Each one was forged from a different metal, symbolizing the distinct honors he had earned during his years at the Citadel.

When the heavy door to his chamber burst open and a group of burly guards stormed in to seize him, he made no attempt to resist. The guards, swift and practiced in their movements, had already pinned both his hands before he could react. He did not have the time to reach for the vial of poison hidden beside his bed.

In that moment, he understood everything. His actions had undoubtedly been exposed. To be truthful, he had long anticipated that such a day would come. What he had not expected was how soon it would arrive.

As a maester, he had never intended to do harm to House Manderly when he first came here. Brimming with passion and a sincere desire to fulfill his duties, he had journeyed to this northern port, the largest in all the North, prepared to serve as the Citadel demanded of him.

But from the moment the city's lord, the irksome Lord Wyman, laid eyes on his face, his expression had soured. Upon learning his surname, the man had flown into a rage, flipping the banquet table meant to welcome him.

To this day, Theomore Lannister could still recall Lord Wyman's exact words:

"White Harbor is a fine place, and I will not allow it to be tainted by the foul stench of lions. So you best get out, Lannister. The North has no place for your kind."

At the time, he had stiffened his neck and replied with all the pride of a maester, declaring that those from the Citadel served only the lords to whom they were assigned, and that his lordship had surely misunderstood his intentions.

Lord Wyman had not been pleased, but he also recognized that killing the man outright was too extreme, and besides, it was not as though the maester could simply be returned. Since this golden-haired lion refused to leave, there was little else to be done.

And so Theomore Lannister remained in White Harbor. He had his own rookery, through which he managed the city's external correspondence. But the duties of healing, which formed an essential part of a maester's role, were entirely stripped from him.

So much so that when Miss Wylla's beloved dog fell ill, and Theomore offered a cure, Lord Wyman would rather let the poor creature die and let his granddaughter weep herself into exhaustion than allow the Lannister maester to lift a finger.

He was never permitted to involve himself in any affairs concerning House Manderly. In the early days of his arrival, armed guards with scowling faces watched him like hawks, shadowing him at every step save for when he relieved himself. Not a single moment of privacy was spared.

There was nothing to be done. He was, after all, a maester who could not be returned. Theomore had once considered leaving on his own accord, but over time, he realized such a choice was no longer his to make. He had already stayed too long in White Harbor, and Lord Wyman would not let him go.

And so the days dragged on, filled with quiet tension and suppressed bitterness. Lord Wyman never once placed his trust in him, and Theomore, in turn, ceased trying to earn his favor.

Yet the seed of resentment had already taken root, and over the years, it grew. Lord Wyman's vigilance gradually faded with time, or perhaps it merely slackened out of complacency.

It was not until a year ago that fate presented Theomore with an opportunity. By mere chance, he managed to establish contact with a powerful figure in King's Landing and agreed to act as that man's eyes and ears in the North—a little bird planted deep within White Harbor.

He never attempted to contact his own family, the Lannisters. His hatred toward them burned just as fiercely. If it were not for that cursed surname and the shameful deeds committed by its bearers in the South, he would never have ended up in such a miserable position in the White Harbor.

There is no such thing as hatred without cause. And no matter the story, blame never lies with only one side.

Yet he had never received any training in espionage. A head filled with academic knowledge hardly prepared him for the clandestine art of spying. He had no idea who the man he served truly was. But it did not matter. If this was the price for vengeance against House Manderly, then he was more than willing to pay it.

Unfortunately, his methods were clumsy and naïve. His means of hiding his actions were amateurish at best. It took no more than a year for Clay Manderly to uncover the truth.

When Clay entered the room, Theomore's once-lustrous golden hair, now dulled with age, swayed gently with the movement of its owner. His voice, when he spoke, was calm and composed.

"Lord Clay, what an honor it is to receive your visit. Regrettably, I am afraid this old maester has little help to offer. Forgive me."

"There's no need to apologize, Maester Theomore. My time is precious, and I have no interest in listening to your tale. Everyone has their reasons, but I only care about the outcome. I imagine that when you made your choice, you were well aware this day would come."

Theomore had nothing to argue with. In truth, he had always found Clay to be surprisingly tolerable. Were it not for the fact that he bore the name Manderly, their paths might have ended quite differently.

"You're right, Lord Clay. I won't deny it. I just didn't expect it would come so soon. And to be honest, I never thought I'd fall into your hands. I've had countless nightmares of dying by your grandfather's sword, not yours."

"There's no real difference. My grandfather and I share the same name, the same blood, the same will. Whether you die by his sword or mine makes no difference, Maester Theomore."

Theomor Lannister fell silent. He did not know what else he could say to Clay. He did not beg for mercy, for the pride of a Lannister would never allow him to kneel before the very man he had sworn to hate.

Clay saw no reason to speak further. The green glint of the Axii Sign flickered, then disappeared. In that moment, the final thread of consciousness binding Theomore Lannister to the world was severed.

…

Wiping the blood from his sword with a steady hand, Clay stepped out of Theomore Lannister's chamber, his expression grim. It was evident that he had not acquired the information he had hoped for from the family's maester.

He did not believe that the Axii Sign had failed. Theomore, with his frail and scholarly body, could never have withstood its power. Yet despite that, Clay had been unable to extract the name of the man behind him. All he had managed to learn was their method of communication.

Put simply, Theomore and a mysterious figure in King's Landing had devised something akin to a cipher book in this world. They embedded hidden messages within what appeared to be ordinary correspondence, concealing the true contents beneath the veil of routine exchanges.

Such a method could never have been the work of some temporary agent acting alone. Clay's list of suspects narrowed considerably. Though King's Landing was vast, there were only two men with the skill and resources to orchestrate such a scheme.

His "old friend," Lord Petyr Baelish—whom the world knew as Littlefinger—and the current Master of Whisperers, Lord Varys, the Spider. The latter, though a eunuch missing something between his legs, was still a dangerous and capable man.

As for Theomore himself, Clay had granted him a swift end. There was no point in letting him live merely to suffer further torment. Clay was not some deranged sadist who took pleasure in prolonged cruelty.

At Clay's command, the news of Theomore's death was withheld from the Citadel. White Harbor would sent no ravens. There were two reasons for this. First, in such a delicate and precarious moment, any maester sent from the Citadel would be met with distrust by the Manderly household. Second, the family had long grown accustomed to bearing this responsibility themselves. Whether a maester served them or not had ceased to matter.

Yet this incident had exposed a far graver problem. It seemed White Harbor had already fallen under the secret scrutiny of unseen powers. That realization filled Clay with an abiding unease.

There is a saying that goes, it is not the thief you catch who is most dangerous, but the one who never stops watching. Knowing that someone, somewhere, was constantly trying to pry into his affairs robbed him of all sense of safety.

Littlefinger had already tried to play his hand in Winterfell once. When Clay looked back on that incident, he came to believe that the man had sought to incite discord between the Starks and the Lannisters. Clay himself had simply been used as a pawn in a much larger game.

But this time, the target was White Harbor itself. That was a very different matter.

For the moment, Clay could do little in response. If it came to swift warfare, battles decided in one or two sweeping clashes as had been the case when he marched south, then the role of intelligence would be diminished.

However, if the realm was to descend into a long and protracted struggle, then intelligence would be paramount. And Clay, who planned to construct a powerful navy and seize command of the seas, needed to know precisely which regions within his territory were exposed or vulnerable. That knowledge was no less vital than ships or soldiers.

…

Before his departure, Clay returned once more to the Wolf's Den, where he issued special orders concerning the defense against spies within their own ranks. Until now, the White Sea Guard had focused most of their attention on external threats. Clay now ordered them to turn inward, to first ensure the safety of their own foundation.

Soldiers, witchers, and the White Sea Guard—Clay had positioned every piece he could upon the board. The rest would have to wait until his return.

When all preparations had finally been made, one quiet evening saw Clay boarding a ship bound for Longsister. It was there, upon that remote island, that his dragon awaited him.

Yet what Clay did not know was that, at the very moment he departed White Harbor, something grim and unexpected unfolded far to the northwest. Within the great keep of Winterfell, the members of House Stark could not have foreseen that Lord Eddard Stark, whose condition had appeared to be improving steadily, would in just two days deteriorate so rapidly. After a final and desperate struggle, the life within him faded entirely.

Countless ravens were released from the towers of Winterfell, their wings slicing through the cold northern sky. Their destination was clear—the ancestral seats of every vassal sworn to House Stark.

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