The King in the North

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"No problem with that. Dorne doesn't have the numbers to go on the offensive, but holding this place? That's no issue at all. This is our home!"

The one speaking was Quentyn Martell, Prince Doran's eldest son. Still young and brimming with hot blood, he had been riled up by just a few of Clay's words. With a determined look, he stuffed a large piece of flatbread into his mouth, swallowed it down, then shot to his feet and declared his stance without hesitation.

Clay offered him a warm, friendly smile but said nothing in return. According to Dornish law of succession, when Prince Doran eventually passed, it wouldn't be his eldest son who would inherit Sunspear—but rather his eldest daughter, the one who had remained silent throughout the banquet: Arianne Martell.

Among all of Prince Doran's children, she was the eldest. That alone made her the rightful heir.

She had all the classic features of a Dornishwoman; bronze skin, dark eyes, fierce beauty. Though she hadn't spoken a word since the banquet began, always sitting quietly to one side, Clay knew very well what kind of ambition simmered beneath her petite frame of just five foot two.

The current political landscape of Dorne was… fascinating, to say the least. Prince Doran, tormented by gout, had long since retreated into the Water Gardens, no longer able to swiftly handle affairs of state. In name, it was Arianne Martell who held the reins as heir and de facto ruler of Dorne.

But in truth, the one who had been pulling the strings was Oberyn Martell, the Dornish Prince, whom Clay had left behind in Astapor. Now that Oberyn was absent, power had temporarily reverted back to Prince Doran, and Arianne had returned to being little more than a ceremonial figure.

Originally, Arianne had been a bargaining piece in a marriage alliance between House Martell and Prince Viserys Targaryen. But then, that dream had been doused by scalding molten gold, turning all of House Martell's careful plans into nothing more than smoke and ash.

When they'd begun to set their sights on Daenerys instead, Clay's sudden arrival once again shattered their designs. If it had been someone else, the Martells might have pushed harder.

But a male Dragonlord, and one who already commanded a dragon of his own, was another matter entirely. His very presence hinted at endless possibilities in the days to come.

Now that everything was out in the open, the stifling tension that had lingered over the banquet finally began to fade. Hosts and guests alike turned to enjoy the dishes laid out before them.

Dornish cuisine relied heavily on chili peppers. Daenerys, who had rarely tasted anything spicy in her life, quickly found her eyes welling up with tears. She shot Clay a rather aggrieved look—he was slurping away at the spicy dishes without a care in the world, clearly enjoying himself. With a small, helpless sigh, she stuck out her tongue and reached for a plate of fruit. If she ate any more of that fiery stuff, she'd embarrass herself in front of everyone.

During the feast, Prince Doran took the opportunity to ask Clay in detail about his next steps. Clay replied that all four thousand Unsullied would remain here in Dorne, stationed as the Queen's personal guard.

Prince Doran understood the implication immediately. Clay did not intend to step into the spotlight himself—he meant for Daenerys to claim the lords fealty in his stead.

The Prince proposed summoning all the lords of Dorne to Sunspear, where they would swear fealty to Her Grace, Queen Daenerys Targaryen. But a complication remained: what about Gaelithox?

That was Clay's dragon. No one else had the right to ride it, not even Daenerys. If Clay were to journey north, what would become of the beast? If he took it with him, people were bound to start asking questions.

To that, Clay had only this to say: "Galessos is a smart creature. It knows what it needs to do. I'll be leaving it here… it can serve as Sunspear's shield. But don't expect it to obey your commands."

"You're really just going to ride north like that?"

Prince Doran didn't quite understand. Why was Clay so fearless? Those who truly cherished their lives were usually the ones standing at the summit of power. For a man like Clay, if he could endure just a few more years and wait until all four dragons reached full maturity and battle-readiness, who in the Seven Kingdoms would dare to oppose him?

He could understand why Clay would choose not to bring the dragon with him. But to journey north alone? It felt as if the man placed no value on his own life at all.

"Of course. If I'm gone too long, my old man won't be able to eat in peace."

Clay gave a faint smile. Yet at that moment, a Dornishman clad in light armor suddenly burst into the banquet hall. Aside from Clay and Daenerys, it seemed that everyone present recognized him at once.

The man strode directly to Ellaria Sand, who was seated at the far end of the table, handed her a small, rolled-up piece of parchment, bowed deeply to Prince Doran, and turned to leave without a word.

Clay recognized the size and style of the scroll—it was the kind designed to be carried by raven.

Ellaria unrolled it and scanned the contents. It took her no more than ten seconds to read through the entire message. Her beautiful face shifted ever so slightly. Without a word, she rose from her seat, stepped past both Quentyn and Arianne without the slightest hesitation, and placed the parchment directly into Prince Doran's hands.

The Prince accepted it with a puzzled expression. As he read, his own face began to shift, marked by a strange, unreadable tension. Clay frowned in confusion, but Doran merely passed the note to him and said softly, "Your Grace Clay… it seems you truly must return to the North."

"…What happened?"

Cray took the scroll, brows knitted tight. But the moment his eyes landed on the words, his expression froze.

The message read:

"Eddard Stark, Warden of the North, has died in Winterfell. His son, Robb Stark, claims the Lannisters are behind the murder. He has once again summoned all the northern bannermen and declared himself King in the North, right there in Winterfell."

"The Tullys of the Riverlands have proclaimed that their house, along with all the noble families of the region, now swears allegiance to the King in the North. The armies of the Riverlords will march beneath his banner."

After reading those words, Clay felt as though a great question mark had exploded within his mind. He had only been away for a few months—how had the North turned on its head so swiftly?

Before his departure, he had sensed that something was not quite right with Eddard Stark's health, but he had attributed it to lingering wounds and the slow process of recovery. When they parted ways, had not everything seem on the mend? So how had death claimed him so suddenly?

If anything, festering wounds were more likely to take root in the sweltering South. How was it that Ned had held on down there without issue, only to die so soon after returning home?

And this business about the King in the North—what was that supposed to mean? Why had Robb immediately concluded that the Lannisters were behind his father's death?

Had everyone simply stopped caring about harvests, grain stores, and winter preparation? Had they all forgotten the Stark words: "Winter is coming?"

This unexpected turn of events left Clay completely speechless. He could not even bring himself to mention terms like "timeline convergence" or any of the other nonsense that once made sense. The Westeros before him had already diverged so sharply from the history he knew, it was practically an alternate reality.

His original plan was simple: return to the North, train the army, expand the fleet, take time to rebuild and prepare. Then, when the moment was right, strike hard at Stannis and seize Dragonstone—securing control over the entire eastern coast of the Narrow Sea and completing the Manderly family's long path to independence.

But now? Now the war machine of the North had roared back to life, grinding forward without warning or restraint. And the Manderlys—caught entirely unprepared—were left with only one choice: fall back into line and resume their role as obedient vassals of House Stark.

To make matters worse, his sister Wynafryd was still in Stark hands. If he truly wanted to break away and go independent, then somehow, he'd need to get her back first. That wasn't going to be easy.

This time, the North had not marched alone. With the Riverlands now joining their banners to Robb Stark's cause, the sword had been drawn directly against House Lannister. Looked at from this angle, it meant that nearly every one of the Seven Kingdoms—save perhaps the Vale—was now at war with the lions of the Rock.

Honestly, it was kind of tragic. Clay couldn't help but question: in the original timeline, just how much of a luck buff had the Lannisters been riding to actually come out on top in the War of the Five Kings?

Forget Daenerys. Forget Jon Snow. If anyone had true main character energy… it was the Lannisters.

Still, there was no use brooding over it now. He needed to return north immediately. So long as he was present, no one would dare attempt to seize command of the army from his hands.

What really worried him was the thought of some noble—given command in his absence—treating the Manderly troops like disposable pawns. After all, who else but Clay himself had any real interest in seeing House Manderly grow stronger, wealthier, and more powerful?

And with this latest campaign underway, there was no way the Manderlys could stick to their previous contribution of fewer than two thousand soldiers. Their house now spanned two separate regions. Their lands were vast, their population booming.

Even if they had yet to fully integrate those territories or lacked the administrative infrastructure to raise troops efficiently, the scale of their domain made greater participation not merely expected but unavoidable.

Back when the Freys still held the Twins, they had been able to muster four thousand men from that position alone. Even if the Manderlys had secured only half the territory the Freys once controlled, combining that with their original strength meant the bare minimum contribution for this war effort hovered around that same figure.

Would the old man agree to that? Clay could not say for certain.

What he did know was that he had to return to the North immediately… no, not just that. First, he had to head to the Twins and regroup with his grandfather. How this was handled from here on out would have huge consequences.

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