Northward to Saltpans

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Clay had never been the sort of person to dawdle. Once he made a decision, he acted on it immediately.

Leaving Daenerys alone in Dorne was, in a way, actually safer than keeping her in Astapor. The Good Masters of Slaver's Bay had no true understanding of what the name Targaryen represents in the land of Westeros.

She would remain in Dorne, receiving the lords and ladies of every rank from across the region, all coming to Sunspear to swear their fealty to her. Prince Doran had told Clay not to worry. Their vassals wouldn't refuse.

The Martells held Dorne with a grip as firm as any great house in Westeros, no less so than the Starks of the North. That legacy, etched deep into the bones of history, had cultivated a strength that only revealed itself in times of need.

When Princess Elia Martell met her brutal end at the hands of Lannisters, all of Dorne had risen as one in righteous fury. The call for vengeance echoed across the desert sands, through mountain passes and fertile valleys, as the people clamored to strike back against the rebels in her name.

Yet Prince Doran had chosen a different path. He buried that fury deep beneath the dunes. For all its pride and fierce independence, Dorne alone could never hope to withstand the full might of the North bearing down upon them. Vengeance might stir the blood, but war must still abide by its own cold rules.

Faced with such a hopeless imbalance of power, the Dornish had buried their hatred deep within their hearts, where it took root and sprouted. Now, that quiet fury had become a towering, massive tree that could no longer be ignored.

The ravens Prince Doran sent forth from Sunspear flew swift and sure to every castle in Dorne. And the moment the name Targaryen appeared upon those scrolls, no explanation was needed. Every noble who read it understood—His Grace, their Prince, had made his decision. He would endure no longer.

So before Clay even departed, the nearest houses had already begun to arrive. House Toland of Ghost Hill. House Dalt of Lemonwood. Both had come in person. Clay had Gaelithox take a quick flight overhead, letting them see for themselves that the dragon was not rumor, but reality.

As for the rest, Clay didn't need to get involved. He simply told Gaelithox to circle the skies above Sunspear now and then when he had nothing to do. He didn't bother explaining why.

When his farewells with Daenerys and the Martells were said, Clay boarded a plain merchant ship, its sails as unremarkable as could be, and began his swift journey north, hugging the eastern coast of the Narrow Sea.

He planned to enter the bay near Blackwater, steering clear of Stannis's fleet, and then make a landfall at Crab Bay, just north of the Crackclaw Point peninsula. It would be far more direct than circling all the way around the Vale to land at his own Bay of Bite.

The voyage passed smoothly. The crew, handpicked by Prince Doran, were seasoned sailors, veterans of both wind and wave. But they would not remain with Clay. Once they got him ashore, they would turn back immediately and return south.

They didn't know who Clay truly was. In fact, aside from the Martells, no one in all of Dorne knew the master of that magnificent blue-and-gold dragon wasn't a Targaryen at all.

The voyage remained quiet—too quiet, almost unnaturally so. Clay barely even saw another ship. It seemed that Stannis had drawn upon every vessel available, sweeping the waters clean.

As for the handful of fishing boats that remained, they looked fragile and delicate, like dainty girls next to the "merchant ship" Clay had taken, which was more the size of a warship. None dared bar his path. After all, a stray dog might have the right to snarl at a tiger—but it must also bear the cost of death for doing so.

Clay gave no orders to steer into Blackwater Bay, not even when he saw no trace of Stannis's fleet, no banners bearing the crowned stag wreathed in flame. Stannis was his enemy now, even if the man himself didn't yet know it.

After a long and winding journey, Clay finally disembarked from the ship that had been his home for quite some time, setting foot on the lands of the Riverlands. But the solid ground beneath his feet felt strange. After so long at sea, he found the stability oddly unsettling.

He fought to keep his balance, not allowing himself the slightest stumble in front of the sailors behind him. Not that they knew who he was. All they knew was that he was a guest of Prince Doran, a guest of great importance, though how "great" remained a mystery to them all.

Once he had seen them off, Clay mounted the warhorse that had been led down from the ship and set off in a northwesterly direction.

The place where he had come ashore lay east of Saltpans. He had not landed directly at the town itself for one simple reason: he did not want to stir up any unnecessary trouble.

He had worked with the Riverlands lords for a time, and had even met quite a few of them in person. And the town of Saltpans was, after all, part of the Riverlands. It was better to be cautious.

Not because Clay feared being seen by the Riverlords. He was not afraid at all. Would a dragon flinch under a sheep's gaze?

But the problem was that the timing of his return was… delicate. Officially, he had gone to Essos to open new trade routes for his family. And now, just as Daenerys Targaryen had landed in Dorne, he had suddenly returned from the south. That was bound to raise a few eyebrows.

After all, the truth was, the Manderlys weren't what they used to be. These days, every word and action of his was being watched by countless eyes, all waiting, hoping for a misstep. It wasn't anyone's fault, really. Just the nature of things. Human nature.

Riding on horseback, Clay reached the only inn in Saltpans before nightfall. The town was small, part of the lands granted to a landed knight of the Riverlands, Ser Quincy Cox.

Had he come openly, with his true identity revealed, the master bedroom in the keep would have been cleared out for him without delay. No hesitation, no excuses.

He was the young lord of House Manderly, the commander who had led Northern and Riverland forces to victory over the Lannisters. That was not a name some low-ranking knight could afford to ignore—not on this side of the river.

He pushed open the door to the inn. It was peak hour, and the place was alive with noise and chatter. Saltpans might be small, but where in the world had you ever seen a tavern that wasn't lively?

The room was filled with shouting and laughter, and hardly anyone paid Clay any attention. And it was no wonder. He wasn't wearing his finely tailored, gold-embroidered noble robes tonight.

At the moment, Clay looked like just another weary traveler, rushing along the road with mud still caked on his face.

And that, again, was exactly what he wanted. He wasn't looking for trouble.

He tossed a silver stag onto the counter. The moment the coin landed with a crisp clink, the innkeeper's large, hairy hand snapped down on it like lightning.

Clay was noble-born and raised, and most days he spent gold dragons like water. But the truth was, for the common folk, a single silver stag held astonishing buying power. As for gold dragons—many would go their whole lives without ever seeing one up close.

"One room. I don't want anyone bothering me. And get me something to eat," Clay said casually, his voice relaxed. "Just do your best. That coin's yours."

He didn't care if the man tried to get clever. As a witcher, Clay had more than a few ways to solve problems—bloody or clean, loud or silent. It all depended on what kind of mood he was in.

"Of course, of course! Thank you kindly for your generosity, my lord," the innkeeper replied, eager and respectful. "Would you like your meal brought up to your room, or would you prefer to dine down here in the hall? Don't worry, I'll find you a good seat. Someplace quiet where no one will bother you."

Anyone who could keep an inn running in a place like this had to be at least a little perceptive. Clay might have looked travel-worn and dusty, but the longsword at his waist caught the eye, and the silver stag he had tossed down spoke louder than words. All of it told the innkeeper the same thing—this young man was not someone you wanted to cross.

"I'll eat here," Clay said, then added with a faint smirk, "Oh, and get me a girl. Can't have dinner without a lady by my side, now can I?"

"Absolutely, of course! Right this way, my lord."

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The innkeeper led Clay to a table tucked away in the farthest corner of the hall. As for "no one bothering you," what that really meant was a small wooden partition surrounding the seat—just enough to count as a private booth, if one were generous with definitions.

About twenty minutes later, a tall woman approached, balancing a large tray in her hands. She wore revealing clothes and was wrapped in a heavy cloud of cheap perfume. One glance told Clay everything he needed to know. This was the girl the innkeeper had sent, and she was carrying his dinner too.

"My lord, allow me to serve you~"

Her voice was low, slightly raspy. Clay merely pointed to the table, motioning for her to set the tray down.

"Sit down…"

He had no interest in being served by one of Saltpans' women. He had asked for a girl for an entirely different reason.

Sensing that this young man wasn't the kind to lose his head easily, the woman didn't mind. Instead, she curled her lips into a faint, practiced smile and obediently took the seat across from him.

Some men liked them quiet and well-behaved. She hadn't been working here long, but she had already learned how to read a man's mood.

She deliberately tugged down the neckline of her dress—which was already low to begin with—exposing one soft, round breast for his viewing pleasure.

Clay didn't look away. He gave her a long, open glance and thought to himself… not bad. She was clearly well-fed—size could tell you everything.

Still, he had no intention of sharing the tastes of Saltpans' local men. The thought passed through his mind and vanished just as quickly.

"Talk to me. What's been going on around here lately? Any major news in the Riverlands?"

The woman caught him staring at her chest and thought she had him already. Just another young man barely twenty, already wrapped around her finger. She leaned in a little and cooed, "Where've you come from, my lord? You're not from Saltpans, are you~?"

"Don't ask about me," Clay said, his tone calm but cold. "Or the silver I was going to give you will vanish before you ever see it."

"Ah… got it, got it. Mysterious, aren't you? Then tell me, my lord, what exactly would you like to know?"

Clay leaned back slightly, arms loose, expression unreadable. "Hmm… I heard the Stark boy's declared himself king. And the Riverlords—they've pledged their swords to him?"

"That's right, my lord. Lord Tully's call to arms has already reached us. Our very own knight here in Saltpans is gathering men to join the host."

"Oh?" Clay narrowed his eyes. "Tell me more."

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