No Need for Formalities Here

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Clay wanted to head south as quickly as possible, but he couldn't. His army had to escort thirty thousand wildling prisoners all the way to Winterfell, the heart of the North. There was no way he dared leave them all behind at the Wall.

The wildlings were all on foot. No matter how fast they tried to go, the journey from the Wall to Winterfell still took Clay nearly half a month. There was nothing he could do about it — with the roads in this state, all kinds of trouble cropped up along the way.

Several large-scale escape attempts happened during the nights. Those stubborn wildlings untied their ropes, attacked and killed patrolling soldiers, then bolted for the Wolfswood like their lives depended on it.

Clay's response to this was brutally simple. His entire force was cavalry anyways. So they mounted up and gave chase.

Once they caught up, it didn't matter whether it was a man or a woman — heads came off all the same and were brought back. Clay's order was clear: the moment they ran beyond the boundary of the camp, they were no longer his prisoners. And frankly, he wasn't in the mood to collect any new prisoners for the time being.

So, after three particularly brutal examples, the cowards who were lucky enough to survive finally came to understand just what kind of ruthless, merciless man this northern commander who had driven them all the way here, truly was.

Just like that, on a night when a blizzard howled across the land, Clay finally caught sight of the faint, looming silhouette of Winterfell's walls. Fortunately, the King's Road hadn't been completely buried under the snow. Otherwise, even with guidance, they would've lost their way.

There was no longer a gathered northern army within the city. They'd already marched out half a month ago. Now, the capital of the North stood exposed, its defenses thinned to the bone.

The sharp-eyed sentries on the tower had already spotted this slowly approaching army from afar. But they hadn't raised any alarm — the direwolf and merman banners still fluttering proudly in the wind and snow made the army's identity abundantly clear.

Lord Clay — they were back!

The sound of horns echoed faintly across the snowfields. The great eastern gates of Winterfell rumbled open. Clay left the main force stationed in the winter town nearby and led two hundred handpicked guards into the city himself.

Robb Stark was gone now. By rights of succession, the one left to hold Winterfell in his stead was his younger brother — Bran Stark.

Inside the great hall of Winterfell's main keep, Clay finally met the boy holding the city's command. But the moment he laid eyes on him, Clay froze for a second.

The magical threads entwining the boy were far thicker than the last time they met, practically wrapping him up like a silken cocoon. He didn't need to guess whose handiwork this was — the Three-Eyed Raven, without a doubt. If one wanted to be particular, this already bordered on violating their previous agreement.

"Lord Clay Manderly, Winterfell welcomes your return."

Bran Stark's childish voice spoke the most meaningless adult pleasantries, leaving Clay inwardly speechless.

"Bran, your brother marched off with the army. How many men did he leave behind for you? Do you need me to station some of my men here as well? Winterfell is the heart of the North. Its security has to be guaranteed."

There was an obvious undertone to Clay's words. After all, the situation in the Seven Kingdoms now was completely different from when he first rode south. So many of the careful arrangements they had set in motion had already veered onto entirely different tracks.

Take, for instance, the scheme he had pushed forward back then — using Theon Greyjoy's life as a bargaining chip. In Robb Stark's name, the North had offered the gold of the Westerlands as a bounty, luring the Ironborn to send troops and steal the old lion's ass.

But now, times have changed. With his swift victory and his alliance with Daenerys, the Ironborn's usefulness to him had all but evaporated. Truth be told, they weren't doing so great themselves.

After Jaime Lannister was sent back to the Westerlands, he had brought with him a batch of freshly trained recruits. It had not taken long for him to drive the Ironborn raiders along the western coast straight back into the sea.

With the practical collapse of the alliance between the Iron Islands and the North, the North's western shores were once again under direct threat from the Ironborn. But as things stood, it wasn't yet time for House Stark to fall.

"No need, but I appreciate your concern, Lord Clay. I believe Maester Luwin and Ser Rodrik will help me keep Winterfell safe."

Bran Stark kept up his performance, exchanging polite, empty words with Clay. Since the boy clearly had no intention of speaking plainly, Clay had little interest in prolonging the charade. Back then, he might have cared enough to intervene and stop the Three-Eyed Raven from swallowing the boy's mind entirely, but now… let him be. Let him do as he pleased.

Nodding lightly, Clay let the topic slide. His gaze shifted to the two men seated beside Bran Stark — one in armor, the other robed in the simple garb of a maester — the master-at-arms and commander of Winterfell's garrison, and the maester in charge of the castle's affairs and healing.

"Gentlemen, there's a situation you ought to be aware of. This time, when I returned, I brought back thirty thousand wildling slaves. The vast majority of them are women. Aside from distributing one to each of the soldiers who followed me on this campaign, as we agreed upon, there are still more than twenty thousand left."

Clay's eyes lingered on the two men's stiff expressions as he smiled faintly and continued, "If you've no objections, I'll have my army bring the prisoners into Winterfell. You'll be responsible for arranging their accommodations and overseeing their daily lives from here on out. How does that sound?"

Both Maester Luwin and Ser Rodrik's faces darkened considerably. They could hear it clearly — Lord Clay Manderly was throwing them a near-impossible problem. Winterfell's permanent population barely reached ten thousand, and now, with the main army away, he wanted to dump over twenty thousand wildlings into the city. This would turn the place upside down — it simply couldn't be done.

Clueless to the deep undercurrents, Bran Stark frowned and blurted out, "Lord Clay, Maester Luwin taught me that there are no slaves in Westeros anymore. You shouldn't be calling them slaves — that's wrong!"

"Oh, is that so?"

Clay's smile turned strangely unreadable. He made an exaggerated expression of sudden realization, his tone tinged with mock admiration as he said, "Thank you, Lord Bran Stark, for enlightening me. In that case, I shall go and cut the ropes binding their hands and feet right now… and grant them all the status of Northmen. How does that sound?"

"Very Goo—"

The word had barely left Bran Stark's lips when Maester Luwin quickly pressed a hand down on his shoulder, cutting him off. The maester exchanged a brief, knowing glance with Ser Rodrik, then took the utterly oblivious Bran by the hand and led him straight out of the great hall.

They had already realized that today, this Northern commander standing before them carried a dangerous, unfriendly air. His every movement, his every word, reeked with the bloody smell of the battlefield.

As the men Robb Stark had arranged to assist Bran in holding Winterfell, they knew very well — whatever was about to be discussed next was not something a young child like Bran Stark ought to hear.

Once only Clay and Ser Rodrik remained in the hall, Clay pulled over a chair and sat down across from him. He didn't bother with wine. The great hall of Winterfell was too empty, and right now, cold as an ice cellar.

"Ah… Lord Clay, Bran… after all, he's just a child who doesn't understand anything. You… it's better not to lose your temper with him."

As the person who had known Clay the longest within all of Winterfell, Ser Rodrik was well aware of what Clay had been like when he first arrived here. That was why he couldn't help but marvel at the terrifying talent for war Clay had shown since then.

If Clay had come from a traditional military family like the Tarlys, for example… he wouldn't have found it surprising at all for the descendants of Lord Randyll to be good at warfare. That would've been expected.

"He couldn't wait, could he? Just marched south with all the infantry? Without a single cavalryman left, he has, what… at most sixteen thousand men under his command? And with that pitiful number of foot soldiers, he just headed south like that?"

Clay slammed his palm onto the table, his face darkening with cold fury. It wasn't that he cared about the soldiers from other noble houses, but among those sixteen thousand were several thousand of his own men. For them to march off in such an arrogant, reckless fashion — it was sheer foolishness.

"What about the Vale? What's the word from there? I'm guessing Lysa Tully, that woman, refused Robb's proposal for an alliance, didn't she? It never worked, even when Lord Eddard was still alive. It is even less likely now."

Ser Rodrik stayed silent. He couldn't deny Clay's words. Although no official news had come from the Vale, and both Lord Bolton and Lord Cerwyn, who had set off for the Vale quite some time ago, had yet to send word back. But whispers had already begun to drift north, reaching Winterfell like smoke carried on the wind.

It was said that after those two reached the Vale, something happened at the Eyrie. Not long after, the Bloody Gate, the only pass into and out of the Vale, had been completely sealed shut.

"Lord Clay… as for the Vale… there's been no news so far. Our people… can't get into the Vale."

Ser Rodrik's voice sounded strained. Though he was many years older than Clay, at this moment, in terms of presence alone, he found himself completely suppressed by the young commander sitting before him. There was simply no way to hold a conversation the way they used to.

"Hmph, no word? From the moment I received Robb's raven until now— I've crushed Mance Rayder's army, rounded up these prisoners, and dragged them all the way to Winterfell. Do you know how long that took?"

Clay's tone was sharp, entirely devoid of politeness. His eyes locked onto Ser Rodrik's, his voice dropping coldly as he continued, "It's been well over a month, hasn't it? After such a long time, those two should've crawled back from the Eyrie to the North, one way or another. Either they succeeded, or they failed. What, are they planning to stay there… waiting for Lysa Tully to nurse them herself?"

The further Clay traveled on his way back, the more he couldn't shake the feeling that something about the Vale just wasn't right.

Throughout this war, the Vale had clung to its so-called neutrality. It reminded him all too much of a certain neutral country (Switzerland) from the Second War in his previous life — letting the rest of the world tear itself apart, while they sat comfortably on the sidelines.

But the difference was, the Vale wasn't some tiny nation famous for its banks and watches, with a military weaker than most. Theoretically speaking, the Vale held the most formidable cavalry force in all of Westeros.

The Vale would have to make a move eventually. But exactly who they intended to help… that was the real question.

Robb Stark had led his more than sixteen thousand foot soldiers down the King's Road, claiming he would camp at the Twins. But judging by the tone of his letter — so casual, so unconcerned — it wouldn't be surprising if he just kept marching south without stopping.

And right at that moment… if the Vale's well-equipped cavalry rode out from the Bloody Gate…

Nearly every Northern lord, even Robb Stark himself, firmly believed that even if Lysa Tully and the Vale chose to remain neutral and refused to stand with the North, they would certainly never side with anyone else to fight against them.

After all, blood ties ran deep. Lysa Tully and Catelyn Tully were sisters, and that connection alone gave the Northerners an instinctive sense of trust toward the Vale. Add to that the fact that they had all risen together to overthrow the Targaryen dynasty, and the bond only seemed stronger.

But Clay knew better.

Lysa Tully had never truly stood with the North. Her entire mind was filled with nothing but thoughts of her precious son — young Robert Arryn, now the ruler of the Vale.

Ah, and of course… there was also that certain someone Lysa Tully held in particular favor.

That was why, from the very beginning, Clay had been certain that the delegation Robb sent to secure an alliance would inevitably return empty-handed. But now… whether they succeeded or not wasn't even the issue anymore. The problem was, they hadn't returned at all — and that was a much bigger concern.

It still came down to the same point. The North could not afford to collapse right now. The old lion hadn't had his back broken yet. The two stags were still locking antlers, fighting for dominance. Down in Dorne, Daenerys' power was still only beginning to take shape. This wasn't the time to make reckless moves like an overconfident child.

Clay never had some strange obsession with playing the loyal subordinate, but given the current state of things, neither he nor Daenerys possessed the overwhelming strength that Aegon Targaryen had once wielded. They couldn't simply cut their way across Westeros, crushing all opposition like it was nothing.

The dragons were still too young. A single bolt from a scorpion — even one that was not some black technology monstrosity cobbled together by Qyburn — could be fatal to Daenerys' dragons, especially if it struck somewhere like the neck.

As for Clay's own dragon, Gaelithox… he too could be seriously wounded by those bolts. And there were only four dragons in total. Scorpions, on the other hand… if the lords of Westeros truly believed their lives were at stake, they could churn out hundreds, even thousands, of those siege weapons.

Which was exactly why, right now, Clay had to do everything in his power to maintain the North's stability. He needed to use this façade, this shell of unity, to protect House Manderly's interests. Otherwise, if the North's main army suffered a major setback, the Manderly family, stationed at the Twins, would be the first to bear the brunt of it.

"I'll be blunt. As for the wildling prisoners… I'm not leaving a single one of them here at Winterfell. The defenses are already thin as it is. If those people manage to escape, they'll vanish straight into the Wolfswood, and they'll become an endless source of trouble for us."

Ser Rodrik sighed softly, then nodded, clearly giving tacit approval to Clay's decision.

"I'll take this entire batch of prisoners back to White Harbor. I'll bring the bulk of House Manderly's cavalry with me to escort the wildlings to White Harbor. There are plenty of people there, enough to spare the manpower to keep an eye on them."

Clay had no intention of discussing this with Ser Rodrik. This wasn't a request for advice or permission. It was simply informing him of how things would be.

"But… Lord Clay, His Grace Robb needs your cavalry for support. If you take the cavalry to White Harbor first, and then try to rush to the Riverlands…"

Before Ser Rodrik could even finish, Clay waved his hand impatiently, cutting him off right there.

"Listen carefully. I'll have Lord Glover lead the main cavalry force ahead of me. They will head south as quickly as possible to rendezvous with Robb's infantry. Robb should have anticipated this when he decided to fight this war — that I would have this many prisoners to deal with. Besides, I have already sent letters informing him of the situation."

Clay let out a faint, emotionless chuckle and continued, his tone casual, though there was a sharp edge hidden beneath the surface.

"He couldn't wait, so he ran off to the south on his own. And now the infantry is left behind. What do you expect me to do? What… butcher all these prisoners? If that's what I intended, what was the point of capturing them alive in the first place?"

Faced with Clay's reasoning, all Ser Rodrik could do was nod silently. Clay's control over the army left him with no room to argue, let alone any hope of changing Clay's decision.

"Fine then, Lord Clay. Winterfell will provide your forces with enough food and supplies. I hope you set out as soon as possible. After all, His Grace is still in the south, and with only infantry by his side, his mobility is severely lacking."

Clay nodded slightly, then stood up. There was nothing left for him to discuss with Ser Rodrik. The reason he stopped at Winterfell in the first place was simple — it sat right along the Kingsroad, so passing through was unavoidable. And besides, no matter what, he still had to report to Winterfell, at least in appearance, about the handling of these prisoners.

But if Winterfell's belly was too small to swallow this many people, well… that wasn't Clay Manderly's problem.

The truth was, deep down, Clay had never intended to hand these wildlings over to Robb Stark at all.

These are all valuable population resources. Especially the enormous number of women among them, they would become a key bargaining chip for Clay to win hearts and minds in the future.

The snow was still falling. After gathering enough supplies from Winterfell, Clay wasted no time. He led his men and set off, heading south once more.

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