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To be honest, when Wyman Manderly received the message from his granddaughter Willa, sent via raven, he almost choked on the Arbor Gold he was drinking.
By the gods above, what had that reckless brat Clay done in Winterfell?
Slaughtering a Lannister as if they were common livestock, and in front of the queen no less—while Wyman couldn't deny the grim satisfaction it brought him, he was equally terrified by the audacity of his grandson.
The moment the news reached him, he issued an immediate gag order to the maester overseeing the ravens, ensuring the information went no further—not even to his sons, who were busy training soldiers—even though Wendel Manderly was Clay's father.
The next morning at breakfast, Wyman calmly announced his decision to journey to Winterfell, entrusting the governance of White Harbor to his eldest son, Wylis. Though his family exchanged puzzled glances, no one dared to challenge the Lord of White Harbor.
Without delay, Wyman set out with one hundred of White Harbor's most elite, fully armored heavy cavalry, and an additional hundred auxiliary soldiers. While Clay and his party had taken over a week to reach Winterfell, Wyman and his retinue completed the journey in five days.
News of Wyman Manderly's march northward naturally reached Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, well in advance. Eddard, having no reason to refuse, could only accept the inevitable. Wyman was, after all, a fellow northern lord, and his intent to safeguard his family's future heir was entirely understandable.
King Robert Baratheon, originally planning a hunt, abruptly canceled his trip upon hearing of Wyman's impending arrival. During the Rebellion, the northern cavalry from White Harbor had left an indelible mark on him.
As a warrior-king who had fought to seize the Iron Throne, Robert's blood still surged with a primal thirst for violence. The thought of seeing the famed heavy cavalry of White Harbor excited him far more than the prospect of a mere hunt ever could.
Standing atop Winterfell's eastern gate tower, King Robert and Lord Eddard Stark watched the horizon together. Draped in a massive fur cloak, Robert cursed loudly, his voice booming above the wind:
"Seven hells, Ned, what kind of gods forsaken place is this? It's summer, for gods' sake—summer! I'd wager King's Landing in winter is warmer than this frozen wasteland. How do you northerners even survive?"
Eddard Stark glanced at his old friend, his calm gray eyes contrasting with Robert's boisterous demeanor. Years of excess had softened the once-formidable warrior, his frame now carrying the weight of kingship—and indulgence.
With a faint, wry smile, Eddard replied in his measured tone:
"Your Grace, we Northerners, and the Starks especially, have grown accustomed to this. We endure and persevere, as we always have."
Robert let out a hearty grunt, half a laugh, half a groan. "I know, I know. You Starks are as stubborn as the cold. Cold as stone, the lot of you."
For a moment, the two men stood in silence, the howling wind filling the void. Eddard could see the shadow of grief flicker across Robert's face. He knew what haunted his old friend. Winterfell—its forests, its icy winds, its very air—seemed to bring Lyanna Stark back to life in Robert's mind. Ever since his arrival, everything here seemed to remind the king of his late fiancée.
Eddard felt the same pang of loss, though in a different way. Unlike Robert, he had the bittersweet privilege of having lived close to his sister, her presence woven into the fabric of his life—and her absence lingering like a phantom.
From their vantage point atop the gate tower, the banners of the crowned golden stag of Baratheon and the direwolf of Stark fluttered in the biting wind. Thankfully, there was no trace of the despised crimson lion of House Lannister to sully the sight.
About ten minutes later, the distant sound of horns echoed across the frosted fields.
On the horizon, deep blue banners bearing the sigil of a silver merman emerged, their advance cutting through the northern wilderness. The sight drew the full attention of both the king and the Lord of Winterfell.
Wyman Manderly, Lord of White Harbor, had arrived at the head of his troops to present himself before the king.
As the soldiers advanced, their banners waving proudly and the gleam of their polished armor catching the dim northern light, Robert squinted. His expression shifted from curiosity to disbelief. Turning to Eddard, he exclaimed:
"Seven hells, Ned, these are your bannermen? How in the name of the gods do they have such fine equipment? By the Seven! I thought I'd only see troops like this under that old blasted lion Tywin's command."
As Warden of the North, Eddard Stark was well aware of the strength of his vassals. Though the sight of the White Harbor cavalry was undeniably impressive, he revealed little of his thoughts.
Patting the king on the shoulder, he spoke in his calm, measured tone:
"Your Grace, House Manderly rules White Harbor, the fifth-largest city in Westeros. A force like this is well within their means."
Robert snorted, his expression darkening. "If my army had looked like this back in the day, I could've stormed King's Landing and wiped out every last one of those damned dragon-spawned bastards in a month."
Eddard frowned slightly at the bitterness in Robert's voice but replied evenly:
"You've already done that, Your Grace."
"No… not entirely." Robert's gaze hardened, his voice dropping to a simmering growl. "You know as well as I do, Ned. Across the Narrow Sea, the last remnants of the dragon's bloodline still lurk. I want them all dead."
Though Robert's voice wasn't loud, anyone listening could hear the simmering rage and undying hatred beneath his words.
Eddard, unwilling to tread further into such dangerous waters, changed the subject. "Your Grace, I should go meet Lord Wyman Manderly."
Robert waved him off with a grunt, his mood shifting once more. "Go, Ned. And tell that old eel not to stir up trouble with the queen. For once, give me some peace. He can take the boy and his sister whenever he pleases. The Lannisters won't dare stop him."
Eddard turned to leave, suppressing a faint smirk. That final remark, he thought, was the most kingly thing Robert had said all day.
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Beneath the towering walls of Winterfell, the column of White Harbor soldiers came to a halt at Lord Wyman Manderly's command. At the forefront, his massive, luxuriously adorned carriage stopped, its polished silver fittings glinting in the cold northern light.
From the carriage window, Wyman peered out, his sharp eyes taking in the five hundred Winterfell cavalry arrayed in disciplined formation ahead of them. Beneath the towering banner of the direwolf stood his liege lord, Eddard Stark, observing him from afar with his usual stoic calm.
Satisfied that his presence had been properly noted, Wyman gave a brief nod to his coachman. The carriage door swung open with a creak, and the Lord of White Harbor stepped down. Dispensing with guards or retinue, he strode toward the direwolf banner alone, his heavy steps crunching against the frost-covered ground.
From a distance, his deep, gravelly voice rang out like a roll of thunder:
"Lord Stark!"
Eddard Stark dismounted with quiet grace, his steady gaze fixed on the approaching lord. He gave a small nod of acknowledgment, a subtle gesture of respect.
Wyman halted before him and, mindful of the trouble his visit might cause, dispensed with unnecessary formalities. He knelt briefly, then rose to his full, imposing height.
"Lord Stark," he began, his voice quieter now but no less commanding.
Eddard clasped Wyman's arm in a firm but unspoken gesture of acceptance. After a brief exchange of pleasantries, he gestured toward the gates.
"Come, my lord. Let us speak within Winterfell's walls."
As they walked through the gates, Wyman ventured cautiously:
"Lord Stark, about that boy, Clay…"
Eddard's lips twitched faintly, a ghost of a smile playing across his otherwise stony face.
"Your grandson certainly knows how to stir up trouble," he said evenly. Then, with a sidelong glance, he added, "But I'll say this—he's far smarter than your two sons."
The cryptic remark hung in the cold air, and Eddard offered no further explanation. Wyman furrowed his brow, silently pondering the meaning of his liege's words as they made their way toward the dungeon.
King Robert's advice had been plain, if not entirely diplomatic: While he understood Wyman's actions, the Manderly family's behavior bordered on challenging royal authority. If the queen decided to escalate matters, Robert might sympathize but couldn't openly support such defiance.
The sooner the Manderlys retrieved their kin and departed Winterfell, the better for all involved.
Eddard's strides were purposeful, his pace brisk. Wyman, wider than even the king himself, soon found himself panting heavily as he struggled to keep up, beads of sweat gathering on his brow despite the chill of the dungeons.
At the entrance, the White Harbor guards stationed there straightened as Lord Stark approached, their postures stiff with formality. But when they caught sight of their own lord trailing behind, their gazes faltered, heads lowering in shame.
The sight of their heir imprisoned and the indignities suffered by their young lady were wounds to their pride as much as their duty—failure they dared not deny.
Wyman glared at them, his heavy snort filled with unspoken reprimand. He didn't need words to convey his displeasure.
Their failures would be dealt with later. For now, retrieving his grandson and ensuring the family's survival took precedence.
As they descended further into the dungeons, the air grew colder and heavier. When they finally reached Clay's cell, Eddard's steps slowed. His keen nose caught the faint, sour tang of wine. His ears picked up voices—three of them, clear and familiar.
His face darkened. The laughter inside was carefree, jovial even, utterly at odds with their grim surroundings.
Without hesitation, Eddard raised a booted foot and kicked the door open with a sharp crack.
The iron-bound wood slammed against the stone wall, and the noise inside died instantly.
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[Chapter End's]
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