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The moment his eyes met those of Aenys Frey, Clay knew at once—the man had been waiting for him here on purpose.
It was clear that, within the halls of the Twins, quite a few Freys were keeping a close watch on him. As this realization settled in, Clay instinctively raised his guard. Yet, his expression remained warm and amicable, a practiced smile curving his lips. With a subtle hand gesture, he signaled his captain of the guard to halt before stepping forward alone.
Though he had no desire to entangle himself in the Freys' web of family intrigue, the encounter before him was unavoidable. Their paths had already crossed, and turning away now was not an option. The last thing he wanted was for rumors to spread that Clay Manderly of White Harbor had retreated at the mere sight of a Frey.
This had nothing to do with personal pride or honor. Rather, it was simply because a significant portion of both Northmen and even some Southerners placed great importance on such things.
Even if there had been nothing to it at first, rumors had a way of twisting the truth—making something out of nothing. And that was the last thing Clay wanted.
He did not stray too far from his guards, keeping a careful balance—far enough that their conversation would not appear as secretive scheming, yet close enough that his men would struggle to overhear their words.
Instead of walking directly to where Aenys Frey stood, Clay gestured toward a section of the battlements and made his way there first.
Though Ser Aenys was old enough to be three times his age, Westeros was not a land where mere years commanded respect. This was not a meeting between a youth and an elder—it was a discussion between House Manderly and House Frey. In matters of nobility, there was no place for such courtesies.
Leaning against the damp stone wall, Clay cast his gaze beyond the castle, toward the lush, verdant forest he had passed through on his way here. Ser Aenys followed soon after, taking up a position along a nearby section of the battlements.
For a moment, neither spoke. A quiet assessment passed between them. Clay was in no hurry—he wanted to see what this third-born Frey, who had deliberately sought him out, intended to say.
After three or four minutes of silence, Ser Aenys Frey finally spoke. He had come to realize that the young man before him possessed remarkable patience—Clay would not be the first to break the quiet. Left with no other choice, he was forced to ask a question that had no real standard answer.
"Lord Clay, what do you think of our House Frey?"
Clay's expression remained unchanged. Meeting the older man's gaze, he answered without hesitation:
"My opinion is irrelevant. The only thing that truly matters to you is Lord Walder Frey's opinion—his attitude toward you, and more importantly, his attitude toward House Frey as a whole."
Over the past few days, Clay had come to understand that Walder Frey's grip over his family was nothing short of absolute. Every single member of the Frey household feared him, while simultaneously bending over backward to curry his favor.
A lively feast could be silenced in an instant by nothing more than the old man's cough—even if that cough was simply the result of wine going down the wrong way.
Walder Frey could humiliate any member of his house at will, reducing even the most senior among them to a pitiful state—regardless of whether they were now old enough to be called grandfather by their own descendants.
Ser Aenys Frey had not expected such an incisive answer. He had anticipated a vague or superficial response from this strikingly handsome Manderly youth. Instead, Clay's words had struck directly at the heart of the matter.
Slowly nodding, the fifty-something-year-old knight realized he could no longer judge this young Manderly by age alone.
"You are right," Aenys Frey said at last. "My father has sat upon that black chair for decades—since before I was born. And now, my grandson, Jonos, is seven years old, yet my father remains firmly seated upon it. Ha! My brother Stevron and his cubs… how pitiful. They have waited for decades."
A sigh of lament escaped the knight's lips, as if he truly felt sorrow for his brother Stevron and the long, bitter years of waiting he had endured.
Clay mirrored his expression, adopting an air of regret. But in truth, his guard was up more than ever, his wariness sharpened to the extreme.
Because anyone with a shred of intelligence could see the true meaning behind Aenys Frey's words. He wasn't sympathizing with his brother at all—he was lamenting his own misfortune.
More importantly, if he had shared these sentiments with another Frey, Clay wouldn't have been the least bit surprised. But why was he confiding in an outsider, a mere visitor from White Harbor?
What was his goal?
The two of them had only met once before—they were barely acquainted. Did Aenys Frey not fear that Clay might turn around and relay everything to his father, Walder Frey?
Clay's smile did not waver, though he could feel his own expression threatening to stiffen from the effort.
Yet, as if his previous words had never left his lips, the older knight suddenly changed the subject.
"Lord Clay, I have heard that your esteemed grandfather, Lord Wyman, has two granddaughters whose beauty is renowned throughout the North. Ah, your two sisters, is that correct?"
Clay immediately thought of his elder sister, Wynafryd. Based purely on appearance, she certainly lived up to her reputation—her beauty was indeed spoken of across the North.
But when he thought of his younger sister, Wylla, with her still-round, childlike face, he knew at least half of this claim was pure nonsense.
What was this old man getting at? Why bring up Wynafryd and Wylla now?
A sense of foreboding settled over him.
And sure enough, his instincts proved correct.
The bald, gray-whiskered old Frey spoke again, finally laying out his true intentions.
"Lord Clay, I hear that neither of the young ladies of House Manderly are betrothed. How could that be? My grandson, Robert Frey—named after King Robert himself—would be honored beyond words to wed one of them. If such a union were to come to pass, I assure you, House Frey would be your eternal ally. Of course, this would require both your support and that of your entire house."
At that moment, Clay fully understood why Ser Aenys had wasted so many words before getting to the point.
This man was clearly well-versed in the art of empty promises.
First, he had painted a picture of internal strife within House Frey—hinting at his and his brother Stevron's shared resentment toward their father's enduring rule. They did not wish for their father to live much longer.
Then, he had begun to lure Clay in with grand assurances, using his grandson's marriage proposal as bait. The unspoken deal was clear: if Clay helped arrange this marriage and supported Aenys Frey when the time came for action, he would be handsomely rewarded.
But why was Aenys so certain that Clay would entangle himself in this reckless scheme?
Whether this plan was hastily conceived or the result of long contemplation, whether he was testing Clay or making a genuine offer, one thing was certain—Aenys Frey harbored ambitions for House Frey's succession.
There was no reason for Lord Walder Frey to send his third son to probe Clay on such matters. This had to be Aenys's own initiative.
Now, Clay could see his true intent—he sought to use Wynafryd or Wylla's marriage as a chain, binding House Manderly to his ambitions.
And once that happened, no matter what Aenys wished to do, Clay would be forced to adopt a supportive or at least acquiescent stance—unless he was willing to gamble with the safety of his sisters.
A curse formed in Clay's mind.
He didn't mind when people tried to outmaneuver him—but he refused to be played for a fool.
Your grandson? Even if the Green Fork flowed upstream, it still wouldn't be enough!
He kept his thoughts to himself, but in his heart, the answer was already clear.
..
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[Chapter End's]
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