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Clay didn't answer Lord Frey's question directly. Instead, he responded with a question of his own:
"Lord Frey, would you prefer to hear the truth or a lie?"
The old lord, his face appearing even more gaunt under the dim flickering candlelight, narrowed his eyes. The sagging skin on his face twitched slightly as he replied with a flat expression:
"Don't play games with me, Manderly boy. I know how to tell when someone's lying, and as for the truth... well, I'd like to hear both and decide for myself."
Clay chuckled softly, leaning back into his chair. He adjusted his posture until he found a comfortable position and began to speak slowly:
"The lie is that I've been discussing with Ser Aenys how to help him replace his older brother, Ser Stevron, as your successor. The truth is... he wants my sister to marry his grandson."
In reality, both statements were true. But by presenting them this way — one as a lie and one as the truth — Clay ensured that his listener would instinctively focus on only one. After all, no matter how desperate Ser Aenys might be, he wouldn't openly conspire against his brother with an outsider like Clay.
So, naturally, the "truth" had to be the matter of the marriage proposal. As for the rest? If there were any hidden schemes, they could conveniently be ignored.
"Heh… So how did you respond to that foolish third son of mine?"
Lord Walder fell silent for a moment, his narrowed eyes glinting with calculation. Ultimately, he chose to believe the "truth." In his mind, his third son was a cautious man — one who wouldn't dare voice such treasonous ambitions to an outsider like Clay.
"I refused him," Clay answered bluntly. His tone was firm, devoid of pretense. "To be honest, Ser Aenys' request came too suddenly. I didn't even know who they were, and frankly speaking..." Clay paused, allowing his words to linger for effect. "Lord Frey, your family has plenty of young men. Why wouldn't I choose a better match for my sister?"
In front of Lord Walder Frey, Clay saw no need for the polite excuses he had offered Ser Aenys. He spoke directly — not out of arrogance, but because he knew it was pointless to dance around the truth with a man like Walder Frey.
Once those words were out, Clay knew the so-called "lunch" was now effectively over. Lord Walder's true intention in inviting him had never been to ask about trivial details — it was to assert control, like an aging spider showing that his web was still firmly under his command.
The details themselves were secondary. Clay's answer hadn't strayed from what Lord Frey had expected, so with no surprises to address, the meal had reached its natural conclusion.
Nodding slightly, Lord Walder's voice rasped, sounding as rough as dried bark.
"Good... A union between families is no small matter, and it shouldn't be rushed. Since you're thinking along those lines, I'll send a few of my more... presentable children to White Harbor. Whether anything comes of it will depend on their own abilities."
In truth, Lord Walder cared only for Clay's final statement. More than anything, he wanted Frey blood to intertwine with Manderly blood — a calculated move to expand his family's influence.
Clay accepted the offer without a second thought. Refusing would have been pointless. Once those Frey children arrived in White Harbor, he could always turn them away later.
In fact, if Clay played his cards right, he might even manipulate the situation to his advantage. Drawing a few key members of Stevron's direct line into White Harbor could give him leverage — hostages, of sorts — in the event of war.
And if that failed… well, turning some unfortunate Freys into the infamous "Frey Pies" might just be an amusing alternative. Knowing Lord Walder's love for his numerous offspring, such a gift from House Manderly would surely leave an impression.
---
Now, all Clay had to do was wait — wait for the White Sea Guard agents lurking in the area to make contact.
"Go," Clay ordered, his gaze flicking toward the entrance. "Get rid of that Frey standing outside — he's an eyesore."
The captain gave a curt nod, flexed his fingers as if limbering up for a fight, and turned to leave. But before he could step away, Clay called him back.
"Wait." His voice dropped lower, quieter — enough to ensure only the captain could hear. "After you clear the entrance, have someone keep watch by the door. If anyone arrives and shows you the symbol I had you carve this afternoon, confirm the passphrase. If everything checks out, invite them in — but make it seem like they're an old acquaintance. Understand?"
The captain frowned briefly, then nodded again. He might not have been the sharpest blade in the armory, but even he knew now — that symbol wasn't part of some religious ceremony. It was a signal.
Clay wasn't particularly concerned about loose tongues. The trident symbol they had carved held a crucial detail — a subtle directional marker that changed with each set timeframe. Each period had its own designated direction, ensuring only those aware of the correct symbol for that specific moment would recognize it.
Anyone attempting to mimic the mark at the wrong time would unknowingly trigger an alert. To the trained eyes of the White Sea Guard, that misplaced symbol would be an unmistakable warning — a clear sign that someone had leaked information.
And if that happened, Clay knew exactly what the White Sea Guard's response would be: disengage, disappear, and leave no trace behind.
---
The next morning arrived, and after finishing breakfast, Clay found himself practicing the Wolf School swordsmanship technique in the courtyard.
As he settled into the rhythm of his training, Clay suddenly realized just how dull Westerosi entertainment truly was. Leisure activities seemed to revolve around two things — alcohol and violence. Drinking, brawling, wrestling, sparring — these seemed to be the primary forms of amusement. Even the Ironborn had their own twisted pastime, a blood-soaked spectacle they called the "Finger Dance."
And the evenings… well, they all ended the same way. Whether in bed, sprawled across rugs, draped over balconies, or tangled together out in the woods, the sounds were unmistakable — loud, relentless, and impossible to ignore. With his sharp hearing, Clay had grown painfully accustomed to those wretched noises.
Out of sheer boredom, Clay had once taught the captain of the guard how to play Five-in-a-Row. After easily winning two rounds, Clay quickly lost interest, but the captain was hooked. Soon enough, he'd introduced the game to the rest of the guards.
With parchment scarce, the men resorted to scratching grids into the dirt using daggers and twigs. By midday, the courtyard resembled a battlefield of circles and crosses — groups of guards huddled together, muttering strategies and celebrating victories.
Clay couldn't help but feel his eye twitch. He could already picture the Frey servants arriving later, staring blankly at the chaotic mess of symbols etched across the courtyard, scratching their heads in confusion as they tried to decipher what the strange markings meant.
That was when Clay began reminiscing about Gwent, a game that once brought him so much joy — a game so satisfying it had earned the nickname "the Witcher's true calling."
His mind wandered, imagining himself and Wynafryd engaged in a heated match. Clay would play Robb Stark, triggering the effect that summoned Grey Wind.
Then Wynafryd would counter by playing Wildfire, instantly incinerating Grey Wind and scorching both their front lines.
Wait...
The more Clay thought about it, the more the idea seemed possible. Westeros practically had its own ready-made factions: Stark, Tully, Arryn, Lannister, Baratheon, Martell, Tyrell, and Greyjoy. He could even add Targaryen and the Night's Watch.
Great lords could serve as leader cards, while direwolves, dragons, shadowcats, and other beasts could act as summonable units. There could be siege engines, wildfire traps, and more.
Clay grinned to himself, unable to stop the absurd thought that followed — two armies poised for battle, soldiers tense, weapons drawn... only for the opposing commanders to lock eyes across the field.
"Oh? Isn't that my old card game rival?"
"Indeed! The battle can wait — let's settle this with a game of cards!"
A smile tugged at the corner of Clay's lips. He wasn't sure how long he'd been daydreaming when his guard captain's voice snapped him back to reality.
"Young master," the captain reported, "the contact has arrived. The mark and passphrase matched perfectly."
Clay blinked, pushing aside his wandering thoughts. His gaze shifted to the figure standing nearby — a short, wiry man dressed like a traveling merchant.
Without a word, Clay reached into his cloak and extended his hand, revealing the ring that marked his authority as commander of the White Sea Guard.
The moment the merchant caught sight of the ring, he immediately dropped to one knee.
"Anty Rivers of the Twins," he introduced himself, his voice steady. "At your service, Commander."
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[Chapter End's]
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