"What are you going to Winterfell for?" Earl Wyman scratched his chin, thick with graying whiskers, and asked his granddaughter in puzzlement.
The startled look on Wynafryd's face told Clay that Wylla had not mentioned this to anyone beforehand.
"Isn't Clay going to see Lord Eddard? He might even make friends with Lord Eddard's sons, so I'll go and make friends with Lady Sansa." Wylla made her case with conviction.
She was not wrong, either. Earl Wyman had taken her elder sister Wynafryd to Winterfell several times in recent years. According to her sister, she had become good friends with House Stark's eldest daughter, Sansa Stark, and they had even done embroidery together.
The speaker had meant nothing by it, but the listener had taken it to heart. The idea had probably begun brewing the moment she heard Clay was back.
"Nothing but trouble! Stay put!" Wylla's father, Wylis, bristled through his great beard as he scolded his daughter. The bear-like hulk of a man seemed to have no idea how to communicate with her.
Clay found it amusing to see Wylla tugging at her braid and pouting. He was just about to say a few words in her support, but when his gaze fell on the old man's thoughtful face, he swallowed them.
Seeing that the head of the family remained silent, everyone stopped eating and drinking. The vast Merman's Hall fell utterly quiet.
To everyone's surprise, Earl Wyman, who had always strongly opposed girls running about on their own, actually agreed after a moment's thought.
"Very well. Clay, take her with you, and keep a close eye on her."
Clay froze for a moment. Though surprised, he quickly nodded to spare the top of his foot another ordeal.
He could not quite make out Earl Wyman's intentions. In a great noble house like theirs, which other household its children visited-especially its daughters-was a delicate matter, as it often signaled an interest in a marriage alliance between great houses.
Earl Wyman had headed the family for decades, and no one could say for certain what was on his mind. But everyone knew one thing: Wynafryd and her sister, both of whom had begun their monthly bleeding, would never marry into a house of lower standing than House Manderly.
Was the old man planning to have Wylla spend more time in front of Robb?
If so, he had probably had the same idea when he took Wynafryd to Winterfell before. Had he still not given up?
Clay could not be sure, but this was not something he could concern himself with yet.
Two days later
On the banks of the White Knife River
"Keep this wine safe and take it to Ser Rodrik, Winterfell's master-at-arms. Tell him it's to settle my gambling debt."
Wendel Manderly swung his large hand down onto his son's back as he told him about the people he knew in Winterfell.
Clay headed north along the White Knife River with Wylla and ten guards in gleaming armor.
If all went smoothly, they would reach Cerwyn Castle in half a month, then take the Kingsroad. From there, half a day's hard riding would bring them to Winterfell.
The river murmured, a silver ribbon beneath the morning sun. Set amid the vast blue-green plains, the North in high summer was well worth touring.
Behind Clay and to his right, Wylla sat on a snow-white horse, whooping and calling now that she was out of the castle, without a trace of her elder sister Wynafryd's poise.
"Sit tight. Don't fall off your horse," Clay reminded her.
"Oh, oh, I know! Clay, stop fussing like a septa." Wylla paid him no mind, her bell-like laughter ringing across the open riverbank.
Clay smiled and simply left her alone.
His gaze moved over the household guards surrounding them. With mermen painted on their shields, these men were House Manderly's plate-armored cavalry.
Although most soldiers in the North were equipped with mail, that was largely because the North's poorer finances left them unable to afford expensive suits of full plate.
But House Manderly, which held the fifth-largest city in all of Westeros, had no such concerns. As far as Clay knew, the family armory could equip more than fifteen hundred fully armored cavalry at a moment's notice.
When he learned this, Clay had been unable to understand why such a sizable force had seemingly vanished during the later War of the Five Kings.
Earl Wyman had preferred to let one of his sons languish as a prisoner and the other die alongside Robb Stark at the Red Wedding. He had not deployed this force even when Jon Snow counterattacked Winterfell. What exactly had he been planning?
If this force had entered the field while Tywin Lannister was pinned down by Robb in the Riverlands, fifteen hundred northern heavy cavalry would have been enough to race south and strike straight at King's Landing. The war might have ended then. How would all the trouble afterward have come about?
Clay realized that these great houses, his own included, whose lineages stretched back hundreds or thousands of years in Westeros, probably had far more hidden beneath the surface than he had imagined. He must never make rash decisions based on his impressions alone.
Wylla had been right about one thing at dinner: Clay did indeed intend to meet Eddard Stark and his family on this trip to Winterfell.
As House Manderly's third-generation heir, he had already been bound, inevitably, to the North's war chariot.
The North's bitter cold and faith in the Old Gods had given the Starks an unyielding character, but they clearly seemed to lack sufficient political vigilance.
Looking at the series of mind-numbingly foolish moves Eddard and Robb later made, father and son bore undeniable responsibility for squandering the North's favorable position.
Then again, though the family was poor at politics, they were capable enough as leaders. At least, Clay had no wish to see those flaying-obsessed monsters from the Dreadfort become Warden of the North.
There had been no great urgency to begin with, and with Wylla wandering here and there, the journey that should have taken fifteen days stretched to a full twenty.
At sunset on the twentieth day, they finally saw the gray-black castle standing on the horizon amid the golden evening glow.
From far away came the clear, lingering call of a horn.
Amid the thunder of hooves, three warhorses bearing knights clad head to toe in mail approached the party, led by a direwolf banner snapping in the wind.
The lead knight naturally recognized House Manderly's merman banner. Without showing any wariness, he called out:
"Friends from White Harbor, welcome to Winterfell."
This was really a way of asking what Clay's party had come for. That was the duty of these House Stark outriders.
The man also had a keen eye for people. He immediately spotted the richly dressed Clay and Wylla, protected in the center, and had directed his words toward them.
Clay knew it was his turn to speak. He urged his horse forward, and the guards moved aside without prompting to let him through.
"I am Clay Manderly. I seek an audience with Lord Stark, Warden of the North."
Though the knight did not recall such a young man in House Manderly, no one in the North dared misuse their banner.
The knight nodded and squeezed his horse's flanks as he said:
"His lordship is in the castle. I'll take you there. Follow me."
Following the direwolf banner, they drew steadily closer to Winterfell. Before the last glow of sunset faded, Clay's party passed through its gates.