The Wolf's Den was the oldest castle in White Harbor, with a history stretching back nearly a thousand years.
When House Stark still ruled as Kings in the North, a king named Jon Stark had built this fortress at the mouth of the White Knife River, roughly where White Harbor now stood, to defend against pirate raids.
Its first inhabitants had been the younger sons, brothers, and uncles of the Stark kings. Their descendants formed cadet branches like those from which Clay selected his personal guards. Among them, one branch became known as the Greystarks.
This cadet branch of House Stark had held the Wolf's Den for five centuries, but when war broke out between the Red King of the Dreadfort and the Wolf King of House Stark, they chose the wrong side.
Though most members of House Stark were generous souls, they clearly could not tolerate rebels, especially those who belonged to a cadet branch of their own house.
After heads had rolled and the Red King of the Dreadfort had bent the knee in surrender, the castle lost its masters as well.
After many twists and turns, it was held in succession by House Flint, House Locke, and houses granted lands by Winterfell, including the Slates, Longs, Holts, and Ashwoods. Eventually, the castle came into the hands of House Manderly.
With the founding and expansion of White Harbor, House Manderly transformed into the wealthiest house in the entire North. The cramped Wolf's Den was naturally no longer worthy of such an illustrious family.
Thus, the New Castle was built on a high hill within the city, and enormous white walls enclosed both city and fortress. The Wolf's Den, standing alone outside the city, also came to be called the Old Castle.
Now, it served as House Manderly's prison and the headquarters of the entire White Sea Guard.
Clay had been here before, but only on the outskirts, because there was a very ancient Godswood here. Unfortunately, by now, the only Heart Tree in the repeatedly diminished Godswood had little magic left.
Mounting his horse once more, Clay followed Ser Bartimus into the ancient fortress under the protection of several White Harbor guards.
As they passed beneath the raised portcullis, Clay felt, for some reason, that the knight suddenly relaxed, as though his recent visit to the New Castle to see Clay's grandfather had been deeply unpleasant for him.
Clay noticed that the soldiers here-or rather, the jailers-did not wear the silvery-white armor of ordinary White Harbor guards, but gray-black uniforms.
Silent guards stepped forward to take the reins of Clay's party. Though Bartimus had lost a leg, he leaped down from his horse with ease and handed the reins to a scar-faced guard.
Then, for the first time, Clay heard Ser Bartimus speak. His voice was hoarse and grating, like pottery scraping against gravel. He said:
"Young master Clay, welcome to the Wolf's Den."
It was a dry welcome, without a trace of warmth in his tone. If anything, it was rather cold. Pointing to some of the surrounding buildings, he continued:
"What you see now is the prison section of the Wolf's Den. All the guilty are tried here, and we are also responsible for sending them to meet the Old and New Gods."
Clay wanted to take a look, but Ser Bartimus stopped him. Leaning on an oak cane, he looked at Clay.
"Once you and I have completed the handover, you may look at anything here whenever you please. But for now, young master Clay, we had best see to the handover first."
Clay had little grounds to argue. Though he had only been a young nobleman for a short time, his ears had already grown accustomed to flattery, and his eyes to fawning smiles. Suddenly encountering Ser Bartimus left him somewhat unaccustomed to the treatment.
As they passed those old, dilapidated buildings, Clay realized along the way that there must be a great deal of space beneath them. Given White Harbor's enormous population, a prison capable of holding all its criminals certainly could not be small.
Their destination lay behind these prison buildings: the tallest structure in the entire Wolf's Den, a tall, thick gray tower.
Near this building, Clay saw a great many gray-clad guards. Judging by their gait and the way they held their weapons, he reckoned he could fight no more than five of them-if they all attacked him at once, of course.
Climbing the stone steps, Clay entered the tower that had endured nearly a thousand years of weathering.
He had expected its interior to resemble the Tower of Mice in the Witcher world, full of cobwebs and rotting wood, dark and airless. Instead, it was surprisingly clean.
Torches burned quietly in their wall brackets. Though the wooden structures inside were mottled, they had clearly been maintained over the years. New and old timber mingled together, accounting for the uneven coloring.
The tower had many windows, and patches of light fell across tables and floorboards, keeping the interior fairly bright.
There were several people here-or rather, in the room Clay was in. About three or four of them were gathered around a table, recording something. Many slips of paper lay neatly arranged on the long worktable. Clay recognized them as messages tied to ravens' legs.
Now Clay understood why security was so tight here. The sheer volume of messages carried by ravens alone was something that absolutely could not be allowed to leak.
Knowing what Clay wanted to ask, Ser Bartimus, whose duties already included answering his questions, spoke:
"These are reports from thirty-four locations covered by the White Sea Guard across the North, the Riverlands, the Westerlands, the Crownlands, and parts of the Vale. They compile them here."
Good grief, there were probably only that many great noble houses of note in those regions. This was practically sweeping them all into one net.
Inwardly marveling, Clay nodded without letting anything show on his face. Though he did not know how useful this information actually was, stationing people in so many places offered a glimpse of White Harbor's wealth.
Ser Bartimus led Clay into something like a meeting room. A long table stood in the center, with a larger chair in the middle, surrounded by ordinary chairs.
There were others in the room-five people, to be precise-and they were watching Clay in silence.
Clay was led to the largest chair and sat down without declining. He was about to take charge here, and this was no time to show any weakness.
"The five of them are the chief stewards responsible for the five regions I just mentioned. They also assign specific tasks and oversee their execution. They are better suited than I am to answer your questions."
Having finished speaking to Clay, Ser Bartimus removed a somewhat dull-colored ring from his finger and pushed it toward Clay with a finger. He addressed the five:
"The ring has been handed over. From this moment on, Clay Manderly, the Earl's grandson, will be the new commander of the White Sea Guard."