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These matters could not be handled personally by Clay, who was at the center of attention. Too many eyes were watching him, and the captain of his guard, who had been following him closely, was also unsuitable for such a task.
Among the two hundred members of the White Harbor Guard who had arrived in the Twins, the least conspicuous individual was the best choice for this mission. These individuals had no knowledge of the true purpose behind carving a trident symbol on the outer wall of the Sept. Even if they were captured and interrogated, they would have nothing meaningful to reveal—because they genuinely didn't know.
Now that Clay had stepped onto southern soil, the Old Gods held no sway here. This meant the Three-Eyed Raven's ever-watchful gaze had lost its power in this region. For now, Clay no longer needed to worry about secrets being exposed.
As for the North... well, Clay couldn't yet prevent the Three-Eyed Raven from prying into his affairs. However, the creature wouldn't dare take action against him—not with Bran and the heart trees acting as its Achilles' heel.
Taking the ordinary-looking sheet of paper handed to him, the captain of the guard immediately recognized it as nothing more than common stationery.
Unfolding it, his eyes landed on the distinctive trident symbol drawn at its center. The captain stared at it in confusion, unable to comprehend what his young lord was trying to accomplish. Did this have something to do with a special prayer ritual for the Seven? After all, House Manderly also worshipped the Seven.
Clay ignored the puzzled look. He trusted that his guards wouldn't need him to repeat his instructions—he knew they would complete the task.
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Having circled the castle walls, Clay found that the northern and southern walls were in much the same condition—dampness clung to every brick, but there were no major weaknesses to exploit.
This meant Clay couldn't identify a weak spot for a focused assault; he would have to devise another plan.
Descending from the walls near the castle gate, Clay squinted up at the sun, now climbing high into the sky. He silently prayed that this midday meal wouldn't involve yet another unwanted encounter with a Frey.
But fate, it seemed, had other plans.
Just as Clay prepared to leave, he was stopped in his tracks by the distinctive raspy voice of Ser Stevron Frey.
"Clay, my father invites you to join him for lunch. I trust you'll accept, won't you?"
For a brief moment, Clay was caught off guard. Walder Frey? What could that old schemer possibly want now?
But his expression shifted swiftly, and a polite smile graced his face.
Cursing silently to himself, Clay had no choice but to comply. After a brief moment of thought, he had a fair guess as to what this invitation was really about. Sharing a meal was secondary—what Walder Frey truly wanted was to interrogate him.
For the third time, Clay stepped into the great hall of the Twins' main keep. The mess left from the previous night's feast had been thoroughly cleaned, leaving no trace of the chaotic revelry. Only the faint scent of wine lingered in the air, a subtle reminder of the previous night's excesses.
A long table, roughly six or seven meters in length, had been set up at the center of the hall, covered in rich and hearty dishes meant to fortify the body against the chill of the Riverlands.
Walder Frey himself sat at the table's head, hunched in his chair as he focused intently on carving into a roasted suckling pig, its golden-brown skin crackling under his knife.
Strangely, Clay noticed that no women were present. For a man like Walder Frey—who was rarely seen without a woman draped over him—this was highly unusual.
Only two chairs had been set out in the hall. One was for Walder Frey, and the other naturally belonged to Clay.
As Walder's heir, Ser Stevron had not been offered a seat. Instead, the old knight quietly grabbed a plump chicken leg from the table, gave his father a brief nod in greeting, and slipped out of the hall—thoughtfully closing the door behind him.
Since he was already here, Clay didn't hesitate. He took his seat, letting his gaze wander across the table as he sought out dishes that suited his tastes.
Poison wasn't a concern. Ordinary toxins wouldn't affect him—his body could neutralize them with ease. As for something as potent as the Tears of Lys? Walder Frey might not even have access to such a rare poison, and even if he did, there was no reason to waste it on Clay.
"Help yourself, Manderly boy," Walder Frey muttered. "An old man like me can't eat much anymore."
Clay glanced up briefly, then smiled as if he believed the gesture was sincere. Without a word, he casually selected some of his favorite foods and began to eat.
The wine was particularly excellent—a rich, golden vintage from Arbor. A full bottle sat beside Clay's hand, and he poured himself a generous glass. Slowly savoring the wine's flavor, Clay silently wondered how long Walder Frey would hold back before speaking his mind.
The meal stretched on for about half an hour. Both men ate slowly—Clay out of habit, and Walder Frey because age had weakened his jaw, forcing him to chew with deliberate care.
Finally, Walder Frey set down his wine cup, exhaled in satisfaction, and turned his calculating gaze toward Clay. His wrinkled face twisted into something that resembled a smile, though it lacked any warmth.
"Well now, Manderly boy," Walder began, his voice laced with suspicion, "it seems you've been quite popular with some of my more foolish kin these past few days."
Clay understood what he was implying. Keeping his expression calm, he shrugged indifferently and replied in a steady tone:
"Indeed. I'm grateful to House Frey for their warm hospitality. They've certainly… been enthusiastic."
Walder Frey gave a derisive snort, exhaling sharply through his nose as though Clay's nonchalant response amused him.
"Word has it," Walder said, narrowing his eyes, "that my great-granddaughter Walda tried to climb into your bed… yet somehow failed. Any idea how that happened?"
As he spoke, Walder's narrow eyes widened, fixating on Clay with sharp intensity—studying every flicker of movement or change in expression.
But Walder would be disappointed. Clay's face remained calm, as smooth and still as the surface of the God's Eye Lake. With measured patience, Clay replied evenly:
"Lord Frey, I know nothing about what Walda attempted. I believe House Frey has always maintained a strict and respectable family discipline. Surely, this must be nothing more than gossip."
Clay had nearly added a sarcastic remark about how no descendant of such a wise and virtuous elder would ever stoop to such behavior—but wisely held his tongue. It wasn't the time to provoke this old schemer.
Walder Frey squinted at Clay's face for a few seconds longer before finally sighing and nodding.
"You're right, Manderly boy," Walder muttered coldly. "This must be nothing but idle rumors… Seems I'll have to remind some folks to keep their tongues in check."
Clay offered a polite smile, neither agreeing nor disagreeing.
Having gotten nothing useful from that exchange, Walder shifted topics. His blue-grey eyes glinted with a peculiar sharpness as he asked:
"Well then, Manderly boy… Can you tell me what you and my foolish third son were discussing this morning at the eastern wall? I've been told he was waiting there just for you."
This was true. Apart from Clay's White Sea Guards, there had also been several Frey soldiers loyal to Lord Walder Frey himself. Denying the meeting would be pointless.
Clay didn't know whether Aenys Frey had already spilled the details to his father, but it hardly mattered. Clay knew exactly what to say.
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[Chapter End's]
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