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Following behind Ser Aenys Frey, this was the fourth time Clay had stepped into the tower that symbolized the highest authority in the Twins. This time, however, he had come to bid farewell.
By now, he had long grown accustomed to the countless Freys casting their scrutinizing gazes upon him as he walked through the halls. Stepping over an untold number of damp and shadowed black stone tiles, Clay followed Aenys Frey up to the study located high within the tower.
The moment the door was pushed open, a wave of intense heat rushed toward him. It was clear that someone had lit the fireplace inside, creating a stark contrast in temperature between the room and the cold corridors outside.
It was just a minor detail, but Clay keenly perceived the passage of time carving its mark upon Lord Walder Frey's withered frame. The old man could no longer sense the persistent chill in the air, yet at ninety years old, he still felt the need to keep the fire burning.
Time was fair to most—such was the will of the gods. Yet in this world, there were always those who defied that decree. The Red Priests from the southern lands, the servants of the Cold God lurking in the storms of the distant north—and, of course, Clay himself.
The hinges let out a long, creaking groan as the door swung open. Aenys Frey led Clay into the room, where the crimson glow of the setting sun seeped through a half-opened window, casting slow-moving shadows upon the dark oak table.
The master of the Twins was seated there, wrapped in a thick beast-hide blanket, his frail body half-buried in the embrace of his chair. His eyes were shut, feigning slumber. But Clay's sharp gaze immediately fell upon the raven's message resting atop the desk.
It was likely that the sound of footsteps had roused him, for after five long seconds, Lord Walder Frey forced himself out of his lethargic stupor, once more transforming into the sharp-tongued and domineering overlord he had always been. His piercing gaze flickered between Clay and the man standing beside him.
After a brief silence, the frail old man finally spoke, his voice laced with a biting, acrid tone. Fixing his eyes on his son, he snapped:
"Aenys, you ill-mannered fool! A guest arrives, and you fail to inform me in advance? Having a son like you is like living in the seven hells! What could possibly be so urgent that you don't even have the time to greet your own father properly?"
Clay paused for a moment, slightly taken aback by the sudden outburst. Scolding one's own son so harshly in front of an outsider—wasn't this simply inviting others to mock him?
"And as for you, my esteemed guest from White Harbor," Lord Frey sneered, turning his gaze to Clay. "Tell me, what urgent matter has brought you here, barging in with my fool of a son and disturbing my dreams of plunging into a new girl's embrace?"
Clay's brow furrowed slightly. It was as if Walder Frey had no concern for whether his words were even remotely appropriate. A young man in his teens or twenties might speak so frivolously, and Clay would not have given it a second thought.
But for a ninety-year-old man—who had only recently taken an eighteen-year-old bride—to utter such things with shameless disregard… it was nothing short of repulsive.
"Lord Frey," Clay said, steadying his tone, "I have received troubling news. A caravan from White Harbor was ambushed north of the Twins, near the Neck. Many of my people perished there. As heir to White Harbor, I must ride out at once to investigate."
This was his way of formally notifying Lord Frey of his departure. As the host, it was Walder Frey's duty to provide or return the horses for departing guests. The termination of a guest's rights required proper acknowledgment.
"Oh, is that so…" Walder Frey muttered, his expression unfazed. "Seven save their souls. May those poor wretches find peace in the embrace of the gods."
Spoken by anyone else, these words would have been nothing more than a perfunctory gesture of sympathy. But when paired with his insincere smirk and the weasel-like sharpness of his face, even the pretense of comfort became hollow.
Moreover, it was clear he had already received word of the attack. There was not a trace of surprise on his face.
His bald head dipped slightly, remaining still for several seconds before lifting again. Was that meant to be his form of mourning? If so, it hardly mattered—Clay doubted the lost souls of White Harbor would welcome condolences from a Frey.
"Very well, you may depart," Walder Frey said at last. "Aenys, return their horses and gather a few men to accompany them. After all, the lands south of the Neck, where the Green Fork flows, still belong to House Frey."
From there, his words devolved into a muttered ramble, barely comprehensible. Clay caught only fragments before he felt a tug on his sleeve. Aenys Frey, already bidding his father a curt farewell, turned on his heel and strode out of the room.
Realizing it was time to take his leave, Clay mirrored the gesture and stepped out of the study, where the air was no longer thick with the scent of burning wood.
Beyond the door, Ser Aenys Frey leaned against the cold, blackened wall, one hand resting on his chin as he idly played with a streak of his silver-white beard—a habitual gesture of his.
They exchanged a silent glance. In the long, dim corridor, where even the flickering candlelight seemed uncertain, only the two of them stood. The only witness to their conversation was the lone, wavering flame upon the wall.
"As for my earlier proposal, Clay Manderly, we shall discuss it another time," Aenys said at last, his voice low. "I do not care where you got your information. What matters now is what I know."
He paused briefly before continuing:
"The attack happened last night. The first to discover the aftermath was a merchant leader passing through early this morning. That stretch of land is the northernmost knight's fief of House Frey. As soon as the knight in charge received word, he sent a raven to me immediately."
"As for who did it, how they did it, or how many were involved—honestly, I have no idea. It happened in the dead of night. The scene left nothing behind but corpses, with not a single clue to identify the perpetrators."
"You, as White Harbor's heir, must go because your people were slain. And I, as a son of House Frey, must investigate because such a force capable of silently slaughtering dozens has emerged on our lands."
He shrugged, his voice tinged with resignation.
"This task wasn't supposed to be mine—it should have been my elder brother Stevron's. But, unfortunately, he has other matters to attend to. So, let us ride, my friend from White Harbor. Bring your men. I shall meet you at the castle gates, and we will talk on the road."
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Though night had begun to fall, Clay had no intention of returning to his chambers for rest—not while the corpses of White Harbor's merchants lay in the wild, waiting for justice. Aenys Frey, too, was eager to uncover the truth behind this mysterious force.
Mounting his horse, clad in full armor, Clay once more took his place among the two hundred cavalrymen under his command. Under the glow of countless torches, their force merged with the hundred Frey riders who had gathered.
Together, they galloped beneath the starlit sky, racing northward toward the bloodstained land where brutal slaughter had taken place.
Before his departure, Clay had already loosed a raven carrying word of the attack. His grandfather would soon receive it. Whether or not the ambush had targeted the valuable formula ingredients, Clay had no doubt that his grandfather, sharp as ever, would realize the possibility.
The dead could not be brought back—but those still traveling on the road could still be saved.
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[Chapter End's]
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