NOVEL NEXT Chapter 5: Eddard Stark
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The sparring match between Clay and Jon was still ongoing, but as Ser Rodrik, an expert swordsman, had remarked, the situation was gradually turning against Jon.
Jon's shorter weapon afforded him speed and precision, yet it also highlighted his most glaring weakness—his lack of strength.
Though Clay occasionally found himself in precarious positions, he always managed to recover quickly, stabilizing the fight. On the other hand, Jon's stamina was steadily wearing thin.
Each slash or thrust from Clay forced Jon to either dodge or exert considerable effort to parry. It became increasingly clear that Clay's superior strength gave him a decisive edge.
In a particularly intense exchange, their weapons clashed fiercely before both combatants withdrew a short distance to catch their breath. Jon glanced down at his short sword, regret flickering in his eyes as he noticed several small nicks along the blade.
As a bastard, Jon's resources were limited. Even crafting this short sword had required months of scrimping and saving—a burden he couldn't easily shoulder again.
Clay, holding his sword across his chest, breathed heavily and wiped the sweat from his forehead. His sharp gaze caught the slight trembling in Jon's sword hand and the involuntary twitch of his fingers.
'He's out of strength,' Clay thought to himself.
Leaning forward, Clay shifted his weight and prepared to charge, his blade raised for a decisive downward strike. But before the blow could land, another sword, far superior in craftsmanship to Jon's, intercepted his attack mid-swing, creating a barrier between the two.
A calm, youthful voice broke the tension:
"You've won, friend from White Harbor."
Recognizing the intervention, Clay lowered his sword and stepped back. Pressing the fight further and defeating the lord's son on his own ground would be unwise, though he doubted the honorable Starks were the type to harbor grudges.
"Robb, you didn't need to do that! I could've beaten him!" Jon protested, frustration flashing in his gray eyes as he turned to his brother.
Clay's brow arched slightly in surprise. So this tall, lean young man with sharp features and brown hair was Robb Stark?
"Enough, Jon. Go change out of those filthy clothes before Mother scolds you again," the heir of House Stark said with a smile, giving his brother a friendly pat on the shoulder.
Reluctant but pragmatic, Jon knew his physical state well and wasn't one to shy away from admitting defeat. He gave a brief nod to Clay before leaving with one of the guards.
As the match ended, the onlookers murmured in disappointment but soon dispersed into small groups.
The only ones remaining in the courtyard were the guards from both families, Robb, Clay, and the approaching Ser Rodrik.
"Ser," Robb called out, and Clay followed with a polite greeting.
Ser Rodrik's sharp gray eyes scanned Clay, his tone stern as he spoke. "Lord Eddard Stark is waiting for you in the hall. Follow me."
Robb started to follow but was stopped by Ser Rodrik with a simple statement:
"Robb, your mother is looking for Bran. It seems he's climbed another tower. I suggest you help her."
Robb sighed, offering a wry smile. He gave Clay an apologetic glance, then donned his wolfskin cloak and hurried off.
Ser Rodrik led Clay through the keep toward the Great Hall of Winterfell.
The hall was likely the largest building in Winterfell, second only to the main keep where the Stark family resided. It was vast enough to accommodate eight long tables and could easily hold five hundred people.
At the high table, Clay spotted a plain-looking middle-aged man. Though unremarkable in appearance, Clay knew this was one of the seven most powerful men in the realm—Eddard Stark, the Warden of the North and Lord of Winterfell.
Before Ser Rodrik could introduce him, Clay stepped forward, placed a hand over his chest, and bowed.
"Lord Stark," he said.
Eddard waved his hand dismissively, and Ser Rodrik bowed before stepping aside, leaving Clay and Lord Stark alone on the empty high platform. Eddard studied the young man who had just bested Jon in the training yard.
With his towering height and broad shoulders, Clay clearly embodied the traditional traits of House Manderly. After a moment of silence, Eddard asked gently, "Which of the men of White Harbor is your father?" He didn't ask Clay's name first.
"Wendel Manderly, my lord," Clay replied.
"Wendel… Hmm? You're Wendel's son?" Eddard's brow furrowed in recognition. As the Warden of the North, he was well-acquainted with his vassals and quickly recalled Wendel's identity. Realizing Clay's lineage, he understood that this was the third-generation heir of House Manderly.
Ser Rodrik, standing nearby, also looked surprised. A friend of Wendel's, he hadn't expected the young Manderly—whom he had assumed to be from a cadet branch—to be his old friend's son.
Clay retrieved a letter sealed with the sigil of Wyman Manderly from his cloak and placed it on the table before Lord Stark.
Eddard, curious, picked up the letter. Recognizing the distinctive sigil of Lord Wyman Manderly, he felt a flicker of trust in Clay's identity.
After reading the letter, Eddard understood Lord Wyman's request. The letter sought his assistance in notifying the northern lords of Clay's status and vouching for him.
It was common for vassals to seek their liege lord's support in matters of inheritance. But given that this involved the successor to House Manderly, the most powerful bannerman of the North, Eddard's strong sense of honor urged him to handle the matter with the utmost care.
"Clay Manderly, I'll need you to remain in Winterfell for a few days while I send ravens to White Harbor to confirm your identity." It seemed Lord Wyman had already mentioned his name in the letter.
Does it have to be this complicated? Clay frowned slightly but had no grounds to object and nodded in agreement.
Seeing that Clay agreed without hesitation, a faint smile tugged at the corners of Eddard Stark's otherwise solemn face. He gestured to the side.
"You've already met Rodrik. Over the next few days, let him show you around Winterfell. I hear you brought your sister along as well? Excellent. Let her get to know Robb, Sansa, and the others while she's here."
Clay had a favorable first impression of both Jon and Robb, so he saw no reason to refuse. With his conversation with the Warden of the North at an end, he gave a respectful bow and followed Rodrik out of the hall.
As soon as they exited, Rodrik spoke up.
"When Wendel visited Winterfell, he'd go on and on about you. But now that I see you, it's clear you've inherited your mother's looks. That build of yours, though, is all Manderly."
Clay glanced at the aging knight, thinking his father hadn't exaggerated—Rodrik and his father clearly shared a close bond. Suddenly, he remembered something his father had told him before he left White Harbor.
"Ser, before I set out, my father asked me to deliver a bottle of wine. He said it was to settle an old gambling debt he owed you."
Rodrik paused, clearly startled, before bursting into hearty laughter. Any lingering doubts he might have had about Clay's identity vanished. The debt was a private matter, known only between him and Wendel.
With a chuckle, Rodrik grumbled, "So he finally remembered! I thought he'd stay hidden in White Harbor forever, just to avoid repaying me over a single bottle of wine."
The old knight, clearly in high spirits, placed a heavy, iron-gauntleted hand on Clay's shoulder. "Lord Stark is right," he said, "You young ones should get to know each other better. Come, grab some breakfast first, then bring your sister to the training yard and meet us there."
As Winterfell's master-at-arms, Rodrik was responsible for training the Stark children, and Jon's swordsmanship had been honed under his guidance.
Clay smiled and headed back to his quarters. It was time to wake his younger sister, Wylla, who had a tendency to sleep in.
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[Chapter End's]
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