NOVEL WEB Chapter 33: Spies
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"King Robert has already led his new Hand of the King, Lord Eddard, southward past the Neck. From the moment the noble houses received this letter, Winterfell has been entrusted to Lord Eddard's eldest son, Robb Stark, who shall exercise the authority of the Warden of the North."
That was the entirety of the letter. Since Lord Wyman had already placed the parchment on the table, the old lord stared at it with furrowed brows, deep in thought.
The grim fate of the last Warden of the North and his son, burned alive after journeying south, still haunted their memories. Many northern lords, upon hearing this news, felt a sense of unease deep in their hearts. The man they revered, Eddard Stark, was once again stepping into the foul and treacherous power struggles of King's Landing.
But just like Clay, they had no say in the matter. They could not influence the decisions of the Warden of the North whom they respected, just as Eddard Stark himself had no power to resist the will of the king.
Now that Lord Eddard had crossed the swamps of Greywater Watch alongside the king, leaving the lands of the North entirely behind, his vassal houses had to consider whether they should establish ties with his young heir, Robb Stark.
"Clay, tell me, what kind of person is this young Stark, Robb?"
The old lord took a small sip of golden-red wine, feeling fortunate that his grandson had interacted with the young Starks beforehand. This allowed him to gain a more genuine perspective rather than the usual empty praises.
Hearing his grandfather's question, Clay recalled that youthful face on the training grounds of Winterfell. How should he describe him? For Clay, this was hardly a difficult question.
"I trained alongside him in Winterfell. He is not much different from his father," Clay replied, his tone measured. "Or rather, the man he has admired since childhood is his father. The only difference is that he is younger and more prone to impulsiveness."
"A common flaw of youth," the old lord observed, swirling his wine. "You're no exception, boy."
Clay knew what his grandfather was referring to and could only chuckle sheepishly, feigning ignorance. But the old man had no intention of pressing the matter further. Instead, he posed another question:
"Our King, Robert, has chosen Lord Eddard as his esteemed Hand. Do you think this was a wise decision?"
This was clearly a test, for at this stage, it was hardly a question Clay needed to concern himself with, let alone judge. However, since his grandfather had asked, he could not simply say he did not know.
After some thought, Clay acknowledged that, while he knew Eddard Stark's fate would not end well, nothing in the current situation pointed toward a future where the king would die and the Hand would be executed by the queen.
"King Robert is, first and foremost, a warrior," Clay said. "Or, in my view, he is more of a warrior than a ruler. It is not surprising that he would choose Lord Eddard, with whom he shares a deep bond."
"And what else?" The old lord smiled, prompting him further.
"Since the days of the Rebellion, the alliance between the four great houses—the Fish, the Wolf, the Eagle, and the Stag—has been the foundation of the kingdom's stability. With the former Hand, Jon Arryn of the Eyrie, now deceased, only two pillars of that alliance remain: King Robert, who wears the stag's crown, and Lord Hoster Tully, who, I have heard, has been bedridden with illness for some time. That leaves Lord Eddard as his best choice."
Hearing this, Clay saw his grandfather's lips curve into a satisfied smile. The old man gestured toward the wine cabinet, signaling for Clay to take a bottle for himself. Clay did not hesitate.
He wasn't particularly skilled at selecting wine, but that never stopped him from enjoying a drink. He selected a bottle of Summer Red, just like his grandfather's, grabbed the small knife on the table, knocked off the cork, and took a hearty sip.
"Your reasoning is mostly correct," the old lord said, shaking his hand slightly. "But there is one point you got wrong. Lord Eddard was not Robert's best choice—he was his only choice."
The old man stroked his chin, noting his grandson's intrigued expression. Taking his time, he continued:
"You saw it yourself in Winterfell. Our king's opinion of the Lannisters is no different from ours—he holds no fondness for them whatsoever. Yet, despite residing in King's Landing for years, he is surrounded by far fewer of his own Baratheon kin than he is by Lannisters."
Taking a deep swig of wine, the old lord chuckled and went on:
"If Lord Eddard had outright refused the king's summons, it would not only have been an offense to His Grace but would have also forced him into a dire predicament. With no other options, he would have had to leave Winterfell and head west, swallowing his pride to beg that old lion to serve as Hand instead. Now, imagine what the consequences of that would be."
"The balance of power between the royal house and the Lannisters in King's Landing would collapse," Clay answered immediately. "The king himself might not even get a peaceful night's rest."
"Exactly," the old man said with an approving nod. "That is the crux of the matter. Our King Robert was blessed by the gods with great skill on the battlefield, but they neglected to grant him the ability to govern a realm. And he knows this all too well."
Thinking it over, Clay realized his grandfather was entirely right. He had considered only historical outcomes, failing to take into account the political equilibrium of the present.
However, something else in his grandfather's words caught his attention. After a brief hesitation, he voiced the question lingering in his mind.
"Grandfather, how do you know about the king's attitude toward the Lannisters in Winterfell? And how do you know what is happening in King's Landing?"
The moment he spoke, Clay noticed that his grandfather showed no hint of surprise. It was as if he had expected this question all along. Lord Wyman merely smiled, lightly flicking his finger against his wine bottle, producing a crisp "ding," and said:
"Because within the retinue that traveled with you to Winterfell—and within that cesspit of a city that is King's Landing—our House Manderly has its own eyes and ears. You simply weren't aware of them."
Seeing the stunned look on his grandson's face, the old lord waved a hand dismissively and continued:
"Don't look so surprised. This is hardly anything unusual. In fact, our 'good neighbor'—the old flayer in the Dreadfort—has his own network doing the same thing. Haven't you heard the saying? 'There are likely more spies in the Flea Bottom of King's Landing than there are beggars.'"
Clay felt a chill run down his spine. Gods above… just how many hidden schemes and secrets do these old, cunning nobles have that I don't know about?
For the first time, he felt a deep sense of unfamiliarity toward this world—the world of A Song of Ice and Fire that he had once thought himself so well-versed in.
Truly, not a single one of these ancient noble houses that had stood for centuries, even millennia, was simple. Beneath their banners and words lay schemes as deep as the ocean. It seemed that in Westeros, plotting was as natural as breathing.
Lost in thought, Clay took sip after sip of his wine, but the sweetness of the Summer Red had lost all flavor in his mouth.
The old lord merely watched him, smiling, as if waiting for him to fully absorb this newfound knowledge.
It took nearly ten minutes before Clay gathered his thoughts and noticed his grandfather was still looking at him. He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could, the old man leaned forward slightly and said, his smile deepening:
"Our network is called "White Sea Guard"."
He let the words settle before adding, "So, what do you think? Are you interested in becoming its commander…?"
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(Spies themselves are not the goal; timely intelligence is. Right now, the protagonist is far from the center of power, so spies are a necessary means for him to grasp the state of affairs. I think it's a logical extension that great houses would have their own intelligence networks. In the original series, only Littlefinger and Varys play their spy games, but it's not as if spycraft requires a professional license or intellectual property rights. There are many houses richer and more powerful than those two, and they aren't fools. Not everyone is as honor-bound and naive as the Starks.)
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