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Clay did not recognize the two men standing next to Daenerys. One appeared as a dignified old man with a white beard, the other looked like a rather shabby knight, rough around the edges.
Logically speaking, the younger man, who was gripping his sword with a textbook knight's stance and watching him warily, should have posed the greater threat. Yet Clay instinctively felt that it was the older one holding the long staff who demanded more caution.
He thought for a moment, connecting the time and setting. At this point in the timeline, those who were known to be traveling with Daenerys could only be a handful of people. With a bit of reasoning, Clay quickly deduced their identities.
Most likely, they were Ser Barristan Selmy and the turncoat constantly skulking around Daenerys's side, Jorah Mormont.
The moment Clay called her by name with unsettling precision, Daenerys forced herself to remain calm. She knew full well that this dragonrider who stood before her, someone she truly did not know how to feel about, had come for her and her alone.
The massive head of the dragon loomed just before her eyes. Although she herself had three young dragons, in the presence of this towering beast, she could not help but feel as though she had already lost when it came to sheer presence.
She pressed her lips together, her gaze fixed on Clay's face as she tried hard to discern some familiar feature, some trace of her bloodline in his appearance. But to her disappointment, the result defied her hopes—she saw nothing she wanted to see.
"Why don't you introduce yourself? Questioning me like this is hardly what I'd call gentlemanly conduct."
Daenerys had no idea how she should respond to Clay's question. Should she say she was surprised? Or not surprised? Neither seemed right. As always, she tried to seize the initiative in the conversation. That was her habit, a survival instinct cultivated by power and expectation.
In Clay's eyes, her expression—laced with unease and tension—was reflected clearly. His thoughts shifted, and a faint trace of impatience crept onto his face.
Gaelithox, having caught the mood of his master, moved his gaze away from the silver-haired woman in front of him who gave off a faint sense of familiarity. Instead, he looked toward the knight gripping his sword nearby.
Clay also turned his attention toward Jorah Mormont and let out a cold, derisive laugh.
"Who am I? I could tell you, Daenerys. But this place is far from clean. There is someone here who has been poisoning the air. Am I wrong, Jorah Mormont, trusted spy of Varys?"
The words were spoken casually, almost lazily. Yet to Daenerys and Jorah Mormont, they crashed like thunder, echoing in their ears.
Ser Barristan Selmy turned his gaze toward Clay with a deep, thoughtful look, saying nothing. He had always known what Jorah was doing. Yet given that even his own identity remained in doubt, he had chosen not to expose Jorah's betrayal to the queen. But now, this mysterious dragonrider had laid it bare in a single sentence. Clearly, he was someone who knew far more than he let on.
And most importantly, this man was undeniably connected to Westeros. He even recognized Jorah Mormont by name. That alone was proof enough. A man who had never stepped foot in Westeros would not know such things. Unless, of course, he had access to an intelligence network of terrifying scale and precision.
Upon hearing Clay's words, Daenerys sharply turned her head, her blank gaze settling on the middle-aged knight who had sworn allegiance to her. She did not believe what Clay had said, but at the same time, she knew he would not speak such things without reason.
Jorah Mormont's weathered face, shaped by wind and sea like chiseled stone, suddenly turned ghostly pale. He had no idea how his secret had come to light. Only he and Lord Varys in King's Landing had known. How could this man possibly have discovered it?
"Daenerys… I didn't… it's not what it looks like…"
Watching this man struggle to explain himself, Clay decided to add fuel to the fire. He crossed his arms and stood there, voice full of contempt.
"Still putting on a show? You really take advantage of the fact that Daenerys never lived in Westeros, don't you? Do I need to be more specific? Back in Qarth, what exactly did you send to the Spider?"
The moment those words fell, the last trace of color drained from Jorah Mormont's face. He stared at Clay in horror and disbelief, lips pressed so tightly together they turned white, but he could not force a single word out.
"I tried to leave you some dignity, Jorah Mormont. This is a vast sea. If you do not wish to end up as my dragon's lunch, I suggest you move aside and stop getting in my way."
Clay's tone turned harsh and unforgiving. The disdain in his eyes was so plain that even the blind could have sensed it.
At that precise moment, Galesos let out a thunderous roar, its timing perfect. The sound shattered the last of Jorah's resolve. All courage he had mustered to speak was lost. Silently, he lowered his sword and stepped aside. Before turning, he gave Daenerys one final glance, full of sorrow and shame, then walked off toward the stern of the ship.
Daenerys watched his retreating figure in silence. A strange sense of unreality took hold of her. The man she had believed most loyal to her, the one who had followed her from the vast Dothraki Sea, through countless trials and hardships, had been a spy planted by the usurpers all along.
Her heart ached. There was a heavy weight in her chest, but she could not tell where to let it out. She felt wronged. So deeply wronged. Yet she had no one to confide in. This was the first time she had ever tasted the pain of betrayal.
Biting her lower lip until it turned pale, Daenerys drew a long, steady breath. Now was not the time to crawl beneath her covers and weep in silence. Jorah's departure had shifted the balance of the conversation completely out of her favor.
"All right… you got what you wanted. Let us speak at the bow, dragonrider."
Clay nodded in response and raised a hand in a courteous gesture, inviting Daenerys to proceed. As she walked past him, he stepped in front of the man following closely behind her—Ser Barristan Selmy—and leaned in, lowering his voice to a whisper.
"I know who you are, Ser Barristan. And rest assured, I am not your enemy. But there are things that are not meant for your ears. Would you give us some privacy to talk?"
After Jorah Mormont's identity had been so easily unmasked, Ser Barristan had already anticipated something like this might follow. He let out a deep sigh, neither resisting nor objecting, only responding with measured weight in his words.
"Then I hope you will honor your word, Dragonrider. You know what she means."
"Of course. If I didn't, I wouldn't have come seeking her in the first place."
With a faint smile, Clay turned and made his way toward the raised prow of the ship, where Daenerys stood waiting.
The deck was quiet, nearly deserted. Clay had no intention of revealing his true identity to the rest of the crew. The name he wore—the supposed member of House Belaerys—might hold up under most scrutiny, but not before a native speaker of High Valyrian like Daenerys. That disguise would unravel far too easily.
He understood her well. This young queen was a woman of sharp instincts and fragile trust. There was no need to provoke her suspicion over a matter so trivial. Even though he had come for no reason other than to seize her crown, it did not mean he wanted her to hate him needlessly.
"As you wished. Now then, can you finally tell me who you really are?"
Her violet eyes never strayed from his face, sweeping over him again and again. This was the first question that burned in Daenerys's heart.
Clay did not try to tempt Daenerys any further. A gentle smile surfaced on his lips as he replied slowly.
"Clay Manderly. That is my name."
Manderly?
Daenerys' beautiful eyebrows drew together in a sudden furrow. She had heard that name before. Though a princess in exile, she had received a proper education in noble heraldry. She searched her memory for a moment, and soon enough, she recalled the ruling family of White Harbor.
Yet the realization did little to ease her suspicions. If anything, her expression grew darker. And when she looked into his eyes again, her voice carried a faint but pointed note of indignation.
"The Manderlys of White Harbor? Clay Manderly, do you take me for a fool?"
Clay knew full well that she would not believe him so easily. There were too many inconsistencies that, left unexplained, would make his claim sound like a poorly told lie. He lifted his hands with a helpless expression and adopted a soothing tone.
"Don't be alarmed, Daenerys. First of all, I truly am Clay Manderly, the heir to the Lord of White Harbor. That much is true. Second, as for the dragon and the blood of the Dragonlords—those were given to me by your homeland, the ruins of Valyria. Keep that in mind for now. I will explain everything in due time."
Even when he had first explained this to his own grandfather, someone who knew and trusted him completely, it had taken an enormous amount of effort. And now, faced with Daenerys, a stranger and a queen, he doubted even two full days would be enough to make her understand.
Anyway, there is a long way to go, so they would speak of it later.
Though every instinct in her warned her not to trust this man, Daenerys found herself with little recourse.
"Very well… for now, I shall accept your words. After all, I can't think of any reason why you would lie to me. Your dragon could have burned everyone on this ship to ash, yet you chose not to. So, for the moment, I will believe you, Clay Manderly."
Hearing Daenerys's self-conquering words, Clay chuckled quietly to himself. What a curious young queen. Was she trying to persuade herself now?
His gaze swept over Daenerys's slender, graceful figure. He nodded lightly and waited for her next question.
"Then, Clay Manderly, I do not know how you found me here. But more importantly, I wish to know... why have you come?"
Though Daenerys posed the question, she already had some suspicions. And strangely enough, she did not reject them. For all his mystery, Clay Manderly had addressed her with the title and dignity of a true heir to House Targaryen.
"I came to speak of an alliance. But let us not rush. Before that, may I ask where you are sailing, Daenerys?"
Her instincts sharpened. She had intended to give him a false location, unwilling to reveal too much to this stranger. But then she remembered how easily he had found her, how effortlessly he had uncovered the identity of a spy who had been by her side for so long. There was little use in deception now.
"Slaver's Bay, Clay Manderly. I am heading for Slaver's Bay. There is something there I must claim."
"The Unsullied, right? Astapor's finest. An excellent choice."
Daenerys stiffened. Anger flared in her chest; the man before her had guessed correctly again. That plan had been forged in secrecy between her and the recently banished Jorah Mormont. No outsider should have known.
Gritting her teeth, she spoke with clear dissatisfaction. Her voice trembled slightly, for she could not fully control her emotions.
"Yes, Clay Manderly, you are right. I need an army. The usurper's banner still flies above the Red Keep. Without soldiers at my command, how am I to reclaim my father's throne?"
"Well said, Daenerys. That is your ambition, is it not? Then let me tell you this—I support your decision. I swear it upon my family's name."
She had expected him to say that. It no longer surprised her. Every person who had joined her cause had made similar declarations. It was the only legitimacy she had to offer. Still, there was something she could not quite understand.
If memory served, the Manderlys of White Harbor were one of the most powerful noble houses in the North, loyal bannermen of Eddard Stark. Why, then, would one of them appear here to support her claim?
"This is difficult to believe. You say you wish to support me? And yet your house rose in rebellion against my father. Those same lords called me the daughter of the Mad King."
To her words, Clay simply spread his arms, offering a grin that was both disarming and unreadable. He spoke softly, as if soothing a startled animal.
"No need to rush, Daenerys. As I said just now, there is time. One day, you will come to understand."
. . .
As for Jorah Mormont, Clay had not used the Axii Sign on him—not out of mercy or restraint, but simply because he had no desire to reveal his witcher abilities just yet.
At this point, he had formed no agreement of any kind with Daenerys. They had merely exchanged words upon first meeting, and he had no idea what truly lay within the young queen's heart.
Judging by her reaction today, what he had brought her was far more terror than wonder. Her mistrust of him was, in fact, the most rational response she could have given. If she had acted as though she trusted him without question, Clay would have found that far more alarming. He would have begun to question her motives instead.
Clay spoke with Daenerys only briefly before ending their first conversation. He needed to give this young queen ample time to think, to slowly absorb everything he had shown her. There was no need to rush. Time, after all, was something Clay possessed in abundance.
He had already taken note—there was nothing aboard this ship that could truly pose a threat to him. Daenerys's cause had not even begun in earnest. She had only a handful of followers to her name.
However, the presence of dragons, especially the overwhelming aura of Gaelithox, had struck deep fear into the hearts of the Dothraki who followed her. The stench in the lower decks, where the horses were kept, was thick with the sharp tang of fear.
With a wave of his hand, Clay sent Gaelithox soaring out over the sea in search of food. Daenerys's three young dragons followed in its wake. They dared not challenge the immense creature that towered over them many times in size.
As it happened, they were also hungry. After lingering at Daenerys's side for a short while, Drogon was the first to unfurl his wings and take to the skies, chasing after Gaelithox's sweeping tail. His two ever-present brothers followed soon after, rising into flight one after the other.
Standing at the prow of the ship, Clay gazed toward the distant horizon where sea and sky met as one. That was the direction of Slaver's Bay, the place where Daenerys's reign as the Dragon Queen had truly begun.
But now that he had arrived, Clay suspected everything would unfold very differently. A curious turn of fate indeed.
To speak plainly, even if House Manderly managed to consolidate all the strength of White Harbor and the Twins, they would still find themselves at a crushing disadvantage in this coming war.
Even the matter of House Stark was a challenge beyond reckoning. Westeros was not a land where power-hungry regents could easily usurp the throne. Its rigid social structure meant that to betray one's liege lord was tantamount to betraying the entire noble class.
And House Manderly, no matter how ambitious, remained part of that same noble class. They did not yet have the power to stand against it.
Clay's decision to send Gaelithox away had an immediate effect. Throughout the ship, the tension visibly eased. The blue-and-gold giant dragon had cast a suffocating pressure over all who shared this confined space.
Daenerys approached Clay's figure, followed closely by her handmaidens. As she neared, she hesitated for a moment before taking a coarse wooden cup from one of the girls and stepping toward him.
He heard footsteps behind him but did not turn around. Most of his thoughts had already begun drifting toward how he would handle matters in Slaver's Bay. The approach of others did not interest him much at this point.
"Clay Manderly," Daenerys called, her voice clear and laced with gentle mockery. "What are you looking at? I doubt the endlessly repeating waves of the sea are worthy of such deep contemplation."
Her voice drew him back to the present. He glanced sideways at her as she stopped beside him and extended the cup.
He accepted it without hesitation, tilting his head back and draining it in one smooth motion.
Daenerys was caught off guard by how readily he drank. She could not believe Clay had not paused even for a moment to consider whether the water might be poisoned. Yet he consumed it without the slightest trace of doubt. Such trust seemed utterly unreasonable.
"You… aren't afraid I might have poisoned it?" she asked, uncertainty flickering in her eyes.
Clay curled his lips in a slight smirk. In his heart, he thought to himself, A poison strong enough to kill me? There can't be more than a handful in the whole world. You think I'm that stupid?
Shaking his head, he replied calmly, "There's no need. You and I are the last dragonriders in this world. And you know very well, Daenerys, that I have nothing to fear."
She barely listened to his words. Instead, a sudden realization dawned upon her.
From the very beginning, this man had never once called her "Your Grace."
She carefully replayed every sentence exchanged between them. And she was certain—in Clay Manderly's heart, he had been deliberately avoiding those words.
Why is this?
A possible answer slowly began to form in Daenerys's mind.
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