The magic from Bran was the same as the heart tree's, Clay was certain of it. The invisible thread was connected to Winterfell's heart tree, perhaps even the largest heart tree in the North.
In the vast hall of Winterfell, little Bran rested his head on Clay's shoulder, his face filled with a charming smile tinged with slight confusion.
Determined, Clay's magic pool intensified its pull, no longer absorbing the magic threads from Bran but now tugging at the invisible thread running through the walls. Clay wanted to see what he could pull out.
In seconds, the thread went taut. Clay felt a strange resistance, not through touch but as if it were imprinted directly into his brain.
Let's see what happens next!
None of the others in the hall could see the magical threads; they only saw Clay showing affection for Bran. None of them, including Clay, noticed the raven that flew into the hall through the open doors.
This pitch-black raven landed on the chandelier, its deep yellow eyes rotating, gazing coldly at Clay's back with a distinctly hostile look.
With his Witcher senses fully activated, Clay patted Bran's back, talking about bringing him something he liked the next time they met. But in reality, he was pulling at the nearly breaking thread, which seemed to groan under the strain.
Suddenly, Clay sensed a heavy scent of decay, not smelled but directly filling his mind, making him instinctively uncomfortable. Within this stench, he felt an intense cold, as if a thousand-year-old iceberg stood behind him.
A faint snap sounded, unheard by anyone else. The magic thread finally broke, the part connected to the unknown recoiling rapidly, while the threads around Bran withered and turned gray, disintegrating into the air.
Before Clay could process this abrupt change, a raspy whisper echoed in his ears: "You have won, agent of the Other."
A powerful force enveloped Clay, blurring his vision and clouding his mind. When his vision cleared, Clay's expression froze.
Everything around him indicated he was no longer in Winterfell's hall.
"You seem surprised, agent of the Other."
A pale, monotonous voice came from behind. Clay snapped back to reality and saw a figure shrouded in a black robe.
"Who are you?" Clay asked, forming a Witcher sign with his hands. A pale yellow shield enveloped him.
The Witcher Sign - Quen!
"I am but a withered bone," the figure said, stepping forward and removing its hood. Snow-white hair fell, looking withered and twisted. He had one eye, its pupil blood-red, while roots of some plant protruded from his empty eye socket, and fungi grew on his forehead.
This visage reminded Clay of mythical nature spirits, but he could sense the body before him lacked much life force, mostly inhabited by the aura of death.
"Yes, this smell... the scent of the Other," the figure stated flatly, as if recounting a simple fact.
Reflecting on the earlier conversation, Clay realized the figure called him "agent of the Other." Considering his Witcher system, it made sense.
"You needn't be so tense. Your body is filled with magic. I neither wish to harm you nor have the power to do so, agent of the Other," the figure continued, emphasizing "agent of the Other" again.
Ignoring the figure, Clay finally examined his surroundings. What he saw shocked him.
The Iron Throne!
He hadn't seen it in person but knew it instantly—the Iron Throne, not just a chair but a jagged mass of spikes, blades, and twisted metal. The throne was high, about seven or eight meters tall, counting the uneven steps.
So, I'm in the throne room?!
My god! This place must be thousands of miles from Winterfell. Is there anything faster than a dragon in this world? The thought flashed through Clay's mind.
But then, he saw something that shouldn't be there, clarifying the figure's identity.
Dragon bones, specifically a massive dragon skull. After Robert Baratheon took the throne, these dragon skulls were moved to the Red Keep's basement, replaced by tapestries bearing the Baratheon stag.
Given the timeline, these bones shouldn't be here, meaning this wasn't the current throne room but one from history.
Clay was either standing in history or someone's memory.
Seeing Clay fixate on the Iron Throne and dragon bones, the figure spoke again: "Agent of the Other, it seems you know where you are."
The voice was calm as the figure asked, "So, do you wish to sit on it?"
Clay remained silent, not wanting to answer despite having an answer.
"I see boundless ambition in your magic-filled body. Why does a White Harbor heir desire to sit on this throne? Is it your god driving you?" The figure continued, not expecting an answer, "I brought you here to negotiate. Do not interfere with me anymore, whether with the heart tree or the child."
Realizing the figure's target was Bran, combined with the power to pull someone into historical vortices, Clay knew the figure's identity.
Brynden Rivers, the Targaryen bastard, Bloodraven, the Three-Eyed Raven!