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The concept was sound, but the question remained: how could Clay escape?
Although as a noble he wouldn't face imprisonment in the traditional sense—especially with the protection of House Stark—this very protection made it exceedingly difficult for him to break free from the confines of his prison.
The logic behind this was both simple and complex. At its core, it came down to honor and reputation.
For example, if Clay were imprisoned in Casterly Rock, he could easily kill the jailer, eliminate the Lannister guards, and flee back to the North. Not only would he escape punishment under the kingdom's laws, but he would be hailed as a hero for his daring escape.
Unfortunately, however, Lord Eddard Stark was his liege lord. If Clay were to escape from his prison, it would mean severing ties with the noble hierarchy of the North—an extremely serious matter.
In Northern culture, this act would be viewed as "trampling on honor," a serious offense that could never be forgiven.
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The following morning, with a face as cold as frost, Ser Rodrik Cassel hurried to Clay's cell.
At dawn, he had received reports of a jailer being knocked unconscious. The seasoned knight immediately suspected it had to do with Clay because there was no one else of significance in the dungeons of Winterfell.
As he hurried along, his mind raced with anxious thoughts. He dreaded finding Clay's corpse, for that would mean Lord Eddard would be forced into a direct conflict with the queen.
Though Rodrik knew his liege's steady temperament, he also understood that the wolves and lions—who already viewed each other with disdain—would bare their fangs after such an incident. Even if they refrained from open violence during the king's stay, tensions would be dangerously high.
Muttering under his breath, Rodrik quickened his pace. Soon, he spotted the young jailer, standing still with a large bruise on his neck, looking utterly bewildered.
"Is Lord Clay unharmed?" Rodrik blurted out.
The jailer shook his head, and Rodrik heaved a sigh of relief before casting a sharp glare at the man. Without another word, he stormed into the prison.
He passed through a candlelit corridor after corridor, each one quieter than the last, until he arrived at the deepest, most secure, and best-furnished cell in the dungeon.
Inside, Clay was dressed in casual clothes, leaning against the wall, engrossed in a book borrowed from Winterfell's library: Tales of the Old Gods of the North.
"Lord Clay, are you injured? Did you see who the assassin was?"
Rodrik finally relaxed, but confusion quickly settled in. Clay's demeanor was not that of someone who had just survived an assassination attempt—his expression was calm, even cheerful.
"Hmm? Ser Rodrik, what are you talking about? An assassin?" Clay looked genuinely confused. He gently closed the book and stood up, walking toward the door. Rodrik, taking the keys from the jailer who had followed him, unlocked the cell and stepped inside.
"Lord Clay, this fool was knocked unconscious last night. You... are unharmed?"
Rodrik felt his thoughts spinning in chaos. The idea that Clay hadn't encountered an assassin completely shattered his expectations.
This situation was bizarre. Someone had specifically infiltrated the dungeon, knocked out the jailer, yet hadn't made any attempt on Clay's life. What was their purpose? Had they simply knocked the jailer out for fun?
Rodrik couldn't deny the reality of an intruder—an assassin, for lack of a better term. His years of combat experience told him the bruises on the jailer's neck couldn't have been self-inflicted.
"You're certain you didn't see anyone last night?" Rodrik pressed, now thoroughly baffled.
Clay, looking equally puzzled and innocent, shook his head. This left Rodrik completely stumped. In his mind, Clay was someone who would never lie. Besides, if someone had tried to kill him, why would he lie about it?
After pacing in circles, still unable to make sense of the situation, Ser Rodrik decided on the best course of action for any subordinate: report to his lord.
When he recounted the events to Eddard Stark in full detail, the middle-aged Warden of the North showed a thoughtful expression on his typically stoic face.
After hearing the entire account, Eddard fell into a long silence. Rodrik, uncertain whether he should stay or leave, cleared his throat and spoke hesitantly, "My lord?"
"Hmm?" Eddard Stark looked up, momentarily lost in thought, before coming to a decision. He frowned slightly and ordered, "Bring that boy, Clay, to me. Make sure he's dressed properly—do not let the queen's people see him."
Rodrik, still perplexed, left to carry out the command. Half an hour later, Clay, now dressed in a Stark overcoat, stood once again in the Great Hall of Winterfell.
Eddard dismissed Ser Rodrik, leaving only himself and Clay in the vast hall.
The gray eyes of the Lord of Winterfell scrutinized Clay as if reevaluating him. After a long pause, Eddard finally spoke:
"Clay, was that the first time you've killed someone?"
As he asked, Eddard studied Clay's eyes intently.
Without much hesitation, Clay nodded.
"Yes, my lord."
"What did it feel like?"
"Uh… I didn't think much about it."
Eddard simply nodded, though his expression hinted at dissatisfaction with the answer. He sighed softly and gestured toward a nearby chair.
Clay, not one to stand on ceremony, sat down.
"As your liege lord and elder, I can only tell you this: those who wield the sword lightly will ultimately die by the sword. A life carries weight."
Eddard Stark stirred the roaring fire in the hearth, the flickering flames casting long shadows across the hall. He turned back to Clay, whose expression had grown contemplative, and offered a faint, knowing smile.
"I understand. You're right—honor must remain untarnished. That's why you're standing here now."
Raising a hand to forestall any response from Clay, Eddard continued, his tone steady yet firm, "I know the assassin exists, but you want them not to exist. Isn't that correct?"
Clay's face stiffened, his composure faltering for a brief moment. Eddard stepped closer, placing a firm, reassuring hand on the young man's shoulder.
"You don't need to explain. It's enough that the assassin posed no threat to you. You handled this well. While I may dislike it, House Stark cannot afford a direct conflict with the queen at this moment. But remember this, boy…"
Eddard's gray eyes locked with Clay's, his tone deliberate and heavy with meaning.
"A wolf must never fear a lion. Courage is the foundation of survival for us Northerners."
He paused briefly, his gaze unwavering before he added, "I'm pleased to see that the gods have gifted you with a wisdom your father lacked. Use that wisdom to guide Robb in the future."
With those final words, Eddard turned and strode out of the hall, his steps echoing faintly in the vast, quiet space. Clay stood frozen, staring after him, his thoughts in turmoil.
He hadn't expected Eddard Stark to see through him so easily. The old wolf had unraveled the truth without a single misstep, shattering Clay's illusions of control in an instant.
Those sharp gray eyes carried a depth of understanding that left a lasting impression on him. Eddard Stark was no simple man. His wisdom was a weapon as formidable as any blade.
So why, then, did his actions in King's Landing seem so weak?
Clay felt a chill run down his spine. The events set to unfold in the southern capital would likely be far more intricate—and perilous—than he had ever anticipated.
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[Chapter End's]
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