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Clay eventually found himself back in the dungeon.
To his surprise, Lord Stark hadn't asked how he managed to drive the assassin away, as though the method was irrelevant. The man only cared about results.
For now, the wolf and the lion maintained a fragile facade of peace—one that seemed as thin and brittle as ice on a spring morning.
Following the incident, Lord Stark issued an order allowing White Harbor guards to temporarily replace the dungeon guards to ensure Clay's safety.
However, from Ser Rodrik, Clay learned that his time in the dungeon might soon come to an end. His family's patriarch, Lord Wyman Manderly, was already leading 100 heavily armored cavalrymen toward Winterfell at full speed.
This show of force posed no real threat to the royal retinue or House Stark. It was, instead, a calculated display—a message from the Lord of White Harbor, a gesture of defiance and warning aimed squarely at the Lannisters.
Clay could feel the admiration in the gazes of the guards around him.
Some of these men had answered their liege lord's call during Robert's Rebellion, marching south to fight in the war. Like Lord Eddard Stark, they harbored deep resentment toward House Lannister.
But with Tywin Lannister commanding immense military power and boundless wealth, they had no choice but to return to the frozen wastelands of the North, cursing their frustrations into the icy wind.
In their eyes, Clay had defended his family's honor by cutting down a Lannister without hesitation. He had accomplished something they wished for but dared not do. As a result, their goodwill toward Clay grew considerably.
While Inside the dungeon, Clay welcomed three visitors: the three brothers of House Stark.
"Robb, Jon, Bran. What are you three doing here?"
Clay raised an eyebrow but gestured toward the wooden chair in the corner. The three brothers, unconcerned with its rough condition, exchanged a quick glance before squeezing onto it together, laughing at their own awkwardness.
A glance at Bran's waist confirmed to Clay that the youngest brother hadn't yet attempted to climb the broken tower.
"We came to see the hero of the North!" Robb announced, though his sheepish grin and the way he scratched the back of his head betrayed his shyness. "Father wouldn't let us visit you before, but now that the guards are your men, we… uh… sneaked in."
The North's young men were indeed simple-hearted. Over time, the three Stark brothers had already come to regard Clay as a true friend.
"Father says you're a true Northman, and my brothers think so too," Bran said innocently, his young voice filled with admiration.
Clay's smile brightened, but a flicker of shock and contemplation passed through his eyes.
Since becoming a Witcher, Clay's body had become highly attuned to magic. Now, in his vision, Bran's small frame was tightly wrapped in thread-like strands of magical energy, shimmering faintly as they pulsed around him.
This wasn't right.
The sight sent a ripple of unease through Clay. This was far from normal.
The last time Clay had seen Bran was at the royal feast. He couldn't be sure if these mysterious magical threads had been entangling Bran all along or if they were a recent phenomenon.
Clay's sharp gaze flicked toward Robb and Jon, subtly observing them. Neither displayed even the faintest trace of magical energy. That ruled out bloodline or ancestry as a cause.
So what was this?
Clay's mind raced. Wasn't this supposed to be a low-magic world?
For a fleeting moment, Clay questioned everything. Was this truly the world of A Song of Ice and Fire?
But then, he chuckled inwardly, masking his disquiet. He himself was the greatest anomaly in this world—a Witcher where no Witchers should exist. It seemed hypocritical to question others.
Still, the presence of the threads was a puzzle he couldn't ignore. Where there were threads, there had to be a source.
Someone—or something—was weaving magic within Winterfell.
Clay's curiosity burned, but so did his irritation. Who dared challenge his monopoly on magic?
Whoever it was had made a bold move. Too bold.
This could not stand.
Silently, Clay prayed for his family's patriarch to arrive swiftly, hoping Lord Wyman's presence might scare off the queen and finally free him from this cursed place. He had never been more eager to leave.
"I'll need to design a badge that fits my identity someday," Clay muttered under his breath.
The others didn't catch his words. "What was that, Clay?" Jon asked, tilting his head curiously.
"Ah, nothing important. Tell me, what's been happening outside?" Clay deflected smoothly.
Robb gave him a knowing smirk, dragging out his reply with exaggerated drama. "Well, let me tell you, Lord Clay…"
Clay rolled his eyes at the emphasis on "Lord," but Robb pressed on, clearly enjoying himself.
"After you were tossed into the dungeon, I heard the King and Queen had a massive argument. That very night, King Robert didn't visit the Queen but spent it with three serving girls from Winterfell instead."
As Robb spoke, he clicked his tongue in mock admiration, though there was a glint of envy in his eyes. Clay could almost see the gears turning in Robb's mind—teenage hormones clearly at play. Unfortunately for him, Lady Catelyn's strict parenting kept Robb tightly reined in. All he could do was watch and fantasize, much to his frustration.
"Father told us to avoid the Queen and her people altogether," Robb continued with a casual shrug. "At least I don't have to put up with that deranged Crown Prince anymore." His voice turned sharper, the disdain in his sneer unmistakable.
Clay understood immediately. Those days spent in Joffrey's company were likely among the most humiliating experiences of Robb's life.
"I didn't expect King Robert to have a Crown Prince like him," Jon remarked, his voice tinged with quiet disdain.
As a bastard, Jon had limited interactions with Joffrey. Yet even those brief encounters had left a strong impression: Joffrey bore none of Robert's legendary strength or charisma. Instead, he reeked of Lannister arrogance—a quality that repelled everyone around him.
"Exactly. Joffrey looks nothing like the King. Honestly, I think he resembles the Kingslayer and the Queen far more," Robb said, echoing Jon's sentiment.
Neither noticed the flicker of something peculiar on Clay's face.
Sighing inwardly, Clay thought, That might just be the truth.
No one would willingly investigate Joffrey's parentage, yet his resemblance to his uncle Jaime was impossible to ignore—almost glaring. Joffrey bore not a single Baratheon trait—no broad shoulders, no coal-black hair, no stormy blue eyes.
And then there were Robert's brothers. Stannis and Renly's love for their older brother had always been genuine, even if it was buried beneath sibling rivalry. But Joffrey? Had he looked or acted like Robert in his youth—exuding raw masculinity and confidence—it was doubtful the brothers would have been so quick to rebel after Robert's death.
Ultimately, the sins of the parents had doomed the child. Joffrey hadn't chosen his lineage, but his life had been poisoned from the start. His later cruelty and tyranny were the natural results of growing up under Cersei's suffocating, manipulative upbringing.
"And Wylla?" Clay asked, his mind drifting to thoughts of his little sister.
"Honestly, how could you be such a brother…" Robb rolled his eyes but smiled nonetheless.
"Don't worry. Father already moved her into the main keep. She's been sleeping with Sansa at night. When Lord Wyman arrives, Father will hand her over to him," Robb reassured him with a casual wave of his hand.
Clay exhaled softly, relieved. That was one less thing to worry about.
Jon, seated on the stool, suddenly pulled a small pouch from behind him and set it down with a mischievous glint in his eye.
"What's that?" Clay asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Heh, see for yourself," Jon said with a sly grin.
From the pouch, he produced a small flask. As Clay twisted it open, the rich aroma of wine spilled into the otherwise stark dungeon air.
"Jon, Father wouldn't allow—" Robb started to chide but quickly realized how dull and hypocritical his own words sounded. His resolve wavered the moment the scent hit his nose.
With a knowing glance, the two older boys shifted their positions slightly, shielding Bran from the flask as if to preserve his innocence. Bran, however, remained blissfully unaware, his young mind focused elsewhere.
And so, in the cramped dungeon of Winterfell, the young generation of the North shared a rare moment of lighthearted rebellion. Laughter filled the cold, stone walls, and for a brief time, the burdens of duty, politics, and honor seemed far away
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[Author's Note: The protagonist being imprisoned is a necessary part of the plot. After all, you can't just kill a Lannister and get away with it scot-free. That said, I'll wrap up this arc quickly and have the protagonist released from the dungeon soon.
Overall, I aim to portray a protagonist who grows over time. If he starts off steamrolling through everything, it might be thrilling at first, but the story would soon run out of material. Growth is what keeps a character compelling. If I wanted a protagonist who bulldozes through obstacles with ease, I might as well have written a Gundam story, right? (laughs)
I welcome constructive feedback on the plot. However, please refrain from sarcastic remarks. We're all human, and patience can run thin on the internet. Let's keep this a space for genuine discussion. Thank you for your understanding!]
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[Chapter End's]
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