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"Robb, can you tell me what you're holding in your hand?" Lord Eddard asked, his stern voice cutting through the heavy silence of the cell.
The room froze. It was a moment that perfectly captured the essence of children caught red-handed—an experience that Robb and his companions now embodied to an almost comedic degree.
Clay turned his gaze to Robb, the future King in the North, who now appeared anything but regal. His face was pale, his lips pressed tightly together, and his usually confident demeanor had evaporated. Worse still, his hand stubbornly clutched the bottle of wine, as though letting it go would somehow make things worse.
Other than Clay, the two Stark children were both upright and honest kids, each with an expression of guilt and heads bowed in submission.
Lord Eddard didn't bother dealing with these two wayward children at the moment. He had other matters to attend to. Stepping aside slightly, Clay saw the broad figure of his own grandfather.
"Uh… Grandfather?" Clay said, his voice betraying his surprise. He hadn't expected Lord Wyman to arrive so quickly, much less to make his entrance in such a dramatic fashion.
Of course, he knew why Lord Wyman had come. To be honest, his visit to Winterfell had already exceeded its initial objectives.
First, with Lord Eddard's tacit support, Clay's status as the heir to White Harbor had gained a level of recognition among the northern lords. A vital step, as legitimacy was not something Clay could afford to leave in question.
Second, his personal endeavor—the preparation of the Witcher's Decoctions of the Grasses—had finally borne fruit. Though the process of undergoing the Witcher's mutation had been an agonizing ordeal, its success marked a turning point. He was no longer bound by the limitations of ordinary men.
Lastly, his time at Winterfell had allowed him to cultivate relationships with the Stark children. Using his noble lineage as leverage, he had subtly aligned himself with the wolves, knowing full well the value of such an alliance.
Although he wielded the Witcher System, which theoretically allowed him to quickly expand his power, such growth still required time. At this critical juncture, forging strong ties with House Stark was crucial.
Besides, he had little choice in the matter. His birth alone dictated that he align himself with the wolves—for now. As for the future… that could wait.
Of course, not everything had gone smoothly. He had been manipulated by Littlefinger, and although he had managed to minimize the consequences, his sister's reputation had been tarnished. This meant she wouldn't be able to marry for at least the next year or two. However, this outcome aligned with Wylla's wishes, as she had no desire to wed anyway.
Moreover, the mysterious, overwhelming magical power emanating from the heart tree and the dense threads of magical energy surrounding Bran suggested that the seemingly tranquil capital of the North was saturated with an unusual magical atmosphere.
Clay had initially planned to find an opportunity in the next two days to investigate the source of Bran's magical threads. To be honest, he had some suspicions in mind, but he couldn't confirm anything.
But now, with his grandfather's sudden arrival, all his plans were thrown into disarray. He could only hope to meet Bran once more before departing.
This wasn't driven by any altruistic desire; from Clay's perspective, he needed to understand the source of this magic. Otherwise, he wouldn't feel at ease using it to train witchers in the future.
"Well, you little rascal, I only asked you to visit Winterfell. Look at all the chaos you've caused!" Lord Wyman scolded, though he was actually quite pleased with Clay's achievements. However, given the trouble Clay had caused Lord Eddard, he felt the need to reprimand him.
"That's enough, Wyman. Clay acted in the best interests of House Manderly; there's no need to reprimand him," Eddard Stark interjected, waving his hand to stop Lord Wyman. Grabbing both Robb and Jon by their arms, he escorted the grim-faced boys out of the dungeon.
Once they had left, only Clay and his grandfather remained in the dimly lit cell.
The two exchanged looks for a long moment before breaking into simultaneous laughter.
"Not bad. You're better than your father ever was," Lord Wyman praised, slapping his grandson on the back. "Back in the day, your father and I entered King's Landing with Lord Eddard only after the Lannisters had sacked it. The atrocities committed by their soldiers—raping women, looting treasures—were intolerable. When our soldiers from White Harbor tried to intervene, they were thrown into Flea Bottom for their trouble."
As he recounted this, Wyman's eyes filled with memories, though they were far from pleasant. After a brief pause, he continued, "Your father even drew his sword back then, but he didn't have the courage to shed blood beneath the golden-red banner of the roaring lion. You, however, are braver than either of us. Well done!"
He clapped his grandson on the back with gusto, his voice filled with approval. Clay could tell that whatever the Lannisters had done in King's Landing had left a deep and lasting scar among the Northern lords.
At that moment, the captain of the guard, Hostar, rushed in. Upon seeing Lord Wyman, he immediately unsheathed his sword, placed it on the ground, and knelt on one knee, his head bowed in silence.
"Hmph." Wyman snorted coldly at the sight of the negligent captain. Though he refrained from disciplining a servant in this setting, his displeasure was evident. He ordered sharply, "Get up, take your men, and escort Wylla out of the main keep. Deliver her directly to my personal guard."
Hostar promptly retrieved his sword and left with large strides. He knew his lord had been merciful not to punish him on the spot. There was no room for further complaints.
"Let's not waste time here. Come, we're leaving," Lord Wyman said, grabbing Clay by the arm and preparing to depart.
Clay hesitated, unable to foresee the future or know when he might return. For all he knew, Winterfell's ruler might have changed by the time he came back.
He might as well do what he could while he was here. With a quiet sigh, Clay turned to his grandfather. "Before we leave, I'd like to meet with Robb and the others from House Stark."
Wyman paused mid-step, his brow furrowed as he turned back to face Clay, waiting for him to explain.
"During my time here, I've become friends with the Stark boys. Leaving without saying goodbye doesn't feel right," Clay said, his tone more thoughtful than before. "Besides, Grandfather, wasn't part of your reason for sending me here to strengthen our ties with House Stark?"
Though phrased as a question, Clay's tone was certain, as if he already knew the answer.
Wyman grunted, shaking his head. "You're rather blunt, aren't you? I take it you've made progress?"
"I have," Clay replied, the confidence in his voice undeniable. There was no need to hide the truth—his grandfather's objectives were aligned with his own.
"Then go," Wyman said, nodding. "I'll wait for you outside the city. But remember—don't cause any more trouble."
…
Lord Eddard readily agreed to Clay's request to bid farewell to Robb and the others before departing. A man of strong principles and deep emotions, Eddard respected the sincerity of Clay's actions.
In the Great Hall of Winterfell, Clay once again encountered the unlucky Jon, Robb, and the young Bran. As for the youngest Stark, Rickon, there was no need to include him in this moment.
Clay embraced Robb and Jon as brothers would, their shared bond of camaraderie forged over drinks—a bond as timeless and universal as men themselves, regardless of place or era.
[P.S: True Words.]
Yet, Clay's true focus wasn't on these two mischief-makers. His eyes remained fixed on Bran, or more precisely, on the intricate web of magical threads surrounding him.
As he moved to hug the somewhat shy Bran, Clay subtly activated his system, opening the magic pool within himself.
The moment his hands brushed against the invisible threads, he felt them unravel, like a loose end being discovered. The threads flowed into his body, drawn in through his contact with Bran's back.
Clay's eyes narrowed, a flash of recognition in his gaze. The sensation of this magic was far too familiar—he had felt it once before.
At the heart tree.
..
..
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[Chapter End's]
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