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Clay had no intention of exposing the entity's identity. He wanted to see what tricks this human-ghost hybrid—the Three-Eyed Raven—was planning.
At the very least, Clay was now certain that Bran's ill-fated climb up the Broken Tower and his discovery of the Queen and Kingslayer's illicit affair had been no coincidence.
The Three-Eyed Raven had spun its magical threads through the weirwood tree, subtly guiding Bran in ways Clay couldn't fully comprehend.
But something didn't add up. During his days locked in the dungeon, where time blurred into an endless gray, Clay had lost track of events in the original timeline. He couldn't remember exactly when Bran's fall had taken place. Was it something that had already happened? Or had his own interference disrupted the Three-Eyed Raven's carefully laid plans?
The answer was clear in the Raven's actions. By drawing massive amounts of magic from the weirwood tree and severing its threads, Clay had evidently provoked the three-eyed Raven to the point that it could no longer endure, forcing it to descend and play its mystifying games directly.
Clay's lips curled into the faintest hint of a smile. Whatever power the Three-Eyed Raven held, it was wary—afraid, even—of the so-called god that stood behind him. The irony was almost laughable: the "Outer God" it feared did not even exist.
The creature's careful words about having no hostility only confirmed its uncertainty. And Clay intended to exploit that fear for as long as he could.
"What do you want with that boy?" Clay asked, his tone sharp and accusing, deliberately mirroring the entity's detached manner.
The Three-Eyed Raven didn't answer immediately. Draped in a long black robe, it began to move, each step slow and deliberate, as it ascended the uneven steps toward the spiked iron chair.
Clay's gaze followed it warily. Under his watchful eyes, the figure seated itself on the Iron Throne with the ease of someone who had done so a thousand times before.
Clay had to admit, the throne exuded an unnatural presence—an almost magnetic pull. It wasn't just a chair of blades; it was a monument to conquest and ambition, forged in fire and blood. Standing below it, even someone as resolute as Clay felt an involuntary sense of awe.
"There is no king here," Clay said coldly, breaking the momentary silence.
"Indeed," the Raven replied, its voice calm, almost amused. "But it doesn't matter."
It gripped the armrest of the Iron Throne, and the jagged blades bit into its withered palm. Pale green blood seeped from the wound, flowing down like a slow-moving river. Yet the creature showed no sign of pain, as if its body had long forgotten such sensations.
"I wish to strike a deal with you, emissary of the Outer God," it declared, its voice suddenly louder, reverberating through the empty throne room.
"Oh?" Clay's curiosity was piqued. His eyes narrowed. "And what kind of deal could a ghost like you possibly offer?"
The Raven leaned forward slightly, its crimson eye gleaming with eerie intensity. "I will use my power to place you on this throne. All I ask in return is that once you proclaim yourself king, you allow the North to gain its independence."
For a moment, Clay froze, the sheer absurdity of the statement leaving him momentarily stunned.
He almost doubted his ears. Had this Raven consumed too many weirwood seeds and fogged its own mind?
What armies do you command? What power do you wield that could achieve such a feat? And if you're truly capable of this, why hasn't anyone heard of you before?
Clay suppressed these biting thoughts, keeping his expression neutral. Finally, he replied, "I don't see how your mere presence will help me wrest the Iron Throne from under Robert Baratheon's backside."
The Raven chuckled faintly, a hollow sound that echoed like a distant storm. "The current stag is strong, yes. Sharp-horned and unyielding. But the gods did not give him a fawn born of his blood to inherit his legacy."
The cryptic statement hung in the air, its weight settling over the room.
Clay's eyes narrowed further, and though his face remained composed, he couldn't help but inwardly roll his eyes.
Oh, great. A riddle. Isn't this just your way of saying Robert's three children aren't his? Did you really need to cloak it in mystery and godly pretension?
"If you have something to say, just say it outright. No need to dangle promises in front of me," Clay said bluntly, his voice cutting through the cryptic atmosphere like a blade.
For a brief moment, the Three-Eyed Raven frowned, a subtle crease forming on its otherwise expressionless face. It seemed to ponder Clay's words. While the phrase "dangling promises" was unfamiliar, the intent was clear enough. After a pause, it nodded and spoke plainly:
"Very well, let us dispense with riddles. I ask you to cease your interference with my actions concerning the Stark boy. In return, you may name one request. If it is within my power, I will fulfill it."
Clay raised an eyebrow, momentarily thrown off by the directness. What is this, some alternate-world version of a wish-granting genie?
He shook his head, deciding to test the limits of this so-called deal. If the raven was offering, why not make an outrageous demand?
"In that case, find me a dragon egg," Clay said, his tone almost mocking. "And provide me a method to hatch it. Can you do that?"
Clay leaned forward slightly, scrutinizing the creature's face—its weathered features no different from a piece of driftwood—curious to see if it would crack under the weight of his absurd demand.
To his surprise, the Three-Eyed Raven merely glanced at him, its crimson eye gleaming faintly in the dim light. Without hesitation, it nodded.
"I can," it said evenly. "If the deal is struck, I will have Winterfell's stable boy, Hodor, deliver it to you. However, this will take time. You shall receive my gift in White Harbor."
"…?"
Clay blinked, momentarily dumbfounded. Wait, what?
For a fleeting moment, he regretted not asking for something even more extravagant—like a Gundam.
Still, he couldn't help but wonder how the raven planned to unearth a dragon egg in the North of all places, let alone provide instructions for its hatching. Then it struck him: If it's so easy for you to do this, why haven't you done it yourself?
But the answer was clear enough when he thought of the entity's decrepit state, its true body likely entombed in some cave beyond the Wall, tethered to the weirwood roots that sustained it. The raven wasn't playing this game because it wanted to—it was because it had to.
"You answer one question for me," Clay said finally, his voice steady. "And if I'm satisfied, I'll consider agreeing to the deal."
The Three-Eyed Raven nodded silently, its crimson eye fixed on him, waiting for the question.
"It's the same question I asked earlier," Clay said, leaning forward slightly. "Why is Bran so important to you? Why can't you choose someone else? What makes him so special?"
A heavy silence descended on the throne room. The Three-Eyed Raven remained quiet for so long that Clay's patience began to wane. Just as he opened his mouth to speak again, the figure let out a faint sigh.
"He is the best candidate," it said finally, a bitter smile tugging at its withered lips. "You must understand that, in all of Westeros, only those with the blood of wolves and dragons are truly unique. Among them, a rare few stand as the finest vessels."
The raven paused, its gaze distant, as though peering into realms far beyond Clay's understanding.
"Beyond the Wall, the Great Other's forces press ever closer, compressing the space for the living. Meanwhile, across the Narrow Sea, R'hllor's fiery light grows ever eager to engulf Westeros."
It gestured vaguely toward the Iron Throne, its movements slow but deliberate. "Like you, I am but an emissary of a god. Yet, as you can see, my body is already rotting away. Bran is my best successor—and my lord's most suitable representative."
The weight of the raven's words hung heavy in the air. Clay's mind raced to piece together the implications. After a long pause, he finally spoke.
"So, you wish to ally with me and support my ambitions because my power belongs to neither the Great Other nor R'hllor?"
The Three-Eyed Raven inclined its head slightly. "You have ambition for Westeros. That is enough."
Clay narrowed his eyes, testing the entity's resolve. "And you're not worried that the god behind me might… encroach on your territory or take your followers?"
"It does not matter," the raven replied without hesitation. "As I said from the beginning, the North's independence is all my lord requires. Neither I nor my lord care if you and your god claim the South, so long as R'hllor's power does not expand further. If it does, the entire world will lose its balance."
Clay raised an eyebrow, skeptical. "And the Seven Gods? They don't count for anything?"
The raven let out a dry chuckle, devoid of mirth. "In my lord's words, they are seven beings so unstable they cannot even maintain their own forms. Relying on them to resist R'hllor is futile."
The empty throne room grew oppressively quiet. The raven's simple, matter-of-fact statements stirred a whirlwind of thoughts in Clay's mind.
Until now, Clay had assumed that the gods of this world of ice and fire—if they even existed—were mere symbols, convenient tools wielded by the powerful to manipulate the masses. But with the Three-Eyed Raven speaking so openly of divine forces, he realized the truth was far more complex.
Yet, Clay's instincts screamed for caution. The truth, as presented by the raven, was far too self-serving to be taken at face value. Believing even half of its claims was a gamble; accepting them in full would be outright folly—a one-way ticket to ruin.
Worse still, the raven's terms struck at the heart of his ambitions. To accept its offer would mean dismantling the foundation of his carefully crafted plans to create a Witcher army, the cornerstone of his future power.
Drawing in a deliberate breath, Clay feigned hesitation, masking his inner calculations with a weary sigh. "Your offer is tempting," he said finally, his voice measured, "but I cannot fully agree with it."
The Three-Eyed Raven's brow furrowed again, its expression tinged with faint disapproval.
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[Chapter End's]
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