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"I believe my terms have shown sufficient sincerity, servant of the Outer God."
His voice was slow, each word dragging like the weight of time itself. His pale, withered skin seemed to stretch tight, threatening to tear at the slightest movement.
The Three-Eyed Raven's frustration was evident, but more than that, there was a palpable sense of resignation. When he admitted he couldn't deal with Clay, it was no exaggeration. The moment his ravens first observed Clay, the sheer amount of magic coursing through his body left him astounded.
He had spent countless efforts trying to disrupt this "heretic", this rogue force running rampant in the North, but every attempt had proven utterly futile.
"No, from my perspective," Clay's voice was cold, biting with sharp clarity, "since you call me a servant of the Outer God, there's clearly no trust between us. And frankly, Lord Three-Eyed Raven, how can I trust that you'll keep your end of the deal?"
Clay saw no reason to play games anymore. He cut straight to the heart of the matter, unmasking his counterpart's true nature without hesitation.
The Three-Eyed Crow's blood-red pupil widened, his composure faltering for just a moment. The shock was evident—how had Clay discerned his true identity? After a long, tense silence, he spoke:
"You've surprised me yet again, servant of the Outer God. I don't recall revealing myself to you. How, then, did you come to know my true nature?"
The Three-Eyed Raven's question was met with Clay's bare teeth and a tone laced with mockery:
"As you said, it's not important."
Clay's thoughts flickered, a dangerous amusement playing in his mind. If I were to mention that I know your true form lies beyond the Wall… would it frighten you so much that your three eyes would turn into four?
"…."
Taking a deep breath, the Three-Eyed Raven decided to drop the matter. He had come to understand that this exasperating Servent of the Outer God had made his lack of trust perfectly clear.
"Very well, then. As you wish. I'd like to hear your terms."
To be honest, Clay did not want to fall out with the Three-Eyed Raven. But to speak frankly, Bran's fate—whether he was manipulated, alive, or dead—was of no concern to him.
When evaluating the great noble houses of the Seven Kingdoms as investment targets, Clay could only come to one conclusion: none were worth pursuing. A brief glance at their fates over the years told the story. Within just a few short years, nearly every significant lord had met a tragic end.
The old wolf, Eddard Stark, had been beheaded. The elder lord of House Tully died of illness. Lord Tywin Lannister perished in the most humiliating way possible, in the privy, while both the Tyrells and Baratheons were wiped out in a span of time too short to matter. Doran Martell was assassinated. Even the late Jon Arryn, the Hand of the King, met his own untimely death. The mortality rate of these noble figures was staggering.
This very same backdrop explained why Jon Snow, with the halo of the protagonist upon him, could rise so effortlessly. From a lowly bastard to Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, then ultimately to King in the North, Jon's ascension was a result of the death of everyone around him. Every capable and notable figure had perished, and their vacant positions left the door wide open for a nobody like Jon Snow.
Yet, it wasn't the deaths of others that concerned Clay. It was what came after.
His eyes turned to the East, across the Narrow sea, where Daenerys Targaryen, the last Targaryen heir, awaited her own trials. If there was one person Clay saw as an investment, it was her. Yet at present, he lacked the means to approach her. And even more importantly, Daenerys—untested and unrefined as she was—was still far from the powerful Targaryen ruler she was destined to become.
For now, she was not yet a qualified Targaryen.
"You can do as you wish with Bran, but the magic of the heart trees in the North must remain accessible to me. Additionally, the previous conditions still stand."
This was Clay's condition. In truth, he had never seriously expected the Raven to give him a dragon or even a dragon egg that could hatch. His real objective was the vast reserves of magical energy hidden within the weirwood trees.
He was no Daenerys Targaryen. Even if one overlooked the question of bloodline and dragon-taming, the idea of abandoning White Harbor, one of the wealthiest and most strategically significant cities in all of Westeros, was laughable at this stage.
White Harbor wasn't like Essos. Daenerys had only herself to worry about; no one could steal her dragons from her. But imagine trying to raise a dragon in White Harbor.
Given the rapid growth rate of dragons, no matter how well he managed secrecy, it would inevitably be discovered. And when that moment came, the consequences would be catastrophic. The civil wars of the Seven Kingdoms would grind to a halt, and every army from Dorne to the Wall would march directly on White Harbor.
The best-case scenario? Surrendering the dragon under an overwhelming military threat—or watching it get slaughtered. If the dragon somehow managed to escape on its own, Clay would still face the wrath of the crown and the lords of the realm. His inheritance would be forfeit, leaving him no choice but to don black and join Jon Snow at the Wall, chewing on snow and frost for the rest of his life.
But things didn't unfold as Clay had anticipated.
"Very well," the Three-Eyed Raven said, his tone calm but deliberate. "But I have my own condition. Apart from Winterfell, the magic of all Weirwoods in the North under my lord's protection will be accessible to you. However, this magical energy has its limits. You may not use it as you did in the godswood, for that would cause severe harm to the trees themselves."
Understood. I can draw magic, but not excessively. That's acceptable.
Wait—did he just agree to actually give me a dragon?
Just as the realization struck Clay and he was about to speak, the Raven's voice echoed once more:
"The deal is done, Servant of the Outer God. You may contact me through the weirwoods whenever you touch one in the future. I look forward to our next meeting."
The throne room seemed to twist and blur, the shadows and light swirling into chaos. Then, in an instant, Clay's vision cleared.
He was back in Winterfell's great hall, where not a single second had passed.
Robb Stark, standing nearby, noticed Clay's slightly stiff posture and asked with evident confusion, "Clay?"
The sound of Robb's voice pulled Clay back to reality. He blinked, finally reacting to his surroundings. Quickly, he released Bran, stepping back. In his vision, a faint thread of magical energy broke through the walls and rewrapped itself around Bran's body. This time, Clay chose not to interfere.
Straightening his posture, he turned and bowed respectfully to Lord and Lady Stark, both of whom were smiling kindly at him.
"All right, Clay. You may go now," Lord Stark said warmly. "Remember, Winterfell will always welcome you."
...
The towering walls of Winterfell had long disappeared into the distance. Riding on horseback through the snow-covered North, Clay inhaled the crisp, biting air, feeling a quiet exhilaration as the vast wilderness unfolded around him.
Beside him, his grandfather rode with an air of authority. The towering Lord Wyman Manderly glanced down at him with an approving smile, stroking his thick white beard.
"I must admit, lad, you've done well this time," Wyman said, his voice gruff but pleased.
Clay turned to meet his grandfather's gaze, unsure whether he should respond or simply nod in acknowledgment.
At this moment, Wyman was highly satisfied with his grandson who had returned from Essos. A man unafraid to kill a Lannister, one who had forged ties with the House Stark, and someone with excellent swordsmanship to boot.
Though proud of his grandson, Wyman couldn't help but reflect on his past missteps. Allowing Wylla to act so willfully during their departure had been a mistake—one that had nearly ended in disaster for Clay. If not for that, Clay might never have ended up in the dungeon. After his failed plans with Wynafryd, Wyman knew he should never have entertained such thoughts again.
Then there was the matter of the captain of the guard. He had heard about Clay sleeping in the mud and Wylla being harassed. If it weren't for the wrong occasion, Wyman Manderly would have had half a mind to hang this Hoster fellow outright.
Looking at the White Harbor guards riding around them, Wyman's chest swelled with pride.
When leaving Winterfell, that Lannister queen—Cercei— had indeed sent men to stop Clay and him from departing. In response, Wyman's hundred cavalrymen had drawn their swords in perfect unison, a show of force so intimidating that the queen's lackeys had scattered like frightened sheep.
The memory made Wyman chuckle under his breath. Clay couldn't help but share his satisfaction.
Strength is the ultimate truth, Clay thought. No matter if your opponent is a queen—when your fists are large enough to crush her, you become the true ruler.
As their horses carried them southward along the White Knife, the biting chill of the North gradually gave way to a salt-tinged breeze. A week later, the sea stretched wide before them, and on the horizon, the massive walls of White Harbor loomed large and imposing.
The banner of House Manderly fluttered high above the city's gates, its iconic merman a symbol of strength and stability. Beneath that banner, Clay felt a long-lost sense of peace—a fleeting moment of respite after a storm.
White Harbor, his home, awaited him.
..
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[Chapter End's]
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