Game of Thrones: The Witcher System

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This power, derived from the same source as the Heart Tree's magic, pulsed through Clay. He was certain that, at the other end of the invisible threads, they must be connected to Winterfell—or perhaps even to the largest Heart Tree in all the North.

In the spacious hall of Winterfell, young Bran rested his head on Clay's shoulder, a sweet, innocent smile playing on his face, though tinged with a faint trace of confusion.

Clay steeled himself. The mana pool within him, like a spinning wheel, suddenly intensified its pull. This time, however, he didn't absorb the magical threads tangled with Bran's presence. Instead, he reached out, grasping at the invisible threads extending through the walls.

Clay was determined to see just what he could drag out!

Within seconds, the thread that had previously been slack grew taut. Clay could distinctly feel a strange resistance—not something conveyed by his sense of touch but as if the sensation was directly projected into his mind.

Let's test it further!

To the others in the room, these magical threads were entirely invisible. To them, it merely looked as though Clay was showing a great fondness for Bran. As everyone's attention remained focused on the scene before them—including Clay's—no one noticed the raven that had suddenly flown into the hall through the open door.

The raven, with feathers as black as night, perched on the chandelier. Its deep yellow eyes shifted, cold and human-like, locking onto Clay's back with a look filled with hostility.

Clay, his Witcher senses fully sharpened, made a show of patting Bran's back as if comforting him. He pretended to discuss the gifts he would bring the boy the next time they met, offering reassurances with practiced ease.

But in truth, Clay's focus remained fixed on the magical thread. By now, it was stretched to its limit, and he could feel it thrumming under the immense strain—almost as if it might snap at any moment. He could almost hear the low groan of its tension in his mind.

Then, a nauseating stench of decay suddenly assaulted him. It wasn't a smell he could identify with his nose; it was more like a sensation that filled his mind directly, an instinctual warning that made his skin crawl.

Amidst this suffocating odor, an unnatural chill settled in the air—a coldness that seemed to emanate from a glacier looming just behind him, one that would never melt, its frozen weight pressing against his back.

Snap!

The sound reverberated in Clay's mind, though no one else in the room heard it. The magical thread finally exhausted its strength and snapped cleanly in two beneath his unseen pull.

The end of the thread that had been connected to the unknown recoiled violently, like a severed tentacle jerking back in retreat. On Bran's side, the thread wound around him instantly withered, much like vines deprived of sustenance. In the blink of an eye, it turned a sickly gray, a symbol of death, before dissipating into the air.

Before Clay could fully process the implications of this sudden development, a hoarse whisper slithered into his ear:

"You win, emissary of the Outer God."

A powerful force suddenly gripped Clay's entire being. Before he could react, his vision blurred, and his mind was consumed by chaotic confusion.

When his senses returned, Clay's expression froze in shock.

The surroundings were unfamiliar—he was no longer in the hall of Winterfell.

"You seem surprised, emissary of the Outer God."

A pale, monotone voice echoed from behind him. Clay's instincts flared as he snapped back to reality and turned to face the source.

There, standing just a few paces away, was a figure cloaked entirely in black.

"Who are you?" Clay demanded, his voice low and wary. His hand was instinctively raised, forming a Witcher sign.

A faint, yellow barrier shimmered into existence around him—a protective shield.

The Witcher's Sign—Quen.

"I am… merely a withered corpse," the figure replied, stepping forward, its voice carrying an unsettling calm.

The figure slowly pulled back its hood, revealing long, snow-white hair cascading over a face that was twisted and shriveled. Its features were grotesque, as though nature itself had warped them. One eye was missing, its socket empty and oozing what seemed to be the roots of some sinister plant. From the forehead, strange fungi sprouted in unnatural clusters.

The sight of the figure was enough to make the blood in Clay's veins freeze. It resembled the ancient deities or spirits tied to nature in ancient myth, but it felt wrong—too wrong. Clay could sense the absence of vitality in the body before him, and instead, it radiated an overwhelming aura of death

"Yes, this… this is the scent of the Outer God," the figure continued, its voice as hollow and emotionless as the air around them, speaking the words as if reciting a simple truth.

Clay's thoughts raced as he remembered the figure's earlier words. It had called him the "emissary of the Outer God."

Realization struck him like a bolt of lightning. The figure was referring to the powers granted to him through the Witcher system.

"You need not be so wary," the figure added, its voice unchanged. "Your body is brimming with magic. I neither wish nor have the power to harm you, emissary of the Outer God."

The figure deliberately repeated the title "emissary of the Outer God," as if to underscore its significance.

Clay, however, paid no heed to the figure's words. Instead, he seized the moment to study his surroundings, his eyes scanning the unfamiliar space.

What he saw stunned him.

He saw… the Iron Throne!

It wasn't that Clay had ever seen this throne in this world before, but its unmistakable design left no doubt in his mind. This was the Iron Throne.

Rather than a mere chair, it was a massive heap of jagged spikes, blades, and twisted metal—an imposing, jagged monument to power.

The throne towered over the room, reaching an immense height. Including the uneven steps leading up to it, it must have stood seven or eight meters tall, by Clay's estimate.

"So, I'm in the throne room…" he muttered under his breath.

His mind raced, attempting to make sense of this. "My gods! Considering the distance, this must be thousands of miles away. Is there any mode of transport faster than a dragon in this world?"

The thought surfaced in his mind unbidden, almost absurd in its suddenness, but he couldn't shake the strange feeling of displacement.

However, his attention was quickly drawn elsewhere—something that shouldn't have been there. And that detail made the figure's identity all too clear.

Dragon bones—a massive dragon skull, to be precise, reduced to a skeletal form.

Clay recalled the history vividly. After Robert I Baratheon usurped the Targaryen throne, the great dragon skull that once adorned the Throne Room had been moved to the Red Keep's dungeons, replaced by a tapestry bearing the crowned stag, symbolizing House Baratheon.

Yet here, in front of him, was the skull.

At this moment in time, there was no way a dragon's skull should still be in the throne room.

This meant only one thing: Clay wasn't standing in the present-day throne room, but in its past.

He was either witnessing a historical moment—or caught within someone's memory.

As the figure observed Clay staring intently at the Iron Throne and the dragon skull, its voice echoed again breaking Clay's thoughts:

The figure's voice echoed, breaking Clay's focused thoughts as he studied the Iron Throne and the massive dragon skull.

"Emissary of the Outer God, it seems you already know where you are."

The tone was calm, measured, yet carried an air of quiet authority.

It posed a question, almost as though testing him: "Then, do you wish to sit upon it?"

"..."

Clay said nothing. He didn't want to answer—didn't need to. The truth was already clear in his heart.

The figure continued, its voice unwavering, as if it could sense the thoughts stirring within him. "I see boundless ambition coursing through your being, brimming with the magic of the Outer God. It piques my curiosity—why does an heir of White Harbor harbor such a desire to sit on this throne? What drives you? Is it the god you serve, or something more… human?"

Clay remained silent, his gaze locked onto the grotesque figure before him. He wasn't sure if the question was genuine or rhetorical, but he wasn't about to bare his soul to a stranger cloaked in mystery.

The figure seemed unfazed by the lack of a response and pressed on. "I brought you here not to antagonize but to negotiate. Cease your meddling—whether with the Heart Tree or the boy."

The words struck a chord, and in that moment, Clay's mind raced.

So that's it. It's not me it's worried about. It's Bran.

The pieces began to fall into place. If this being had the power to drag him into what felt like the currents of history itself, its identity could only belong to one person—no, one entity.

Brynden Rivers. The bastard of House Targaryen. The infamous Bloodraven.

The Three-Eyed Raven.

..

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[Chapter End's]

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