Game of Thrones: The Witcher System

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There was no struggle; death came clean and swift.

This was the truest face of the world: violence served as the thread holding society's order together. Therefore, killing should hardly surprise anyone.

Perhaps only the purest hearts can feel fear. The horses nearby neighed and reared up, but their skilled riders quickly calmed them.

"Let's go," Lord Eddard muttered heavily. Though the law of the realm had been carried out, it was clearly not something that brought him any joy.

In silence, the group turned their horses and began retracing the path back to Winterfell.

Clay overheard Lord Eddard speaking softly to his youngest son, Bran, who had just witnessed his first execution. In that moment, Eddard Stark set aside the stern mask of the Warden of the North and took on the role of a kind and patient father instead.

Meanwhile, Clay had instructed his captain of the guard—a man fiercely loyal to House Manderly—to take two guardsmen into the Wolfswood and retrieve the tender bark of a Heart tree.

Though the captain didn't understand the young lord's intentions, he carried out the order without hesitation. By the time Eddard gave the command to return, the three riders had already left the main group, vanishing into the vast expanse of the Wolfswood.

The horses' hooves moved forward at a slow, deliberate pace, reflecting their riders' subdued mood.

Clay felt a restless unease growing within him. He knew this was the year 298 AC, yet he hadn't expected the execution of the Night's Watch deserter to happen so soon. The realization left him with a disquieting sense of urgency.

Originally, his plan for this journey to Winterfell had been to explore the connection between the heart trees—the Northerners' revered weirwoods—and the Old Gods, worshipped across the lands north of the Neck for millennia.

At the godswood in White Harbor, he had encountered a young, stunted heart tree. When Clay touched its bark, he felt a faint trace of power flow into his body, causing his mana pool to swell slightly. It had been a subtle but undeniable effect, reinforcing his belief in the latent power of the weirwoods and the energy they held.

Clay was certain that if he could lay his hand on the ancient heart tree in Winterfell's godswood, his mana pool would be fully replenished, brimming with energy unlike anything he'd experienced before.

But now, his plans had to be overturned. He understood clearly that the occurrence of this execution meant: Jon Arryn, the Hand of the King, had likely already been poisoned by Petyr Baelish in King's Landing.

King Robert I Baratheon, the man who had overthrow the Targaryen dynasty, was likely already making his way up the Kingsroad with his court, bound for Winterfell. The king's arrival would set events into motion, and Clay knew there was no stopping what was to come.

At this moment, Clay was no more than a minor figure, incapable of influencing Lord Eddard's decisions. Once the Starks of Winterfell began their journey south, the unprepared stag and the direwolf would have their throats torn out by the cunning lion. The War of the Five Kings would soon ignite, and chaos would sweep across Westeros like a wildfire.

For the Northerners, honor came above all else. Robb Stark would inevitably lead the North's armies south to fight for justice, and Clay, as heir to White Harbor, would have no choice but to follow. Yet the thought of proud Northern lords trapped and executed, of Robb and his kin betrayed by the Freys in an act of vile treachery, sent shivers racing down his spine.

The image of the Red Wedding lingered in his mind—a massacre that would spell the end of the Stark line and the North's defiance.

He was no god. Being part of this game of thrones meant that, more often than not, one was swept along by the tide. The time left for him to find a way to break the cycle was running out...

Far ahead, Jon Snow and Robb Stark, having galloped ahead on horseback, now stood atop a low hill. They shouted back to the group, "Father! Bran! Come quickly!" Robb called, his voice filled with unrestrained excitement. Jon added, his tone equally fervent, "You need to see this!"

In the suffocating silence, Clay's gaze fell upon the two entwined corpses by the bridge. The enormous direwolf, its sheer size staggering, lay impaled on the stag's antlers—a grim testament to their deadly struggle. The symbolism of the scene—two mighty creatures, a wolf and a stag, locked in death—was so stark that it stole the words from the men of Winterfell.

For the Northerners, who revered and feared the Old Gods, this bloody tableau felt like a divine warning. Unease rippled through the group, filling them with dread—all except for Clay.

By the time Clay arrived, the five wolf pups had already been unearthed, their small, shivering forms cradled in the arms of Bran and his brothers.

"This is an ill omen," someone muttered under their breath. "Death gives way to birth."

Theon Greyjoy, his ever-mocking smile stretched wide, drew the sword from his waist with a casual flourish. His sharp voice broke through the tension as he turned to Bran:

"Bran, those pups won't survive long anyway," he said, his tone laced with ridicule. "Toss them over to me!"

Clay had always disliked Theon, especially that smug face of his. Irritated and unable to hold back, Clay snapped, his words sharp and biting: "They're not your wolves. Mind your damn business!"

The bridge, once serene, now hung in oppressive silence. Every gaze turned toward Clay. Theon froze, his smug expression faltering as anger and embarrassment flickered across his face. In a swift motion, he aimed his gleaming blade at Clay's horse's head.

Perhaps misjudging his strength, Theon's sword grazed the horse's cheek. The startled steed reared, and Clay, caught off guard, was flung to the ground.

Clay tumbled awkwardly, rolling onto his feet with a half-turn before stabilizing. The sight of Theon Greyjoy's silent, mocking smirk ignited a surge of anger, and instinctively, his hand shot for the longsword that had fallen nearby.

Seeing their young lord thrown from his horse, the Manderly guards instinctively reached for their sword hilts. But with Eddard Stark present, they hesitated, knowing better than to draw steel.

"Say that again, Manderly brat!" Theon, emboldened by the lack of intervention, grew even more arrogant. Just as he was preparing to spit out another insult, a sharp hand-and-a-half sword flashed coldly through the air, whistling straight toward his face.

Ser Rodrik Cassel, who had been poised to step in, instinctively raised his sword to block. A crisp clash rang out, and the aging knight staggered back two steps, his sword now left in his hand with a jagged, broken edge. Clay's weapon, hurled with full force, now quivered in the ground between Theon's legs.

"Enough!" Lord Eddard's thunderous voice cut through the tension as he kicked his foster son to the ground.

"Take him back to Winterfell," Eddard ordered, his gaze unwavering. The Winterfell guards quickly lifted a pale, trembling Theon—who seemed to have wet himself—and whisked him away.

Eddard cast a brief, assessing glance at the broken sword in Ser Rodrik's hand, then turned his scrutinizing gaze to the now-calm Clay, his expression unreadable. He didn't question Clay's actions, but his voice was stern when he asked, "Manderly, why did you say 'that'?"

Relieved that Lord Stark wasn't pursuing the matter, Clay exhaled slightly, silently berating himself for acting impulsively as he replied, "It's just the corpses of wolves and a stag. Why go out of your way to trouble the surviving wolves?"

"These are direwolves," Robb interjected, his voice tinged with awe. "They've never been seen this far south of the Wall."

"I know," Clay responded. "If that's the case, what I'd most like to do right now is pull out the direwolf's teeth, find a lion to shove into its eye, and then toss the lion's corpse into the sewers of Casterly Rock."

He shrugged nonchalantly as he spoke, his tone utterly casual.

To everyone's surprise, the incident ended with a rare laugh from Lord Eddard. He instructed his children to personally care for the direwolf pups—oh, and also the white one that belonged to Jon. As for the matter between Clay and Theon, Eddard never brought it up again.

On the way back, basking in the friendly gazes of the Winterfell folk, Clay noticed Robb riding beside him, his lips moving repeatedly as if testing the sharpness of his teeth.

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[Chapter End's]

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