This magic shared its source with the Heart Tree. Clay was even certain that the far end of the thread, hidden from view, must connect to the largest Heart Tree in Winterfell, or even in the entire North.
In Winterfell's spacious hall, little Bran rested his head on Clay's shoulder. The boy's face was full of an adorable smile, mixed with a slight hint of bewilderment.
Clay steeled himself. Like a spool, his Magic Pool sharply increased its pull. He stopped absorbing the threads of magic on Bran and began tugging at the invisible thread that passed through the wall instead.
Clay wanted to see just what sort of thing he could drag out!
Within seconds, the slack thread was pulled taut. Clay distinctly sensed a strange pulling force. It was not something his sense of touch told him; it was more like something projected directly into his brain.
Try again!
Apart from Clay, none of those present could see these threads of magic. All they saw was how fond Clay seemed to be of Bran. None of them, Clay included, noticed a crow suddenly fly into the hall through the open doors.
The pitch-black crow landed on a chandelier, its deep yellow eyes moving as it watched Clay's back with an almost human coldness. Its gaze was filled with hostility.
Clay pushed his witcher senses to their limit. He made a show of patting Bran's back while chatting with him about bringing him some things he liked the next time they met.
In reality, however, he kept tugging at the thread of magic, which was already on the verge of snapping. He almost seemed able to hear it groaning.
Suddenly, Clay sensed a strong stench of decay. It was a sensation rather than a smell because this, too, was poured directly into his brain, making him instinctively uncomfortable.
Within that stench, Clay also sensed an intense chill, as though an iceberg that had never melted in ten thousand years stood behind him.
An illusory snap rang out, though unfortunately no one heard it. The thread of magic finally exhausted its strength, and Clay tore it in two.
Like a tentacle, the end connected to the unknown rapidly withdrew. On Bran's end, as the thread broke, the threads of magic wound around him became like plant vines deprived of nourishment. In an instant, they dried up and withered, finally turning the gray of death before dissipating into the air.
Before Clay could think about this sudden change, a hoarse murmur abruptly sounded beside his ear:
"You win, agent of a foreign god."
An immense pulling force suddenly seized every part of Clay's body. Before he could act, his vision blurred, and his mind fell into chaos.
When he could see clearly again, the expression on Clay's face froze.
Everything before him told him that his body was no longer in Winterfell's hall.
"You seem surprised, agent of a foreign god."
A flat, lifeless voice sounded behind him. Clay abruptly came to his senses and saw a figure wrapped entirely in black robes.
"Who are you?" Clay asked gravely, raising his hand to form a Sign.
A pale yellow, circular shield appeared, enclosing Clay within it.
Witcher Sign-Quen!
"I... am merely a piece of withered bone." The figure approached and removed his hood.
Snow-white hair fell down, but it looked withered and twisted. He had only one eye, its pupil as red as blood.
The roots of some plant emerged from his other, empty eye socket, and fungi grew on his forehead.
His appearance somewhat resembled the nature-related gods and spirits of certain myths, but Clay could sense that there was very little vitality in the body before him. Most of it was permeated by the aura of death.
"Yes, that is it... the scent of a foreign god." His expressionless voice seemed to be stating a simple fact.
Clay recalled their exchange just now. Had the other party called him an "agent of a foreign god"?
With a dawning sense of understanding, Clay guessed that he meant the abilities granted by his Witcher System.
"You need not be so nervous. Your body is filled with magic. I have neither the intention nor the strength to harm you, agent of a foreign god."
As he spoke, seemingly deliberately, he emphasized the title "agent of a foreign god" once again.
Clay ignored him. He finally had a chance to examine his surroundings. Looking would have been harmless enough, but a single glance left him stunned.
He saw... the Iron Throne!
It was not that Clay had actually seen the Iron Throne in this world before, but that the chair was simply too distinctive. At first sight, Clay understood that it was the Iron Throne.
Rather than a chair, it was more a great lump covered in spikes, blades, and twisted metal.
The chair itself was tall-extremely tall. Clay estimated that, including its uneven steps, it was perhaps seven or eight meters high.
So, I'm in the throne room?!
My god! Judging by the distance, that must be over a thousand li! This world has transportation faster than dragons?
For some reason, that was the thought that popped into Clay's head.
But then Clay saw something-something that should not have been there, and which also revealed the identity of the person before him.
Dragon bones. To be precise, an enormous dragon's head, though only its bones remained.
Clay remembered clearly that after Robert I usurped the throne of House Targaryen, these decorative dragon skulls had been moved beneath the Red Keep, replaced by tapestries bearing the Crowned Stag of House Baratheon.
At this point in time, there was no way Clay could see dragon bones in the throne room.
So Clay understood. This was not the present-day throne room at all, but one from history.
In other words, Clay was standing within history, or... within someone's memories.
Seeing Clay stare fixedly at the Iron Throne and the dragon bones, he spoke again:
"Agent of a foreign god, it seems you already know where this is."
In a calm tone, he asked:
"Then, do you want to sit on it?"
"..." Clay remained silent. He did not want to answer this question, though he had long since had his answer.
"I saw boundless ambition in this body of yours, through which a foreign god's magic flows. I find it strange. Why would an heir to White Harbor wish to sit upon this chair? What supports you? Is it the god behind you?"
He seemed not to expect an answer from Clay at all and continued speaking.
"I brought you here to discuss something with you. Please stop interfering with me, whether it concerns the Heart Tree or that child."
Hearing this, Clay finally understood. His target had never been Clay, but Bran!
Combined with this ability to drag people into the currents of history, his identity was all but clear.
Brynden Rivers, a Targaryen bastard, Duke Bloodraven, the Three-Eyed Crow!