"I believe my terms have shown sufficient sincerity, agent of a foreign god."
He spoke slowly, his pale, withered skin creasing together as though it might split apart the next moment.
The Three-Eyed Crow was somewhat angry, but more than that, he was helpless. His claim that he could do nothing to Clay was true. When his crows had observed Clay, he had been shocked by the magic filling Clay's body.
He had long since tried to use magic to interfere with this "heretic" roaming unchecked through the North, but it had had no effect whatsoever.
"No. As I see it, you call me an agent of a foreign god, so there is no foundation of trust between us. Besides, Lord Three-Eyed Crow, how am I to know you will honor your agreement?"
At this point, Clay had no need to keep pretending, so he simply revealed the other party's identity outright.
The Three-Eyed Crow's blood-red pupil widened slightly, clearly surprised that Clay knew his identity. Only after a long while did he speak.
"You have surprised me again, agent of a foreign god. I do not believe I have revealed myself before you before. Where did you learn my identity?"
His question earned him a flash of Clay's white teeth and a faintly mocking reply.
"As you said, that isn't important."
Clay thought, If I told you your true body was Beyond the Wall, would you be so frightened that your three eyes turned into four?
"..."
Taking a deep breath, the Three-Eyed Crow decided to abandon the question. He had finally understood what this infuriating agent of a foreign god before him meant by a foundation of trust.
"Very well, then. As you wish. I would like to hear your terms."
To be honest, Clay did not want to fall out with the Three-Eyed Crow. To put it heartlessly, what did it matter to him whether Bran was controlled or whether he lived or died?
If the great nobles of the Seven Kingdoms were treated as investment prospects, then, honestly, not one of them was a quality choice. Anyone who doubted that could look at how things ended: within a few years, almost an entire crop of these prominent dukes had died.
The old wolf died on the executioner's block, House Tully's old duke died of illness, Lord Tywin dropped dead in a privy, Houses Tyrell and Baratheon were wiped out, and the prince of Dorne was assassinated. Add the Hand of the King, Jon Arryn, who was already dead, and the mortality rate could be said to have hit its limit.
That was why Jon Snow, covered in protagonist halo, could cheat his way from bastard to Lord Commander of the Night's Watch and then King in the North. Everyone with prestige and ability had died, and only then did his turn come.
In all honesty, the person Clay most wanted to invest in was Daenerys, far away across the Narrow Sea. But for now, he lacked an opportunity, and a Daenerys who had not experienced blood and fire was likewise an unqualified Targaryen.
"You may do what you wish with Bran, but the magic of the Heart Trees in the North must be open to me. Also, my previous demands still stand."
Those were Clay's terms. In truth, he had never intended to make the other party actually procure a dragon or a hatchable Dragon Egg for him. His real objective was still the magic within the Heart Trees.
He was not Daenerys. Leaving aside the question of whether he had the bloodline to command dragons, at this stage, he could not possibly abandon White Harbor, one of the wealthiest cities in all Westeros.
White Harbor was not Essos. Once Daenerys resolved the issue of her own safety, no one could do anything about her dragons. But imagine keeping a dragon in White Harbor for fun.
At the rate a young dragon grew, it would inevitably be discovered, however well the secret was kept. Then things would get interesting. The Seven Kingdoms would most likely halt their civil war and march straight on White Harbor.
Even the best outcome would be the dragon being seized or killed under military pressure, or, with luck, flying away on its own. Then Clay would be stripped of his position as heir, don the black, and go to the Wall to gnaw on snow with Jon Snow.
But things never quite went as Clay imagined.
"Agreed, but I have conditions as well. Apart from Winterfell, all the weirwoods in the North under my lord's protection possess magic. But that magic has a limit. You cannot do what you did in the Godswood. That would cause grave harm to the trees themselves."
Understood. I can draw from them, but not too much. Hmm, acceptable.
Wait! Did he just agree to actually get me a dragon?
Clay had only just realized this and had not yet had time to open his mouth when he heard the voice.
"The bargain is struck, agent of a foreign god. From now on, you can contact me by touching a weirwood. I look forward to our next meeting."
The throne hall twisted before Clay's eyes. Then his vision blurred, and he was back in Winterfell's great hall once more. Here, not a single second had passed.
Seeing Clay's somewhat stiff posture, Robb asked in confusion.
"Clay?"
Called back to reality by that voice, Clay finally came to his senses and hurriedly released Bran. In his vision, a thread of magic pierced the wall and wound around Bran's body once again. This time, however, Clay did not stop it.
He straightened and bowed to Duke Stark and his wife, who were watching him with smiles.
"All right, Clay, you may go. Remember, you are always welcome in Winterfell."
Winterfell's towering walls were already behind Clay. On horseback, he breathed the North's chilly air and studied his grandfather, who loomed as large as a city wall.
"I have to say, lad, you did well on this trip."
Noticing his grandson looking at him, Earl Wyman turned his head, stroked his grizzled beard, and smiled as he spoke.
He was now very satisfied with this grandson who had returned from Essos. He dared to kill Lannisters, had befriended the Stark family, and possessed fine swordsmanship of his own.
What displeased him was that he should not have indulged Wylla's antics when they set out on this trip. Otherwise, Clay would not have ended up in a dungeon. After his efforts with Wynafryd failed, he should not have entertained such thoughts again.
He had also misjudged his choice of guard captain. He already knew about Clay sleeping in the mud. Together with Wylla being harassed, it was enough to make Earl Wyman want to hang this guard captain named Hoster, had the occasion not been unsuitable.
Looking at the White Harbor guards surrounding him, Earl Wyman felt thoroughly pleased.
Just as they left the city, that Lannister queen, having received word, had indeed sent men to stop Clay and him from leaving. At the sight, his hundred cavalrymen had drawn their swords at once. Sure enough, those useless fools had been scared shitless and obediently cleared a path for the troops.
Watching this, Clay felt much the same. Sure enough, the bigger fist was the ultimate argument. Who cared whether you were the queen? In this world, when your fist was big enough to crush everyone else, you were the king.
They traveled south along the White Knife River. A week later, Clay once again smelled the distinctive briny tang of the coast and saw, at the edge of his vision, the vast city enclosed by enormous gray-white walls.
The merman banners fluttered. Only beneath these banners did Clay feel a relaxation he had not known in a long time.