"Grandfather, there's something I must tell you."
Clay's words and solemn expression stirred Earl Wyman's interest a little. As far as he remembered, his grandson had never spoken to him so seriously before.
"Oh? What does our champion of the North have to tell me?"
Clay tossed down his sword, sat beside his grandfather, and gathered his words.
"Grandfather, someone tried to assassinate me in Winterfell."
That single sentence froze Earl Wyman's hand in midair as he stroked his graying beard. His eyes went wide, and his mouth hung half-open, unable to form a word.
But that lasted only a second. Earl Wyman's already ruddy face turned scarlet.
The old man sprang to his feet in fury. Someone in the North dared to kill his grandson? Who?!
The first person who came to mind was the old flayer who lived north of him, in the Dreadfort: Roose Bolton.
The two houses' lands bordered each other, and there had always been territorial disputes over a tree, a well, a village.
In his younger days, he had once led cavalry into a standoff against House Bolton's spearmen near Hornwood. They had nearly come to blows.
Had the Duke Stark of that time not led troops to surround them both, rivers of blood might already have flowed between the two houses.
So when Clay became his heir only to suffer an assassination attempt, Earl Wyman's first thought was of his old rival.
His face darkened, and his voice was hard as stone as he asked:
"Was it that old flayer?"
When Clay looked startled and then failed to nod, Earl Wyman's thick, graying brows drew together.
If it wasn't the old flayer, who wanted to harm his grandson? Recalling what Clay had done in Winterfell, the old earl suddenly started and blurted out:
"Was it the queen?!"
Clay shook his head again. He did not want his grandfather to keep guessing pointlessly. Most people could rack their brains forever and never connect it to Petyr.
Clay gave him the answer outright.
"He was sent by our Master of Coin, Petyr Baelish."
At that name, the old earl stopped pacing. As a nobleman of the older generation, he was not familiar with the name, but the title of Master of Coin was prominent enough. He soon picked out a figure wearing a mischievous smile from his memories.
Then he grew puzzled. Why would the Master of Coin want to kill his grandson? Did he covet White Harbor's wealth?
It was a foolish notion. If Littlefinger truly had his eye on White Harbor's gold dragons, he should have resorted to extortion rather than assassination.
He did not doubt Clay in the slightest, because Clay had no reason to deceive him.
He was, after all, a great noble who had headed his house for decades. Though he had not worked out why Littlefinger had done it, he soon caught something amiss and asked:
"Wait, Clay. Why haven't I heard anything about this from Lord Eddard? And why haven't the White Harbor guards reported any of it to me?"
Earl Wyman stared straight at Clay, waiting for his answer.
"Because I was the only person who knew about it from beginning to end. No, that's not right. Lord Eddard knew too, but not everything."
"You were the only one who knew? Where's the assassin?"
Clay did not answer that question. Instead, he brought up another subject.
"Under the circumstances, I was locked in a dungeon. Everyone would have assumed any assassination attempt was the Lannisters' doing. Our Lord Petyr wanted to exploit that and make me the spark that ignited a conflict between the Starks and the Lannisters."
"I subdued the assassin and pried the true culprit's identity out of him. Then I let him leave, because as long as that assassin existed, the outcome would have been the same whether he lived or died."
"Littlefinger wanted me to light the fire, but I refused to give him what he wanted. His schemes might work on other people, but they won't work on me."
Having finished, Clay fell silent. Only he and his grandfather remained on the training ground, and now it was so quiet that the only sound was the merman banner fluttering in the wind.
The old man pressed his lips together, his expression grim.
His instincts told him that far too much of this affair remained beneath the surface. As Clay had said, this assassination attempt was merely one of Littlefinger's moves to sow discord between the lion and the wolf.
Though furious that his grandson had been made a pawn for no reason, he felt even more fear at what might have happened. The people of the North had always been far too cut off from news of the south.
In his eyes, the Master of Coin, the master of intelligence, the Grand Maester, and the like amounted to nothing more than three symbols: a gold dragon, an eye, and a necklace.
"You just let that assassin go? Tell me who he is. I still have some resources at my disposal. As long as his standing isn't too high, I can find a way to kill him."
As though he had long expected his grandfather to be upset that he had spared the assassin, Clay answered with a smile:
"Don't worry. He can't get away!"
"Oh?"
Clay was entirely confident as he said:
"The man is a noble from the Crownlands, as minor as they come. I had him send our dear Lord Petyr a raven saying I'd been killed. But obviously, I've shown up in White Harbor alive and kicking, and Littlefinger will soon hear about it."
"So when Littlefinger compares the assassin's letter with the news that you're alive, he'll inevitably conclude that the assassin lied. And as a Crownlands noble, the man must have holdings there. He has nowhere to run."
Earl Wyman followed Clay's reasoning and immediately understood his plan. The lad had never intended to do the deed himself. He wanted to use Littlefinger's own hand to clean house.
"Wait. How can you be sure he'll send Littlefinger a raven? Would he be that stupid?"
Earl Wyman keenly spotted an obvious flaw in the plan.
But Clay answered him with a chuckle.
"Don't worry. He'll definitely do it, because he encountered a power he couldn't defy."
"What do you mean?"
Earl Wyman's brows, which had only just relaxed, collided once more, worked to exhaustion. He had not understood Clay's words. What did he mean by a power the man could not defy?
Then he saw Clay raise his left hand toward the distance and form a gesture he did not understand.
His palm opened, his index finger bent and pressed against his raised middle finger, while his remaining three fingers extended forward, spread apart.
A puzzled look had only just appeared on Earl Wyman's face when he heard Clay softly utter a single word:
"Igni!"
Firelight reddened the old earl's eyes. The surging flames made him feel hot even here in the cold lands of the North.
Looking at the scorched ground and the weeds still burning, Earl Wyman stared blankly at his grandson, who seemed somewhat unfamiliar. His mind was empty.
Then he heard Clay's slow, firm answer:
"He'll definitely do it, because he cannot defy the power of magic..."
Posting first, fixing typos later. Doge face to save my skin.