Winterfell was not actually a city. Strictly speaking, it was merely House Stark's military stronghold.
It covered several acres, enclosed by two immense, thick walls. Following the Stark guards, Clay passed through the eastern gate just before it closed and entered the capital of the North.
Guards bearing the direwolf sigil lit torches, dispelling a little of the darkness that filled every inch of the air.
"Friends of House Manderly, please wait here a moment. I'll report to Ser Rodrik. He'll arrange suitable quarters for you."
Clay nodded. It was already evening, certainly not a good time to pay Lord Stark a visit.
The guard hurried away. Clay and his party waited quietly in front of the main keep, with only Wylla looking around from horseback.
About twenty minutes later, a stocky old man carrying a helmet appeared in Clay's field of vision.
He wore a crimson cloak, with a longsword hanging at his waist, and walked with steady steps.
"Winterfell welcomes you," he said evenly, then introduced himself.
"I am Rodrik, Winterfell's master-at-arms. What brings you all this way?"
Clay swung down from his horse. Seeing this, the remaining guards and Wylla dismounted as well. He walked up to Rodrik, looked at this old man who had devoted his life to the house of the direwolf, and said with a smile:
"Hello, ser. I'm Clay Manderly, and this is my younger sister, Wylla."
Rodrik had actually heard Clay's name when he was first born. But Clay had always kept a rather low profile, and he had vanished from Westeros for two whole years, so Rodrik could not immediately recall who he was.
A member of a cadet branch of House Manderly? Rodrik frowned. In nearly fifty years of service to House Stark, he had never encountered anyone from a cadet branch directly requesting an audience with the Lord of Winterfell.
This went against protocol.
But every member of House Stark understood that when winter came, the lone wolf died, but the pack survived. House Stark had no reason to refuse or turn away this strange Manderly boy before him.
"You'll have to wait until tomorrow to see my lord. Stay here in Winterfell tonight. I'll report to him tomorrow." With the hour already late, Rodrik had no interest in conversation and kept his words brief.
As a guest, Clay naturally had no objection to following his host's arrangements. Stark guards took care of their horses and settled his guards in. Holding on to Wylla, who was a little afraid of the dark, Clay followed Rodrik's not particularly tall figure.
The night passed swiftly, and warm sunlight shone into the ancient stronghold once more.
Already up for some time, Clay was practicing the Basic School of the Wolf Swordsmanship that came with being a level 1 witcher. He swung a finely crafted hand-and-a-half sword clumsily. Though it was strenuous, he was careless with none of the moves.
"You practice swordsmanship too?" A young voice behind Clay stopped his blade in midswing.
Clay lowered his sword and turned toward the voice.
A boy in plain clothes stood at the entrance to the small courtyard where Clay's party was staying.
He had dark brown hair and was very thin, with a drab shortsword hanging at his waist.
Seeing Clay stop, the boy approached and held out a hand like a little grown-up.
"My name is Jon. Hello." His voice carried a boy's shyness.
Strangely, he did not give his surname, but Clay had already guessed who he was.
"Clay." The two shook hands, and Clay gave his own name, likewise leaving out his surname.
The boy before him was most likely Jon Snow, the future King in the North, who carried the blood of both wolf and dragon. His surname was a very sensitive subject for him; he deeply resented his status as a bastard.
"Are you... from House Manderly?" Jon stared at the merman banner planted in the courtyard, studying it for a while before asking hesitantly.
Because the lady of the house, Catelyn, did not like him, Jon had never received a systematic education in heraldry. He knew nothing about these complicated family relationships.
At Clay's nod, a trace of gloom flashed through Jon's eyes. Though born into noble House Stark, he would rather have been like this member of House Manderly before him, a head taller than himself, and had a surname of his own. He bitterly hated Snow, that damned mark of bastardy.
Jon quickly composed himself. As the best swordsman among House Stark's younger generation, he had just observed the paths of Clay's swings and the pattern of his steps. These were things Ser Rodrik had never taught him.
His boyish competitiveness stirred, and he could not help asking, "Hey, can I spar with you?"
Though he had yet to grasp the essence of the School of the Wolf Swordsmanship, Clay certainly would not refuse such a challenge. He laughed heartily.
"Of course, Jon."
The two took their positions. The Manderly guards who were already up cleared a space for their young master without being asked.
"Be careful. Ser Rodrik said I'm the best at swordsmanship in the family, even better than Robb." The simple-hearted boy was completely unaware that these words had already revealed his identity. After all, which lordly house in the North did not know the name of the North's heir?
The two faced off. Without their noticing, a large ring of people had gathered around them, including both Manderly and Stark guards. Ser Rodrik was among them as well, with a middle-aged man standing behind him, watching the courtyard intently.
After circling the space a few times, Jon found that Clay's footwork kept pressing him, denying him a comfortable opening to attack. He made an immediate decision, gave a low shout, and charged with his sword swinging.
With a clang, Clay's blade barely stopped Jon's attack at waist height. He had not expected Jon's attack to be so fierce. His hand-and-a-half sword was much heavier to begin with, naturally making it slower to swing.
Seeing his attack blocked, Jon immediately drew his sword back. Before he could thrust a second time, Clay's rising slash forced him to hold his sword across his body to block.
The two weapons met again. Jon felt a tremendous force travel through his blade, and his body involuntarily retreated two steps.
At that moment, Clay was grateful that the time he had spent on the School of the Wolf Swordsmanship had not been wasted. Following the footwork he had practiced, he stepped forward swiftly and brought his sword down at Jon's head.
The weapons clashed repeatedly, drawing constant cheers from the onlookers. The middle-aged man, however, frowned. He looked at Rodrik, whose snow-white eyebrows were likewise drawn together, and was about to speak when Rodrik said:
"This doesn't look good. Jon may lose."
In the courtyard, the two boys swung their weapons. Behind them, House Stark's running wolf banner and House Manderly's merman banner fluttered quietly in the warm morning light.
"An interesting lad." The middle-aged man watched the courtyard, Clay's figure reflected in his gray eyes.
"When they finish, tell him I'll be waiting in the hall." The middle-aged man left the crowd.
"Yes, my lord."