Secrets

After leaving the walls of the Wolf's Den, Clay sat on horseback and took a breath of the North's icy air.

"My lord, I don't like them at all. There's always something strange about those people."

The speaker was a young guard riding beside him. Clay did not mind his loose tongue. He knew he would probably be coming to this place many times in the future.

Most northerners worshipped the Old Gods, while House Manderly, which had migrated from the Reach, had retained its faith in the Seven. But only they themselves knew how devout that faith was.

House Manderly did not interfere with its subjects' beliefs, so worship of the Old and New Gods coexisted in this city.

Outside the Wolf's Den stood a very ancient godswood, but the only weirwood within it had long since lost most of its leaves and looked withered and decayed.

This heart tree was probably older than the Wolf's Den itself and had witnessed countless houses within its walls rise and fall, flourish and decline.

Clay had visited that tree and touched its trunk, but to his disappointment, the magic within it was pitifully scant. It had not increased his magic pool in the slightest.

As a scion of House Manderly, especially its heir, repeatedly visiting a godswood that represented the faith of the Old Gods was rather inappropriate in itself.

Originally, Clay had no reason to go inside again, but when he saw Ser Bartimus limping into the woods with a cane, he changed his mind.

Leaving the guards to wait where they were, Clay followed him inside.

The woods were not large, but Clay had rarely entered them, and few people ever came here. Amid the seemingly deep woods, Clay could only rely on his witcher senses to follow the tracks on the ground.

After several twists and turns, Clay finally found the ancient, half-withered heart tree in the northeastern corner of the godswood, along with Ser Bartimus standing quietly beneath it.

Seeing Clay approach from a distance, Ser Bartimus tugged at the corners of his mouth, which passed for a smile.

"Ser, do you worship the Old Gods?"

Clay crossed a shallow pool surrounding the godswood and came before the old knight under his gaze.

"Yes. I've stood beneath the heart tree and prayed to them for decades. I'm used to it."

His tone remained mild, neither sorrowful nor joyful, merely stating a simple fact.

Clay noticed a dark bottle stuck in the earth by the old knight's feet. He did not know what it contained.

Seemingly noticing Clay's gaze, the old knight leaned against the heart tree's trunk and slowly slid down. He tossed aside his cane, flicked a finger against the mouth of the bottle, and said calmly:

"Back then, I traded a leg for your grandfather's life on the battlefield. He gave me this, along with that castle. He said that once I stepped down from this post, we'd drink this bottle together."

Clay was taken aback. He had not known that this unassuming bottle of liquor had such a story behind it.

"Then why did you..."

The old knight waved a hand, plucked a sorrel leaf swaying in the wind from the ground, and tossed it into his mouth to chew slowly, finding a moment to answer Clay's question:

"I did once think of doing that, sharing this drink with your grandfather and our comrades from those days. Unfortunately, by now, your grandfather and I are the only ones from back then still alive. Drinking with him would make me think of them. It's not worth it."

The old knight's voice was as calm as a lake, but Clay could taste the deep desolation within it.

His grandfather was already over sixty, and Ser Bartimus before him was much the same. As nobles, they could enjoy plenty of rest and good nutrition, but with medical care at this level, ordinary people who came off the battlefield rarely lived to sixty.

"Come on, have a taste. Gods bless us, let's hope it hasn't turned into a bottle of vinegar."

The old knight drew a dagger from his breast pocket and drove its tip into the cork.

With a pop, the slightly moldy cork came free. Clay's sensitive nose caught a faint aroma of ale. He knew this old bottle had been fortunate enough to retain its original character.

"It's only ordinary ale. Will it suit the young master's taste?"

The old knight handed the bottle to Clay. Clay did not refuse and accepted the bottle etched with the marks of time.

Spending time with his grandfather, Clay could hardly avoid picking up his habits. He took a great swig. Sure enough, it was the most ordinary ale, even somewhat poor in quality.

But that did not matter. He had not come here today to savor ale.

The two drank, taking swigs in turn. After a while, as the alcohol went to Ser Bartimus's head, he grew more talkative.

Stroking the equally aged trunk with his aged hand, Ser Bartimus said to Clay:

"Boy, I have no objection to you giving the whole White Sea Guard a better life, but remember this, whatever you do: never let yourself become too lenient."

The old knight drained what little ale remained in one go, let out a long breath, and continued:

"I know what you did in Winterfell. Very good. Only someone who can spill blood can command this White Sea Guard. But then again, even though they're House Manderly's men, never give any one of them your trust, at any time."

"You're a clever man. You know what I'm saying. If we can infiltrate other noble houses, can you guarantee those fellows won't send men carrying gold dragons into White Harbor to tempt our people and infiltrate us?"

"For now, I can vouch for those five men's loyalty, but not necessarily the people beneath them. Here's a method for you: believe half of all the information passed up to you from below, and you generally won't make any serious mistakes."

Digesting this valuable experience and information, Clay knew that most of what the old knight before him said was right. This game of thrones was rife with betrayal and deception.

So the best strategy was to trust everyone a little, and trust no one.

Their conversation ranged across many topics. The old knight boasted to him about his and Clay's grandfather's exploits on the battlefield during the War of the Usurper, and how powerful the northern army he had served in had been.

In the end, the old knight left unsteadily. Though his steps faltered, his back remained straight. Clay's grandfather had only relieved him of his duties as commander of the White Sea Guard; a large stretch of nearby land still belonged to him.

Clay scooped up clear water from the pool and washed his face. The icy sensation dispelled what little tipsiness he had. Bracing himself against the ancient trunk, he stood and brushed the dust from his clothes with both hands.

Just as he was about to leave, a harsh crow's cry stopped him in his tracks.

Looking up, he saw an enormous jet-black crow perched on a branch, its deep yellow eyes staring straight at him, a gleam of intelligence flickering within them.

Clay knew who it was without having to think. He fully activated his witcher senses, and sure enough, faint magic resonated within the enormous crow. He recognized that magic.

The Three-Eyed Crow had come!