To hatch or not to hatch, that was the question

When Clay's guards sensed something was wrong and hurried into the Godswood, they found their young master asleep, leaning wearily against the trunk of the Heart Tree.

There was nothing around him except a wooden chest beside a puddle. The chest was empty, and the guards found nothing.

The crunch of the guards' steel boots crushing withered Heart Tree leaves woke Clay from his deep sleep, but he did not want to get up at all.

He was utterly exhausted. After enduring indescribably intense pain, the nearly drained Clay felt that scorching stream of blood finally settle at his heart and stop moving, just as the Three-Eyed Crow had said.

Seeing that his promise had been fulfilled and the rest was Clay's own problem, the Three-Eyed Crow's grating voice, like snapping deadwood, echoed through the ancient Godswood. He spread his wings and vanished, while the figure of Hodor from Winterfell also disappeared behind the dense vegetation.

Boundless drowsiness overwhelmed Clay. Before he finally succumbed to sleep, he put the Dragon Egg into his Witcher System inventory, just as he had stored the ingredients for the Decoction of the Grasses.

"Young master, what happened to you?"

The guards questioned Clay anxiously, inwardly lamenting all the while. Young Master Clay was good in every other respect, kind to others and extraordinarily brave, but his fondness for acting alone truly gave his guards a headache.

They had heard this was not the first time their young master had done something like this. Hoster, the guard captain who had accompanied him to Winterfell, had already been transferred to the smithy to hammer iron for others because he had failed to protect him properly.

"It's nothing..." Clay waved a hand. The instant he woke, he had already found an excuse.

"I had a little wine with Ser Bartimus. That bottle of his was far too strong. As you can see, I'm terribly sleepy."

Sniffing lightly, a guard did indeed catch a faint scent of wine on their young master. It seemed he was telling the truth. There was no need for the guards to seek out Ser Bartimus to verify it, as long as Young Master Clay was all right.

Whether it was true or not was no concern of theirs as guards. They never meddled in matters between nobles.

Two broad, burly guards came forward and helped Clay, who was pretending to be drunk, onto his horse. They flanked him on either side to keep him from falling off.

Slumping crookedly in the saddle, Clay sighed inwardly. It seemed he would have to keep up this drunken act all the way back. And so, swaying unsteadily and fighting boundless drowsiness, the young lord of White Harbor returned to New Castle surrounded by his guards.

After handing Clay over to Wynafryd, who had come to meet him, the guard captain finally breathed a sigh of relief. After some thought, he turned and headed for the Sea Tower, where Earl Wyman was.

Seated beside the fireplace as he listened to the guard captain's report, Earl Wyman was merely a little surprised to hear that Clay had passed out drunk. As he remembered it, his grandson took very much after him when it came to drinking, and he rarely saw him drunk.

But when Earl Wyman, who had still been rather cheerful, heard that Clay's drinking companion had been Ser Bartimus, he froze for a moment. Then, seemingly realizing something, his expression suddenly turned strange.

That old bastard promised to drink that bottle with me. How could he just drink it with my grandson instead? Did the friendship between old brothers mean nothing anymore?

Under the guard's bewildered gaze, Earl Wyman's expression changed several times before he waved him out.

The moment he closed the door, he heard the earl smashing things inside. The sound left him utterly baffled. What exactly had brought on this sudden anger?

By the time Clay woke, it was already noon the next day. All he knew was that he had entered his room leaning on his older sister Wynafryd's shoulder, and the next time he opened his eyes, it was now.

"If I ever trust that old bird, the Three-Eyed Crow, again, I'm a..."

Forget it. No point insulting myself like that. I was the one who asked him to fetch the Dragon Egg. In the end, I have only myself to blame.

Leaning against the headboard with its sewn-on soft cushions, Clay felt the faint burning sensation coming from his heart. He knew the Blood of the Dragonlord was nestled inside it, and he had to resolve this problem as soon as possible.

He checked his Magic Pool. He had spent 40 points counteracting the pain yesterday, leaving him with a reserve of 80 points of magic.

Drawing on his magic, Clay felt for changes in the Blood of the Dragonlord within his heart.

His own blood, enveloped in witcher magic, surged toward the distinctly separate Blood of the Dragonlord in his heart. The instant the two kinds of magical blood touched, a sharp, needlelike pain shot through Clay's chest.

He panted out several hot breaths, and his face, pale from the pain, gradually returned to normal.

Cursing inwardly, Clay once again felt for changes in the Blood of the Dragonlord. After this collision and fusion, he could sense an almost imperceptible trace of scorching heat in the mass of his own magical blood from just now.

This could work!

Clay understood clearly: when he continually struck this Blood of the Dragonlord with his magical blood, the moment he fully merged it into his own blood, a new Blood of the Dragonlord would be born!

But... judging by the pain just now, if he used all his magic to collide with the Blood of the Dragonlord, the agony would probably stop his heart outright, sending him to an early grave.

Fine, I'll have to take it slowly. Clay was speechless. People always said a short pain was better than a prolonged one, but it seemed he would have to endure this long-term suffering.

Setting aside the Blood of the Dragonlord, whose outcome would only become clear later, Clay considered another question:

I have the Dragon Egg. Now what?

Before, he had only daydreamed about what he would do if he really had a dragon. But now that the possibility actually lay before him, he instead had to consider it carefully.

Raising a direwolf and raising a dragon were not the same thing. The former was called a family symbol, the legitimate lineage of the North. In his case, it would be called a remnant of the fallen dynasty, fair game for anyone to kill...

If he belonged to some minor family so obscure that no one could find it even by digging through the dirt, Clay would take the dragon and run without another word. The problem was that he was the legitimate heir to House Manderly, an immensely wealthy house of the North with a name known throughout Westeros.

That made things difficult. No matter what, rationally speaking, he could not abandon all his current status and position for a dragon. Emotionally speaking, he could not even conceive of betraying Wynafryd, Wylla, or his grandfather.

But whatever happened, Clay wanted to leave himself a way out, because across the Narrow Sea, a vengeful queen who would one day have three great dragons would lead an army back to Westeros.

If they really met on the battlefield, his own dragon might serve some unexpected purpose.

After all, when that time came, Daenerys Targaryen would be the only true dragonlord left in this world. But perhaps there would be Clay as well...