"Hard to imagine. Who taught you your swordsmanship? That isn't how your father uses a sword."
In the training yard, drenched in sweat, Clay completed a set of basic School of the Wolf sword forms at his greatest speed, a massive bastard sword tracing streaks of death around him.
Ser Rodrik stroked his chin, thick with graying whiskers, and could not help marveling.
To his expert eye, honed by decades of swordsmanship, Clay's sword forms, paired with greater strength and speed, would be far more effective in close combat than the swordsmanship he himself knew.
That puzzled him. As far as he knew, House Manderly of White Harbor shared Winterfell's swordsmanship tradition. When Wendel sparred with him, he relied on little more than his bulk; his actual swordsmanship was far rougher than Ser Rodrik's.
"Essos is a land that harbors all manner of filth, but you must admit, ser, sometimes useful things can be found in a rubbish heap."
Clay sidestepped the question, attributing these sword forms entirely to his travels in Essos.
For the traditional petty nobles of Westeros, their impressions of Essos amounted to only a few terms: the Iron Bank, trading city-states, slavery, Dothraki savages, and the ruins of Valyria.
Apart from those trading city-states awash in material desire, none of those terms had anything to do with the chivalry and honor the nobles of Westeros professed. It was all barbarism and violence. Thus, apart from a few nobles who traded with the city-states, no one took an interest in that land.
"Robb, has Maester Luwin received any news from White Harbor?" Clay turned to ask Robb, who was teaching his younger brother Bran archery.
"Maybe. A raven arrived at Winterfell this morning. My father didn't look very happy, so I didn't dare ask." Leaving a reluctant Bran behind, Robb lowered his voice.
This was already Clay's third day at Winterfell. Judging by the speed of a raven's flight, Winterfell should receive White Harbor's reply today. Clay trusted that his grandfather would not delay.
Over these three days, Clay had become familiar with the Stark siblings, though Bran and Rickon were still young and somewhat shy around strangers. His younger sister Wylla had long since become fast friends with the two young ladies of House Stark. The three girls huddled together whispering, prompting several complaints from their governess.
Apart from proving his identity to the entire North, what actually mattered more to Clay himself on this visit to Winterfell was gaining access to House Stark's Godswood. His target was the largest weirwood in all the North.
Faith in the Old Gods was deeply rooted throughout the North. Unlike others, he knew very well that weirwoods themselves contained abundant magic, and Clay's ravenous magic pool sorely needed replenishing from it.
As for sentinel bark, the final ingredient for the Decoction of the Grasses, Clay was not particularly worried. As long as he had a chance to leave the castle, he could find such a tree in the vast Wolfswood. Failing that, Winterfell's storerooms had some too, though it had been stored so long that its effectiveness could not be guaranteed.
As they chatted, a Winterfell guard wearing a direwolf surcoat entered the training yard and exchanged a few quiet words with Ser Rodrik.
"Robb, and Clay, Lord Eddard wants you. Go see him in the main keep's study." Ser Rodrik interrupted their conversation.
Clay and Robb exchanged a glance and nodded. Clay had never been to the main keep, so he could only let Robb lead the way.
When they reached the study, Eddard Stark was standing before the fireplace.
"You're here." Duke Eddard's voice was calm, but his whole face seemed frozen, coated in ice that even midsummer could not melt.
He looked at Clay first. "Clay Manderly, Earl Wyman's reply confirming your identity has arrived. I've already instructed the maester to inform the entire North."
Hearing this, Clay felt slightly relieved. With House Manderly backing him, at least he would have somewhere to shelter in troubled times.
Then, however, he found it strange. Surely this letter had no reason to put Duke Eddard in a bad mood. Right now, even a piece of coal plucked from the fireplace would probably be extinguished by the chill on his face.
"Now, Clay, go back and bring your guards. Robb, fetch Bran and the others. You're coming outside the castle with me. An oathbreaker is to be judged."
On their way back, a bewildered Robb frowned deeply, entirely oblivious to the stiff expression on Clay's face behind him.
Clay was shouting inwardly. Unless something unexpected happened, this so-called oathbreaker was the deserter who had survived the White Walkers' ambush.
After experiencing so much, Clay had finally found his place in the year 298 after the Conquest.
From spectator to witness, an inexplicable excitement filled his body. He hurriedly parted with Robb and issued an order: all White Harbor soldiers had to assemble within half an hour.
The captain of the guards firmly carried out Clay's order. With kicks and blows, he finally got the White Harbor guards, who had grown idle at Winterfell, back into orderly ranks.
Half an hour later, the two houses' mounted parties left Winterfell's north gate amid the thunder of hooves.
The captured prisoner had already been brought to an abandoned manor outside Winterfell, the execution ground where House Stark enforced the kingdom's laws.
More than fifty riders stopped at the manor's entrance, the direwolf and merman banners flying high. Bran, witnessing an execution for the first time, was somewhat frightened and hid behind Jon, hardly daring to look.
The prisoner, who had fled all the way here from beyond the Wall, was covered in frostbite. His black Night's Watch uniform was in tatters, exposing the bruised purple flesh beneath.
Clay now knew why Duke Eddard's face was so icy. A man who valued honor, he detested oathbreaking deserters like this. With southern nobles, a deserter whose family had some money might be able to buy his life, but here, losing his head was the only outcome.
He understood why Duke Eddard had summoned him. As the leader of the North, he wanted the younger generation to understand the importance of law and honor, and that naturally included Clay, the heir to White Harbor.
The prisoner was forced down onto the hardwood execution block. Clay understood his terror very well, not only of death, but also of that unknown massacre in the Haunted Forest.
Duke Eddard dismounted, and Theon Greyjoy, whom Clay had only met a few times, handed him House Stark's ancestral sword, Ice.
He removed his gloves and took up the black Valyrian greatsword in both hands. His voice was loud, yet unmistakably somber. "In the name of Robert I of House Baratheon, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, I, Eddard of House Stark, Duke of Winterfell and Warden of the North, hereby sentence you to die."
The sword fell, the head hit the ground, and the smell of blood spread over the grass of the execution ground.