There was little struggle. The man died cleanly.
This was the world at its most real. Violence was the bond that maintained social stability, so there was really nothing surprising about killing.
Perhaps only the purest souls could feel fear. A nearby horse whinnied and reared, but its skilled rider soon calmed it.
"Let's go," Duke Eddard said heavily. Though the kingdom's law had been enforced, it clearly brought him no joy.
The silent company turned their horses and headed back the way they had come.
Clay heard Duke Eddard speaking quietly with his young son Bran, who had just witnessed his first execution. At that moment, Eddard Stark had taken off his stern mask as Warden of the North and begun playing the role of a kindly father.
He had just instructed the captain of his guards, a man utterly loyal to House Manderly, to take two guards into the Wolfswood and obtain some tender bark from a sentinel tree for him.
Though he did not understand his young lord's intentions, the guard captain carried out the order without hesitation. When Duke Eddard ordered the return journey, the three riders broke away from the main party and plunged into the boundless Wolfswood.
His horse's hooves moved slowly forward, seemingly reflecting its rider's foul mood.
Clay was indeed agitated. He knew it was the year 298 after the Conquest, but he had never expected the execution of the Night's Watch deserter to happen so soon.
His original plan had been to use this visit to Winterfell to investigate the relationship between the weirwoods, which the northerners called heart trees, and the faith of the Old Gods that had taken root thousands of years ago in these lands north of the Neck.
Earlier, in White Harbor's Godswood, there had been a small, young heart tree. When Clay touched it, he had indeed felt a little power flow along his arm into his body, and his mana pool had risen slightly.
Clay believed that when he received permission to touch Winterfell's oldest heart tree, his mana pool would surely be replenished enough.
But now he had to scrap his plan. Clay knew very well that this execution meant the Hand of the King, Jon Arryn, far away in King's Landing, must already have been poisoned to death by Littlefinger, Petyr.
King Robert I, who had overthrown the Targaryen Dynasty, must already have set out with his court along the Kingsroad toward Winterfell.
Clay was undoubtedly a minor figure at present, incapable of influencing Duke Eddard's decisions. And once the running wolf went south, when the unsuspecting stag and direwolf had their throats torn out by the lion, the War of the Five Kings would become inevitable.
Northerners valued honor above all else. If Robb Stark led an army south, Clay could not possibly stay out of it. But thinking of the northern nobles taken captive during the war, and the Starks who died at the Red Wedding through the Freys' betrayal, sent a chill down his back.
He was no god. Since he was caught in this game of thrones, most of the time he would be swept along by larger forces. He had little time left to break out of the situation...
The brothers Jon and Robb, who had already galloped far ahead, now stood on a low hill and shouted back to the party, "Father, Bran, come see what we found!"
In deathly silence, Clay saw the two intertwined carcasses beside the bridge. The huge wolf, whose size astonished him, had been pierced through the throat by the stag's antlers while biting it. No one in the Winterfell party, all acutely sensitive to house sigils, dared speak.
The northerners believed in the gods, and so they also feared them. The symbolism of the bloody scene before them was so obvious that it filled everyone with fear, except Clay.
Clay had arrived late. Five wolf pups had already been picked up and were shivering in the arms of Bran and his older brothers.
"This is a bad omen, born amid death," Clay heard someone mutter.
With a cynical smile on his face, Theon Greyjoy drew the sword at his waist and said to Bran, his younger brother in name:
"Bran, those things won't live long. Toss them over to me!"
Clay had never liked Theon, especially that long face with its ever-present, irritating smile. In his agitation, he blurted out without thinking:
"They're not your wolves. What the fuck does it have to do with you?"
The already quiet bridge fell so silent that a pin dropping could have been heard. Everyone turned to look at Clay. Theon froze for a moment, then his embarrassment turned to fury, and his gleaming blade pointed toward Clay's horse's head.
Apparently misjudging his strength, he actually pricked Clay's mount in the cheek with his sword tip. The frightened horse suddenly reared backward, throwing the unprepared Clay from its back.
Clay rolled half a turn on the ground in some disarray before steadying himself. As he looked at Theon Greyjoy's open-mouthed, silent sneer, towering rage surged through him. Never one to put up with such crap, Clay was already reaching for the longsword that had fallen nearby...
Seeing their young lord knocked from his horse, the surrounding House Manderly guards instinctively reached for their sword hilts, but in Eddard Stark's presence, they lacked the courage to draw.
"Say that again, Manderly boy!" With no one speaking up, Theon grew even more arrogant. He was just about to add another insult when a sharp hand-and-a-half sword flashed coldly and came whistling straight at his face.
Ser Rodrik, who had been about to step forward to stop Theon, instinctively brought his sword across to block it. A sharp clash rang out, and the elderly knight stumbled back two steps, left holding a ruined sword with a huge notch in its edge. The weapon Clay had hurled with all his strength now quivered in the ground just in front of Theon's legs.
"Stop!" Duke Eddard roared, kicking his ward to the ground.
"Take him back to Winterfell." The Winterfell guards hauled up Theon, whose face had gone deathly pale and who had lost some control of his bladder, and hurried away.
Duke Eddard glanced at the broken sword in Ser Rodrik's hand, then scrutinized the now-calm Clay with an unusual look. Rather than ask why he had used his sword, he asked:
"Manderly, why did you say that?"
Seeing that Duke Eddard did not intend to pursue the matter, Clay relaxed a little. Even as he inwardly acknowledged his own impulsiveness, he answered:
"They're only the carcasses of a wolf and a stag. Why insist on making trouble for the wolves that survived?"
"These are direwolves. They've never appeared south of the Wall," Robb interjected.
"I know. If that's how it is, then what I want to do most right now is pull out the direwolf's teeth, find a lion and stick them into its eyes, then throw the lion's corpse into the sewers of Casterly Rock." Clay shrugged.
The incident ended with an exceedingly rare laugh from Duke Eddard. He required his children to raise the direwolf pups themselves-oh, yes, including the white wolf that belonged to Jon-and made no further mention of the matter between Clay and Theon.
On the way back, basking in the friendly looks of the Winterfell party, Clay noticed that Robb, riding beside him, kept unconsciously working his teeth, as though testing whether they were sharp...