As the most efficient means of communication between the great noble houses, ravens carried out a vital mission. But today, looking at her husband beneath the Heart Tree, leaning on his greatsword with disbelief and pain written across his face, Catelyn wished she had never received the news that raven had brought.
Jon Arryn, Hand of the King of the Seven Kingdoms, had died of a sudden illness!
Catelyn knew very well how her husband felt about Lord Jon, but the man was gone, and they had little time to grieve, for King Robert I was already on his way to Winterfell.
When Clay received the news, he was not surprised in the slightest. In theory, his ostensible task in Winterfell was already complete.
According to Ser Rodrik, as a guest of Winterfell, he could leave whenever he wished, so long as he paid Duke Eddard a visit before departing.
That suited Clay perfectly. House Manderly did not worship the Old Gods revered by the northerners, so openly proposing a visit to the Godswood was not a wise choice.
"Young master, we've brought back the materials you requested." The captain of the guards came to the second-floor corridor where Clay stood and reported the results.
"Oh? Good. Let's take a look." Clay nodded and followed the captain to the wagon.
"Hmm... well done. Here's your reward. Divide it among yourselves, and remember, don't spend it all on women's bellies. Show some restraint." Clay frowned slightly, offering a warning to the captain, whose face wore a strange grin.
The rough fellow chuckled, took the purse, and soon disappeared, humming a bawdy tune.
Once he had left, Clay looked again at the sentinel bark piled high in the wagon, the corners of his mouth twitching. Sure enough, what these bastards had done fit the image the northern nobility had of White Harbor's rich folk perfectly.
He remembered clearly gesturing for a small bag at the time. These three bastards had brought him an entire wagonload.
Of course, Clay could not fault his subordinates for exceeding their orders to show their loyalty. He climbed onto the wagon himself and picked through the bark, selecting the piece in the best condition and dragging it into his room.
He had already asked the guards. His younger sister Wylla should have been happily playing with the Stark girls at this hour, with no time to spare for her all-but-forgotten older brother.
With the final material now gathered, he would prepare the Decoction of the Grasses here.
At a thought, the Witcher System opened. Clay tossed the sentinel bark he had just processed into the inventory tab. When he checked the potions tab again, the previously unavailable Decoction of the Grasses had become selectable.
He selected it with a thought. Illusory sounds of bubbles popping and water seemed to ring in his ears. Then all the materials disappeared, apart from the dragonbone, which remained usable.
Clay spotted something new in his inventory: three little bottles stacked together. He touched them with his mind, and the following information appeared naturally in his thoughts:
"Name: Decoction of the Grasses Version: 1.0 Effect: subjects an ordinary person to witcher mutations Side effects: severe nerve damage (can be negated), severely reduced fertility (can be negated), split pupils (can be negated)... Base success rate: 30% (can be increased) Note: drink it. If you're lucky enough to survive, you'll become an invincible warrior. Oh, and a friendly reminder: if you succeed, pitchforks will deal greatly increased damage to you..."
Clay automatically ignored the note. He stared at the bottle of Decoction of the Grasses he had spent so long putting together, rubbing his chin in thought.
This was definitely not something he could simply down in one go like a good drinking buddy. Seven deaths out of ten was utterly unacceptable to him, and he was not sure how much his mana pool could improve that success rate.
Besides, those side effects were completely out of the question. If he actually gambled on his luck and succeeded, he would end up with facial paralysis, a eunuch's lot, and cat eyes. Forget becoming White Harbor's heir-he would be lucky not to get dragged into a sept of the Seven and burned as a heretic.
"Ah, looks like I have no choice but to visit the Godswood." Clay sighed softly.
He closed the system. The sentinel bark he had dragged inside had vanished completely, but fortunately, there was plenty in reserve, so no one was likely to notice.
Having made his decision, he sat down at the table, picked up a pen, and wrote a letter to Earl Wyman far away in White Harbor.
In the letter, he told the old man about the Hand of the King's sudden death and the king's impending arrival. He also told him that he had decided to remain in Winterfell and, if the opportunity arose, meet the lords from King's Landing.
Unlike the traditional northern nobility, House Manderly, which controlled White Harbor, was not insular. For a considerable time, House Manderly had served as the North's gateway to the outside world, and that remained true today.
As far as Clay knew, the old man frequently exchanged letters with several great houses in the Riverlands and the Vale of Arryn. Clearly, they enjoyed a certain degree of friendship.
He therefore felt certain that the old man would agree to let him stay. Making the acquaintance of important figures from King's Landing fit Earl Wyman's approach to running the house very well.
The letter was soon finished. Clay blew the ink dry and folded it. A letter like this could not pass through the guards' hands. He rose, pushed open his door, and went to the raven cage placed a short distance outside.
The old man had specifically instructed him to bring it before he left, so they could stay in contact at all times.
Clay caught a plump-looking raven from inside and, ignoring its struggles, stuffed the folded letter into the message case on its leg. He released his hands, and the gray creature flapped into the sky. After circling once overhead, it flew southeast.
After the raven disappeared, Clay suddenly realized he had nothing to do.
He had already decided to sneak into the Godswood on the evening when Winterfell held its great feast for the king's visit, because most of House Stark's forces would be concentrated in Winterfell's hall to the southeast.
Whatever happened, the king's safety came first, and Clay had no responsibility to welcome the royal party at Winterfell. He was not a member of House Stark, the hosts. In a sense, he was just like King Robert: a guest of Winterfell.
Knowing he would inevitably have to enter the fray and join this game of thrones, Clay still wanted to observe several of its overt major players in advance.
After all, before the boy jokingly dubbed "the Great" broke the rules and flipped the table, this game was at least still being played under rules that were not too bloody.
Shaking his head to dispel his thoughts, Clay drew the longsword at his waist and began practicing the School of the Wolf Swordsmanship demonstrated in the system. His blade whistled, sweeping through the fine snowflakes drifting down from the late-summer sky.
What he did not know was that, beyond the many high walls, an indifferent gaze in the Godswood Eddard Stark frequented was fixed intently on his figure.
That gaze ignored every obstruction, watching Clay's blade move faster and faster, as a faint murmur softly sounded:
"An interesting person..."