Game of Thrones: The Witcher System

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A woman's beauty, no matter how radiant, can turn to mere ugliness when she lets out a piercing scream. In such moments, she seems more like a degenerated monkey.

Cersei's shrill cries were abruptly interrupted by Robert's thunderous roar:

"Shut up, woman!"

The queen immediately ceased her screaming, casting a cold glance at her husband. Her emerald-green eyes flashed with an almost imperceptible trace of resentment and loathing. Her voice was icy as she said:

"Your Grace, the Stark family has trampled upon the sacred rights of hospitality. They deserve to be cursed for their transgressions!"

The queen's accusations, though concise, were exaggerated and too grave and baseless for anyone to bear nor justify.

The inexplicably accused Lord Stark froze for a moment, just about to retort, when Robert struck Cersei across the face with his meaty hand, delivering a slap that sent Cersei staggering. He cared not one whit about how this scene might be perceived by the assembled courtiers.

"Don't spout nonsense about hospitality rights! Didn't Tywin teach you how to speak properly?!" The king, still fuming, seemed ready to continue berating her, but Lord Eddard Stark stepped forward to intervene.

"There's no need for this, Your Grace," he said, glancing at the dazed royal guards who finally recovered and rushed to support the queen, who was clutching her reddened cheek.

Robert, having lost all patience to remain in the hall, tried to walk away, but Cersei blocked his path, her emerald eyes blazing with fury.

"Your Grace, my father will never allow a Lannister to be slain while the perpetrator goes unpunished!"

"Don't you dare try to cow me with that old lion, Tywin!" Robert growled, his voice filled with suppressed rage. He cast a glance at the silent Clay, then barked an order, annoyance lacing his tone:

"Throw him in the dungeons until I leave Winterfell! But hear me well—he must stay alive. Eddard, you'll see to it. That's final!"

When the king issued a decree, no one dared to oppose him. With his overweight figure disappearing from view, the queen let out a cold chuckle before leaving with her guards, never once sparing another glance at Clay.

All eyes turned to the remaining Lord Eddard Stark. His expression was grim and somber as he sighed quietly, then approached Clay.

"Boy, there was no need for you to kill him."

"Do what you must, my lord. You need not trouble yourself on my behalf."

"The Lannisters don't abide by the rules."

"Rest assured, my lord. They won't kill me."

Eddard Stark found himself baffled by the confidence of this young man who smiled despite the circumstances. Yet, with the situation as it was, he had no choice but to proceed.

The Lord of Winterfell felt a deep sense of helplessness. He couldn't even protect his vassal, not even on his own lands. This only deepened his aversion toward the Lannisters.

He ordered Ser Rodrik Cassel to escort Clay to the dungeon and ensure he was well cared for. Additionally, he instructed his men to bring Willa and the delegation from White Harbor into the main keep—Winterfell's true stronghold in the vast North.

Eddard gave explicit instructions to Ser Rodrik to personally inspect every meal served to Clay and assign guards to maintain a constant watch over him.

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In all his two lifetimes, this was the first time Clay found himself in prison. To be honest, it wasn't far from what he had imagined.

Though he was a noble, and the guards in Winterfell's prison sympathized with and supported him, a cell was still a cell. Ser Rodrik led him to a slightly more spacious and dimly lit prison cell.

"You'll stay here. This is the best cell in Winterfell. Damn those Lannisters," Ser Rodrik cursed under his breath before carefully explaining some precautions to take while in prison.

He couldn't remain there all the time, so if anything happened, Clay would have to rely on his own judgment.

Clay listened carefully to Ser Rodrik's advice. As a witcher, he knew his body could withstand toxins that would kill ordinary men, let alone conventional poisons. Even if the Lannisters wanted to assassinate him, they were unlikely to use expensive substances like Tears of Lys. Frankly speaking, he wasn't important enough to warrant it.

If an assassin came directly, he wasn't worried either. Though his sword—his weapon used in the "crime"—had been confiscated, Ser Rodrik had discreetly handed him a dagger.

Unless they came with crossbows or pitchforks, Clay was confident he'd be fine.

Of course, this all hinged on whether Cersei would actually send someone to kill him.

Clay doubted she'd be so foolish. While she wasn't particularly clever, it seemed absurdly reckless for her to act so blatantly. If she were truly that imprudent, Clay wondered how she had managed to carry on with Jaime for so many years without Robert noticing.

Two days passed quietly in the cell. On the second night, as Clay lay on the hard cot, dozing, faint footsteps reached his ears.

The sound grew closer. Though muffled, it was as loud as marching boots to Clay's heightened witcher-enhanced senses.

Instantly alert, Clay remained motionless, lying on his side with his eyes half-closed, fixed on the door in the darkness.

Before long, the flickering candlelight revealed a lean figure clad in black, stealthily unlocking the door. Clay recognized the key—it should have been hanging on the guard's belt. If the guard hadn't betrayed them, then he must have been incapacitated.

So, they really sent someone to kill me. What is Cersei thinking? Clay couldn't help but sigh inwardly at the amateurishness of it all.

When the assassin approached, dagger drawn, Clay relaxed slightly, though his mind raced with questions.

Wait, what if this assassin wasn't sent by the Lannisters?

The thought struck him like lightning. Abandoning the idea of springing up to kill the intruder, he hesitated. Just then, the assassin whispered:

"Lord Clay, the Lannisters send their regards!"

The assassin struck,Hearing the sound of a blade slicing through the air, but Clay rolled swiftly to the side, evading the lethal blow.

The would-be killer froze momentarily, stunned that his sure-kill strike had missed. His hesitation didn't last long. Tasked with ensuring Clay's death, he quickly lunged again, only to stop short when Clay's hand formed an odd gesture: thumb extended, index and middle fingers together, ring and pinky fingers curled inward.

For a brief moment, the assassin thought he saw a faint green triangle flash before his eyes.

"Axii," Clay murmured.

The assassin's knife halted mid-air as his yellowed pupils dilated, his face going slack. Frozen in place, he stood motionless, like a lifeless puppet.

Thankfully, it worked. Clay had been prepared to fight with the dagger if the sign failed.

Instead of immediately stabbing the intruder, Clay decided to interrogate him, suspecting a deeper conspiracy.

If he were assassinated, everyone would naturally suspect the Lannisters. But what if someone wanted them to?

Killing him on Stark lands and framing the Lannisters wasn't an impossible scenario.

Leaning against the wall, Clay asked, "What's your name?"

"Hall Ricco," came the reply.

The name didn't ring a bell for Clay; likely, the man was just a minor figure.

"Who sent you?"

This question seemed to cause the assassin great pain. His face, hidden beneath the black cloth, contorted in agony, but he couldn't resist the power of the Axii sign.

Finally, Clay heard the name:

"Petyr Baelish!"

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[Author's Note: The next two chapters might surprise readers with how the assassin is dealt with (or perhaps not—thank you for your patience, dear readers). This character plays a crucial role in the coming war, so I'll clarify things as the story unfolds.]

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[Chapter End's]

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