Game of Thrones: The Witcher System

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"Hard to imagine—who taught you swordsmanship? This isn't your father's style of wielding a sword."

Under the blazing sun in the training yard, Clay, drenched in sweat, finished a set of basic sword techniques from the Wolf School at his fastest speed. The massive hand-and-a-half sword in his grip carved deadly arcs through the air around him.

Ser Rodrik, stroking his graying beard, couldn't help but marvel aloud.

As a seasoned swordsman with decades of experience, Rodrik could tell that if Clay combined this set of techniques with greater strength and speed, its effectiveness in close combat would far surpass his own swordsmanship.

This realization puzzled him. As far as he knew, the Manderly family's sword techniques, passed down in White Harbor, shared a lineage with those of Winterfell. When Wendel sparred with him, his advantage came solely from his sheer size and brute strength, but his swordsmanship was, in truth, far cruder than Rodrik's.

"Essos is a land of filth and corruption, Ser Rodrik, but even you must admit that, at times, treasures can be unearthed from a pile of garbage."

Clay sidestepped the question, attributing the origins of his swordplay to his travels in Essos.

For the traditional minor nobles of Westeros, the name Essos conjured up only a few images: the Iron Bank, the Free Cities, slavery, the Dothraki hordes, and the ruins of Valyria.

Except for the materialistic Free Cities, none of these associations aligned with the ideals of knightly honor or chivalry cherished by Westerosi nobility. Instead, they represented barbarism and violence. As a result, aside from a few noble families engaged in trade with the Free Cities, most had little interest in that distant, foreign land.

"Robb, has Maester Luwin received any news from White Harbor?" Clay asked, turning to Robb, who was teaching his younger brother Bran how to shoot a bow.

"Maybe. A raven arrived at Winterfell this morning. My father didn't look pleased, so I didn't dare ask," Robb replied, lowering his voice as he walked away, leaving behind a disgruntled Bran.

This was Clay's third day in Winterfell. Given the speed of ravens, today was likely the day White Harbor's reply would arrive. Clay was confident his father wouldn't delay.

Over the past three days, Clay had grown familiar with the Stark siblings. Bran and Rickon, being younger, were still a bit shy, but his sister Wylla had quickly bonded with the Stark girls. The three young women often huddled together, whispering secrets and giggling, much to the annoyance of the stern septas.

For Clay, this trip to Winterfell was not merely about proving his identity to the North but, more importantly, to gain access to the Stark family's Godswood and, ultimately, the largest weirwood tree in the North.

Unlike most Northerners, who worshiped the Old Gods out of tradition, Clay understood that weirwoods held immense magical power. His mana pool, desperately in need of replenishment, yearned for the energy the great tree could provide.

As for the final ingredient for his herbal concoction—Heart Tree bark—Clay wasn't overly concerned. With an opportunity to leave the castle, he could easily find Heart trees in the vast Wolfswood. If that failed, the castle's storerooms likely had some, though its age might reduce its potency.

As the group conversed, a Winterfell guard bearing the direwolf sigil entered the yard and whispered something to Ser Rodrik.

"Robb and Clay, Lord Eddard requests your presence in the study at the Great Keep," Ser Rodrik announced, cutting their discussion short.

Clay and Robb exchanged a glance and nodded. Since Clay had never been to the main keep, he let Robb take the lead.

When they arrived at the solar, Eddard Stark stood silently by the fireplace.

"You're here," Lord Stark said evenly. His tone was calm, but his expression carried the unmistakable chill of the North—his face frozen with a sternness that not even the warmth of the summer sun could melt.

Eddard Stark turned to Clay first. "Clay Manderly, Lord Wyman's letter confirming your identity has arrived. I have already instructed Maester Luwin to inform all the North of this."

Clay felt a subtle sense of relief. At least with the Manderly family officially backing him, he would have a place to settle during these turbulent times.

Yet something about Lord Stark's demeanor troubled him. This letter alone shouldn't have been enough to sour his mood. Right now, it seemed as if even a hot coal tossed into the room would freeze under his icy expression.

"Now, Clay, return and gather your guards. Robb, fetch Bran and the others. We are leaving the castle—there is an oathbreaker who must face judgment."

On the way back, Robb frowned deeply, clearly at a loss, while Clay, trailing behind him, wore an equally stiff expression.

Clay's mind raced. If his suspicions were correct, this so-called "oathbreaker" was none other than the survivor of the White Walker ambush.

Having lived through so much already, Clay finally felt he had carved out his place in the year 298 after Aegon's Conquest.

From a mere observer, Clay was now to become a witness. A strange, inexplicable thrill coursed through his body. Splitting off from Robb, he issued a clear command: all White Harbor soldiers were to assemble within half an hour.

The captain of the guard, ever diligent, faithfully carried out Clay's orders. With kicks and shouts, he managed to rouse the White Harbor guards from the lethargy they had slipped into during their stay at Winterfell, forming them back into a sharp, disciplined unit.

Exactly half an hour later, the combined cavalry forces of both houses thundered out of Winterfell's northern gate, the rhythmic pounding of hooves echoing in the crisp northern air.

Their destination was an abandoned manor outside Winterfell, a Stark-owned property that served as an execution ground for upholding the laws of the realm. It was here that the captured prisoner awaited his fate.

Over fifty riders came to a halt at the manor's entrance. The banners of the direwolf and the merman flew high, whipping in the cold northern wind.

Bran, witnessing an execution for the first time, clung to Jon Snow's cloak, trembling. His wide, frightened eyes peeked out briefly before he buried his face again, too terrified to watch.

The prisoner, who had fled from beyond the Wall to this place, was a pitiful sight. His frostbitten hands trembled, and the tattered black uniform of the Night's Watch barely clung to his frame, exposing the bruised and discolored skin beneath.

Clay now understood why Lord Eddard's expression had been so cold and unyielding. A man like Eddard Stark, who revered honor above all else, would hold nothing but disdain for an oathbreaker. In the southern realms, a noble deserter might buy their life if their family had sufficient wealth. But here in the North, there was only one outcome: death by the sword.

Clay also recognized the purpose behind his presence. As Warden of the North, Eddard sought to instill in the younger generation—including Clay, the heir of White Harbor—a deep understanding of the weight of law and the sacredness of honor.

The prisoner, trembling and pale, was forced down onto the hardwood block. Clay could see his terror. It was not only the fear of death but also a profound dread, born of whatever unseen horror had unfolded in the Haunted Forest. Those memories clung to him, evident in his sunken eyes and quivering lips.

Lord Eddard dismounted his horse with measured steps. The Stark family's ancestral sword, Ice, forged of Valyrian steel and heavy with the weight of countless executions, gleamed in the cold northern light. A young man Clay had rarely seen before—Theon Greyjoy—stepped forward to present the greatsword, his expression neutral but betraying a hint of unease.

Eddard removed his gloves and gripped the dark Valyrian steel greatsword with both hands. His voice, steady and loud, carried an unmistakable weight as it rang out:

"In the name of Robert of House Baratheon, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, I, Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, sentence you to death."

With a single stroke, the sword descended. The prisoner's head rolled to the ground, and the scent of blood spread across the grassy field of the execution site.

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[Chapter End's]

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