Game of Thrones: The Witcher System

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Clay had little interest in the banquet that was about to begin. The only thing that could spark even a hint of enthusiasm was likely the delectable food being served.

Winterfell, though less abundant in resources compared to White Harbor, boasted a surprisingly exceptional kitchen. Perhaps it had something to do with Clay being utterly tired of eating fish every day back in White Harbor.

Initially seated near the main table, Clay didn't linger long. After a brief meal, he excused himself and took his plate to a long table near the hall's entrance, where the guards were gathered.

"Clay, what are you doing here?"

The question came from Jon Snow, who was mingling among the crowd. The usually quiet boy now reeked of alcohol, his slightly unfocused eyes fixed on Clay as he spoke.

"No choice. I can't keep up with the lords' and ladies' jokes. Sitting there makes me feel like a fool," Clay said with a shrug, gesturing toward the seat he had just vacated.

"True enough. At least you're lucky to leave. Look at Robb—he's stuck there, and I swear he's about to bite his fork in half," Jon said, pointing toward Robb Stark. Robb sat across from the queen at the main table, visibly uncomfortable, his shoulders tense and his eyes avoiding direct contact with her piercing gaze. Jon grinned and took another hearty swig from his drink.

Normally, Lord Eddard Stark rarely allowed his children to drink, but tonight seemed to be an exception.

Clay reached for a roasted chicken wing from the table. Its aroma, rich and enticing, made his mouth water as he tossed it to the white direwolf lying under the table. The wolf, Ghost, had grown quite accustomed to Clay over the past few days.

With fluid precision, the snowy direwolf caught the wing mid-air and began feasting on it at Clay's feet.

Clay leaned down to stroke Ghost's soft, thick fur. The direwolf accepted his touch without protest, its crimson eyes glinting faintly under the dim light of the hall.

Clay continued petting the snowy direwolf with increasing enthusiasm, much to Jon's chagrin. Under the boy's resentful gaze, Ghost, thoroughly content, sprawled out on the floor and let out a soft, rumbling sound—almost like a purr.

"Is this your wolf, young man?"

A deep voice sounded from behind Clay. He straightened and turned, just as Jon exclaimed, "Uncle Benjen!"

Clay had already guessed who it was. Raising to his feet, he came face-to-face with a tall man dressed in the stark black of the Night's Watch—the First Ranger himself.

"No, this is Jon's wolf," Clay replied evenly, nodding toward Benjen. "You should take a seat; I'll step outside for some air. It wouldn't be very dignified for me to lose my meal after too much wine."

Taking the chance to slip away, Clay bowed his head slightly in farewell and left the hall.

Benjen, carrying the unmistakable chill of the North, seemed unfamiliar with Clay and regarded him as little more than a common guard. He nodded faintly before turning his attention to Jon.

Outside, Clay staggered, his steps mimicking those of a drunkard as he made his way toward his quarters. Once inside, he grabbed a small basin, scooping cold water from a bucket and splashing it over his face to sober himself up.

Gathering a small bundle of clothes, Clay slipped out into the night, heading in the direction of the Godswood.

Just as he had suspected, House Stark had taken extensive precautions to ensure the king's safety. Lord Eddard had stationed the majority of the guards near the great hall of Winterfell, leaving the posts along the way—where there would normally be sentries—deserted.

Reaching the entrance of the Godswood, Clay spotted two Stark guards clad in chainmail lingering in the distance. Their focus, however, was not on their surroundings but on the steaming meat pies in their hands.

Perfect.

Keeping to the shadows, Clay circled wide around the entrance. The Godswood was nestled against a section of Winterfell's walls that were notably lower than the rest. With the moon veiled behind thick clouds and a biting wind rustling through the trees, the conditions were ideal—not for killing, but for scaling.

His movements were swift and deliberate. Winterfell's defences around the Godswood were at their weakest tonight, just as he'd anticipated. Clay climbed the wall with practiced ease, his boots finding firm footing on the uneven stone.

Moments later, he landed softly on the forest floor, his steps muffled by a thick carpet of decaying leaves. The air was damp and heavy, carrying a pungent, musty scent that seemed to claw at his senses—a smell of rot and decay.

The leaves, piled layer upon layer, gave off an unnatural odor, especially for midsummer. It felt like a bad omen.

Though the Long Summer was still in full swing, the words of House Stark echoed in his mind:

Winter is coming.

The darkness ahead was impenetrable, with thick black tree trunks dominating the view. High above, the densely intertwined branches blocked the faint moonlight, plunging the area into near-complete obscurity. Clay moved cautiously; one moment's carelessness could have him tripping over the protruding roots on the forest floor.

It was too dark and too quiet, and Clay couldn't shake the feeling that, amidst the ink-like darkness, a pair of eyes were watching him—following his every move.

He was beginning to understand why those who had lived here for generations had developed such an obscure, undefined faith in the Old Gods. In an environment like this, people needed something to cling to for hope. The more clear and defined deities of other faiths simply couldn't meet that need.

A short path felt like an eternity, and it took Clay nearly half an hour to navigate the seemingly endless layers of leaves before he finally saw it—a towering, ancient heart tree (Weirwood) standing solemnly in the middle of a black, cold pool of water.

Strangely, the heart tree, possibly the largest weirwood in the North, had no other vegetation growing near it. Clay speculated that the Stark family might have cleared the surrounding trees, given that it was a place their lords frequently visited, making the area more spacious for their use.

The moonlight illuminated the scene, casting a silvery glow over the weirwood's massive trunk, while its once-crimson leaves, now shrouded in darkness, seemed to lose their brilliance and turn black.

Taking a deep breath, Clay stepped forward. Whether his magical reserves could be replenished depended entirely on this one attempt.

Ignoring the eerie, grim face carved into the trunk that looked especially haunting under the moonlight, Clay approached the heart tree. He couldn't shake the feeling that the face was watching him, but he had no time to dwell on it.

He removed his finely crafted leather gloves and reached out to press his bare hands against the trunk of the heart tree.

In the very next moment…

An overwhelming and chaotic surge of power coursed through Clay's unprepared body, flooding his arms with a force so ferocious, like a raging bull, that it nearly caused him to lose consciousness on the spot.

His thoughts flickered, and a translucent dark-blue system interface unfolded before his eyes. Gritting his teeth, Clay fixed his bloodshot eyes on the numbers behind the mana pool.

"75…" The number remained motionless.

But in the very next moment, the number flashed to 76, then 77, and began to climb faster and faster!

In the time it took for Clay to catch his breath, the number had already surged past 100, showing no sign of stopping, accelerating even further.

A deafening hum filled his ears, vibrating through his skull, drowning out all other sounds. He couldn't even hear the rustling of thousands of leaves on the enormous heart tree, its branches shifting unnaturally without a breeze.

Within just a few breaths, Clay's mana pool had already amassed over 150 points, more than double what he could store when he first acquired the system. This was enough to maximize his chances of success in the Trial of Green Grass and negate two negative effects entirely.

Clay wanted to stop, but he found himself unable to. His hands felt as though they had fused with the trunk of the heart tree, melding into its ancient bark as if they were no longer separate entities.

Mana continued to pour in relentlessly, the insatiable pool showing no sign of stopping. Yet Clay's body was rapidly nearing its breaking point.

A crushing sense of obstruction spread through him. He gasped for air, but the oxygen he inhaled felt agonizingly slow creeping into his lungs like a tortoise inching along. He was like a drowning man, his face growing paler by the second.

"Damn it." A curse in a language foreign to this world escaped Clay's lips. In a fleeting moment of clarity, desperation surged through him. Summoning his last bit of strength, he slammed his head against the tree trunk.

Amid the rustling of leaves, a dull thud echoed first, followed by the sound of a body collapsing to the ground.

Lying on the forest floor, Clay gasped for breath. His chest heaved violently as he stared at the glaringly conspicuous number behind the mana pool. A wide grin spread across his face, revealing teeth that were sharp and almost unnaturally white.

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Far beyond the Wall, deep within a shadowy cavern, a pair of blood-red eyes suddenly snapped open in the darkness.

A silent roar of fury rippled through the cavern, the being's rage palpable in the still air. Just moments ago, the largest "eye" it possessed in the North had been damaged by someone.

Invisible waves of force rippled through the air, sending countless ravens that had been resting in the cavern into a frenzy. Their wings beat furiously as they ascended into the pitch-black night, flying southward with a single destination in mind—Winterfell.

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[Chapter End's]

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