Game of Thrones: The Witcher System

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King Robert's pace was swift. Clay had originally expected it would take him two months to reach Winterfell, given his notorious indulgences in drinking and revelry.

However, barely a month and a half had passed, and as Clay stood atop Winterfell's walls chatting with Robb, he could already see the vanguard of the royal procession. The golden stag banner fluttered in the wind, pinned to the saddle of a knight riding at the forefront.

"Tsk, the stag's antlers are almost at Winterfell," Clay said, clicking his tongue as his gaze followed the approaching banners. "What do you think, Robb? I heard the Queen and her two brothers came along this time. Has the direwolf's fang been sharpened yet?"

As the knights approached, the banners of the direwolf and the crowned stag were raised side by side above the gatehouse. Clay couldn't help but recall the conquests of the War of the Usurper decades ago—a reminder of the strength of alliances.

"Those must be the most distinguished siblings in all the Seven Kingdoms, right? I wouldn't be surprised if I had to kiss her hand. Besides, the right of hospitality must never be violated."

Robb tightened his cloak against the chill, his expression somber as he replied slowly, though his brow remained furrowed.

Clay, grinning mischievously, leaned over and stretched out a hand to tug at Robb's chin, where a few sparse whiskers were beginning to sprout. Robb jerked his head away, scowling. "What are you doing?"

Clay chuckled, tilting his head knowingly. "Has anyone ever told you that the Starks can't lie."

"That's nonsense. We…" Robb began, instinctively bristling at the claim. But the words faltered on his tongue, caught somewhere between protest and admission. After a long pause, his shoulders sagged slightly, and he muttered with a sigh, "Yeah, we've never been taught to do that in the North..."

Robb stared blankly at the two riders entering through the eastern gate, their banners swaying in the brisk northern wind. After a long moment, he turned to Clay, his expression uncertain.

"Was I that obvious?"

Clay shrugged nonchalantly, offering a faint smile. "I'm not a wolf, but even I can tell—showing your teeth too early will only get you an arrow in return." He gave Robb a light pat on the shoulder.

"Here's some advice: unless it's absolutely necessary, avoid meeting with the Lannisters. It'll save you a lot of trouble."

Over the past few days, during their idle conversations about life and women, Clay had come to know the crude humor that seemed unique to Winterfell. Yet he had also picked up something more revealing: while Lord Eddard rarely spoke of the War of the Usurper in detail, he had certainly ensured his children were aware of the Lannisters' treachery.

For Robb, at least, the stories had left a mark. He understood well the gravity of House Lannister's actions after they entered King's Landing and the bitter legacy behind Jaime Lannister's infamous title—"Kingslayer."

So, Clay wasn't at all surprised by Robb's reaction to the Lannisters. Like father, like son—truly, as the saying goes.

The next morning, Clay noticed the absence of the Stark siblings at the training grounds, where they usually gathered. When he inquired, his sister Wylla, who had finally remembered to acknowledge her brother's existence, explained with a cheerful grin.

"Sansa and the others were summoned early by Lady Catelyn. Something about learning formal etiquette and how to greet guests," she said casually.

Seizing the opportunity, Clay decided to question Wylla about her activities over the past two months in Winterfell. Who had she spent her time with? What had she been doing?

Wylla, ever cheerful and candid, answered with enthusiasm, mentioning only two names: Sansa and Arya.

Watching his sister, who seemed completely at ease, Clay couldn't help but feel a pang of pity. Wylla was bright and kind-hearted, but it was clear she hadn't yet realized the true reason their grandfather had agreed to send her to Winterfell.

Wylla had rambled on for quite some time, but not once did she mention Robb Stark's name. Clay could already envision how their grandfather might react when this detail inevitably made its way into her letters back to White Harbor.

By noon, a sea of gold and silver banners stretched across the horizon, marking the arrival of the long-anticipated royal procession of the Seven Kingdoms.

The entourage numbered about 300, mostly high-ranking nobles, with the lowest being knights.

Dozens of banners fluttered in the wind, most bearing the golden crowned stag of House Baratheon. Interspersed among them were a few with golden lions on a crimson field—the sigil of House Lannister. The sight alone was enough for Clay to guess that Lord Eddard would not find it particularly pleasing.

Standing atop a slightly elevated platform near the walls, Clay opted against ordering his guards to raise the Merman banner of House Manderly. It wasn't necessary, and besides, as a guest in Winterfell, keeping a low profile seemed wiser. After all, it wasn't prudent to announce yourself too boldly while navigating the host's "backyard."

Before long, Clay's eyes were drawn to the man flanked by two Kingsguard knights clad in pristine white cloaks. There could be no doubt—this was the man the Seven Kingdoms held in the highest regard: their king.

Even astride his horse, King Robert's plump figure was impossible to ignore. Yet, contrary to the crude and boorish image Clay had once associated with the man, this king—though undeniably heavier and more disheveled—exuded a commanding presence.

There is an aura that clings to those who have ruled for years, an unspoken force that requires no proclamation. Within the procession, it was clear at a glance: no one else but him bore the weight or the right to the title of king.

The crowd's gaze lingered longest on Robert, but it was quickly stolen by the radiant figure at his side. Queen Cersei, adorned in finery that sparkled under the midday sun, radiated an icy beauty that demanded attention. Her golden hair, intricately braided, framed a face sculpted to command awe—and perhaps a touch of fear.

After the spectacle of the king and queen, everything else seemed mundane. The procession became a blur of bannermen, knights, and servants.

Clay, for his part, found no amusement in the long, drawn-out formalities that accompanied such displays of nobility, despite being a young scion of a noble house with impeccable lineage.

Casually, Clay reached out to pull his younger sister, Wylla, back to his side, but she brushed his hand away without sparing him a glance. Her eyes were locked on the knights bearing the crowned stag of House Baratheon, her face alight with excitement.

Clay sighed but let her be. Before the royal entourage had arrived, he'd made it very clear to Wylla: under no circumstances was she allowed to approach the royal family. She had agreed, though begrudgingly, and Clay decided that allowing her this harmless indulgence wouldn't hurt.

The King is in the North.

It was a phrase filled with weight and history. Since the days of King Jaehaerys I Targaryen, who had descended upon Winterfell astride a dragon, this was only the second time a king of the Seven Kingdoms had set foot in the northern stronghold.

But time had changed, and the world along with it. The once-mighty Targaryen dynasty—once near-divine in its authority—had been reduced to a shadow of its former glory. On the surface, only two survivors remained across the Narrow Sea, while the rest had turned to dust and bones, scattered and forgotten.

That said, the Targaryen name still held immense influence, even after more than two centuries of rule over Westeros. Clay understood this power all too well.

Take the most straightforward example: after the War of the Usurper, one of the key reasons Robert Baratheon had been able to claim the Iron Throne so securely—besides his battle prowess—was his Targaryen bloodline. It was the decisive factor, the one thing that had tipped the balance in his favor when he had laid claim to the crown.

Of course, the matter of Daenerys Targaryen was yet to be resolved. But that was a problem for another time. For now, Clay could do little more than speculate. With White Harbor as his only power base, he lacked the resources or influence to even approach the game of thrones.

Returning to his room, Clay began preparing for his nocturnal excursion once more.

He carefully pulled out his equipment, inspecting each piece. Over his family's outer robe, he had prepared a black cloak—one that could be easily removed. Winterfell was a crowded place, full of watchful eyes, and this outfit was a precaution in case he needed to avoid attention, especially when making his way to the godswood.

However, within the main keep of Winterfell, this attire, which practically screamed "villain," was completely unsuitable. With King Robert present in the castle, wearing it would make Clay appear like an assassin, even if he wasn't one.

As he walked through the castle halls, the usual friendly greetings Clay had grown accustomed to were replaced by hurried nods or brief murmurs. People rushed past him, their eyes avoiding direct contact. It was clear that House Stark had spared no effort in preparing for the royal visit.

The bustle of activity in the castle only intensified as night fell. Meanwhile, Clay had been invited to attend the feast in Winterfell's Great Hall, an invitation he couldn't afford to decline.

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