"It's hard to imagine who taught you your Swordsmanship. It's not the style your father used."
In the training yard, a sweating Clay finished a set of Wolf School basic Swordsmanship at his fastest speed, a huge Hand-and-a-half Sword leaving trails of death around him.
Ser Rodrik, stroking his chin covered in a long, white beard, couldn't help but exclaim.
In his eyes, a swordsman for decades, Clay's Swordsmanship, if combined with greater strength and speed, would be far more effective in close combat than the Swordsmanship he had mastered.
This made him wonder. As far as he knew, the Manderly Family of White Harbor's Swordsmanship was in the same vein as Winterfell's. Wendel, when he dueled with him, relied only on his size; his Swordsmanship was actually much rougher than his own.
"Essos is a land of filth and corruption, but you have to admit, sometimes you can find useful things in the garbage heap, Ser."
Clay didn't answer directly, attributing the origin of this set of Swordsmanship entirely to his travels in Essos.
For traditional small nobles of Westeros, their impression of Essos was nothing more than a few words: Iron Bank, trading city-states, slavery, Dothraki, Valyrian ruins.
Besides those materialistic trade city-states, the chivalry and sense of honor boasted by the nobles of Westeros had nothing to do with them. It was all about barbarity and violence. Therefore, except for a few nobles who had commercial dealings with the trade city-states, no one was interested in that land.
"Robb, has Maester Luwin received any news from White Harbor?" Clay turned and asked Robb, who was teaching his younger brother Bran how to shoot arrows.
"Maybe. A raven arrived at Winterfell this morning, and my father didn't look too happy. I didn't dare to ask," Robb said in a low voice, leaving a reluctant Bran behind.
This was already Clay's third day in Winterfell. According to the speed of the ravens, today should be the day Winterfell received a reply from White Harbor. Clay believed his old man wouldn't delay.
In these three days, Clay had gotten familiar with the Stark siblings. Bran and Rickon were still young and a bit shy. His sister Wylla had already become close with the two young ladies of the Stark family. The three girls huddled together, whispering, which had already caused the governess to complain several times.
Clay's purpose in Winterfell this time, besides proving his identity to the entire North, was actually more important to him personally: to get in touch with the Stark family's Godswood. His goal was the largest weirwood tree in the entire North.
The faith of the Old Gods was deeply rooted throughout the North. Unlike others, he knew very well that the weirwood itself contained rich Magic. Clay's Magic pool, which was starving, desperately needed to be replenished.
As for Sentinel Bark, the final ingredient for the Herbal Brew, Clay wasn't too worried. As long as he had a chance to leave the city, he could find this tree in the vast Wolfwood. If that failed, the warehouses of Winterfell also had some, but they had been there for too long, and their efficacy couldn't be guaranteed.
As they were chatting, a Winterfell guard wearing a Direwolf Cloak entered the training yard and spoke quietly to Ser Rodrik.
"Robb, and Clay, Lord Eddard wants to see you. Go to his study in the Main Keep," Ser Rodrik interrupted their conversation.
Clay and Robb exchanged glances and nodded. Clay had never been to the Main Keep before and could only follow Robb.
They arrived at the study, where Eddard Stark was standing in front of the fireplace.
"You're here," Lord Eddard said calmly, but his whole face seemed frozen, as if bearing ice that would not melt even in the height of summer.
He looked at Clay first, "Clay Manderly, the letter from Lord Wyman verifying your identity has been received. I've already instructed the Maester to make an announcement throughout the North."
Clay felt a slight sense of relief upon hearing this. At least with the Manderly Family as a support, he would have a safe haven in these troubled times.
However, he then felt puzzled. This letter didn't seem like it should have put Lord Eddard in a bad mood. It seemed the temperature on his face could extinguish a piece of coal from the fireplace.
"Now, Clay, go back and bring your guards. Robb, go fetch Bran and the others. We're going out of the city. An Oathbreaker is about to be judged."
On the way back, a puzzled Robb frowned, completely oblivious to the stiff expression on Clay's face behind him.
Clay's heart was screaming. If he wasn't mistaken, this so-called Oathbreaker was the deserter who had survived the White Walker ambush.
After all this time, Clay had finally found his place in the Year of Conquest 298.
From a bystander to a witness, a strange excitement surged through him. He quickly separated from Robb and issued an order: all White Harbor soldiers must assemble within half an hour.
The Captain of the Guard, leading the charge, resolutely executed Clay's order. With a combination of kicks and prods, he finally got the White Harbor Guard, who had grown lazy in Winterfell, back into a neat formation.
Half an hour later, the cavalry of the two families left Winterfell's North Gate, the sound of hooves thundering.
The captured prisoner had already been taken to an abandoned manor outside Winterfell, the execution ground where the Stark Family enforced the laws of the kingdom.
Over fifty riders stopped at the manor's entrance. The Direwolf Banner and the Merman Banner flew high. Bran, who was witnessing an execution for the first time, was a little scared and hid behind Jon, hesitant to watch.
The prisoner, riddled with frostbite, had fled all the way here from beyond the Wall. His tattered black Night's Watch uniform revealed the bruised and purplish skin beneath.
Clay understood why Lord Eddard's face was as cold as ice. A man of honor, he loathed deserters and oathbreakers. Southern nobles might have offered a pardon for a price, but here, decapitation was the only outcome.
He knew why Lord Eddard had summoned him. As the leader of the North, Eddard wanted his younger generation to understand the importance of law and honor, which of course included Clay, the heir to White Harbor.
The prisoner was forced onto the executioner's block. Clay understood his fear, not just of death, but of the unseen massacre in the Haunted Forest.
Lord Eddard dismounted. Theon Greyjoy, whom Clay rarely saw, handed him Ice, the Stark family's ancestral Valyrian greatsword.
He removed his gloves and grasped the dark, obsidian-colored blade with both hands. His voice, though loud, was heavy with the weight of the moment. "In the name of Robert of the 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 of the House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, do sentence you to death."
With a single swing, the head fell, and the smell of blood permeated the execution field.