As the most efficient means of communication among the great lords, ravens carried a very important mission. But today, looking at her husband, who was leaning on a greatsword under the heart tree, with a face full of disbelief and pain, Catelyn wished she had never received the news that the raven brought.
Jon Arryn, the Hand of the King of the Seven Kingdoms, had died of a sudden illness!
Catelyn knew very well how her husband felt about Lord Jon, but now that he was gone, they didn't have much time to grieve, because King Robert I was already on his way to Winterfell.
When Clay received the news, he didn't feel surprised at all. Theoretically, his apparent mission in Winterfell was already completed.
According to Ser Rodrik, as a guest of Winterfell, he could leave whenever he wanted, as long as he paid a visit to Duke Eddard before leaving.
This was perfect for Clay, because the Manderly Family didn't believe in the Old Gods that the Northerners worshipped, so it wouldn't be a wise choice for him to openly propose going to the Godswood to have a look.
"Young master, we've brought back the materials you wanted," the captain of the guard came to the second-floor corridor where Clay was and reported the results to him.
"Oh? Good, let's go take a look," Clay nodded and followed the captain of the guard to the carriage.
"Well done. Here's your reward; share it among yourselves. And remember, don't waste it all on women. Keep it in check," Clay said, a slight frown on his face, reminding the guard captain, who was wearing a strange smile.
The burly man chuckled and took the money bag, humming a vulgar tune as he quickly disappeared.
After he left, Clay looked at the pile of sentinel bark filling the cart, and the corners of his mouth twitched. Sure enough, these idiots' actions perfectly matched the image of a White Harbor bigshot among the northern nobles.
He remembered he'd clearly gestured for a small bag, but these three had brought him a cartload.
Clay couldn't reprimand his subordinates for over-fulfilling the task to show their loyalty. He hopped onto the cart and picked and chose a piece with the best quality, dragging it into his room.
He had already asked the guards. His sister, Vera, should be happily playing with the Stark ladies at the moment and wouldn't have time to bother with him, her almost-forgotten brother.
The final ingredients were ready, so he would prepare the Witcher Potion here.
With a thought, the Witcher system opened. Clay threw the sentinel bark he had just processed into the backpack slot. When he checked the potion slot, the previously unavailable Witcher Potion was now in a selectable state.
Having made his choice, the illusory sound of bubbles bursting and water splashing seemed to echo in his ears. Then, all the materials vanished, except for the Dragon Bone, which remained in a usable state.
Clay saw something new in his inventory. It was three small, stacked-up vials. Touching them with his thoughts, the following information naturally appeared in Clay's mind:
"Name: Witcher Potion Version: 1.0 Effect: Induces Witcher mutations in ordinary people.
Side Effects: Significant nerve damage (can be mitigated), severely weakened fertility (can be mitigated), split pupils (can be mitigated)…
Base Success Rate: 30% (can be increased)
Note: Drink it, and if you survive, you will become an invincible warrior. Oh, a friendly reminder, if you succeed, pitchforks will do significantly more damage to you…"
Clay automatically ignored the note, staring at the Witcher Potion he'd spent so long concocting, stroking his chin thoughtfully.
This thing definitely couldn't be chugged down in one go. He couldn't accept seven out of ten people dying. He wasn't sure how much his mana pool could increase the success rate.
Moreover, those side effects were completely unacceptable. If he really gambled and succeeded, he would become a paralytic eunuch with cat eyes. Forget about becoming the heir of White Harbor; he'd be lucky to avoid being caught by the Sept of the Seven and burned as a heretic.
"Sigh, it seems the Godswood is a must-go," Clay sighed softly.
Putting away the system, the sentinel bark he'd dragged in had completely disappeared. Fortunately, he had plenty in stock, so there was no risk of being discovered.
Having made his decision, he sat at the table and picked up a pen to write a letter to Lord Wyman in White Harbor.
In the letter, he informed the old lord of the Prime Minister's sudden death and the King's imminent arrival. He also told him of his decision to stay in Winterfell and, if the opportunity arose, to meet with the important figures in King's Landing.
Unlike the traditional northern nobles, the Manderly Family, who controlled White Harbor, were not exclusionary. For a considerable period in the past, the Manderly Family had served as the North's gateway to the outside world, and it still did.
As far as Clay knew, his own grandfather frequently corresponded with several major families in the Riverlands and the Vale of Arryn, clearly having some connections.
Therefore, he was certain his grandfather would agree to his staying. Befriending important figures from King's Landing was very much in line with Lord Wyman's governing principles.
The letter was quickly written. After drying the ink, Clay folded the letter. Such a letter couldn't pass through the hands of the guards. He got up, pushed open the door, and went to the raven cage not far outside.
This was something the old lord had specifically requested he bring before leaving, to maintain constant communication.
Clay grabbed a plump-looking raven from inside, ignoring its struggles as he stuffed a folded letter into the leg-mounted message tube. Releasing it, the gray creature flapped its wings and soared into the sky, circling once before heading southeast.
After the raven disappeared, Clay suddenly found himself with nothing to do.
He had decided to sneak into the Godswood on the night of the King's visit, during the great feast at Winterfell, because most of the Stark family's forces would be concentrated in the Winterfell Great Hall, located to the southeast.
Regardless, the King's safety was paramount, and he wouldn't have to take on any welcoming responsibilities at Winterfell. He wasn't of the Stark family, the hosts. In a way, he and King Robert were both guests at Winterfell.
Since he knew he would inevitably have to get involved in this game of power, Clay wanted to observe the major players in advance.
After all, the game was still being played, at least in a less bloody fashion, before the boy, mockingly called "The Great Emperor," decided to throw the rules out the window.
Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, Clay drew his longsword from his waist and began practicing the School of the Wolf swordsmanship displayed in the system. The blade whistled as it swept through the delicate snowflakes falling from the late summer sky.
Unbeknownst to him, a detached gaze was fixed on Clay's figure, watching him closely in the Godswood, where Eddard Stark often went.
This vision ignored all obstacles, focusing solely on Clay's increasingly rapid sword movements. A faint murmur echoed:
"An interesting person..."