"I believe my terms demonstrate sufficient sincerity, Proxy of the Foreign God."
He spoke slowly, his pale, withered skin wrinkling as if it might crumble at any moment.
The Three-Eyed Crow was somewhat exasperated, but mostly resigned. His statement that he couldn't do anything about Clay was actually the truth. When his crow had observed Clay, he was shocked by the magic filling Clay's body.
He had long since tried to use magical power to interfere with this "heretic" rampaging in the North, but it had no effect whatsoever.
"No, in my opinion, you call me Proxy of the Foreign God, so there's no basis for trust between us. Besides, Lord Three-Eyed Crow, how do I know you'll keep your word?"
At this point, Clay saw no need to pretend any longer and directly pointed out the other party's identity.
The Three-Eyed Crow's crimson pupil slightly widened, obviously surprised that Clay knew his identity. After a long time, he spoke:
"You surprise me once again, Proxy of the Foreign God. I don't seem to have revealed myself to you before. How did you know my identity?"
His question was met with a flash of white teeth and a slightly mocking tone from Clay: "As you said, it's not important."
Clay thought, If I tell you your true form is Beyond the Wall, will you be so scared that your three eyes turn into four? "..."
Taking a deep breath, the Three-Eyed Crow decided to drop the question. He finally understood the basis of trust that this infuriating Proxy of the Foreign God was talking about.
"Alright then, as you wish. I'd like to hear your conditions."
To be honest, Clay didn't want to fall out with the Three-Eyed Crow. To put it coldly, what did it matter to him whether Bran was controlled or died? If these great nobles of the Seven Kingdoms were considered investment targets, frankly, none of them were high-quality prospects. If you didn't believe it, just look at the endings. Within a few years, almost every named duke was dead.
The old wolf died on the chopping block, the old Duke of the Tully family died of illness, Lord Tywin died in the toilet, the Tyrell and Baratheon families were wiped out, the Prince of Dorne was assassinated, and then there was the now-deceased Hand of the King, Jon Arryn. You could say the death rate was off the charts.
Therefore, this was why Jon Snow, with his protagonist's aura, could go all the way from bastard to Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, and then to King in the North. Because all the prestigious and capable people were dead, it was his turn.
Honestly, Clay most wanted to invest in Daenerys, who was far across the Narrow Sea. But now, he lacked an opportunity. And Daenerys, who hadn't experienced blood and fire, was also an unqualified Targaryen.
"You can do what you want with Bran, but the magic of the heart trees in The North must be accessible to me. Also, the previous requests still stand."
These were Krei's conditions. In truth, he never intended for the other party to actually give him a dragon or a hatchable dragon egg. His true goal was the magic within the heart trees.
He wasn't Daenerys. Regardless of whether he possessed the bloodline to ride dragons, he couldn't abandon White Harbor, one of the wealthiest cities in all of Westeros, at this stage.
White Harbor wasn't Essos. Daenerys, once she resolved her own safety issues, was untouchable with her dragons. But imagine raising a dragon in White Harbor?
Given the growth rate of a young dragon, no matter how well he kept the secret, it would inevitably be discovered. Then, there would be fun. The Seven Kingdoms would likely cease their internal war and march directly on White Harbor.
The best outcome would be the dragon being stolen or killed under the threat of military force. If he was lucky, the dragon would fly away, and then Krei would be stripped of his inheritance, forced to take the black, and join Jon Snow at the Wall, eating snow.
However, things never quite went as Krei planned.
"Fine, but I also have conditions. Except for Winterfell, all weirwood trees in The North under my master's protection possess magic, but this magic has a limit. You cannot do what you did in the Godswood; that would cause serious harm to the trees themselves."
Understood. I can draw, but I shouldn't go overboard; hmm, acceptable.
Wait! Did It really agree to get me a dragon?
Just as he was processing this, before he could even speak, Clay heard Its voice:
"The deal is struck, Proxy of the Foreign God. You can contact me by touching the Weirwood from now on. I look forward to our next meeting."
The throne room warped before Clay's eyes, and then everything went black. He found himself back in Winterfell's great hall, and not a second had passed.
Seeing Clay's stiff posture, Robb asked, puzzled, "Clay?"
Pulled back to reality, Clay finally reacted. He quickly released Bran. In his vision, a strand of magic broke through the wall and wrapped around Bran's body once more. But this time, Clay didn't stop it.
He straightened up and bowed to the Duke and Duchess Stark, who were smiling at him.
"Alright, Clay, you can go now. Remember, Winterfell will always welcome you."
...
Winterfell's imposing walls were already behind Bran. Riding his horse, Bran breathed in the crisp air of The North, sizing up his grandfather, who stood as tall as a wall himself.
"I have to say, lad, you did well on this trip."
Seeing his grandson looking at him, Lord Wyman turned his head and stroked his white beard, smiling.
He was very pleased with his grandson, who had returned from Essos. He dared to kill a Lannister, had befriended the Starks, and possessed excellent swordsmanship.
What displeased him was that he shouldn't have let Vera cause such a ruckus on this trip. Otherwise, Bran wouldn't have ended up in the dungeon, and he shouldn't have entertained such thoughts after his efforts with Wilfred had failed.
Also, he had misjudged the choice of the guard captain. He already knew about Bran sleeping in the mud, and coupled with Vera being harassed, if the situation wasn't so delicate, Lord Wyman would have gladly hanged this guard captain named Hosta.
Lord Wyman felt quite pleased as he looked at the White Harbor Guard surrounding him.
Just as they were leaving the city, the Lannister queen, having received the news, predictably sent people to stop Clay and his party from leaving. Seeing this, his 100 cavalrymen drew their swords. The few weaklings were indeed terrified, and scrambled to clear the road for the army.
Clay, watching this scene, felt the same. Indeed, might makes right. Regardless of whether you're a queen or not, in this world, when your fist is big enough to crush everyone, you are the king.
Traveling south along the White Knife River, Clay smelled the unique salty scent of the sea again after a week, and saw the massive city at the edge of his vision, enclosed by towering, white stone walls.
The Merman banner fluttered, and only beneath this flag did Clay feel a long-lost sense of relaxation.
....
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