After leaving the walls of Wolf's Den, Clay, mounted on his horse, breathed in the frigid air of The North.
"My lord, I don't like them at all. Those people always feel… off."
The speaker was a young guard riding beside him, providing a protective escort. Clay didn't mind the young man's unsolicited observation. He knew he would likely be visiting this place many times in the future.
Most Northerners worshipped the Old Gods, while the Manderly Family, who had migrated from the Reach, maintained their faith in The Seven. Whether their faith was truly devout, only they knew.
The Manderly Family didn't interfere with their people's beliefs, so in this city, the worship of both the old and new gods coexisted.
Outside Wolf's Den was a very ancient Godswood. However, the only Weirwood tree within had long since shed most of its leaves, appearing withered and dilapidated.
It was probably a heart tree older than Wolf's Den itself, having witnessed the rise and fall of countless families within the city.
Clay had visited that tree and touched its trunk, but he was disappointed. The magic contained within was meager, not enough to make his mana pool increase even a little.
As a scion of the Manderly Family, especially as the heir, it wasn't really proper to be seen frequenting the Godswood, a place of worship for the Old Gods.
Clay had no reason to go in there, originally. But when he saw Sir Bartimus, leaning on his cane and limping into the woods, he changed his mind.
He told his guards to stay put, and followed.
The woods weren't large, but Clay rarely came here. It was usually deserted, but in the depths of the forest, Clay could only rely on his Witcher senses to track the footprints on the ground.
After winding through the trees, Clay finally found the half-withered, ancient Weirwood in the northeastern corner of the Godswood, and Sir Bartimus standing silently beneath it.
Seeing Clay approach from afar, Sir Bartimus tugged at the corner of his mouth, managing a semblance of a smile.
"Sir, do you believe in the Old Gods?"
Clay crossed the shallow pool of water that surrounded the Godswood, and stood before the old knight, under his gaze.
"Yes, I've been praying to them under the weirwood for decades now, it's become a habit."
The tone was still light, without joy or sorrow, simply stating a simple fact.
Clay noticed a dark bottle at the old knight's feet, planted in the ground, he didn't know what it contained.
Seemingly noticing Clay's gaze, the old knight leaned against the weirwood trunk, letting his body slide down slowly. He discarded his cane, flicked his fingers at the bottle's opening, and said calmly:
"Back on the battlefield, I traded a leg for your grandfather's life. He gave this to me, along with this castle. He said, when I retire from this position, I'd drink this bottle with him."
Clay was stunned; he didn't know that this unattractive bottle of wine had such a story behind it.
"Then you…"
The old knight waved his hand, plucked a sour grass leaf swaying in the wind from the ground, and put it in his mouth, chewing slowly. Taking a moment to answer Clay's question:
"I did think about it once, to drink a cup with your grandfather, and my comrades from back then. But, unfortunately, only your grandfather and I are left alive. Drinking with him would make me think of them. Not worth it."
The old knight's tone was as calm as a still lake, but Clay could taste a deep sense of desolation within it.
His grandfather was already over sixty, and Sir Bartimus before him was much the same. As nobles, they had access to good rest and nutrition, whereas ordinary people, given the current medical standards, rarely lived past sixty after returning from the battlefield.
"Come, have a taste, may the gods bless it, and hope it hasn't turned to vinegar."
The old knight drew a dagger from his breast pocket and plunged it into the cork of the bottle.
With a "pop," the slightly moldy cork was pulled out, and a faint aroma of wine was captured by Clay's sensitive sense of smell. Clay knew that this old wine was fortunate to have maintained its original form.
"Just ordinary ale, does the young master like it?"
The old knight handed the bottle to Clay, who didn't refuse and accepted the bottle, which was covered in the marks of time.
Following the old man, Clay naturally couldn't avoid being influenced by him. He took a big gulp, and sure enough, it was the most ordinary ale, and even somewhat inferior in quality.
But it didn't matter; he wasn't here to taste wine today.
The two of them began to drink, sip by sip. After a while, the alcohol loosened Sir Bartimus's tongue.
His aged hand stroked the equally aged trunk of the Weirwood. Sir Bartimus turned to Clay and said: "Boy, I don't object to you making the White Sea Guard's lives better, but remember this, never let yourself become too lenient."
The old knight drained the remaining liquor in his cup in one go, letting out a long sigh before continuing, "I know what you did in Winterfell. Good. Only those who are willing to spill blood can truly control the White Sea Guard. But, having said that, though they are of the Manderly Family, never, ever give them your complete trust."
"You're a smart lad, you know what I mean. We can infiltrate other nobles, but can you guarantee those fellows won't send someone with Gold Dragons to White Harbor to tempt and infiltrate us?"
"I can vouch for the loyalty of those five for now, but the people below them, not necessarily. Let me give you a tip: for all the information that comes up to you, trust half of it, and you'll be fine."
Absorbing this valuable experience and information, Clay knew that the old knight before him was mostly right. This game of power was filled with betrayal and deception.
Therefore, the best strategy was to trust everyone a little, and no one completely.
Their conversation shifted to various topics. The old knight bragged about his and the old man's performance on the battlefield during the War of the Usurper, and how powerful the Northern army was.
In the end, the old knight swayed away, though his steps were unsteady, his back remained straight. His own old man had only relieved him of his command of the White Sea Guard, but a large swathe of land nearby still belonged to him.
Clay cupped some of the water from a puddle and washed his face. The icy coolness dispelled what little drunkenness he had left. He leaned against the ancient tree trunk and stood up, brushing the dust from his clothes.
Just as he was about to leave, a harsh raven's caw stopped him.
He looked up. A huge, jet-black raven perched on a finger, its deep yellow eyes staring directly at him, a glimmer of intelligence within.
Clay didn't need to think. His Witcher senses were fully activated. Sure enough, a faint aura of magic lingered around the giant raven. He recognized this magic.
The Three-Eyed Raven had come!
.....
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