Game of Thrones: The Witcher System

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"Grandfather, there is something I must tell you."

The solemnity in Clay's voice, coupled with his serious expression, piqued Lord Wyman's interest. In his memory, his grandson had never spoken to him with such gravity before.

"Oh? What does our brave warrior of the North wish to tell me?"

Clay set his sword aside and took a seat beside his grandfather, carefully weighing his words before speaking.

"Grandfather, I was ambushed in Winterfell—someone attempted to assassinate me."

With just this one sentence, Lord Wyman's hand, which had been stroking his grizzled beard, froze mid-air. His eyes widened in shock, and for a brief moment, his half-open mouth failed to produce a single word.

But the moment of stunned silence lasted only for a second. Then, as if ignited by fury, the old man's already ruddy complexion darkened further.

With a grunt, the old lord pushed himself to his feet, his heavy frame moving with a speed unexpected of a man his size. His knuckles whitened as he gripped the armrest of his chair. Someone in the North had dared to lay hands on his grandson?

The first name that leaped to his mind was the one who dwelled to the north of his own lands—the infamous Lord of the Dreadfort, Roose Bolton, the "Old Flayer."

The territories of their two houses had always bordered each other, and for generations, House Manderly and House Bolton had clashed over land and resources—sometimes it was a well, other times a village, and often it was nothing more than a line drawn in the dirt.

Back in his youth, Wyman had once led his cavalry to a standoff against Bolton's spearmen near Hornwood, a clash that had nearly escalated into outright war.

Had it not been for the then-Lord Stark marching his forces in to surround them both, perhaps their two houses would have long since drowned in blood.

So when he heard that Clay, his chosen heir, had been the target of an assassination, the first suspect to spring to his mind was his old adversary.

His expression hardened like stone, and his voice was cold and sharp.

"Was it that Old Flayer?"

Seeing Clay freeze for a moment, yet not nodding in affirmation, Wyman's thick, graying brows knitted together.

If it wasn't Roose Bolton, then who would want his grandson dead?

His mind worked quickly, sifting through Clay's actions in Winterfell. Then, like a hammer striking an anvil, a realization crashed into him.

His expression twisted.

"The Queen?!"

Clay shook his head once more. He didn't want his grandfather to waste time making blind guesses. After all, even the most astute mind would struggle to trace this scheme back to its true mastermind.

So, he simply revealed the truth.

"It was orchestrated by our esteemed Master of Coin—Petyr Baelish."

The old lord, who had been pacing in agitation, abruptly halted at the mention of the name. As an elder noble of the North, he was not particularly familiar with Baelish, but the title of "Master of Coin" was well known to him. It only took him a moment to conjure up the image of a sly, ever-smirking man from his memories.

Yet, confusion soon crept into his features.

Why would the Master of Coin wish to assassinate his grandson? Did he have his sights set on White Harbor's wealth?

No. That was a fool's thought. If Petyr Baelish truly coveted White Harbor's riches, he would have schemed for control, not resorted to outright assassination.

Despite not understanding the motive, Wyman had no reason to doubt Clay's words. His grandson had no reason to deceive him.

Having been the head of his house for decades, Wyman Manderly could not immediately decipher Baelish's exact motives, but he could sense that something was deeply amiss. He narrowed his eyes and asked in a low voice—

"Wait a moment, Clay—why have I heard nothing of this from Lord Eddard? Nor have I received any report from the White Harbor guards regarding this incident?"

He locked his sharp gaze onto Clay, waiting for an answer.

"Because from start to finish, I was the only one who knew about it. No, that's not quite right—Lord Eddard knows as well, but only part of the truth."

Wyman's frown deepened.

"You were the only one who knew? Then what became of the assassin?"

Clay did not answer this question directly. Instead, he introduced another thread into the conversation.

"At the time, I was imprisoned in the dungeons. If an assassin had struck me down there, who do you think would have been blamed? The answer is obvious—everyone would have assumed it was the Lannisters."

"That was exactly what our dear Lord Baelish intended—to use me as a spark to ignite the conflict between House Stark and House Lannister."

A shadow passed over Wyman's face. He could see the cunning of it, the ruthless precision. A single death, placed at the right moment, would have sent two great houses lunging for each other's throats.

Clay continued, his voice calm but firm.

"I subdued the assassin, forced him to reveal the true mastermind behind the attack… and then, I let him go."

"Because whether he lived or died, the outcome would be the same."

Clay's expression remained unreadable.

"Baelish wanted to use me to stoke the flames of war, but I refused to play his game. Let him weave his intrigues elsewhere—he will not do so with me."

The training grounds were already empty except for the two of them, and now, an eerie quiet settled over the space. The only sound was the fluttering of the merman banner in the cold northern wind.

Lord Wyman pursed his lips, his face dark with displeasure.

His instincts told him that there was far more hidden beneath the surface of this incident. And just as Clay had said, this assassination attempt was merely one piece in Baelish's intricate game—an attempt to sow discord between lions and wolves.

Rage burned in his chest at the thought that his grandson had been used as nothing more than a pawn. But beneath the anger lay something colder, something more unsettling.

A chilling realization.

For too long, the North had been blind to the intrigues of the South.

To Wyman, positions like Master of Coin, Master of Whispers, and Grand Maester were nothing more than symbols—one represented gold dragons, another a network of spies, and the last a chain of links.

"You simply let the assassin go?" His voice was low, edged with restrained fury. "Tell me his name. I still have means at my disposal. As long as he isn't too highly ranked, I can have him dealt with."

Clay smiled, as if he had already anticipated his grandfather's anger over his decision to let the assassin walk free.

"There's no need to worry. He won't escape."

"Oh?"

Clay's confidence was unwavering. He explained—

"The man in question is a minor noble from the Crownlands. I made him send a raven to our dear Lord Baelish, falsely reporting that I had been successfully assassinated."

Wyman's brows furrowed, but he said nothing, waiting for his grandson to continue.

"Now, with me standing here safe and well, Baelish will soon realize the discrepancy. He will compare the assassin's letter with the news of my survival, and he will come to one inevitable conclusion—" Clay's voice was calm, assured. "The assassin lied to him."

"And as a noble of the Crownlands, the assassin has a home, a family, and ties he cannot simply abandon. He has nowhere to run."

A flicker of understanding crossed Wyman's face. His grandson had never intended to take matters into his own hands. He was going to let Baelish deal with the loose end himself.

But something still nagged at the old lord. "Wait. How can you be certain he actually sent the raven? Would he really be so foolish?"

Wyman had keenly spotted a potential flaw in the plan. But in response, Clay merely chuckled.

"Don't worry. He did it—because he encountered a force he cannot defy."

"What do you mean?"

Lord Wyman's brow, which had just begun to relax, furrowed once again. He didn't understand what Clay was implying. What 'force he cannot defy'?

At that moment, he saw his grandson raise his left hand toward the distance and make a strange gesture—a hand sign he had never seen before.

The palm was open, with the index finger bent and pressed against the extended middle finger, while the remaining three fingers pointed forward, spread apart.

Just as confusion flickered across Wyman's face, he heard Clay softly utter a single word.

"Igni."

A burst of flames erupted, their glow reflecting in the old Lord's wide eyes. The roaring flames seared the icy northern air, making him feel an unfamiliar heat in this frigid land.

As he stared at the charred ground, the burning grass still smoldering, Wyman looked at his grandson—suddenly a stranger to him—and felt his mind go blank.

Clay met his gaze, his voice steady, unwavering.

"He had no choice but to obey."

A pause. Then—

"Because against the power of magic… there is no defiance."

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[Author's Note]

Sorry, everyone! I couldn't update any chapters due to personal reasons, but from now on, I'll be updating daily. I'm back!

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