Game of Thrones: The Witcher System

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After emerging from the walls of the Wolf's Den, Clay took a deep breath of the crisp northern air as his horse trotted forward.

"My lord, I really don't like them at all. These people always feel... strange," said a young guard riding beside him.

Clay did not mind the guard's chatter. He knew in his heart that he would probably come back to this place many more times in the future.

The people of the North mostly worshiped the Old Gods, while House Manderly, having migrated from the Reach, adhered to the Faith of the Seven. However, whether their devotion was sincere or merely for show, only they knew.

House Manderly did not interfere with the beliefs of their vassals, allowing faith in both the Old Gods and the Seven to coexist within White Harbor.

Just outside the Wolf's Den stood an ancient sacred grove, home to a Heart Tree that had endured for untold centuries. However, the only star fish-leaf tree within the grove had shed most of its leaves, looking withered and decayed.

Perhaps older than the Wolf's Den itself, this heart tree had witnessed the rise and fall of countless noble houses, their fortunes rising and fading like the tide.

Clay had visited the tree before, even laid a hand against its rough, timeworn trunk. Yet to his disappointment, the magical energy it held was feeble, hardly enough to replenish his own magic pool even a little.

As a descendant of the House Manderly, especially as the heir, it was not entirely fitting for Clay to visit the sacred grove that represented the faith of the Old Gods too often.

Originally, he had no reason to enter again, but when he saw Ser Bartimus limping, using a cane as he walked into the grove, he changed his mind.

Clay reined in his horse. "Wait here," he told his guards before dismounting and following the old knight into the grove.

The grove was not large, and Clay had rarely been here. It was always quiet here, with little to no people around. In the dense forest, Clay could only rely on his Witcher senses, following Bartimus' trail on the ground.

After several twists and turns, Clay finally reached the northeast corner of the grove, where the half-decayed Heart Tree stood. Beneath its ancient branches, Ser Bartimus rested, his weathered face turned toward the sky.

When he noticed Clay's approach from a distance, Ser Bartimus cracked a slight smile, as if greeting him with a faint laugh.

"Ser, do you worship the Old Gods?" Clay asked as he crossed a shallow puddle that surrounds the sacred grove, moving closer to the old knight under his watchful gaze.

"Yes," Ser Bartimus replied, his tone was as calm as always. "I have been praying to them under this heart tree for decades. It's become a habit."

There was no devotion in his tone, nor reverence—just the simple weight of truth.

Clay's eyes drifted downward, landing on a black bottle partially buried in the earth near the old knight's feet. He wasn't sure what it contained, but something about it felt significant.

As if sensing his gaze, Ser Bartimus leaned back against the tree, sliding down until he sat with his back against the gnarled trunk. He tossed aside his cane, then tapped a finger against the mouth of the bottle before speaking again.

"When I was on the battlefield, I traded one of my legs for your grandfather's life. This—" he gestured toward the bottle "—was the gift he gave me, along with this castle. He told me that when I retire, I should drink this bottle of wine with him."

Clay was stunned. He had never expected such an ordinary-looking bottle to hold such a story.

"Then why…" He started to ask but trailed off.

Ser Bartimus waved a hand dismissively and plucked a stalk of sour grass swaying in the wind. He slipped it between his teeth, chewing slowly. As he savored the bitter taste, he answered Clay's question between bites:

"I did think about it once, having a drink with your grandfather and the old comrades. But unfortunately, now, the only ones left from that time are your grandfather and me. Drinking with him would make me think of them... and that's not worth it."

His voice was calm, steady as still water, but Clay sensed the undercurrent of sorrow beneath his words.

His grandfather, now in his sixties, and Ser Bartimus, not much younger, had the privilege of noble—access to rest, nourishment, and care that prolonged their years. But for the common folk who once stood beside them, the battlefield had already claimed most, and those who survived rarely lived past sixty.

"Come on, give it a try. May the Gods bless it—and let's hope it hasn't turned to vinegar," Ser Bartimus said as he pulled a dagger from his chest pocket and stabbed it into the wooden cork of the bottle.

With a soft pop, the slightly moldy cork came free, and a faint fragrance of wine drifted into the air. Clay, with his keen senses, immediately caught the scent. Despite its age, the wine had been fortunate enough to retain its original flavor.

"It's just ordinary barley wine. Do you drink this kind of stuff, young lord?" Ser Bartimus asked, extending the bottle toward him.

Clay didn't refuse. He took the timeworn bottle into his hands, feeling its rough, weathered surface.

Following the old knight's example, Clay lifted the bottle and took a deep swig. As expected, the taste was unremarkable—just simple, unrefined barley wine. In truth, its quality was rather poor.

But it didn't matter; he wasn't here to savor wine.

The two of them continued drinking in silence for a while. As the alcohol seeped into their veins, loosening their tongues, Ser Bartimus finally spoke again.

The old knight's hand absently brushed against the equally aged heart tree as he turned to Clay.

"Boy, I don't mind you making life better for the White Sea Guard, but remember this—never, never be too lenient."

Ser Bartimus drained the last of the wine in one gulp, letting out a long breath before continuing.

"I know what you did in Winterfell. Good. Only those who have seen and shed blood can truly control the White Sea Guard. But remember this—though they bear the name of House Manderly, never, under any circumstances, place your trust in them, no matter the time."

Ser Bartimus' gaze was sharp despite the haze of drink, his voice steady with conviction.

"You're a smart boy. You know what I'm saying. We can infiltrate other noble houses—but what makes you think they won't do the same to us? What's stopping someone from sending a man with a purse full of gold dragons to White Harbor, looking to buy loyalty out from under us?"

He let the question linger before shaking his head.

"The five men, for now, I can guarantee their loyalty, but the ones below? No guarantee. So here's a piece of advice—whenever you get information from those beneath you, believe only half of it."

He gave Clay a pointed look.

"That way, you'll rarely go wrong."

Absorbing this invaluable advice, Clay knew that most of what the old knight had said was true. In this game of thrones, betrayal and deceit lurked around every corner, waiting for the unwary to stumble.

Therefore, the best strategy was to trust everyone a little—but never believe anyone entirely.

Their conversation soon drifted to other topics. Ser Bartimus, slightly loosened by the drink, began boasting of his exploits during the War of the Usurper. He spoke of the Northern army's unmatched strength, the fierce battles they had fought, and how formidable both he and Clay's grandfather had been on the battlefield.

In the end, the old knight rose and slowly walked away. Though his steps were unsteady, his back remained straight. His lord had only relieved him of his position as commander of the White Sea Guard—the vast lands surrounding this place were still his to rule.

Clay remained for a moment, letting the stillness settle around him. He knelt by a shallow puddle, splashing cold water onto his face. The chill cut through the lingering haze of alcohol, sharpening his senses. Leaning on the old heart tree, he pushed himself up, brushing the dirt from his hands and clothes.

Just as he was about to leave, a harsh raven's cry stopped him in his tracks.

Looking up, he saw a large black raven perched on a low branch, its piercing yellow eyes locked onto him. There was something unnatural in its gaze—a flicker of intelligence beyond that of an ordinary bird.

Clay didn't need to think. He already knew who it was.

Activating his Witcher senses, he felt it immediately—the faint pulse of magic radiating from the raven. The energy was familiar, unmistakable.

The Three-Eyed Raven had arrived!

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[Chapter End's]

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