Game of Thrones: The Witcher System

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Winterfell isn't actually a city; in the strictest sense, it was merely a military fortress of House Stark.

It covers an area of several acres and is surrounded by two massive and thick walls. Clay followed the Stark family's guards through the eastern gate, which was about to close, and entered the capital of the North.

Guards bearing the direwolf sigil lit torches, slightly dispelling the darkness that clung to the air.

"Friends of the House Manderly, please wait here for a moment. I will report to Ser Rodrik, and he will arrange suitable accommodations for you."

Clay nodded. By now, it was already evening, and visiting Lord Stark wasn't the best idea at this hour.

The guards hurried off, and Clay and his group waited quietly in front of the main keep, while Wylla, who was riding on horseback, looked around restlessly.

About twenty minutes later, a short, stocky elderly man holding a helmet came into Clay's view.

Dressed in a deep red cloak, with a longsword hanging from his waist, he walked steadily toward them.

"Winterfell welcomes you," he said briefly before introducing himself.

"I am Rodrik Cassel, the Master-at-Arms of Winterfell. May I ask the purpose of your visit?"

Clay dismounted from his horse, and the other guards, along with Wylla, followed suit and approached Rodrik. He looked at the elderly man, who had dedicated his life to the House of the direwolf, and smiled.

"Good day, Ser. I am Clay Manderly, and this is my sister, Wylla."

Rodrik had indeed heard of Clay's name, back when he was born, but since Clay had kept a low profile and had been absent from Westeros for two years, it took him a moment to recall who he was.

A branch of the House Manderly? Rodrik furrowed his brow. He had served House Stark for nearly fifty years and had never encountered a member of a branch family requesting an audience with the Lord of Winterfell.

It was against protocol.

However, every member of House Stark understood that, "When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives." House Stark had no reason to refuse or drive away this strange Manderly youth before them.

"You'll have to wait until tomorrow to meet the Lord," Rodrik said briefly. "For tonight, you will stay in Winterfell. I'll report to the Lord tomorrow."

The night had already fallen, and Rodrik had no interest in further conversation, so he kept it brief.

As guests, Clay naturally had no objections. The Stark family guards took care of their horses and arranged accommodations for the accompanying guards. Holding Wylla's hand, as she seemed a little uneasy in the dark, Clay followed the not-so-tall Rodrik into the keep.

The night passed quickly, and warm sunlight once again poured into the ancient fortress.

Clay, who had risen early, was practicing the beginner-level Wolf School Swordsmanship—a basic technique granted by his Level 1 Witcher System. He awkwardly wielded a finely crafted hand-and-a-half sword, his movements unrefined yet deliberate. Despite the difficulty, he paid meticulous attention to every strike and step.

"Are you practicing swordsmanship too?" A youthful voice behind him cut through the sound of the sword sewing through the air, halting Clay mid-swing.

Clay sheathed his sword and turned, looking toward the source of the voice.

A young boy, dressed in simple clothes, stood at the entrance of the small courtyard where Clay and his group were staying.

He had dark brown hair, a thin frame, and a dull grey short sword hanging at his waist.

Seeing Clay pause, the boy walked over and extended his hand with a gesture that felt surprisingly mature for his age.

"My name is Jon. Pleased to meet you," he said, his voice carrying a faint note of shyness.

Strangely, the boy didn't offer his family name, but Clay had already guessed who he was.

"Clay," he replied simply. The two shook hands, neither mentioning their surnames.

The boy before him was likely Jon Snow—the future King in the North, a boy who carried the blood of both the direwolf and the dragon. Clay understood why Jon refrained from mentioning his family name. Being branded a bastard with the name "Snow" was a wound that the boy bore deeply, a source of quiet resentment.

"You're... from House Manderly?" Jon asked hesitantly, his gaze lingering on the Merman banner planted in the yard.

Because he wasn't favored by Lady Catelyn, Jon had never received a proper education in heraldry and knew little about the intricate relationships between noble houses.

When Clay nodded in confirmation, a flicker of sadness crossed Jon's face. Though born into the noble Stark family, he envied the man from House Manderly, who stood a head taller than him, for having his own surname. Jon despised the name "Snow," the mark of a bastard that set him apart from his siblings.

He quickly composed himself. As the most skilled swordsman among the younger generation of House Stark, Jon had been observing Clay's movements and footwork. The style was unfamiliar to him—something Ser Rodrik had never taught.

The boy's competitive nature got the better of him, and he couldn't help but ask, "Hey, could I have a duel with you?"

Although Clay hadn't fully mastered the essence of the Wolf School's swordsmanship, he wasn't about to refuse such a challenge. He responded with a cheerful laugh.

"Of course, Jon."

The two took their positions as a Manderly guard, already awake, cleared a space for his young master without needing to be asked.

"Be careful," Jon said with a grin. "Ser Rodrik says I'm the best swordsman in the family—even better than Robb." The pure-hearted boy spoke with pride, seemingly unaware that his words had already betrayed his identity. After all, which lord in the North didn't know the name of the heir to House Stark?

The two faced off, their focus narrowing as the early morning air hummed with anticipation. Unbeknownst to them, a crowd had begun to gather. Guards from both House Stark and House Manderly stood nearby, drawn by the promise of a match. Among them was Ser Rodrik, standing behind a middle-aged man who observed the duel with keen interest.

As they circled the field, Jon quickly realized that Clay's measured steps kept him on the defensive, never allowing a comfortable opening to strike. Frustrated, Jon made a split-second decision. Letting out a shout, he charged forward, swinging his sword with all his might.

Clang!

Clay's blade barely intercepted the attack aimed at his waist. The sheer force of the strike caught him off guard, and his heavier hand-and-a-half sword made countering swiftly a challenge.

Seeing his attack blocked, Jon didn't hesitate. He withdrew his sword in a fluid motion, preparing for another strike. But before he could act, Clay recovered, executing an upward slash that forced Jon to raise his sword in defense.

The two blades clashed again, the impact reverberating through the air. Jon felt a powerful force travel through his arms, sending him stumbling back two steps.

Clay exhaled steadily, silently grateful for the hours he had poured into practicing the Wolf School's swordsmanship. Following the steps ingrained in his mind, he advanced without pause, his blade cutting downward in a swift, decisive strike.

The clash of steel echoed across the yard as the weapons collided repeatedly, drawing cheers and murmurs from the onlookers. Amid the excitement, a middle-aged man stood silently, his expression unreadable. His gaze shifted to Ser Rodrik, who stood nearby, his snowy white brows furrowed in concern.

Before the man could speak, Ser Rodrik muttered, "This doesn't look good. Jon might lose."

On the field, the two boys remained locked in their duel, their movements sharp and focused. Behind them, the banners of House Stark and House Manderly—Direwolf and Merman—fluttered gently in the morning breeze, casting long shadows on the ground.

"An interesting lad," the middle-aged man murmured, watching the match. The image of Clay's focused form gleamed in his grey eyes.

As the duel continued, the man turned to leave the crowd. "Once they're finished, let him know I'll be waiting for him in the hall."

"Yes, my lord," came the swift reply.

...

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[Chapter End's]

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