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As the very heart of White Harbor's intelligence network, the system continued to operate with unwavering efficiency, even in the absence of the commander of the White Sea Guard. Regardless of who held the reins of leadership, the mechanism remained in motion, dutifully fulfilling its purpose.
Messages from across White Harbor, both north and south, arrived daily, meticulously delivered by trained ravens. Each message was carefully removed from the legs of the birds, compiled, sorted, and organized into logically structured dossiers. For the past while, all these reports had been submitted directly to Lord Wyman.
However, upon Clay's return, command naturally shifted back to him. Or more accurately, to the blood-red gemstone he wore—an object of unmistakable authority that recognized the ring, not the bearer. It was not a mere saying; in this case, the symbol held true dominion.
Since his return, Clay had been wholly absorbed in the expansion plan of the Witcher Initiative. His focus left little room for anything else. But now, having successfully created the first of the Witchers, he finally found time to turn his attention back to matters concerning the Wolf's Den.
Initially, he had intended to go alone. However, after a brief moment of reflection, he summoned Christen to accompany him, now bathed, cleaned, and no longer exuding the repugnant scent that had previously rendered him intolerable to others.
Clay had not suddenly taken leave of his senses. He had no intention of revealing the true nature of the Wolf's Den to Christen just yet. This was merely an opportunity for conversation. The visit was meant only to help Christen become familiar with the place—it would be some time before he was allowed any deeper involvement.
Mounted on horseback, Clay waited for about ten minutes before Christen appeared, clad in armor and astride a sturdy brown warhorse. He came to a halt before his young lord, his posture proud and upright.
Clay looked him over from head to toe, the corners of his lips curving slightly upward.
"Not bad. You look the part. Has your body recovered?"
Becoming a Witcher naturally endowed one with an enhanced metabolic system and accelerated healing. From being barely able to stand upon awakening to regaining the lithe agility expected of a Witcher—all within half a day—it was nothing short of extraordinary.
While not as miraculous as some legendary healing arts, the speed of his recovery was undeniably impressive.
Christen, warmed by the concern in his lord's voice, felt a flicker of emotion stir in his heart. A smile spread across his face, and he responded with barely restrained excitement.
"Yes, my lord. I feel incredible. The power you have granted me has allowed my body to recover in a way I can scarcely believe!"
Clay raised a hand, cutting off the effusion of gratitude before it could continue.
"That's enough. I understand. But remember—right now, only you and I possess this power in all of Westeros. Be discreet. This isn't the time for others to find out."
Their horses were close enough that no one else could overhear the exchange. Christen stiffened for a moment, realizing his outburst had been careless. He glanced around, his eyes sharp and alert. Confirming that no one had taken notice, he let out a breath and relaxed slightly.
Clay had no intention of indulging Christen's emotional outpourings any longer. With a flick of his riding crop, he gestured toward the direction of the Wolf's Den and issued a crisp command.
"Come. As my personal guard, you're accompanying me beyond the city."
With that, he urged his mount forward. The warhorse sprang into motion, swiftly carrying Clay out of the courtyard and into the distance.
Christen, seeing his lord had already departed, immediately spurred his own horse and followed.
The road from New Castle to the Wolf's Den was now familiar to Clay. He had traveled it countless times before. He was not someone with a poor sense of direction, so he should remember it no matter how stupid he was.
As they rode, Clay remained silent. Christen, who had never been to the Wolf's Den before—nor even heard much about it—watched the passing scenery with a sense of curiosity. The place had been deliberately kept obscure. Both Lord Wyman and Ser Bartimus had intentionally downplayed its existence to preserve the secrecy of the White Sea Guard.
When Christen asked what their purpose at the Wolf's Den was, Clay gave no answer. Instead, he posed a question of his own, one that had been on his mind since they set out.
"You have much to learn, my personal guard. Now that you possess this power, tell me—what do you think your role should be on the battlefield?"
The question was calm, but it carried weight. It was not just a passing thought; it was something Clay had carefully considered and wanted Christen to reflect on as well.
"My lord, I..."
Christen opened his mouth, but no words came out. The question was too large, too foreign to someone who, until recently, had never even stepped foot inside the Sea God's Tower. Clay understood that. For someone from a minor branch of the family, with limited experience and knowledge, the question was well beyond his current grasp.
But there was no time to waste. The immense resources required to create Witchers had shown Clay the harsh reality: forming a full-scale Witcher army capable of direct confrontation within two months was simply impossible.
He recalled the arduous process of the trials. Even if he pushed himself to the brink of exhaustion, it could not be done.
A shift in strategy was necessary. If a large-scale force could not be realized, then they would have to follow a different path—the path of elite operatives.
After all, special forces were never meant to charge in line with the main army. They operated behind enemy lines, conducted ambushes, eliminated sentries. That was their strength.
In a world like Westeros, where productivity and technological development were still relatively primitive, having that kind of flexibility could be devastating. Poisoning water sources, burning supply lines, assassinating key figures—such tactics could reshape the battlefield.
The North valued honor, that much was true. But honor was only meaningful to the living. If one refused to adapt to the environment, honor became a burden, dragging men down. From Eddard to Robb Stark, that had been the root of their undoing.
Recognizing this, Clay resolved to train Christen and the future Witchers differently. And for that, he would need to have a thorough conversation with the old man.
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Christen was left waiting in the godswood outside, while Clay made his way alone into the familiar halls of the Wolf's Den.
With a clear goal in mind, he headed straight for the tower that housed the White Sea Guard.
Taking his place in the commander's seat, a position that was indisputably his, Clay summoned one of the black-clad guards who had hurried over upon hearing of his arrival.
"Summon the five overseers. Tell them to meet me here and to bring the latest intelligence reports. I want to see them."
Fifteen minutes later, the five overseers stood before him, seated in a semi-circle. On the table in front of Clay lay five neatly arranged booklets, each identical in size and shape.
The first to speak was Snow, the overseer of Northern intelligence. After a brief moment of hesitation, he voiced his suggestion.
"Commander, as per your instructions, we've concentrated our agents in Winterfell. Over this recent period, we've observed Lady Catelyn and young Bran Stark closely. Neither has shown any suspicious behavior. I propose we consider withdrawing some of our personnel."
"Give me a reason," Clay replied without looking up, his eyes still scanning the summary of intelligence.
"In the North, there are many others worthy of surveillance, such as..."
Before Snow could finish, Clay raised his eyes and interrupted him with a half-smile.
"Such as the flayers of the Dreadfort, yes?"
Snow faltered but nodded.
"Follow my instructions. The Dreadfort is not yet at the stage where it warrants full surveillance. I have my reasons."
He waved his hand, signaling the end of the discussion.
Setting aside the booklet that bore the crowned stag—symbol of the Baratheons—Clay turned his gaze toward the man on his left.
"Overseer Waters," he said calmly. "On my return, the old lord mentioned that Lord Eddard Stark of King's Landing seems to be searching rather vigorously for His Grace's illegitimate children. Tell me, what's going on?"
Clay already had a clear understanding of Eddard Stark's motives. Jon Arryn's final words had served as a thread, leading the northern lord like a seasoned detective to unravel the secrets hidden beneath the glittering surface of King's Landing.
Still, he was curious to see what Waters' findings might reveal. Had anything changed in the capital? Had his butterfly's wings stirred a storm among the skirts of the highborn?
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[Chapter End's]
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