"Grandfather, there's something I need to tell you."
Clay's words and serious expression piqued Lord Wyman's interest. In his memory, his grandson had never spoken to him so earnestly before.
"Oh? What does our Northman warrior have to say?"
Clay dropped his sword and sat beside his grandfather, gathering his thoughts. "Grandfather, I was assassinated in Winterfell."
Just those few words caused Lord Wyman's hand, which was stroking his white beard, to freeze mid-air. His eyes widened, and his mouth hung open in shock.
But this state only lasted a second. Lord Wyman's already ruddy face turned completely red.
The old man stood up furiously. Someone in The North dared to try and kill his grandson? Who?!
The first person who came to mind was the old flayer, Roose Bolton, residing in Dreadfort to the north.
The two families' lands were adjacent, and there had always been territorial disputes between them, over a tree, a well, a village.
When he was young, he had once led cavalry to confront the Bolton family's pikemen near Hornwood, and they had almost come to blows.
If Duke Stark hadn't led his troops to surround them both, the two families might have been at each other's throats back then.
Therefore, when Clay became his heir, and was then assassinated, Lord Wyman's first thought was of his old rival.
He looked grim, his voice as hard as stone, and asked: "Is it that old flayer?"
Seeing Clay's momentary hesitation, and then his lack of a nod, Lord Wyman's grizzled and thick eyebrows furrowed.
If it wasn't the old flayer, then who would want to harm his grandson? Thinking of Clay's actions in Winterfell, the old lord was suddenly startled, and blurted out: "The Queen?!"
Shaking his head again, Clay didn't want the old man to guess pointlessly here; an average person wouldn't think of Petyr even if they racked their brains.
Clay answered directly.
"It was sent by our Master of Coin, Petyr Baelish."
Upon hearing the name, the old Lord's pacing stopped. As an elder of the nobility, he wasn't familiar with the name, but the title of Master of Coin was still quite renowned. He quickly conjured an image of a figure with a sly smile from his memory.
But then, he grew puzzled. Why would the Master of Coin want to kill his grandson? Was it because he coveted White Harbor's wealth?
It was a foolish thought, because if he truly desired White Harbor's Gold Dragons, Littlefinger would have resorted to extortion, not assassination.
He didn't doubt Clay in the slightest because Clay had no reason to deceive him.
After all, he had been the head of his house for decades. He couldn't figure out why Littlefinger would do this, but he quickly caught a hint of something amiss. He asked,
"Wait, Clay, why haven't I heard anything about this from Lord Eddard? And the White Harbor guard hasn't given me any feedback on this either?"
Lord Wyman stared at Clay, awaiting his answer.
"Because I was the only one who knew about this from beginning to end, well, except for Lord Eddard, but not completely."
"You were the only one who knew? What about the assassin?"
Clay didn't answer the question, instead changing the subject. "In that situation, I was in the dungeon. If any assassination occurred, everyone would assume it was the Lannisters. And our Master of Coin, Petyr, took advantage of this, wanting me to be the spark that ignited the conflict between the Starks and the Lannisters."
"I subdued the assassin and found out the true culprit. Then I let him go because, whether he lived or died, the outcome would be the same."
"Littlefinger wanted me to light the fire, but I wouldn't let him have his way. His schemes and plots might work on others, but not on me."
Clay finished speaking and closed his mouth. There were only the two of them, grandfather and grandson, left in the training ground. At this moment, it was so quiet that they could only hear the sound of the Merman Banner fluttering in the wind.
The old man pursed his lips, his expression grim.
His intuition told him that there was too much hidden beneath the surface of this entire affair. And, as Clay said, this assassination was just a pawn in Littlefinger's game to stir up trouble between the Lion and the Wolf.
Although he was angry that his grandson had been used as a pawn, he was even more afraid. The people of The North had always been too isolated from news from the south.
In his eyes, the Master of Coin, the Master of Whisperers, the Grand Maester, and so on, were to him like a Gold Dragon, an eye, or a necklace—mere symbols.
"You just let that assassin go? Tell me who he is. I still have some power, and as long as he isn't too high-ranking, I can still have him killed."
Clay, as if he'd anticipated his old man's anger at letting the assassin go, replied with a smile:
"Don't worry, he won't get away!"
"Oh?"
Clay was confident. He said: "That man is a minor noble from the Crownlands, the smallest of the small. I had him send a raven to our dear Lord Petyr, saying that I had been killed. But obviously, I'm here in White Harbor, alive and kicking. Littlefinger will know about this soon enough."
"So, Littlefinger will compare the assassin's letter with the news that you're alive and will inevitably conclude that the assassin was lying. And since he's a noble from the Crownlands, he'll have his estate there, so he can't get away."
Lord Wyman followed Clay's train of thought and immediately understood his plan. This kid didn't intend to do anything himself; he wanted to use Littlefinger to clean up his own mess.
"Wait a moment, how can you be sure he'll send a raven to Littlefinger? Is he really that foolish?"
Lord Wyman keenly spotted an obvious flaw in the plan.
But the one who answered him was Clay, with a chuckle.
"Don't worry, he will definitely do it, because he's met a force he can't defy."
"What do you mean?"
Lord Wyman's recently relaxed brow furrowed once more. He didn't understand Clay's words. What did he mean by a force he couldn't defy?
Just then, he saw Clay raise his left hand towards the distance, making a gesture he didn't understand.
His palm was open, with his index finger bent and touching his upright middle finger, while the other three fingers were straight and spread apart.
Confusion had barely surfaced on Lord Wyman's face when he heard Clay softly utter a word:
"Igni!"
The firelight reflected in the old Lord's eyes, making him feel the heat even in the cold of The North.
Staring at the charred earth and the still-burning weeds, Lord Wyman looked at his somewhat unfamiliar grandson, his mind a blank.
At that moment, he heard Clay's slow but firm reply:
"He will definitely do it, because he cannot resist the power of magic..."
....
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