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When Clay's guards sensed that sothing was amiss and hurried into the Sacred Grove, they found their young lord slumped against the Heart Tree, fast asleep in utter exhaustion.
There was nothing unusual around him—just a wooden box lying beside a shallow pool of water. The box was empty. No matter how carefully they searched, the guards found nothing inside.
The crisp sound of iron-clad boots crushing the fallen, withered leaves of the Heart Tree jolted Clay from his deep slumber. But even as his consciousness returned, he had no desire to get up.
He was utterly drained. The tornt he had endured—the searing pain that had nearly driven him to the brink of collapse—had finally subsided. The scalding heat that once surged through his veins had settled in his heart, just as the Three-Eyed Raven had foretold. It was no longer spreading.
With the promise fulfilled, the rest was up to Clay alone. The Three-Eyed Raven's harsh, grating voice—like the brittle snap of deadwood—echoed through the ancient forest. Then, with a powerful flap of its wings, the spectral bird vanished into the misty darkness. Hodor's towering figure also faded into the dense undergrowth, leaving Clay alone in the Sacred Grove.
Overwheld by drowsiness, Clay barely had the strength to resist before sleep overtook him. But before he succumbed entirely to exhaustion, he tucked the dragon egg into his Witcher's system inventory, the sa way he stored ingredients for his herbal concoctions.
---
"Lord Clay, are you all right?"
The guards rushed to his side, their voices laced with concern. Inwardly, they sighed in frustration. Their young lord was kind and noble, courageous beyond words, but his habit of wandering off alone was enough to give them endless headaches.
Rumor had it that this wasn't the first ti. The previous captain of his escort, Hoster, had been demoted to the smithy to forge weapons—all because he had failed to keep track of Clay during their journey to Winterfell.
"I'm fine…" Clay waved a hand dismissively. In the brief mont it took for him to fully wake up, he had already co up with an excuse.
"I had a few drinks with Ser Bartimus. That wine of his packs quite the punch. I must've dozed off here."
The guards subtly sniffed the air, and sure enough, a faint scent of alcohol clung to their young lord's clothes. His explanation seed plausible enough. As long as he was unhard, there was no need to seek confirmation from Ser Bartimus.
Whether his words were true or not was irrelevant. It was not their place to question a noble's affairs.
Two of the sturdier guards stepped forward, hoisting their supposedly intoxicated lord onto his horse. They positioned themselves on either side, ensuring he wouldn't fall.
Slumped in the saddle, Clay sighed inwardly. It seed he had no choice but to keep up the act of a drunken fool until they reached the castle. And so, with a weary and unsteady sway, the young lord of White Harbor, burdened by overwhelming fatigue, returned to New Castle under the watchful escort of his n.
---
When they arrived, Clay was handed over to his sister, Wynafryd. The captain of the guard let out a relieved sigh, but after a mont of hesitation, he turned and made his way toward the Sea God's Tower, where Lord Wyman resided.
Seated by the fireplace, Lord Wyman listened intently as the captain reported the incident. Upon hearing that Clay had passed out drunk, his brows lifted in mild surprise.
In his mory, his grandson had inherited his own remarkable tolerance for alcohol—it was rare for Clay to drink to the point of collapse.
At first, Wyman found the thought amusing. But when he learned that Clay's supposed drinking partner had been Ser Bartimus, his expression froze for the briefest mont. Then, as if struck by sudden realization, his face contorted into an odd mix of shock and outrage.
That old bastard! He had promised to share that bottle of wine with him! How could he have gone and drunk it with his grandson instead? Did he have no regard for their brotherhood?
Before the bewildered guard captain, Wyman's expression shifted several tis—confusion, irritation, betrayal—before he waved his hand impatiently, dismissing the man.
As soon as the door closed, the unmistakable sound of objects crashing against the walls echoed from within the room.
Standing outside, the captain was left utterly baffled. What in the Seven Hells had just happened?
---
The Next Day
By the ti Clay woke up, it was already noon.
His last mory before falling unconscious was leaning against his sister Wynafryd's shoulder as she brought him into his chambers.
Now, lying in bed and staring at the ceiling, he muttered, "If I ever trust that old raven again, I'll—"
He paused mid-sentence.
No… best not to curse himself. After all, he had been the one to ask the Three-Eyed Raven for the dragon egg. In the end, he had no one to bla but himself.
Leaning back against the plush, cushion-stuffed headboard, Clay could still feel a faint heat radiating from his chest. He knew exactly what it was—the blood of the Dragonlord now resided in his heart.
And now, he had to find a way to deal with it.
Checking his mana pool, he found that he had spent 40 points of mana alleviating the pain yesterday. That left him with 80 points remaining.
Gathering his energy, he directed his magic toward the Dragonlord's blood nestled within his heart.
The mont his witcher-infused blood surged forward, surrounding the foreign presence within him, the two forces collided—
A sharp, stabbing pain shot through his chest.
It felt as though a thousand needles were piercing straight into his heart.
Clay gritted his teeth, exhaling sharply. His face paled from the agony, but after a few monts, the pain subsided.
Cursing under his breath, he braced himself and focused once more. This ti, he noticed sothing.
His own mana-infused blood had absorbed the faintest trace of heat from the Dragonlord's blood.
There was potential here.
If he repeated the process—bombarding the Dragonlord's Blood with his own witcher-infused blood until they fully rged—he could forge a new Dragonlord bloodline within himself.
However… judging by the searing pain he had just experienced, if he recklessly poured all his mana into the process at once, he might very well suffer cardiac arrest and drop dead on the spot.
So, slow and steady it would have to be.
Clay let out a long sigh.
There was an old saying: "Better a short pain than a long one."
Unfortunately for him, he had no choice but to endure the long, drawn-out agony instead.
For now, he set aside the issue of the Dragonlord's Blood. There was another, far more pressing matter to consider:
Now that he had the dragon egg… what was he going to do with it?
Before, he had only entertained idle fantasies about what he would do if he ever got his hands on a dragon. But now, with that possibility before him, he had to weigh his options carefully.
Raising a direwolf was one thing—it was a symbol of his Northern heritage, a badge of noble blood.
But raising a dragon?
That was another matter entirely.
In the North, direwolves were revered. A dragon, however, would be seen as the remnant of a bygone era—an echo of the old Targaryen dynasty that had been overthrown. If word got out that he possessed one, he would be hunted down like a traitor.
If he were just so naless noble of a minor house, he might have taken the egg and fled without hesitation.
But he wasn't.
He was the rightful heir to House Manderly—one of the wealthiest and most powerful families in the North—recognized across all of Westeros.
This complicated matters.
From a logical standpoint, there was no way he could simply abandon his title, his wealth, and his family for a single dragon.
And from an emotional standpoint, he couldn't even bring himself to betray Wynafryd, Wylla, or his grandfather.
But regardless of what he chose, he needed a backup plan.
Across the Narrow Sea, a vengeful queen would one day return to Westeros, leading an army and riding atop three dragons.
And when that ti ca… perhaps his dragon could change the course of history in ways no one could yet predict.
Because when that mont arrived, there would be only one true Dragonlord left in the world—
Daenerys Targaryen.
Or maybe…
Clay would be, too.
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[Chapter End's]
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