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The air was thick with an overpowering fragrance of perfume. With stiff steps, Clay half-heartedly responded to the clearly rehearsed questions from Walda Frey.
As a man, he naturally appreciated a woman's flattery. However, when he was fully aware that every word had been carefully prepared in advance, any sense of achievement that might have been ingrained in his very genes dissipated faster than a wisp of smoke.
Walda Frey's attire was also quite deliberate—tightly fitted, to be precise—clearly an attempt to accentuate her rather ample bosom. Throughout their dance, Clay had felt, more than once, a soft and yielding pressure against him, whether it was one or two at a time.
Discreetly sidestepping, Clay remained utterly composed, as if nothing had happened. At moments like this, keeping a close watch on his own impulses was of utmost importance. After all, he was well aware of the notorious cunning of the Frey family and could clearly see through their intentions toward him.
What was interesting, however, was that as he spun around with his arms wrapped around Walda Frey's waist, his gaze happened to land on a thick stone pillar in the hall. Leaning against it, partially concealed in the shadows, stood a dark figure. A strange sensation pricked at Clay's mind—an unshakable feeling that this person was watching him with quiet but unmistakable hostility. How should he describe it? It felt like the piercing gaze of a love rival.
Tch, I knew there'd be trouble like this. Clay scoffed inwardly. The Frey family was extremely large, and their younger members struggling to control their own impulses was nothing unusual.
When the dance came to an end, Clay let go of Walda Frey's hand without hesitation. He offered her a polite smile, using his back to shield himself from the slightly resentful look in her eyes before turning away and returning to his seat.
Instead of touching the cup he had left on the table earlier, he signaled to a passing servant for a fresh drink. Although, as a witcher, he had no fear of ordinary poisons—if there were any—he still saw no reason to take unnecessary risks.
He knew that his actions would undoubtedly be noticed by Lord Walder Frey, who was seated at the high table. But what of it? Did they really expect him to arrive in an unfamiliar place and naively drink whatever was placed before him? That would accomplish nothing except making him look like a fool.
Clay clinked his cup lightly against the one offered by Ser Stevron Frey and heard the old knight's inquiry:
"Lord Clay, my granddaughter is quite charming, isn't she? To be frank, she is the most beautiful girl on both banks of the Green Fork."
The words were blunt, leaving Clay with no choice but to smile and offer a few courteous remarks in response. His gaze, however, drifted toward Walda Frey, who had returned to her seat and was now chattering away with a group of Frey women. He sighed inwardly.
A month ago, she probably had no idea who he was, yet now she approached him carrying the full weight of her family's intentions, even resorting to seduction. How much of it was genuine? Only she would know. Fate truly worked in unpredictable ways.
As the banquet drew to a close, Clay took a quick tally. He had danced with Ser Stevron's two granddaughters, as well as Lord Jeyfer Frey's granddaughter. He had also spent some time conversing with a thirteen-year-old granddaughter of Aenys Frey about his experiences in Essos.
Oh, and then there was Alyx Frey, the daughter of Symond Frey. She held a higher rank in lineage than the others, yet she was a year or two younger than Walda Frey.
All in all, after enduring an evening surrounded by nothing but Frey women, even a witcher's strong nerves left Clay feeling utterly drained, as though his very soul had been hollowed out.
The hosts and guests all appeared to be enjoying themselves—or at least, on the surface, that was the case. When Lord Walder Frey, due to his advanced age, retired early to rest, the banquet only grew rowdier. Coarse shouts echoed through the hall, mixed with occasional shrieks from women, creating a scene of utter revelry—practically a den of debauchery.
Seeing an opportunity, Clay feigned intoxication, allowing his long-awaited savior—the captain of his White Harbor Guard—to escort him back to his chambers.
"Young lord, are you… alright?"
Once they had ensured no one else was present, the captain dismissed the guards to stand watch outside and shut the door behind him. He then turned to Clay, who had, by this point, completely sobered up. The question in his eyes was clear.
"Do you really think your young lord would let those Freys drink him under the table so easily?" Clay shot him a sidelong glare, his tone exasperated.
Even the slowest of men would have realized it by now—Clay had been faking his drunkenness all along. The captain's eyes flickered as if he were considering something.
Clay noticed that the man's gaze was somewhat peculiar, sweeping over him repeatedly as if hesitating to speak. After a long pause, the captain finally muttered cautiously,
"Young lord, we… won't be standing guard tonight. If anything happens, just call us loudly."
With that, he left swiftly, a knowing smirk playing on his lips—one that only men would understand.
What the hell? Wait, what exactly are you all imagining?! Clay was utterly dumbfounded. He wasn't worried that his guards would neglect their duty, but he truly had not anticipated such an expression from them.
Time passed quickly. Outside the window, the moon had traveled a considerable distance across the night sky.
As the hustle and bustle of the Twins gradually faded, Clay knew that the banquet had finally drawn to a close.
His plan was to stay here for a week, then find a suitable excuse for his father to summon him back via raven. In truth, how he returned was irrelevant, as this invitation had never truly been about a marriage alliance in the first place.
With White Harbor backing him, Clay seriously doubted the Freys would be bold enough to coerce him into signing any binding agreement or forcibly tying him to a Frey woman. Unless…
At that thought, a realization dawned upon him. He finally understood the meaning behind his captain's cryptic smirk earlier.
Just then, he heard a faint noise—the door to his room was being carefully opened. Someone had unlocked the latch.
Who could it be? Clay's senses immediately sharpened. His hand instinctively reached for the longsword he had deliberately placed beside his bed.
The blade was unsheathed—it had remained that way all night. Should danger arise, he wouldn't need to waste time drawing it.
But then, a familiar scent filled the air—a heavy perfume. One he had encountered just hours ago.
Walda Frey?
By the gods, why is she here?
In the dim moonlight, Clay saw Walda Frey tiptoe into the room, dressed in a different outfit from before.
Clearly, she had not expected him to be awake. The moment their eyes met, she visibly froze, her expression shifting rapidly.
"Miss Walda Frey, it is quite late… You—"
Clay, feeling awkward, attempted to break the silence. But before he could finish speaking, he saw Walda Frey's hand move to the strap of her gown.
In that instant, if he still didn't understand her intentions, he would have to be a complete fool.
She was trying to turn the metaphorical uncooked rice into cooked rice.
Is this really necessary?!
He could already hear the subtle shift in her breathing—becoming heavier, more deliberate.
At that moment, Clay sprang up from his reclined position.
Oh, hell no. This cannot happen!
He groaned inwardly.
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[Chapter End's]
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