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Though the opportunity had presented itself, Clay had absolutely no interest in engaging with Walda Frey, who, at best, could be considered passably attractive. Getting involved with her would only invite endless trouble.
"My lord, let me…"
Before she could even finish her passionate words, Walda Frey found her vision suddenly filled with Clay's outstretched palm. A faint green rune in the shape of an inverted triangle flickered briefly before disappearing.
Thank goodness for the Axii Sign. Clay thought to himself. This unexpected development had caught him completely off guard, leaving him with almost no time to react. Fortunately, his Witcher signs had come to his rescue.
For now, Walda Frey—disheveled, with certain parts of her body already exposed to the open air—was under control. Clay let out a quiet sigh of relief. To avoid any further distractions, he issued a simple command:
"Put your clothes back on and stand by the door."
Now, the most pressing issue was to determine whether this was her own doing or if someone had sent her. If it was merely her personal initiative, then the situation was simple—afterward, he could just tell her that nothing had happened, and that would be the end of it.
But if someone had orchestrated this, then things would become significantly more complicated. That would mean that Walda Frey's actions were being monitored, and the longer she remained in his room, the greater the risk he faced.
The thought made Clay inwardly curse himself for not stopping the captain of the guards from leaving earlier. Tch, this is my own fault for being too naive. He had realized the scheme too late and had foolishly overestimated the moral bottom line of these Freys.
There was no use dwelling on that now. Clay quickly composed himself and made a decision.
"Walda Frey," he asked, his voice calm yet firm, "did someone send you to me tonight?"
The woman, her eyes now dull and lifeless, stood with her back to him. Her response came in a mechanical, emotionless tone:
"Yes, my lord. My father, Walton Frey, told me to climb into your bed. He plans to come find you in the morning."
"Stop. That's enough."
Clay was speechless. What kind of twisted version of a honey trap is this? He had actually encountered something so absurd. What unbelievable misfortune.
"Besides your father, does anyone else know you came to see me?"
"My grandfather, Stevron, was aware, but he opposed my father's plan."
At least there weren't too many people involved. And since Walton Frey wouldn't come looking until the next morning, this gave Clay some time to devise a countermeasure.
Still, what kind of lunatics were these people? They were in such a rush to push their daughter onto him—were they not worried that he might just take what they offered without acknowledging anything afterward?
Clay now realized that he had completely underestimated how desperately the Frey family wanted to tie him, the heir of White Harbor, to them by making one of their daughters his legitimate wife. The sheer audacity of it all was staggering.
The room fell into silence. Though it was just the two of them alone, not a trace of intimacy lingered in the air.
After a moment, Clay spoke again.
"Walda Frey, tonight, you indeed came looking for Clay Manderly. However, you mistook his room's location and never found him. Now, leave. Return to your quarters and go to sleep."
No matter what, he had to get this woman away from him immediately. If anything else unexpected happened, even if he was innocent, there would be no way to explain himself.
"Yes, my lord."
Her reply was still as stiff and robotic as before. Slowly, Walda Frey turned and walked out of the room. Clay kept his gaze fixed on her until she descended the stairs and disappeared from sight. Only then did he breathe a sigh of relief.
Without wasting another second, he turned on his heels and strode directly toward a nearby room—the quarter of the captain of his guards.
Just as he reached the door and raised his hand to knock, the heavy oak door creaked open on its own. Under the flickering candlelight from the hallway, Clay saw the guard captain standing there, his expression a mixture of surprise and something else—perhaps amusement.
"Come inside. We need to talk."
Clay's voice was cold. If this man had not deliberately misinterpreted his earlier words and left him to deal with this situation alone, none of this would have happened. Do he have any idea how close I just came to getting devoured by one of those Frey women?!
The guard captain immediately sensed that his young lord was in a foul mood. He had been watching through the gap in his door when Walda Frey had arrived. His gaze had lingered appreciatively on her voluptuous figure, even feeling a tinge of envy toward Clay.
As for the potential consequences of the situation? That thought hadn't even crossed his mind. To him, this sort of thing was common among nobles—if a woman came willingly, you simply enjoyed the moment and then denied everything afterward. That was how the game was played.
Yet, just moments after he had secretly mocked his young lord's restraint, he saw Walda Frey leaving Clay's room with stiff, unnatural movements. Before he could even process the scene properly, Clay had appeared at his door, looking utterly livid.
"You knew this was going to happen, didn't you?"
The question caught the guard captain off guard. Unable to gauge Clay's true intent, he hesitated before answering honestly:
"My lord, I assumed that since you weren't drunk, you were simply waiting for something like this. Miss Walda's actions aren't uncommon among noble circles. I thought you…"
Clay was once again at a loss for words.
What could he even say? That he was simply too virtuous? Or that the captain was the one overthinking things?
After a long silence, Clay decided to drop the matter entirely. He issued his next command instead.
"From now on, speak plainly. No more of this 'I know, you know' nonsense. Take your men and ensure that no one enters my quarters for the rest of the night."
The guard captain stood there, momentarily stunned. When he glanced into Clay's room and saw everything still in perfect order, realization struck him like a hammer. Nothing had happened.
Suddenly, cold sweat broke out on his back.
I misunderstood everything.
He had thought his young lord had been prepared for this encounter, when in reality, Clay had been caught completely off guard. Had he left things unchecked, the situation could have spiraled out of control.
Without another word, he gathered the guards who had been given the night off. Ignoring their complaints, he stationed them throughout the halls, ensuring no corner was left unwatched. This time, he would not make another mistake—his young lord had spared him once, but that did not mean he would be so lucky a second time.
Meanwhile, Clay sat alone in his dimly lit room, rubbing his temples as he mulled over the situation.
Clay had not made his decision on how to handle Walda Frey on a whim. While his Axii Sign was not yet potent enough to erase memories entirely, it was more than sufficient to cloud her mind and warp her recollection of events.
By the time she returned to her chambers, she would be none the wiser to the fact that she had been hypnotized. In her mind, two conflicting thoughts would coexist—one insisting that she had gotten lost and never reached Clay's room, and another whispering that she had indeed visited him but had ultimately failed in her task.
No matter how confused she was, she would understand one thing—her mission had failed. And that was all that mattered.
By morning, when Walton Frey came looking for her, he would find nothing. There would be no proof that she had spent the night with Clay.
Any accusations she made would be hollow, lacking the weight to sway anyone.
What a mess. Clay exhaled, pressing his forehead into his palm as he watched the candlelight flicker. Sleep was no longer an option.
This incident had made one thing painfully clear—compared to the old noble houses of Westeros, he had far too many principles.
And that was not a good thing.
In a world rife with schemes and betrayals, having a lower moral threshold often meant living a longer life.
For those who clung too tightly to their own sense of justice… in the end, it was often their own righteousness that consumed them.
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[Chapter End's]
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