Game of Thrones: The Witcher System

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The next morning, when the drunken captain of the guards saw Clay staggering toward him, still swaying from the previous night's drunken stupor, the remnants of his hangover vanished in an instant.

If it hadn't been for his deep familiarity with his young master, the captain might not have recognized him, for at that moment, Clay's appearance was nothing short of disgraceful.

The term "disheveled" was an understatement when describing him. His face was smeared with clumps of mud, his hair and clothes were in similar disarray, and his once-luxurious silk coat seemed to have remnants of vomit on it. The whole figure reeked as though he had just crawled out of a pigsty.

"Uh... Young master, what happened?"

The captain, now fully awake, quickly forced a smile and approached Clay, doing his best to ignore the foul stench emanating from him, pretending not to notice.

What a joke. As an old resident of White Harbor, the captain knew exactly who the man before him was. The elderly Lord, now in his advanced years, and his heir, Lord Wylis, whose health was less than ideal. It was clear that, sooner or later, this young master would inherit the mantle of Lord of White Harbor.

As a guard, the captain hadn't known where Clay had disappeared the previous night. If the old Lord learned of the young master's current condition, he'd certainly have him strung up from the castle's tower.

Clay kicked the captain with his dirty boot, sending him sprawling to the ground, and cursed angrily, "You bastard! I drank too much last night. Where were you lot? You let me sleep in the mud all night? I'll have you all whipped..."

His tone was one of confidence, but in truth, Clay wasn't truly angry. He had intentionally said it this way, needing to offer an explanation for his disheveled appearance and preemptively justifying himself before anyone could make any assumptions.

Having dealt with all traces of his earlier activities in the Godswood before dawn, Clay briefly considered returning to his room. However, he feared that any suspicious behavior on the way back might catch the attention of an early-rising southern noble, and that could spell trouble.

The southern lords wouldn't care about such trivial details, especially with Lord Robert's arrival at Winterfell. At this critical moment, any misstep could be magnified.

What if they think you're an assassin? No proof? Doesn't matter. A suspicion's enough. With the Queen's temperament, there's a chance Robert would have him thrown into prison, holding him there until after his departure, regardless of the truth.

So, Clay gritted his teeth and finally decided to lie down in a secluded mud pit. Grabbing an empty wine bottle, he held it in his hand and pretended to be drunk, collapsing into the pit. He remained there until dawn, when the early guards discovered him.

Watching the captain hurry to tend to him with caution, Clay relaxed internally, relieved that his impromptu act had passed the test.

"Get me some bathwater, quickly!" Clay ordered in a low voice.

Under the shocked and disgusted gaze of his sister, Wylla, Clay calmly returned to his room, took a bath, and changed into fresh clothes.

Finally, after all the effort, he stepped out of the room looking like his usual self. Satisfied, he pushed open the door. Just as he sat down, his sister Wylla, wearing a curious expression, leaned in.

"Clay, tell me honestly, which noble lady did you spend the night with?" she asked, her tone dripping with skepticism. "Tsk. We Manderly have some status. Couldn't you have chosen a cleaner place? Or is it that you or the lady in question have... unique tastes?"

"..."

Clay was stunned. He desperately wanted to pry open his sister Wylla's head to figure out what exactly filled her thoughts.

"Mind your words, Wylla. Noble ladies shouldn't speak like that. Be careful, or you'll never get married," Clay said, trying to maintain his composure.

"Grandpa can't even control me..." Vera muttered, unfazed.

Ignoring her grumbling, Clay walked out of the room and sat on a stone block outside. The cold northern wind helped clear his mind. Finally, he had the opportunity to check his system.

When he became the first Witcher in the history of Westeros, his system had upgraded as well.

While escaping from the Godswood Forest before anyone could notice, he hadn't had time to examine what had changed until now.

The soft blue system interface unfolded once more, and Clay saw the following:

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◇◆────────────────◆◇

Witcher System (Level 2)

Potions (Expand to view)

Bombs (Expand to view)

Equipment (Expand to view)

Mana Pool: 120

Unlocked Witcher Signs: Quen (Level 1), Yrden (Level 1), Aard (Level 1), Igni (Level 1), Axii (Level 1)

Items (Expand to view)

◇◆────────────────◆◇

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With 120 mana points remaining, Clay realized it was enough to transform a subject the same way he had been transformed, into a true Witcher—though the severe side effects couldn't be avoided.

This also meant that Clay's plan to expand the Witcher group had officially begun, and he was already eagerly considering potential candidates.

But this wasn't what excited Clay the most. Becoming a Witcher not only meant that he would become a powerful warrior, with physical abilities far surpassing that of an ordinary person and an incredibly fast healing rate, but more importantly, it meant:

He could finally experiment with the numerous different potion configurations the Witcher's world had to offer!

Opening the potion section, the system didn't disappoint him.

Four basic potion formulas had already appeared: Swallow, Cat, Thunderbolt, and Blizzard.

Although they were all at elementary-level, in this low-magic world, these potions held significant importance. Aside from the mythical dragons, which might one day soar through the skies, victories and defeats were decided by the swords and blades wielded by soldiers.

At its core, this Game of Thrones was a contest in which the wealthiest and most powerful gamblers placed their violent resources as chips on the table, desperately trying to outplay their opponents. The gambler who accumulated enough chips could exchange them with the 'boss' (if there was one) for a prize—the Iron Throne.

To put it simply, those with soldiers were the masters, while those without were nothing more than pawns who might as well go home.

Even the one known for saying, "Chaos is a ladder"—Petyr Baelish—when creating chaos, always had one or more major backers standing behind him. First, it was Lysa Tully, then Cersei and Tywin, and eventually, he seized control of the Vale of Arryn, joining the game himself.

This was the true way to play the "Game of Thrones," where people like "King" Joffrey Baratheon and "Faceless" Arya Stark were the ones who would flip the table.

Now, with the support of White Harbor, Clay had become a Witcher. Once he fully harnessed this power, he too would have the ability to flip the table, just like those who controlled the game.

Clay didn't focus on studying the specific formulas of those four potions—there was no rush. Suddenly acquiring such extraordinary strength would only raise suspicion.

As his excitement faded, a single thought consumed him: what secrets were hidden within the Weirwood Tree, or the Heart Tree? He had experimented with numerous plants and animals from the North, yet only the Heart Tree seemed to possess such immense magical power.

If the Heart Tree's power stemmed from being the core of worship—the so-called 'power of belief'—Clay felt this view was backwards. It was likely that when worship of the Old Gods began, it was because people had discovered the Heart Tree's magical properties, which led them to revere it, not the other way around.

This led him to another question: Where did the Heart Tree's magical power originate? He didn't believe this plant inherently possessed magic—there had to be another explanation.

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[Chapter End's]

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