Game of Thrones: The Witcher System

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"What… is this…?"

Even a seasoned warrior like Lord Wyman, who had witnessed the brutal realities of the battlefield, remained silent for a long time before finally managing to ask this question with difficulty.

Clay understood the shock in his grandfather's heart. After all, to the vast majority of common folk in this world, magic was nothing more than a legend. Ever since the dragons had perished over a century ago, magic had seemingly vanished from the world.

The once-glorious priests of the Red God had been reduced to nothing more than fire-breathing street performers, while the servants of the Cold God—the White Walkers—had been sealed away beyond the Wall, causing people to forget they ever existed.

At a time like this, anyone possessing magical abilities was either a hero from the epics or a sorcerer to be feared and despised.

"It's magic—an arcane sign that conjures flames."

Clay could feel his grandfather's piercing gaze locked onto him, those bull-like eyes unblinking, scrutinizing his every word. He knew he had to provide a reasonable explanation—one that the old man could accept.

But what could he say? He couldn't possibly start explaining the world of Witchers, nor what Witchers were—that would surely make his grandfather think he'd gone mad.

So, despite his reluctance, he had no choice but to deceive him.

"While traveling through Essos, I came across an ancient, tattered parchment written in High Valyrian. At first, I couldn't understand a word."

"Thinking it might be a map to some treasure, I painstakingly separated the pages into several pieces and distributed them among different slaves who knew High Valyrian, asking them to translate them separately. When I finally compiled the translations, I realized that the text wasn't a treasure map—it was a tome from ancient Valyria, a manual used by the Dragonlords of old to forge powerful warriors."

"It documented a method of transforming ordinary men into formidable fighters. And what you just saw—that's only a fragment of their power."

Clay raised his left hand—the same one he had just used to cast the sign—and gave it a small wave.

Lord Wyman's mind raced. Though he was unwilling to believe it outright, he had to scrutinize Clay's words for any inconsistencies. As the head of House Manderly, he bore the weight of his family's survival. First and foremost, he was their leader—only after that was he Clay's grandfather.

He carefully dissected every detail of Clay's explanation. Yet, after repeatedly analyzing it, he couldn't find any obvious flaws. The Dragonlords of ancient Valyria had indeed wielded magic on a grand scale—he had heard whispers of it during his travels across the Free Cities.

It was also plausible that Clay had found slaves who knew High Valyrian. The language still lingered in parts of Essos, passed down by the descendants of Valyrian nobility. And while he had never heard of these so-called "powerful warriors," Valyria's civilization had once burned like a beacon among the gods. It was not unthinkable that they had created something beyond common understanding.

Over the years, scattered remnants of Valyrian magic had occasionally surfaced from the ruins of the Smoking Sea. But never—not once—had Lord Wyman expected that his own grandson would be the one to unearth such a secret. And even more astonishing, that he would have the audacity to test it on himself first.

Looking at the young man before him, whose features bore a striking resemblance to his own, the old lord hesitated. As a devout follower of the Seven, he found it difficult to accept that his heir had dabbled in magic—something the Faith viewed with suspicion, if not outright condemnation.

But from a strategic standpoint?

That was an entirely different matter.

His breath was slow and heavy as he finally asked, "That tome—where is it now?"

The moment the words left his mouth, Lord Wyman knew that Clay had already convinced him.

Or rather, he had convinced himself.

"I destroyed the original. But I've memorized everything."

Clay tapped his forehead before continuing, his tone calm but resolute.

"I called you here today to tell you about this. I want to secretly train a unit of warriors like myself within our family using these methods."

The truth was now laid bare. After all the buildup, Clay had finally revealed his true goal.

"A warrior like me can accomplish much more than the average soldier in battle."

Without waiting for a response, he stepped back and raised his hand.

"Defence!"

Clay cast the Quen Sign while simultaneously tossing his longsword into the air.

Under Lord Wyman's astonished gaze, the falling blade struck Clay's head—only to rebound with a loud, metallic clang. The sword bounced away harmlessly, clattering to the floor.

Wyman barely had time to react before Clay took two steps forward.

"Slow!"

He cast the Yrden Sign at his grandfather's feet. Instantly, Wyman felt his legs grow impossibly heavy, as if weighed down by iron shackles.

"Impact!"

Facing a nearby weapons rack, Clay thrust his palm forward, releasing an Aard Sign blast. A deep, resonant shockwave echoed through the chamber as weapons scattered across the floor with a deafening crash.

Wyman's breath hitched, but his eyes gleamed—each demonstration stripping away his initial doubt, replacing it with something else.

Fascination.

Clay saw it, and without hesitation, turned toward a nearby horse that had been startled by the noise.

"Mind Control!"

He cast the Axii Sign, and for the briefest moment, an inverted triangle flickered in the air.

The once-panicked horse immediately calmed, its restless movements ceasing. Even when Clay drew a dagger and made a shallow cut along its side, the beast barely flinched, its mind utterly subdued by his will.

Only then did Clay finally stop. The series of Signs had drained his stored magical energy, and he needed time to recover. But when he turned to look at his grandfather, he was met with an expression he had never seen before.

Awe.

Not mere admiration or curiosity, but absolute awe—like a man who had just stumbled upon a treasure of immeasurable worth.

Lord Wyman, a veteran battlefield commander, understood all too well the significance of what he had just witnessed.

The ability to mass-produce warriors like this…

The implications were staggering.

Yes, creating such fighters would be costly—but House Manderly was rich. White Harbor's vast wealth in gold dragons could more than cover the expense.

A small unit of these warriors might not turn the tide of a large-scale battle, but their sheer individual prowess could turn them into nightmares on the battlefield.

While two great armies clashed in open war, such a force could slip behind enemy lines, eliminate sentries, and set fire to supply depots—sowing chaos and forcing the main force to retreat in disarray.

Given the primitive state of military logistics in Westeros, even a minor disruption to an enemy's supply lines could lead to disaster.

They could also be used for assassinations—a dishonorable tactic, perhaps, but sometimes a necessary one. With the Axii Sign, these warriors could walk unnoticed through enemy strongholds, get close to their targets, land a fatal blow, and vanish without a trace.

Even the mere existence of such a force would shake the battlefield. Enemy commanders would be forced to divert soldiers away from the front lines to guard supply routes, increase security for key figures, and spread their forces thin—all because of the fear that at any moment, from the shadows, a strike could come.

These thoughts quickly took shape in Lord Wyman's mind. And more than anything else, White Harbor would hold the exclusive knowledge of how to create these warriors.

This was a treasure of immeasurable value.

Lord Wyman's decision was made. Before investing heavily, he would first conduct a thorough evaluation of these warriors' full capabilities. But one thing was certain—House Manderly would soon possess the first such unit in all of Westeros.

He exhaled slowly, then looked at his grandson—the boy who never ceased to surprise him.

"You haven't told anyone else about these abilities, have you?"

The question carried weight, but Clay already knew—he had won.

His grandfather was convinced.

He met the old man's gaze and shook his head firmly.

"No one. I'm absolutely sure."

"That's good…"

Lord Wyman released a long breath, his eyes filled with satisfaction.

House Manderly had never been known for its martial prowess. But that was about to change.

With his family's support secured, Clay's plans had finally begun.

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[Chapter End's]

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