Game of Thrones: The Witcher System

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The idea was sound, but a whole host of problems followed in its wake.

First and foremost among them was the issue of personnel selection.

This was no trivial matter; in fact, it was the most critical of all the challenges at hand. While the number of recruits could be flexible, their loyalty was non-negotiable.

Until new witchers emerged in large numbers and a formidable army capable of engaging in open warfare was assembled, this small squad would inevitably be assigned to the most dangerous and dirtiest tasks—whether on the battlefield or in everyday operations.

This meant that the standards for selecting its members had to be extraordinarily high. There could be no room for carelessness.

An experienced man grows wise with age, and Lord Wyman quickly grasped why Clay had called him over today. The implication was unmistakable: the lesser branches of House Manderly should provide suitable candidates for selection.

From a cost-control perspective, this approach had undeniable advantages. These individuals already had deep social ties to White Harbor and its surrounding villages. Once they became witchers and joined the army, managing them would be significantly easier.

Though this method was not exactly honorable, it was nonetheless indispensable. With the bond of their homeland tying them down, overseeing and coordinating them would become far more convenient.

To put it bluntly, with their wives and children—or parents—firmly in Clay and his grandfather's grasp, these individuals would have a much higher resistance to corruption and external influence.

Narrowing his eyes slightly, Lord Wyman got straight to the point and asked, "How do you plan to select them?"

He had expected Clay to cite martial prowess, honor, or loyalty as key criteria. However, to his surprise, Clay didn't hesitate in the slightest and responded with an answer he had already thought through carefully:

"Learning ability."

"Learning ability?" Wyman echoed, his brow furrowing slightly.

As he uttered the phrase, Clay's mind was filled with images of guerrilla warfare conducted by ordinary soldiers behind enemy lines in another Space and Time. His squad would play a similar role in the future.

It was impossible for him to command them directly at all times. To maximize their effectiveness, they would need to operate as decentralized, autonomous units—something illiterate peasant levies, who could only follow orders, would never be capable of.

The system had granted him a complete mastery of Sign magic, alchemy, and even the sword styles of various schools. However, it had not given him the means to impart these abilities directly upon new witchers. Thus, after careful deliberation, he arrived at the conclusion that learning ability must be the primary selection criterion.

Lord Wyman pondered the word for a moment, not immediately associating it with warriors. However, that was of little consequence. He fully respected his grandson's judgment.

"You have your own ideas, and I won't interfere. For now, you needn't concern yourself with the selection process. We old men will filter out some suitable candidates first. Then, you can make the final choices based on your requirements."

Such was the wisdom of an intelligent man—he did not force himself into matters he did not understand. Since this was Clay's expertise, Lord Wyman would not compete with him for the final say.

Seeing his grandfather handle the most difficult step on his behalf, Clay made no effort to hide the smile on his face as he sheathed the sword he had planted into the ground.

If he had to manage this himself, he would have had to investigate each candidate's family background and character one by one—a grueling task for someone not deeply familiar with White Harbor's populace. It would have been an immense drain on both time and energy.

"All right, we've settled the matter of personnel. Now, onto the next topic—what exactly do you need to create warriors like yourself?"

This was a question Clay had to answer, but in truth, it was not an easy one. The issue revolved around magic. Explaining the concept of magic to his grandfather would be a monumental and risky endeavor.

Thus, Clay decided to avoid the topic entirely and take on the burden himself. After all, he had to be present during the mutation process to ensure the stability of their physical states.

Resting his chin on his palm, he contemplated for a moment before speaking.

"To transform an ordinary man into such a warrior, a special potion is required. The ingredients include one Basilisk Venom Gland, a full-grown Swamp Leech, powdered bark of the Heart Tree, along with a handful each of Ghostgrass and Devilgrass."

Lord Wyman hummed in thought. "Hmm… Aside from the first ingredient, the rest don't seem too difficult to acquire. And once they're procured?"

"The final synthesis process must be handled by me," Clay stated firmly. "It's not that I'm being secretive, but if someone were to trace our bulk purchases of these ingredients, they might start making connections. At this stage, I don't want to leave any written records of the formula. The risk is simply too great."

His reasoning earned a slow nod of approval from Lord Wyman. They were treading uncharted territory in Westerosi history—no level of caution was excessive. Seeing his grandson think in such calculated terms reassured him.

"Anything else?" Lord Wyman asked, assessing whether any additional resources were needed. The ingredients Clay had listed were well within White Harbor's financial means.

Running through the entire process in his mind, Clay recalled himself writhing in agony in the mud beneath the weirwood tree of the godswood. His body instinctively shuddered.

"If possible, have the maesters prepare some pain relief medicine," he said, his voice steady despite the memory. "This transformation is not an ordeal one can endure lightly."

Clay merely provided the necessary materials for the witcher transformation. The actual collection, purchase, and transportation of the ingredients were matters beyond his concern.

Given his grandfather's vast experience, Clay had no doubt that everything would be handled smoothly. All he needed to do was place the order and wait for the delivery.

However, there was still one crucial missing ingredient—dragonbone.

Obtaining it would be an immense challenge. In all of Westeros, there were only two places where it could be found. One lay beneath the Red Keep's throne room, where the skulls of House Targaryen's dragons had once been displayed. The other was atop Rhaenys's Hill, within the ruins of the Dragonpit.

As the former sanctuary of House Targaryen's dragons, the Dragonpit might still hold remnants of their bones.

But either option carried extreme risks. Even if Clay or the Manderlys pulled off an unparalleled heist and successfully stole dragonbone, they would face another dilemma—dragonbone was densely packed with metallic elements, making it harder than steel.

It was impossible to cut it into transportable pieces on-site, and this world had no such thing as electric saws…

The conclusion was clear—even if they got their hands on some, they wouldn't be able to take it with them. For now, any thoughts of acquiring dragonbone had to be set aside.

Shaking off the thought, Clay shifted focus to a more immediate concern.

"Grandfather, how many gold dragons can White Harbor spare for this endeavor?" He needed to gauge the budget in advance.

Hearing his grandson ask how much money he had, Lord Wyman, who had been deep in thought, immediately perked up.

Without a word, he extended a broad, thick palm before Clay, spreading five fingers like sturdy carrots.

"Uh… Five hundred?"

Clay made a guess, but he quickly realized he had been too conservative. His grandfather's expression of disdain was already written all over his face.

"Five thousand?" he tried again.

"Hah." The only response Clay received was a cold chuckle.

Count Wyman didn't want his grandson to embarrass himself any further with such pitiful guesses. He gave the actual figure directly:

"Fifty thousand gold dragons to start. Take however much you need—I'll make up the difference. The trade tax from this harbor alone brings in more than that in a single quarter. Show some ambition!"

From this statement, Clay felt his grandfather's almost tangible air of wealth pressing down on him.

There was nothing he could say—he could only sigh in admiration.

Being rich is truly wonderful.

Now, Clay finally understood how the Manderlys could afford to equip fifteen hundred men with full suits of armor for both man and horse.

No money? Dream on.

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[Chapter End's]

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