Night had fallen, but the stars shone brightly.
Through the thin curtains, stirred by the sea breeze, Clay lay on the soft cushions, his eyes clear and bright.
His excellent noble education informed him that the brightest constellation in the night sky was the Ice Dragon Constellation, which guided all ships sailing into White Harbor.
It was late, and White Harbor, which had been bustling and noisy all day, seemed tired after swallowing countless treasures, and had become quiet.
The entire port was extremely quiet, save for the ever-present sound of the waves and the occasional distant chime of a bell.
Of course, there were exceptions. From his high vantage point, Clay could see a small area still brightly lit beneath the stone steps of the Fishmonger's Square.
Clay's memory reminded him that the place was called the Lazy Eel.
It was one of the most famous taverns in all of White Harbor, although not because of the service or the quality of the drinks.
Quite the opposite, it offered White Harbor's oldest prostitutes and the worst wine, along with meat pies stuffed with lard and gristle.
Sailors who'd been drifting on the Narrow Sea for months were generally fond of such places; it was a bargain, Clay thought.
Clay wouldn't bother going to such a place out of boredom, simply because he was now the master of this place.
He had to force himself to view this vast port city with the eyes and thoughts of a master, rather than a guest or, well, a sixteen-year-old boy.
When the dinner was over, the old lord dismissed his two granddaughters and the other attendants, leaving only the grandfather and grandson in the Mermaid Palace, surrounded by candlelight.
The old lord spoke plainly; there was no need for riddles with Clay's heir status being as solid as steel.
Clay's uncle, Willis Manderly, the second heir of White Harbor, was, like Lord Wyman himself, a big fat man, almost unable to ride a horse for battle, and in very poor health.
So, from now on, Clay would begin learning to manage White Harbor, officially doing the things he should be doing as heir.
For Clay, this was a double-edged sword. On the one hand, as the heir, he wouldn't have the freedom he once enjoyed.
But on the other hand, the heir's status would allow him to access and mobilize White Harbor's vast resources. He knew his Witcher army plan was a bottomless pit, a golden beast that could never be satisfied.
Clay's overall plan could be broken down into a few steps:
First, he couldn't change Duke Stark's journey south. The wind stirred by his small butterfly wings likely wouldn't reach the thick walls of King's Landing.
Clay needed to stay informed of the situation in King's Landing at all times. He wondered if his family had any spy network similar to the Spider's little birds. If so, he'd send them all to King's Landing.
He couldn't predict the situation in King's Landing, but as long as the old wolf lived, the swords of The North wouldn't be fully drawn. If the old wolf were to be beheaded, all the new and old gods, plus R'hllor, couldn't stop Robb Stark from gathering his vassals and marching south to avenge his father.
Second, regardless of the outcome of the first step, since the Three-Eyed Raven feared the nonexistent alien god behind him and hadn't made things difficult, he'd use this time to expand his potion inventory and find a way to create a combat-ready Witcher squad.
Clay couldn't say how many people he could mutate. There were too many uncertainties, but the principle was the more, the better, as long as he could control them.
In this world of ice and fire, Witchers were undoubtedly special forces. This time wasn't enough for Clay to create hundreds or thousands of them to fight a positional war, but a squad for a surprise attack would be sufficient.
However, this plan had a prerequisite: he had to convince his grandfather, the head of the family. Without his support, Clay would be stuck. He couldn't even gather enough money for the mutation potions, let alone find suitable candidates.
Third, if the second option doesn't work, Clay would have to pour all his limited resources into himself. He had tested it himself; his current Sign strength could handle small-scale, low-intensity conflicts, but he'd be completely screwed in a real battlefield situation.
For example, his current Quen Sign was only at a pathetic level 1. It could block arrows from a distance, but if he was unlucky enough to be sent to siege a castle and faced a direct shot from a siege crossbow...
Then...
No one could save him. After all, those things could even bring down dragons, their power was terrifying.
Another example: his current Axii Sign could still bewilder ordinary people, but what about those who were trained or had strong willpower?
This wasn't a game where you could just pay some money or draw your sword and start hacking if the bewitching failed.
Therefore, improving Clay's own strength was also a must, and its importance couldn't be overstated.
Let's talk about the last point, the Three-Eyed Raven's promise, which Clay had been hesitating about.
Through the Three-Eyed Raven's final words, Clay understood that the addled stableboy, Hodor, might well be a pawn of the Three-Eyed Raven. The fact that Hodor was sent to deliver something to Clay showed that he was completely under the Three-Eyed Raven's control.
But that wasn't the most critical issue. The truly troublesome thing was that Hodor was actually bringing the dragon egg and the hatching method. Should Clay accept it, or not?
As a proper Northerner, Clay would be taking a huge risk just by receiving the dragon egg. He was beginning to regret having made that boastful comment in the first place.
But to just toss the dragon egg into the sea like a useless stone? He couldn't bring himself to do it. After all, when this thing grew up, it would be the world of ice and fire's very own bomber, capable of launching fireballs, and one that could constantly upgrade itself.
Only one of Daenerys's three dragons survived in the end, with the other two dying to crossbow fire. It gave the impression that crossbows could actually kill dragons, but this was an illusion. It was only because Daenerys's dragons were so small.
If they were the giant dragons of history, crossbows would be nothing more than a tickle, as their thick scales would block everything.
And there was another problem that needed explaining. If he really hatched the dragon, how would Clay's lineage be explained? It was hard to say whether Lord Wyman might even suspect that he wasn't actually Clay Manderly at all.
After all, the Northern nobles suffered significant casualties during the War of the Usurper, as they were the main force resisting the royal army.
Clay knew how loyal his family was to the Starks. Dealing with a family like Littlefinger's, full of double-dealers, would have been easier.
Therefore, for Clay, the dragon egg was a choice with extremely high risk and no upper limit to the reward.
Feeling somewhat agitated, Clay rolled over on the bed. After clearing his head, he stopped thinking about it. Tomorrow, he would speak to Lord Wyman alone, setting everything else aside. He absolutely needed the old man's support and approval for his Witcher abilities.
As for the risks, Clay was well aware, but he was prepared.
....
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