"What is this…" Even Count Wiman, who had been through the horrors of the battlefield, remained silent for a long time before managing to ask this question.
Clay understood his shock. After all, for the vast majority of ordinary people in this world, magic was something that only existed in legends. In the more than a hundred years since the dragons disappeared, magic had completely vanished.
The once glorious priests of the Red God had become clowns performing fire-breathing tricks, and the Others, the servants of the Cold God, were blocked by the Wall, causing everyone to ignore their existence.
At this time, a person with magical abilities was either a hero from an epic, or a feared and hated sorcerer.
"Magic, a Sign that can create flames."
Clay saw his old man's two ox-like eyes staring fixedly at him. He knew he had to give the old man a reasonable explanation.
But what could he say? He couldn't possibly explain to the old man the world of witchers, what a witcher was, and so on. Doing so would probably get him labeled as a lunatic.
So, as much as he hated to, he had to spin a yarn, to make something up.
"While traveling in Essos, I came across a tattered old sheepskin book. It was written in High Valyrian, which I couldn't understand."
"At first, I thought it might contain information about some treasure. I had each page of the book cut into pieces and gave them to slaves I'd gathered who knew Valyrian. After they translated and compiled everything, I discovered it was actually an ancient text used by the Valyrian Dragonlords to create powerful warriors."
"It described how to transform ordinary people into formidable fighters, and that's just one aspect of their abilities."
Clay raised his left hand, the one he'd just used to cast the Sign, and waved it gently.
Count Wiman's mind raced. Though he was reluctant, he had to find any holes in Clay's story. He had to act in the interest of the Manderly Family; he was Clay's grandfather, but first and foremost, he was the head of the Manderly Family.
Count Wiman carefully considered Clay's account multiple times, but he couldn't find any flaws. He had heard rumors during his travels across the Narrow Sea to the major trading city-states that the ancient Valyrian Dragonlords had made extensive use of magic.
The part about the slaves who knew Valyrian also made sense. While he hadn't heard of any "powerful warriors," the Valyrian civilization, which had once been as brilliant as the gods, was certainly capable of producing unexpected things.
In the past few decades, he had sporadically heard whispers of magic seeping out from the ruins of the Smoking Sea. He just hadn't expected his grandson to acquire such a thing, and to boldly use it on himself first.
Looking at his grandson, who resembled him somewhat, Count Wiman hesitated. A devout follower of the Seven, he found it hard to accept his heir dabbling in magic, which contradicted his faith. But from the family's perspective, it was a different matter entirely.
Panting heavily, Count Wiman asked his grandson: "Where is that book now?"
As he asked the question, Count Wiman knew Clay had already convinced him. In fact, it wasn't really Clay; it was himself he'd convinced.
"I've destroyed the original, but I've memorized all the contents."
Clay tapped his forehead and added: "I came to you today to tell you about this. I want to secretly cultivate a force like this within the family."
The moment of truth. After all the build-up, Clay finally revealed his goal.
"A warrior like me can do many things in battle that ordinary people can't."
"Defend!" Clay cast the Quen Sign and simultaneously threw his longsword into the air.
Count Wiman watched in astonishment as the falling sword slammed down onto Clay's head. With a sharp clang, the sword was deflected and landed on the ground.
"Slow!" Moving closer, Clay took two steps and cast the Aard Sign at the old man's feet. Immediately, Count Wiman felt as though his feet were weighted down, making it difficult to move.
"Impact!" Clay unleashed the Igni Sign at a wooden rack filled with weapons. After a muffled sound, the rack shattered, and weapons flew and clattered to the ground.
"Confuse!" With the old man's eyes widening, Clay cast the Axii Sign on a horse that had been startled by the signs. A triangular rune flashed, and the horse, which had just reared up, became docile. It didn't even react much when Clay drew a dagger and cut its skin.
Clay stopped. This sequence of signs had drained the magical energy stored in his signs. He needed to rest for a moment. However, Count Wiman's gaze was fixed on him, as if he were looking at a rare treasure.
As a veteran of the battlefield, he knew all too well what it would mean if such warriors could be mass-produced.
He could imagine that creating such warriors would be costly, but that didn't matter. The Manderly Family, backed by White Harbor, had plenty of golden dragons.
Such a small team might not be very effective in a sea of people, but their terrifying individual strength would be a nightmare on the battlefield.
With the armies of both sides clashing and fighting in front, this small team could do so much.
Killing sentinels in small-scale skirmishes, burning food stores, could force the main force in front to retreat. You have to know that in this world, military organization is such that if the morale is slightly unstable, everything falls apart.
Assassinations were also an option. Although despicable, they were a necessary means in extraordinary times. Relying on the ability of the Axii Sign, one could quietly approach the target, strike with a single blow, and then flee a thousand miles.
And the mere existence of such a team forced the enemy commander to adjust his deployments. For example, they would have to deploy more guards to defend the supply lines and water sources, and send more guards to protect important figures, and so on.
This would invisibly greatly reduce the number of soldiers the enemy could send to the front lines.
These ideas took shape in Count Wiman's mind after Clay's demonstration. And more importantly, White Harbor held the monopoly on the creation of such warriors.
This was a treasure of inestimable value!
Count Wiman made a mental decision. He had to fully assess the abilities of these warriors to determine how many gold dragons to invest, but one thing was certain: White Harbor would form the first such team in all of Westeros in the future.
"Are you sure you haven't revealed this ability to anyone?"
Clay knew he'd won the moment he heard that. The old man was definitely interested.
He shook his head firmly. "No, I can guarantee it."
"Good..." Count Wiman breathed a sigh of relief. He looked at his grandson, who always managed to surprise him, and felt even more pleased.
The Manderly Family had never been known for their martial prowess, but now, Count Wiman wanted to change that perception.
With the family's support, the protagonist's plan finally began.
....
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