Perhaps the complaints he had made before transmigrating had rung so true that they moved some unseen being. He had not come to the world of ice and fire empty-handed.
With a thought, a dark blue panel unfolded across his retina:
-- Witcher System (level 1) Potions (expand dropdown) Bombs (expand dropdown) Equipment (expand dropdown) Magic pool: 70 Signs unlocked: none Items (expand dropdown) --
After some time spent exploring it, he had a rough understanding of what the system did.
The bomb recipes and equipment diagrams in this level 1 system were all blank. Only the potions section contained a recipe for the Decoction of the Grasses, used to undergo witcher mutations.
The recipe was as follows:
Forktail spinal fluid --> dragonbone (reusable)
Manticore venom gland --> lizard-lion venom gland
Albino bruxa tongue --> adult swamp leech
Wild yam --> sentinel tree bark
Ribwort plantain --> ghost grass
Mandrake root --> pennywort
The system had already found suitable substitutes for Clay in this world.
The moment Clay saw this recipe, he spent every gold dragon he had brought from White Harbor to buy a Dragonbone Bow from a collector in Pentos.
This was the hardest ingredient to obtain. Had he not been the young master of White Harbor, obtaining a dragonbone when dragons had been gone for over a hundred years would probably have meant sneaking into King's Landing and playing the master thief.
By now, he had acquired all the other ingredients. Only sentinel tree bark remained, and in theory, that stuff could only be found in the Wolfswood in the northwestern North.
Having all the ingredients was not enough. In the witcher world, mutations required a mage's assistance. Undergoing mutations without magic to keep the body stable was asking to die.
In this world, Clay had toured all the trading city-states, yet had found no way to increase the system's initial reserve of 70 magic points by even one.
He had also visited temples of the Red God. Unfortunately, most of the people there were charlatans who could do nothing but perform fire-breathing tricks.
He knew very well that when the stars bled and the Citadel's Glass Candles burned again, magical power would awaken throughout the world. But he could not wait that long.
On this journey north, the largest weirwood in House Stark's Godswood was his other objective.
According to the system's notes, only a magic pool of 100 could ensure a success rate above eighty percent.
Higher magic reserves would gradually increase the chances of avoiding negative effects during the mutations.
Clay wanted neither to lose the use of his little brother nor to end up with an expressionless face.
He had thought about it for a long time. In the original history, the unfortunate current Hand of the King would soon die of poisoning. Then the direwolf would head south, and once Robert died, brutal war would immediately follow.
So, in the coming age of turmoil, possessing formidable personal fighting strength was simply the first choice for staying alive.
Never mind an earl's grandson like him. One only had to look at the tragic experiences of the children of Duke Eddard, the North's foremost lord, to know that titles were empty things that could not be relied upon.
Besides, he had White Harbor behind him and the North's greatest wealth at his disposal. Who said the Trial of the Grasses could only be used on himself? Once the recipe and magic problems were solved, given some time, he, Clay, could raise an entire army of witchers for the Seven Kingdoms.
Before he knew it, afternoon had arrived.
A pounding at the door interrupted Clay's fantasies. He sat up on the bed, moved to a chair, and settled himself before saying:
"Come in."
The door swung open, and a small head with hair dyed pale green poked inside. Two pointed canine teeth showed as she giggled:
"Clay, it's time for dinner. My sister told me to take you to the hall."
"It's not as if I don't know the way." Clay shook his head with a smile, stood, and stretched, then followed his younger cousin through the lavishly decorated galleries.
They soon reached the hall. Clay noticed that the servants had already placed a long table in its center, while the kitchen was preparing the food.
Clay and Wylla had arrived early. The other family members were not there yet, and only the old steward was directing the servants as they bustled back and forth.
Seeing the young master arrive, the old steward came forward with a smile.
"Young Master Clay, you and Lady Wylla are certainly early. Dinner hasn't begun yet. Why not take a stroll in the garden first?"
When he saw that dinner had not yet begun, Clay knew that this cousin, whom he had not seen in two years, had something to say to him. He did not point it out, merely nodded and followed Wylla into the garden.
They leaned against a railing overlooking all of White Harbor. A pleasant sea breeze blew into their faces, and the scattered lights in the city looked particularly beautiful.
Clay looked at Wylla, who seemed to have something on the tip of her tongue, and patted her head, asking with a gentle smile:
"What did you want to tell me, Wylla?"
"Uh... you noticed, Clay?"
Clay nodded with a smile. Wylla pursed her lips and hesitated for a long while before saying:
"Grandfather might ask you to go to Winterfell at dinner. Could you take me with you?"
As she spoke, Wylla's pale purple eyes were full of hope.
"What would you come to Winterfell with me for?" Clay was rather puzzled.
"To look around, of course. You know what Grandfather's like. He thinks noble ladies like us should stay in the castle until we're married," Wylla said with conviction.
Clay was a little taken aback. In his eyes, Wylla was like a little bird trapped in a cage, fluttering her wings and struggling to fly out.
Just as he was about to agree, the old steward's voice interrupted them:
"Young master, my lady, dinner is ready. His lordship asks that you both come."
When they returned to the hall, the efficient efforts of House Manderly's servants had produced a tableful of appetizing-looking dishes. The servants had lit the candles, making the whole of the New Castle seem even grander and more mysterious.
Earl Wyman sat in the middle, flanked by two burly, bald men. The one on the right was the earl's eldest son, Wylis Manderly, Clay's uncle. The man on the left, grinning broadly at him, was Clay's father, Wendel Manderly.
"Sit down first. You father and son will have plenty of time to talk after dinner." Earl Wyman's face, flushed red by the candlelight, was also full of smiles.
Clay sat with Wynafryd and her sister. Once Earl Wyman took the first bite of bread, he concentrated on the food before him.
"Clay, get yourself ready over the next day or two. Take a letter in my own hand to Winterfell and pay Lord Eddard a visit," Earl Wyman suddenly said.
After a moment's thought, Clay understood Earl Wyman's intention. The old man was using his existence to extinguish the flames in the hearts of those ambitious men coveting White Harbor. So long as he met Eddard Stark, no one would have any right, by any reckoning, to inherit the title of Earl of White Harbor ahead of him after his uncle died.
"Yes, Grandfather," Clay promptly replied. Although the old man was acting more for White Harbor's stability, Clay had to show the proper attitude.
He had barely finished speaking when someone stamped hard on his foot. Baring his teeth, he looked at Wylla, who kept shooting him meaningful glances, and gave a wry smile before saying to Earl Wyman:
"Grandfather, I'd like to take Wylla to Winterfell with me..."