NOVEL NEXT Chapter 25: The Plan
Read 20+ Chapter's Ahead in Patreon
Night had settled over the land, and the stars now hung high in the sky.
Through the thin curtains swaying in the sea breeze, Clay, reclining on soft cushions, gazed upward with sharp, clear eyes.
His well-bred noble education told him that the brightest constellation in the night sky was the Ice Dragon constellation, guiding ships safely toward White Harbor.
It was late at night, and after a day of bustling activity, White Harbor, having taken in countless goods, seemed to exhale, its energy waning, leaving the city quiet and still.
The entire harbor was eerily quiet. Aside from the constant rhythm of the waves, the only sound that cut through the stillness was the distant chime of a bell ringing softly in the night.
Of course, there were exceptions. From his vantage point, Clay's eyes scanned the city, and he spotted a small area still illuminated beneath a stone staircase in Fishfoot's Yard.
Clay's memory told him exactly what that place was called — Lazy Eel.
It was one of the most infamous taverns in all of White Harbor, though certainly not for its service or the quality of its drinks.
On the contrary, the Lazy Eel was known for offering the oldest women in the city cheap, sour wine, along with meat pies stuffed with lard and bits of soft bone.
Still, it remained a haven for sailors who had spent months adrift on the Narrow Sea. Perhaps it was the low prices that drew them in, Clay mused, though he couldn't imagine finding charm in such a place himself.
He wouldn't waste time specifically observing a tavern like the Lazy Eel under normal circumstances. Tonight, however, it held his gaze because this city was now his domain.
As White Harbor's future master, Clay reminded himself to view the sprawling harbor city not as a mere visitor, nor as a sixteen-year-old boy, but as its rightful ruler.
When the evening's dinner party concluded, the old lord dismissed his granddaughters and attendants, leaving only himself and Clay in the softly lit Merman Hall. The lantern light danced along the ornate walls, casting flickering shadows of merman's carved into the wood.
The old man was as direct in his words as ever. Now that Clay's position as heir was cemented, there was no need for subtlety or riddles.
Clay's uncle, Wylis Manderly, the second heir of White Harbor, was, like Lord Wyman himself, a large and corpulent man who could barely manage to mount a horse, his poor health exacerbating his physical limitations.
This reality left Clay with a monumental task ahead. From this moment onward, he was to take on the responsibilities of managing White Harbor and fulfill the expectations of an heir.
For Clay, this was both a blessing and a curse. On one hand, inheriting the position meant his days of reckless freedom were over; every decision he made would now carry the weight of his family's legacy.
But on the other hand, being heir granted him access to White Harbor's vast resources—resources he could wield with precision. After all, his Witcher army plan was like a bottomless gold-consuming beast that could never be satisfied.
Clay's general strategy could be broken down into a few steps:
First, the southward march of the Lord of Stark was entirely beyond his influence. Clay was painfully aware that his metaphorical butterfly wings couldn't create a storm strong enough to topple the walls of King's Landing.
Even so, vigilance was key. He resolved to keep a close eye on King's Landing and its political maneuvers. He wasn't sure if his family possessed any spy networks akin to the Spider's little birds, but if they did, Clay would see them deployed immediately to the capital.
While the situation in King's Landing remained uncertain, Clay took solace in one constant: as long as the Old Wolf—Eddard Stark—remained alive, the sword of the North would stay sheathed. However, should the Old Wolf meet the executioner's blade, no prayers to the new gods, the old gods, or even R'hllor himself could stop Robb Stark from rallying the North's bannermen and marching south in vengeance.
Second, regardless of how the first plan unfolded, Clay knew he had to capitalize on the Three-Eyed Raven's current hesitation. The Raven, wary of the nonexistent Outer God supposedly behind him, had yet to make a move, granting Clay a brief window of opportunity. This time had to be spent expanding his alchemy stockpile and devising a method to create an effective Witcher team.
The process, however, was fraught with uncertainty. Clay couldn't predict how many individuals could successfully undergo the transformation—there were simply too many variables. Still, in theory, the more, the better, as long as he could maintain strict control over the situation.
In this world, Witcher's were akin to elite special forces. While there wasn't enough time for Clay to amass hundreds for large-scale battles, even a small, well-coordinated squad would be invaluable for executing guerrilla tactics.
However, this plan had a prerequisite: he needed to convince his grandfather, the head of the family. Without his support, Clay wouldn't be able to secure the funds for the transformation potions, let alone find candidates to form the team.
Third, if the second plan didn't work out, Clay would have to concentrate all his limited resources on himself. He had already tested his current magical Signs. They proved effective in low-intensity skirmishes, but in true battle, they were woefully inadequate.
Take, for example, his Quen Sign. It was only at level one. While it could block arrows at a distance, if he were unlucky enough to be sent to assault a city and face a (Scorpions) crossbow bolt...
Well, no one could save him. After all, that weapon had been known to take down even dragons with its devastating power.
Another example was his Axii Sign. While It could still deceive an ordinary person, Clay had no illusions about its limitations. Against a trained warrior or someone with formidable willpower, its effect would be questionable at best.
This wasn't a game. If he failed to deceive someone, it wouldn't just mean losing money or having a sword drawn against him—it could very well mean death.
Clay understood all too well that if he were to survive, let alone thrive, in this brutal world, he needed to rapidly improve his strength. The urgency of this realization pressed down on him like an iron weight.
Lastly, there was the matter of the Three-Eyed Raven's cryptic promise.
From the Raven's last few words, Clay realized that the half-witted stable boy, Hodor, was likely just a pawn—a puppet entirely controlled by the Raven. The fact that Hodor would soon deliver something to him only reinforced that suspicion.
But that wasn't the most important thing. What mattered was whether he should accept the dragon egg and its hatching method.
As a trueborn Northerner, accepting the dragon egg would carry enormous risks. The North despised all things related to fire and dragons, and Clay was beginning to regret the reckless words he'd uttered earlier.
But to simply toss the dragon egg into the sea as though it were a rock? That was something he couldn't bring himself to do. After all, if the egg hatched, it would become a true weapon of mass destruction in the world of ice and fire—a living bomb capable of growing stronger with each passing year.
It was true that in the end, only one of Daenerys Targaryen's three dragons survived. The other two fell to the bolts of scorpions, which led many to believe that scorpions were capable of slaying dragons. Yet, that was a dangerous misconception. It's not that the scorpions are powerful, but rather that Daenerys's dragons were simply too small and inexperienced.
If it were the ancient dragons from history, scorpions would have been little more than a nuisance, barely scratching their thick, impenetrable scales—stronger than the finest plate armor and impervious to scorpion bolts.
There's also the matter of the bloodline that needs explaining. If Clay were to hatch the egg, questions about his lineage were bound to arise. Would Lord Wyman Manderly suspect that he might not even be the real Clay Manderly?
After all, many northern nobles perished during the War of the Usurper because they were the main force resisting the royal army.
Clay knows well his family's unwavering loyalty to the Starks—a loyalty that could easily turn against him if they suspected he was hiding something as dangerous as a dragon.
If Clay were part of a family like Littlefinger's, perhaps such risks could be maneuvered around with cunning. But for a house like the Manderlys, whose honor and loyalty ran deep, even the hint of betrayal could ruin everything.
Thus, for Clay, the dragon eggs represent a choice fraught with immense risk, yet also one with no upper limit to its potential rewards.
With some restlessness, Clay rolled over on his bed and, after sorting out his thoughts, decided to stop dwelling on it. Tomorrow, he would meet Lord Wyman Manderly alone. Everything else would be put aside. Gaining the old man's support for the Witcher project was a must.
As for the risks, Clay was well aware of them. But he was prepared.
..
..
[IMAGE]
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Chapter End's]
🖤 Night_FrOst/ Patreon 🤍
Visit my Patreon for Early Chapter:
https://www.patreon.com/Night_FrOst
Extra Content Already Available