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The old man nodded in agreement with his grandson's words. There was really no other way around it. Inspecting merchant caravans for intelligence was an unspoken yet widely accepted practice among the nobility of Westeros, even if it was something done in the shadows.
Take the Reach as an example. It was a vast and fertile region, producing abundant grain, and its noble lords were generally quite wealthy. However, there was one problem—they lacked high-quality iron mines. So, if the lords of the Reach suddenly began purchasing large quantities of iron at great expense, what would that suggest?
Iron, in this era, had limited uses. Aside from crafting farming tools and a few household items, its primary purpose was the production of weapons and armor—longswords, shields, plate armor, arrowheads, and so on.
Moreover, ironware did not have a long shelf life; it corroded and degraded over time. A noble whose lands did not produce iron would not usually keep large stockpiles of it. Therefore, if a particular noble house or a specific region suddenly started purchasing iron in bulk through merchant caravans, there could be only one explanation—they were preparing for war.
Merchant caravans served as excellent carriers of information. Many things that noble lords denied in public were often revealed through their purchasing habits. They might keep their lips sealed, but the goods they acquired spoke volumes.
Thus, there was little Clay and his grandfather could do about the White Harbor merchant caravan being inspected. It was simply part of the unwritten rules between nobles. By the time White Harbor's envoys traveled the long distance south to reclaim their detained caravans, those responsible for the inspection would have already examined and recorded the entire inventory.
Anticipating this, the old man had deliberately mixed the medicinal ingredients they truly needed with a large number of irrelevant goods, making it harder to determine which were valuable. Even so, the delay caused by the detainment and retrieval of the goods was a very real inconvenience.
As their conversation shifted, the grandfather and grandson discussed future plans and the ongoing troubles concerning the Freys of the Twins. The old man did not bother to conceal his disdain for the name "Frey" and scoffed at Clay's mention of Aenys Frey's schemes.
"Insolent brat," the old man said dismissively. "Let him stir up whatever trouble he likes. I'd love to see just how much of a mess he makes of the Twins."
He also commended Clay for his calculated response—pretending to entertain the proposal of a marriage alliance with Aenys Frey. If this could further fan the flames of discord within the already chaotic Frey household, all the better.
Even if Aenys Frey did send representatives to formalize the arrangement, Clay could simply deny any prior agreement—or, if it came down to it, eliminate them entirely. Either outcome would serve their purpose well. By then, the message would be clear: House Manderly had no intention of playing along.
By the time their discussion ended, half the day had passed. The two of them had downed four bottles of Arbor Gold, the prized wine from the Reach's Arbor. However, both had a high tolerance for alcohol, and ordinary wine had little effect on them.
That evening, Clay attended yet another routine family banquet, where he encountered his father, his uncle, and his elder sister, Wynafryd. Of course, his younger sister, Wylla, was also present—though looking utterly dejected after spending the entire day confined by their grandfather as punishment.
Later that night, as he lay in bed, Clay once again endured the searing agony in his chest—a sensation as though his heart was being torn apart. Yet, as he felt the Dragonlord's Blood surging ever stronger within him, he could not help but smile in satisfaction. At last, after days of tension, he was able to relax. His exhausted body finally surrendered to sleep.
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The Next Morning
At the break of dawn, Clay made his way to the Sea God's Tower. At the very top of this ancient structure lay a storage room that had long been abandoned, untouched for years. It had originally been used to store miscellaneous family heirlooms, but now, under the Lord Wyman's orders, it had been thoroughly cleared out to house the precious materials they had recently acquired.
Only one key existed for this room, and it was in Clay's possession. Even his grandfather had chosen not to keep a copy. The old man had no use for it—he lacked the knowledge to make use of the materials himself. Keeping a second key would only increase the risk of the medicinal formula falling into the wrong hands.
Clay took out the specially crafted key, inserted it into the heavy iron lock, and turned it. With a deep metallic groan, the door swung open, and an unusual scent immediately drifted out. His keen sense of smell caught it instantly.
Sniffing the air, he quickly identified the source of the aroma—it was the mingling of various medicinal herbs used in the Decoctions of the Grasses.
Stepping inside, Clay's eyes were immediately drawn to a massive wooden table in the center of the room. Upon it lay an assortment of materials, some of which were kept fresh using blocks of ice. Among them were large bundles of plants, including Pennyroyal, which was crucial to the decoction.
Curiously, the herbs had been surprisingly well-preserved. Clay wondered what methods the merchant caravan had used to maintain their freshness.
On the far side of the room stood a smaller, round wooden table, upon which rested a collection of glass bottles and ceramic jars. These were not part of Clay's initial request, which led him to suspect that his grandfather had taken it upon himself to prepare additional alchemical tools, either based on some advice he had received or his own deductions about what might be needed.
If Clay had been an ordinary Witcher, he would have required a fully equipped alchemical workstation, enduring countless failures before mastering the process of crafting the Decoctions of the Grasses. But he was different. He had the system.
Every time he brewed a batch of the Decoctions of the Grasses, the system would ensure flawless execution. If such potions had a quality grading, his would undoubtedly be of the highest tier. The only drawback was that they could not be sold.
Nevertheless, crafting these potions took a toll on his energy. Unlike in games where one could simply click a button and instantly produce multiple batches, he needed to take breaks in between.
With only one key to the room in his possession, he had complete control over the materials. He could store them safely within his inventory, which not only provided an extra layer of security but also ensured their longevity.
After all, the White Harbor merchant caravan had deliberately hidden these herbs among various other goods to make it difficult for anyone inspecting the cargo to piece together the exact formula for the Decoctions of the Grasses.
However, if someone were to discover this storage room and its contents, it would be equivalent to handing them the complete recipe. Though the potion was extremely difficult to craft, and the mutation process itself was riddled with dangers, the mere possibility of the formula leaking was something Clay could not allow.
Moreover, the Decoctions of the Grasses was not just a crucial element in the Witcher mutation process—it was also an incredibly potent poison. Without a mage's assistance, this seemingly harmless liquid could be just as lethal as Tears of Lys, perhaps even as deadly as the poison that had once ended the life of the King Joffrey.
Thus, storing the herbs in his inventory was by far the safest option. It also conveniently solved the issue of preservation. While the ice blocks in the room slowed down decomposition, they were not a permanent solution. In contrast, his inventory effectively halted time, keeping the materials in pristine condition.
For the next hour, Clay meticulously sorted the materials and placed them into his system's inventory. Common ingredients like Heat Tree Bark, Ghost Grass, and Pennyroyal were abundant. However, the most critical component—the Basilisk Venom Gland—was in short supply.
His grandfather had warned him—only ten doses could be made, and the venom gland was the bottleneck. This rare ingredient came from the Neck, and White Harbor's existing stock was already depleted. More had been on the way, but the merchant caravan transporting it had been intercepted.
Thus, for now, he had to make do with what he had.
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[Chapter End's]
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