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News from King's Landing a week ago stated that Eddard Stark had begun investigating the king's bastards. It did not take a genius to recognize the truth about Joffrey, Tommen, and Myrcella's parentage once enough children with black hair had been found. It was merely a matter of time.
Previously, Clay had been unable to pinpoint exactly when chaos would erupt in King's Landing, which was why he had traveled to the Twins. However, now that he had returned and caught wind of the disorder brewing in the capital, he immediately realized that this was his final window of opportunity.
"Even if things are about to get tense, I should at least brew a batch of the Decoction of the Grasses first," Clay murmured to himself, steeling his resolve.
The mutagenic potions of witchers varied according to their respective schools, resulting in different transformation effects. Clay understood this well. With his system at his disposal, he might one day be able to modify and improve these mutagenic potions.
His Witcher System was currently at Level 2, but it had not provided any clear instructions on how to advance to Level 3. Still, Clay had a strong premonition—once he successfully created a witcher with his own hands, the system would undergo a transformation.
For now, he had set his sights on improving the Decoction of the Grasses. Perhaps he could even develop a Westerosi version of a mutagenic catalyst. If he succeeded, he would not hesitate to attempt a second mutation on himself. After all, power was something no one would refuse—who wouldn't want to become stronger?
"Enough of that. I'll think about the future later. For now, let's get to work."
Shaking off unnecessary thoughts, Clay opened his inventory and selected the necessary ingredients: dragonbone, ghost grass, pennyroyal, heart tree bark, basilisk venom glands, and adult swamp leeches. Following the system's precise ratios, he carefully placed them into the alchemical synthesis slot.
(Correction Notice: I realized I misinterpreted [pennyroyal] in previous chapters, translating it as [Devilgrass] instead of [Pennyroyal]. It doesn't affect the overall story much, but I wanted to clarify it for accuracy. Thanks for reading!)
Immersing himself fully in the process, Clay could feel the ingredients undergoing an alchemical transformation within a space that he could perceive yet struggled to define. As the synthesis progressed, he sensed his mental energy gradually depleting.
Fortunately, crafting these potions did not demand magic. If it had, his meager mana pool of only eighty points might have been woefully insufficient to sustain the process.
As for his magic supply, he had already reached an agreement with the Three-Eyed Raven. For the time being, he could freely siphon mana from the ancient seer without concern. However, he was well aware that this privilege would not last forever.
Right now, the Three-Eyed Raven was investing in Clay's efforts to establish influence in the South, with the ultimate goal of opposing R'hllor. In many ways, this situation mirrored the Wars of the Roses from his past life.
The House of York had allied with Richard Neville, the Kingmaker, to challenge the Lancastrians, as neither could face them alone. But once Edward IV secured the throne, his relationship with the Kingmaker deteriorated, shifting the balance of power. Had Warwick been more decisive and aligned with the right allies, the tides of war might have turned differently. Times changed, after all.
The same logic applied to Westeros. At present, Clay controlled only White Harbor—a single stronghold. Naturally, his limited power did not warrant any apprehension from the Three-Eyed Raven. But if one day he secured a firm foothold in the South, he could not be certain that the same level of support would continue.
Clay still did not fully understand whether human faith played a role in sustaining gods. The mechanics of magic and divinity in Westeros remained an enigma to him.
He doubted that human devotion alone was vital to divine existence. Otherwise, how could the Faith of the Seven—Westeros's most widely practiced religion—have declined so drastically, while the Old Gods, worshiped by the much smaller northern population, retained their strength?
The Three-Eyed Raven had repeatedly emphasized the importance of the South, not its people. This led Clay to suspect that land itself might hold more significance than its inhabitants. However, he also could not dismiss the possibility that the Three-Eyed Raven was deliberately misleading him.
Dealing with an ancient entity who had lived far beyond a mortal lifespan and could immerse itself in the currents of history at will required extreme caution. Clay could not afford to be careless. Some thoughts were best kept to himself—after all, who knew whether a pair of unseen eyes were watching him even now?
---
Time flowed slowly as Clay waited in silence.
The first time he brewed Decoction of the Grasses, the system had granted him a courtesy exemption, sparing his mental energy. But for this second attempt, he had to endure the mental exhaustion that came with the process.
In the dimly lit room, Clay had no sense of how much time had passed. Then, at last, he heard a familiar sound—a series of ethereal bubbles bursting, accompanied by the gentle ripple of liquid. The moment he heard it, his spirit lifted.
He knew.
The second batch of Decoction of the Grasses in Westeros was complete.
As expected, a familiar icon appeared in his inventory. Without hesitation, he extended his consciousness toward it, examining the freshly brewed potion while it was still… somewhat warm.
◇◆────────────────◆◇
Name: Decoction of the Grasses
Version: 2.0
Effects: Induces witcher mutation in ordinary individuals.
Side Effects: Severe neural damage (negatable), extreme fertility reduction (negatable), pupil splitting (negatable)…
Base Success Rate: 40% (can be improved).
Notes: A higher-quality decoction. Drink it, and your chances of survival will be slightly better than those of your predecessors. The door to becoming a witcher awaits you. Oh, and one last thing—avoid pitchforks and women with magic. You won't be able to handle them.
◇◆────────────────◆◇
Clay took a deep breath, his lips twitching slightly as he read the system's notes.
What was this supposed to mean? Was the pitchfork truly a weapon of fate for witchers?
And what did it mean by "women with magic"? If it meant sorceresses, then why not say so directly? What was this nonsense about not being able to handle them?
Clay felt personally attacked.
Were there even sorceresses in Westeros?
Wait…
A figure suddenly surfaced in his mind—a bewitching woman clad in crimson robes.
If anyone in Westeros could be considered a sorceress, it would be her.
Melisandre.
Thinking about the deeds she would go on to accomplish, Clay decided it would be wise to exercise caution.
He refused to admit he couldn't "handle" her, but it never hurt to be careful.
Besides, he was quite curious. When he encountered followers of R'hllor, he wanted to use his witcher senses to perceive the nature of their magic. Hopefully, he wouldn't end up staring at a walking miniature sun.
That aside, Clay had noticed something interesting—this batch of the Decoction of the Grasses was an upgraded version of the previous one. Though the base success rate had only increased by ten percent, that was still a significant improvement.
For comparison, in the original witcher mutations, even with an entire team of mages and assistants, the Wolf School barely managed to push the survival rate to forty percent.
By that standard, Clay's Witcher System was incredibly generous.
Clay's herbal decoction—truly a product of conscience.
He smirked as he thought about the young men whom the old lord had selected for the process. A strange smile crept onto his lips.
"Drink without fear. With me overseeing things, aside from a bit of pain, I'll take care of everything else.
After all, this decoction is as trustworthy as it gets, right?"
..
..
[IMAGE]
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[Chapter End's]
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