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Dragons—this had always been a source of deep hesitation for Clay.
It was not a matter of whether or not he would hatch that blue-golden dragon egg. That decision had long been made. Of course he would hatch it. Ever since he overcame the obstacle of the Dragonlord's bloodline, nothing could stop him from claiming a dragon as his own.
The problem was, this wasn't like raising a cat or a dog. It wasn't even like taming a mammoth—this was a dragon. The sheer thrill of such an endeavor alone placed it on a completely different level.
Setting aside the future cost of raising a dragon, the more immediate and pressing issue was: where could it be kept?
Unlike Daenerys, Clay had no legacy of House Targaryen behind him. The moment the noble lords of Westeros laid eyes on a dragon, they would instantly be reminded of the days when their ancestors lived under the oppressive shadow of the Targaryen dynasty.
And then, they would look at him and think: Wait a moment, you're no silver-haired, violet-eyed Targaryen. So why do you have a dragon? What are you trying to do? Planning to become a second Aegon the Conqueror?
This was the heart of the problem. As things stood, it was an investment filled with helplessness, frustration, and a painfully long return cycle.
Fortunately, when the war breaks out, most of Westeros's attention will be drawn to the battlefields in the South, which provides Clay with a relatively relaxed environment to carry out his work.
Still, even so, there is simply no way a dragon could be raised in White Harbor, a densely populated city filled with eyes and ears at every corner. While his family could certainly secure a steady food supply for the beast, there would be no way to keep word from eventually spreading.
This meant Clay had to find a secluded, sparsely populated area outside of White Harbor where he could raise the dragon in secret. The location would need to have a stable source of food and, crucially, must not be too far from White Harbor itself.
To be honest, this was an incredibly high requirement. But for Clay, the real issue wasn't whether such a place existed—it was whether he could steel his heart enough to seize it.
Spreading out the map before him, he studied the southern waters off White Harbor. There, nestled at the heart of Bite Bay, lay three closely clustered islands.
They were known collectively as the Three Sisters—Sweetsister, Longsister, and Littlesister.
Although the islands were nominally under the banner of the Eyrie, the Vale held no real power there, even when they swore allegiance by both the Old Gods and the New.
House Sunderland ruled over the archipelago, and calling them nobles would have been far too generous. They were more like pirate chieftains, cunning, fickle, and utterly untrustworthy. The word "loyalty" meant nothing to them.
Once upon a time, this archipelago, which was little more than a pirate's paradise, drew much of its income from luring cargo-laden ships to wreck along its treacherous shores, then scavenging the remains.
It took Stannis Baratheon, as stubborn and unyielding as granite, to put an end to those practices during his tenure as Master of Ships. He led the royal fleet and purged the islands of their shameful ways.
Even so, most of the pirate dens in Bite Bay were still hidden among the Three Sisters. In fact, if Clay were to set foot on those islands with a sword and start killing people at random, eight out of ten times he would not be wrong.
Historically, the North and the Vale had engaged in a long and bitter struggle over the ownership of the Three Sisters.
Today, the islands were nearly independent, and the only rule they observed was to avoid attacking ships from the Vale and White Harbor. As for all other ships—well, they were fair game.
From a strategic standpoint, if the region were locked down, the islands would become a natural sanctuary for raising a dragon. As long as none of the great houses went out of their way to interfere, Clay was confident that the Manderly fleet could easily seal off Bite Bay.
To conquer the Three Sisters and wipe out the pirate infestation once and for all, then use his navy to blockade the bay—if that could be sustained for a year or two, long enough for the dragon to grow large enough to fly with a rider on its back, the mission would be considered complete.
The Sunderland's had always shown respect to House Manderly—but that was now, not in the past. The blood feuds of history had left the islanders harboring deep-seated hatred toward the North.
For Clay, all it would take was a hardened resolve and a simple pretense. If he fabricated a story about White Harbor soldiers going missing on the islands, it would serve as a perfect excuse to deploy troops. Justification was never hard to find.
But there was one condition. He could only make such a move once war had officially broken out. The North had to be in a state of open conflict. Deploying troops without sanction during such a politically delicate time would be nothing short of reckless.
It had been twenty days since Clay left the Wolf's Den. Although the news from King's Landing was growing more complicated with each passing day, the signal he had been waiting for had still not arrived.
Yet today, Clay had no attention to spare for those developments. For him, this was a day of double celebration.
Last night, after one final wave of searing pain surged through his heart, the last remaining trace of Dragonlord's blood within him had been completely assimilated.
In the very moment that blood vanished, a surge of unparalleled power flooded his entire being. He felt his magic boiling over, untamed and boundless. He knew, then and there, that aside from House Targaryen, a new bearer of the Dragonlord's bloodline had emerged in the world.
His affinity with fire magic had reached a new height. His Igni Sign, which typically required 300 points of magical energy to upgrade, had instead advanced naturally and instantly to Level 2. Clay could now skillfully begin mastering the "Flame Stream" variation of the spell."
In addition to the long-standing bloodline issue finally being resolved, today also marked another milestone—the formal induction of Raven into the special squad Clay had personally established. Raven was the fifth Witcher to successfully complete the mutation process under his leadership.
Including himself, there were now six of them. The others were Christen, Jaylen, Garland, and Desmond. Standing now beneath the Sea God's Tower, each of them had learned all five Witcher Signs.
Clay had equipped each of them with specially crafted armor—not heavy suits built solely for defense, but balanced armor designed for both protection and agility.
He had begun training them in sequence, starting with Christen. As each new member completed their transformation, the others would mentor them in turn. They had now reached a level of proficiency where they could fluidly cast any Sign they desired.
Beyond this, Clay had begun teaching them swordsmanship and instilling in them a crucial doctrine—one centered on single-unit combat operations.
On the battlefield, these warriors would rarely engage in frontal clashes. Their greatest value lay behind enemy lines, where they could exploit weak points. Their individual advantages would rarely shift the outcome of the entire war—but they could achieve highly targeted strikes.
Clay's first lesson to them was to abandon their damned sense of honor. There was no glory in restraint—only death. Hesitating for the sake of fairness would get them killed.
The second principle was autonomy. They needed to learn to think for themselves, to carry out missions without waiting for orders, even in his absence.
In traditional warfare, common soldiers rarely used their own judgment on the battlefield. The commanders, usually nobles, simply ordered them where to fight. If they won, they would charge forward. If they lost, they would scatter in chaos.
Such mindless, undisciplined behavior was something Clay would never tolerate.
Fortunately, thanks to the thorough selection process overseen by the two most experienced elders of White Harbor, none of the recruits were fools. Though Clay's ideas were unorthodox, the new Witchers adapted quickly.
Now, in the courtyard, five figures stood upright like spears thrust into the ground. Clay gazed at his creation, pride shining in his eyes, unable to suppress a satisfied smile.
But the moment of pride was short-lived.
Suddenly, an unexpected intruder burst through the guards' blockade and stormed in without warning.
Clay's back was turned, but he heard the urgent footsteps from afar. Frowning, he turned to look, and his expression froze the moment he saw who it was.
The Overseer Waters of the Wolf's Den?
Why was he here?
By tradition, no one from the Wolf's Den ever came to White Harbor unless it was a matter of grave importance. That was an iron rule.
A heavy weight sank in Clay's chest. Before he could speak, a raven's letter was thrust into his hand. The overseer, his face as grim as death, shoved aside the guards trying to restrain him and spoke in a grave, unwavering voice:
"My lord, something has happened in King's Landing."
The moment had arrived.
..
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[Chapter End's]
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