Game of Thrones: The Witcher System

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In the Great Hall of Winterfell, no one noticed that Clay, the heir of White Harbor, had been absent for quite some time. Even his loyal head guard, seated nearby, was too preoccupied to pay attention. Having removed his iron gauntlets and placed them on the table, the man sat red-faced and engrossed in a drinking contest with a guard he'd befriended during their stay.

He had seen his young master leave earlier but thought little of it. After all, this was Eddard Stark's domain—who would dare lay a hand on Clay here?

At the center of the revelry, the visiting king was in high spirits. With one hand gripping a goblet and the other wrapped around a dancer, he swayed and gyrated with reckless abandon. His rotund form shone with sweat, as his hearty laughter boomed throughout the hall.

Lord Eddard Stark, the host of the feast, sat at the high table, mechanically swallowing the carefully prepared dishes by the kitchen as if they were tasteless.

Lively celebrations had never been to Eddard's liking—not as a boy, and certainly not now.

Beside him, the stunning queen sat with an air of poise and grace, her smile flawless as she watched her husband reveling in the hall. Yet, behind the mask of warmth, her emerald-green eyes gleamed cold and unfeeling.

While the king celebrated and his future Hand sat in frosty silence at Winterfell's Great Hall, Clay lay motionless in the damp earth.

The exhilaration of breaking free from the heart tree had barely faded when Clay realized something was terribly wrong:

There was too much magic.

He couldn't see what was happening inside his body, but he could feel it with unsettling clarity. His limbs refused to move, weighed down by a flood of rampaging energy coursing through him.

The effort of breaking free from the heart tree had already pushed him to the limit. Now, he could only endure, his chest rising and falling in strained, uneven breaths. Panic clawed at his thoughts as he frantically searched for a solution.

The first thought that surfaced was to return to his room immediately. Under the protection of the Manderly family guards, he could at least feel secure enough to plan his next move.

But after only a few seconds of consideration, he dismissed the idea.

Clay understood that the root cause of his immobilization was the overwhelming surge of magic within him. This wasn't a problem that could be resolved by simply resting for a few hours, no matter the risk.

His magic reservoir wasn't a physical vessel where the excess could be drained away. The most pressing task was to consume the surplus magic in his body, reducing it to a manageable level before it tore him apart.

Magic didn't course through his veins like blood; he couldn't simply bleed it out and be done with it.

With a heavy sigh in his heart, Clay resolved to take the riskiest but most effective route:

Mutation.

Here, beneath the ancient branches of the heart tree in House Stark's sacred godswood, and under the watchful gaze of the Old Gods, he would undergo mutation.

The thought burned bright in his mind as he swiftly opened the system interface. Without hesitation, he selected the three small vials resting silently in his inventory.

Gritting his teeth, summoning every ounce of strength he had left, Clay pulled the vials free. There was no time to deliberate on their sequence—he simply bit them open, one by one.

A system prompt flickered in his mind:

"This concoction of grass decoction is a 1.0 version with significant risks and the following side effects... Would you like to use magic to offset them?"

What was there to hesitate about? Without a second thought, Clay pushed the success rate to its limit, nullifying all side effects.

In the next moment, his magic surged like a lightning storm, pouring into the potion with such force that his face turned ashen in an instant.

The excruciating pain began in his stomach, a searing agony that spread like wildfire through his body.

Clay's limbs twisted unnaturally, his body arching and convulsing as he tore up the grass beneath him. The patches of earth and foliage gave way under his uncontrollable movements.

His pupils dilated, his hollow gaze fixed on the pitch-black night sky, barely visible through the dense canopy of the heart tree's ancient branches.

His pupils dilated, his hollow gaze fixed on the pitch-black sky, barely visible through the dense canopy of the heart tree's ancient branches.

Minutes passed in eerie silence.

Suddenly, Clay's body jerked violently. Curled up on the ground, he thrashed wildly, his hands clawing at the air as if grasping for an unseen snowflake.

Moments later, his hands shot to his chest, tearing apart the remains of his tattered black cloak and shredding the luxurious garments beneath, embroidered with the sigil of a merman.

The sound of his heavy, labored breathing reverberated through the still godswood, deep and guttural, like the growl of a beast lurking in the shadows.

Sweat poured from his body, soaking his shredded clothing in moments. His slick skin, caked with dirt and grime, exuded a foul stench that hung heavy in the air.

Clay's body convulsed uncontrollably, his muscles locking and twisting as he fought against the relentless agony tearing through every fiber of his being.

In his desperation to ensure the success of the Trial of the Grasses and nullify its side effects, Clay had failed to account for the unrelenting torment the trial itself would inflict.

In that moment, Clay finally understood why the Trial of the Grasses was infamous as a near-death experience. How many witcher apprentices had perished, succumbing to the unbearable agony alone?

The potion mercilessly attacked his nervous system, while the magic within his body fought desperately to shield him.

From his face downward, all the way to the most vital parts of his body, every nerve flared in alarm, screaming under the assault. Yet, the presence of magic refused to let him drift into unconsciousness, forcing him to endure every excruciating transformation in his bones, muscles, glands, and beyond.

Amid the relentless torment, a grim sliver of humor flickered in Clay's mind:

This exquisite experience shouldn't remain mine alone. Only by ensuring future aspirants savor it as well will my heart find peace.

Warmth trickled down his face—a steady stream of hot blood seeping from his nose. His body temperature had risen to alarming heights. Though not quite at the point of boiling water, it was more than enough to kill an ordinary person. Had he been anyone else, his corpse would already lie beneath the heart tree or in the icy crypts of Winterfell.

Not sure how long it had been, Clay first lost his sense of sight, taste, smell, and hearing. Yet, one by one, these lost senses gradually returned, and the overwhelming sensation of swelling throughout his body began to subside.

Clay could finally feel his stomach again. When he drank the potion, it had felt like swallowing a live grenade, primed to explode and shred his stomach into pieces.

The pain in his stomach began to fade, only to be replaced by a violent wave of nausea that surged up to his throat.

With his mind clearing, Clay desperately reminded himself:

Do not vomit. Do not vomit.

And yet...

"Bleugh—"

The world fell silent.

…

Perhaps it had been an hour, or maybe two. Who could say? All Clay knew was that this had been the longest night of his sixteen years.

When the last remnants of pain finally faded, Clay's half-closed eyes snapped wide open.

A power unlike anything he had ever known surged through his body. Using nothing but the strength of his legs, he propelled himself from the muddy pit in a single leap.

In the pale moonlight, his tall and robust silhouette reflected in the still surface of the lake.

An eerie smile twisted his lips as he raised his left hand, forming a strange gesture.

He curled his pinky inward, pressed his ring and middle fingers together, spread his index finger apart, and slowly extended his palm forward.

Magic surged within him, and a faint, yellow spherical barrier abruptly materialized around him.

Clay relaxed his fingers, and the barrier shattered in an instant. He dropped to his knees, burying his face in his arms to stifle the nearly uncontrollable laughter bubbling up from deep inside.

Because he was now… a Witcher!

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(The protagonist has completed his mutation. Don't worry—this won't lead to an overpowered power balance. The social setting of this world wouldn't permit a noble to perform flashy "tricks" in public anyway.)

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[Chapter End's]

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