Chapter 11: Westeros Scouts
Qarth's harbor shimmered under a blazing noon sun, its turquoise waters rippling against weathered piers, the air thick with the briny tang of salt, the acrid bite of tar, and the warm spice of cardamom drifting from nearby stalls. Ships groaned, their sails snapping in the breeze, while gulls wheeled overhead, their screeches piercing the clamor of merchants haggling over silks and saffron. Adam Stiels leaned against a splintered dock post, his black cloak swaying, its edges frayed from weeks of travel, his hazel eyes squinting at a Westerosi cog bobbing on the horizon, its hull scarred by storms, its flag tattered. His mental HUD glowed, crisp and blue: [SYSTEM: LEVEL 2, 5/1,000 USES, 9-MINUTE COOLDOWN.] A smirk tugged at his lips, his fingers twitching to snap a sign, his boots crunching sand and gravel, the heat prickling his sweat-dampened brow. Westeros is out there, waiting for my crew to crash its party, he thought, brushing dark hair from his eyes, the sea breeze sharp and cool, his cloak heavy with Qarth's dust.
Adam gathered Lyra and two other Witchers—lean figures with silver swords glinting at their hips—near a docked galley, its deck bustling with sailors coiling ropes. "Scout the Iron Islands. Find a cliffside for our school, dodge the locals' rusty axes," he said, his tone light but firm, his hand tossing a coin that flashed in the sun. Lyra nodded, her dark braid swaying, her eyes fierce despite her youth, her leather armor creaking. His HUD pinged, dry and mechanical: [SYSTEM: QUEST: SCOUT IRON ISLANDS. REWARD: 100 XP.] A Qartheen blockade—three galleys with scorpion bows, their bronze tips gleaming—closed in, their crews shouting in guttural tones, targeting the Witcher ship. Adam snapped his fingers, casting Aard, a roaring gust splintering a galley's mast, wood cracking like thunder, sails collapsing into the churning sea. [SYSTEM: AARD, 1 MINUTE, 5/1,000 USES.] The blockade scattered, their curses swallowed by the waves, the Witcher ship slipping free, its sails catching the wind. Cardio's done, time for a drink, Adam thought, smirking, his cloak billowing, the harbor's chaos fading.
Tomas returned from Witcher training, stepping off a skiff, his stocky frame clad in dark leather, his silver sword gleaming, his brown eyes steady as he knelt to Daenerys, her silver hair a beacon under the sun, her violet eyes warm with trust. "I serve you, Khaleesi," he said, his voice rough but loyal, her nod graceful, her hand brushing her dagger. Adam clapped his shoulder, grinning wide, his teeth flashing. "Back from magic school, kid? Don't steal my spotlight." [SYSTEM: TOMAS RETURNED, LOYAL WITCHER.] At a Qartheen feast, torchlight danced on marble walls, the air rich with roasted lamb and oud music, tables laden with figs and amber wine. Adam pranked Jorah, casting Axii to make him dance mid-toast, his boots scuffing the polished floor, Dothraki chuckling, their braids swaying. [SYSTEM: AXII (ENHANCED), 30 SECONDS, 6/1,000 USES.] "Step it up, Ser Frowns, you're embarrassing the camels," Adam teased, Jorah's glare sharp, his goblet trembling, his armor creaking as he sat, red-faced.
In a harbor tavern, its air thick with ale and smoke, Adam spotted a system NPC, his robes glowing faintly to Adam's eyes, a Gwent deck spread on a scarred table. Adam sat, his Northern Kingdoms deck ready, his Yennefer card outwitting the NPC's Monsters deck, winning a rare Vesemir card, its edges shimmering like starlight, and a pouch of gold, heavy with coins. [SYSTEM: GWENT WIN, VESEMIR CARD, 6/10 MATCHES.] "My deck's got wisdom you can't buy," Adam said, pocketing the gold, the trader's laugh warm, his hands shuffling cards with a Qartheen drawl. Adam crafted a Hanged Man's Venom oil at a makeshift alchemy table, mixing scorpion tails and myrrh, their scents sharp and bitter, the oil sizzling on a sparring dummy, its wood blackening. [SYSTEM: ALCHEMY, HANGED MAN'S VENOM CRAFTED, 4/5 POTIONS.]
Adam explored the harbor, weaving through crates of fish and silk, the air salty with seaweed, ships creaking under lantern light. He gathered intel on Westerosi trade—Lannister gold, Stark furs—his HUD pinging: [SYSTEM: WESTEROS DATA LOGGED.] Over spiced crab at the feast, its flavors bursting with chili and lime, Adam flirted with Daenerys, her violet eyes sparkling, her silver hair catching torchlight. "Westeros, Dany? I'm packing snacks and swords," he said, his hand brushing hers, warm and soft, her laugh rare and bright, the music swelling around them. She's trouble, the best kind, he thought, his heart racing, the wine's tang sharp on his tongue. He bantered with a Qartheen sailor, dodging questions about his ship: "Just tourists, mate. Got a map for the Iron Islands?" The sailor's nod was wary, his knife gleaming under his cloak, his eyes narrowing.
Adam taught Tomas a basic Igni trick, a small flame flickering in his palm, the harbor's breeze cool, Tomas' grin wide, his leather creaking. "Start small, money-maker, you'll burn Qarth down soon," Adam said, chuckling, the flame dancing in the wind. He planned a group prank with Lyra, targeting a pompous Qartheen merchant, plotting to use Axii to make him gift a camel to a beggar, Lyra's eyes gleaming with mischief, her sword hilt steady. Adam inspected the Witcher ship, its deck slick with salt, its ropes taut, ensuring its readiness, his HUD updating:
[SYSTEM: SHIP READY FOR WESTEROS.]
Pacing the docks, he reflected on his Witcher empire, the stars bright above, the sea's rhythm steady. Tomas and Lyra are my foundation, but warlocks might still lurk, he thought, his HUD warning:
[SYSTEM: WATCH FOR WARLOCK REMNANTS.]
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