Game of Thrones: The Witcher System

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At eight in the morning, after hastily finishing a breakfast far too rich in nutrients, Clay was abruptly pulled away by Ser Marlon Manderly and led into the vast courtyard at the heart of the castle.

With a single glance, Clay immediately noticed how vast the area was—at least four or five times bigger than the training yard at Winterfell. The space was divided into several sections by thick oak fences: an archery range brimming with targets, a cavalry training ground that resembled a short racetrack, and a swordsmanship area equipped with racks full of longswords.

Around these facilities, Clay also noticed structures resembling spectator stands, which added an unexpectedly relaxed vibe to what was otherwise an imposing space.

Despite his advanced age, Ser Marlon Manderly remained broad-shouldered and barrel-chested, his strength showing no sign of fading. The full suit of armor he wore seemed weightless on his frame, and a short sword hung casually from his waist.

He led Clay into the training ground, and as they passed the entrance to the cavalry area, Clay saw several armored figures loitering there.

His sharp eyes quickly discerned, even from a distance, that most of them were quite young, none appearing older than thirty.

They were standing around in small groups, whispering amongst themselves, but Clay noticed that each of their armors bore the distinctive sigil of House Manderly—a merman crowned and wielding a trident.

"These are all descendants of the family's side branches," Ser Marlon explained, naturally slowing his pace to address Clay, who followed behind him. "They've been gathered here so they can see what the heir to the lordship looks like."

"You'll get to know them later," he continued. "The manner of your introduction is up to you—whether you drink them under the table or beat them with your sword is your choice. But, as an old man, here's my advice: it tends to work best if you beat them first before drinking with them."

Clay raised an eyebrow, amused. "You're not worried about them beating me instead?" he asked, flashing a grin as he glanced over at Ser Marlon.

"Boy, don't take us for blind and deaf fools," Ser Marlon replied, pointing to his own ear. "Plenty of people know what you've been up to in Winterfell."

Clay thought for a moment. He had a strong suspicion that this deliberately arranged meeting wasn't just about getting acquainted with these side branch Manderlys.

"When it's over, you'll need to select a few of them as your squires. In a few days, the lord will preside over your knighting ceremony. Originally, we intended to invite Lord Stark for the occasion, but... well, it seems that won't be possible now," Ser Marlon added, seeming to see through Clay's thoughts.

Clay nodded, understanding the old man's meaning. This was about building his own retinue, something that made sense when he thought about it. After all, he didn't have the luxury of siblings.

Take the Starks, for instance. When Robb inherited the title of Lord of Winterfell, his brothers Bran and Rickon would naturally become his aides or stewards. That kind of natural camaraderie couldn't be replicated easily.

But Clay didn't have that luxury. He was the sole male heir of House Manderly's main line. If he went to war, he wouldn't even have a trusted guard to cover his back.

When the two of them entered, the previously relaxed and somewhat idle young Manderlys straightened up like startled rabbits, especially upon seeing Ser Marlon's stern expression.

Clay's eyes landed on a plump young man with a full head of hair, who was facing away from them and munching on something. A smack on the back of his head from a companion made him whirl around, baring his teeth and raising a fist. But then, upon seeing Sir Marlon and Clay, he froze.

Within five seconds, the chubby youth swallowed whatever he hadn't finished eating, straightened himself, and stood at attention with surprising speed. The agility of his movements left Clay, a Witcher accustomed to swift reactions, thoroughly impressed.

"They seem to fear you quite a bit," Clay muttered under his breath to Ser Marlon.

"Hah, some of their fathers grew up under my fist," Ser Marlon said with a smirk.

"…"

That was an irrefutable statement, both awe-inspiring and domineering. Clay silently conceded the point.

Clay stood alongside Ser Marlon in front of the gathered group. His gaze swept across each of their faces, and in turn, they scrutinized him with equal intensity.

The Manderly family had a long history, having taken root in the lands of White Harbor long ago.

Through generations of growth, aside from the main branch of the family, the other branches had continued to multiply. The luckiest among them might hold a knighthood and manage a small village either for the main branch or themselves.

For the vast majority, however, their surnames had faded into obscurity after generations of intermarriage. The individuals standing before him were likely those whom Ser Marlon had gathered from wealthier families—families wealthy enough to afford a set of armor.

As for the rest, though they shared the Mandalay surname with Clay, they were no different from ordinary farmers.

This time, Ser Marlon had summoned them with the promise that Young Master Clay would be selecting squires. Those chosen would undergo rigorous training and eventually become the young master's personal guards.

No grand promises had been made, but every household that received the message had spared no effort in outfitting their sons—or husbands—with the best armor they could afford. After all, if one of them were truly selected by Young Master Clay, their family's fortunes would be transformed overnight.

"You all know why you're here, so I won't waste words. This is Clay Manderly, grandson of Lord Wyman and son of Ser Wendel," Ser Marlon said, stepping aside to present Clay to the group.

Clay noticed a variety of expressions on their faces—some awe, some flattery, some solemnity, and some hope. There was no sign of hatred or jealousy among them. With the immense prestige Lord Wyman Manderly had built over decades of ruling White Harbor, jealousy was a luxury they dared not entertain.

"Form up! Do I need to teach you how to stand properly?" Ser Marlon's sudden bark cut through the silence.

The people who had just gathered around were excited when they heard this, and then quickly fell into a neat row, aligning themselves according to their size.

Clay realized that this event wasn't something hastily arranged. These young men clearly knew their places in the lineup, which suggested prior training. Perhaps preparations for this had begun as soon as Clay had left for Winterfell.

He stood silently for a moment, his cold eyes scanning the group. Then, in a commanding tone, he broke his silence:

"Go down the line and introduce yourselves."

Hearing Clay's speak, Ser Marlon stepped aside without a word, letting Clay take control of the situation. Today was Clay's moment, and Marlon wasn't about to steal the spotlight.

The tallest among them, a somewhat simple and honest-looking youth, hesitated, his nervousness betraying him as he spoke:

"Um, Umer... Umer Manderly, my lord."

Clay gave a small nod before turning to the next person.

"Resta Manderly, my lord. My family is—"

The person, who was slightly shorter than Umer, spoke quickly. As soon as he finished his name, he was about to continue, but Clay raised his hand sharply, silencing him in an instant.

Clay glanced at him, his expression unchanged, before turning his attention to the next in line.

"I only need your names. Your family connections are of no importance to me. Next."

Without acknowledging Resta's awkward silence, Clay's eyes moved swiftly to the next person.

"Rickard Manderly."

"Mott Manderly, my lord."

…

One by one, Clay listened to their introductions with a stoic expression, his face betraying no emotion. He had no intention of presenting himself as approachable.

At this moment, he knew nothing about these men, and warmth would only make him appear weak. Showing kindness or camaraderie could undermine his authority—he could not afford to seem vulnerable.

Clay's thoughts sharpened, cold and decisive. If necessary, he would not hesitate to draw blood. What he needed from them was loyalty—a band of guards who would follow him into the heat of battle. This would be the foundation of his future. Sparing them out of misplaced kindness and letting them return to their old lives would, in truth, be the greatest mercy he could offer.

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[Chapter End's]

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