Game of Thrones: The Witcher System

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After hearing the names of all 42 people, to be honest, Clay couldn't remember many of them. But that wasn't his primary goal—what mattered was fostering their sense of affiliation.

"I speak, you listen, and then you act," he said, his voice calm yet commanding. "But first, I need you to believe that your efforts will yield results."

As Clay listened to each name, he paid little attention to their pasts. That wasn't important. Instead, he made it clear that whatever they had been before, from this moment forward, they stood on equal footing. He assured them that he had taken note of them and encouraged them to give their all.

Ser Marlon, standing off to the side, regarded Clay with mild surprise. At first, he had doubted whether Clay could effectively address such a large group. But now, it seemed the two years Clay had spent traveling through Essos had hardened him in unexpected ways.

Once the final introduction was made, Clay returned to Ser Marlon's side and asked quietly, "Sir, is there anyone here you particularly favor? Someone you'd recommend to me?"

Clay knew these candidates had been handpicked by Ser Marlon himself, and he appreciated the effort. However, he wasn't sure if there was anyone Ser Marlon particularly wanted him to choose. Thus, he asked the question.

"No," Marlon replied firmly, his voice as unyielding as stone. "Who you choose, and how many, is entirely up to you."

Clay shrugged lightly. Since Ser Marlon had no preferences, Clay was content to make the decisions himself.

Today, Clay had originally planned to demonstrate a bit of his Witcher skills to his grandfather, but with a list of candidates already prepared, there was no need to rush into assessing these people's abilities and character.

"Just test them for now," Ser Marlon replied, his voice steady. "Lord Wyman will come to take a look himself later."

Ser Marlon assumed that Clay might be uncertain about the selection process, so he planned for Lord Wyman to personally oversee things.

Clay waved his hand and smiled, saying, "No, it has nothing to do with them."

Marlon raised an eyebrow but chose not to argue. With a nod, he turned on his heel and departed without another word.

Now, only Clay and the 42 candidates remained in the training yard, their gazes fixed on him. For a fleeting moment, Clay was reminded of his own days in military training, standing before instructors whose stares could freeze a man in place. And now, he found himself in their shoes.

The group before him was a mix of shapes and sizes—some tall, others short, some built like oxen, others wiry. As they waited for Lord Wyman, Clay decided to make use of the time to assess their combat prowess firsthand.

"Who among you is the best with a sword?"

His voice rang out across the yard, but no one stepped forward. The Manderly men, standing in neat formation, exchanged uneasy glances. Some avoided eye contact altogether.

Clay raised an eyebrow. He had expected someone to seize the opportunity, yet all he saw was hesitation. The silence stretched, but he wasn't worried.

He understood their hesitation all too well. Beneath their stoic expressions, they were eager to prove themselves but wary of being the first to make a move.

"I'll make it clear," he said, his tone sharp and deliberate. "I won't be choosing all of you."

The statement snapped them out of their silence. A few heads lifted, and their eyes grew sharper, the tension in the air shifting.

"What I'm looking for," Clay continued, his gaze sweeping across the group, "is a personal guard—men who can charge into battle on horseback and cut down enemies without hesitation. If you don't have the courage to draw your sword now, then leave New Castle at once."

The moment these words left Clay's mouth, the expressions of these people changed a little. At first, they had only known there would be a selection process, but none had been privy to the specifics. Even Ser Marlon, who had relayed the orders, hadn't known Clay's criteria.

However, Clay's two sentences gave them a hint, which was equivalent to the examination defining the scope of the examination, and these people immediately became motivated.

Clay didn't have to wait long. As he finished idly counting the scales on the tail of the merman flag fluttering nearby, a voice rang out.

"My lord, I know how to use a sword!"

...

When Lord Wyman Manderly heard Ser Marlon's report, he swirled the wine glass filled with Dornish summer red in his hand. He wasn't sure why Clay had called for him.

At first, Wyman had harbored reservations about his grandson. Clay's youth, untested nature, and the burdens of leadership made him hesitant. But their recent journey to Winterfell had changed his mind. Wyman had resolved to support the boy wholeheartedly. Or, as he often said, even if Clay didn't drink now, he'd make him a heavy drinker with the finest wine White Harbor could offer.

With no pressing duties, the lord settled into his cushioned chair—a hefty, reinforced seat carried by four loyal servants—and instructed them to take him to the training grounds.

When he arrived, the scene before him gave him pause.

Clay, clad in half armor, stood locked in a fierce sword duel against a fully armored warrior. The sound of clashing steel echoed across the training yard as the two combatants pushed each other to the limits. Their movements were sharp, calculated, and evenly matched.

Wyman's brows furrowed with concern. The warrior opposing Clay was a towering brute—easily a head taller and twice as broad. His thick arms, encased in gleaming armor, looked like stone columns, capable of crushing lesser opponents. For a moment, Wyman feared for his grandson.

But years of battlefield experience soon steadied him, and he realized that the two were on equal footing. In fact, Clay appeared to be handling the fight with surprising ease.

Then it happened. With a sharp clash, Clay deflected the opponent's sword and, using the force of the block, twisted into a seamless "Rolling Sword" maneuver. Before anyone could react, the tip of his sword was already pressed to his opponent's throat.

It was over.

The entire duel had lasted only a few breaths, but Wyman was left impressed. Every movement Clay had made—from his steadfast defense to his lightning-quick counterattack—had been fluid and decisive. There was no wasted effort, no hesitation. It was quick, efficient, and lethal.

At the edge of the field, Wyman's eyes caught sight of several younger members of the Manderly side branch, standing with their heads lowered in defeat. It didn't take him long to piece together what had happened—they were the ones Clay had just defeated.

Noticing Wyman's arrival, the younger Manderly's straightened and bowed deeply, calling out, "Lord Wyman!"

Their voices carried across the yard, and Clay turned, wiping sweat from his forehead. A smile broke across his face as he nodded toward his grandfather.

"Grandfather, you're here."

This wasn't a formal occasion, and in the comfort of his own home, Clay saw no need to observe any grand formalities with his grandfather. However, the younger side members still adhered strictly to the rules.

When the family patriarch arrived, the younger members couldn't help but glance at Clay with even greater admiration. Just moments earlier, he had single-handedly defeated ten of them in the training yard. With a sword in hand, he dispatched them in just a few moves, not allowing a single one to land even the faintest touch on him.

Though some among them were less skilled, those with genuine experience in swordplay could clearly see that a few of the challengers were no novices. Their techniques were solid, yet their fates were no different from the others—they were effortlessly defeated by Clay in three moves or fewer. Their weapons were either disarmed with startling precision, or they were struck at vital points, leaving them no room to recover.

With a casual wave of his hand, Clay signaled for the group to disperse. The more perceptive ones quickly took the hint and withdrew, leaving the training yard quiet once again, save for the faint rustle of the wind.

Wyman settled onto a sturdy wooden stool brought by a servant, stroking his graying beard as his deep chuckle broke the silence.

Though Clay wore a confident smile from his recent victory, a nervous tension churned beneath the surface. What he was about to reveal to his grandfather was his biggest secret—though it was only a small part of it.

For a fleeting moment, he hesitated. Then, steeling his resolve, he decided to ease into the conversation. There was something else he needed to address first.

..

..

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[Chapter End's]

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