Game of Thrones: The Witcher System

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Ever since returning from Winterfell, Clay had been busier than ever. This afternoon, he was once again scheduled to patrol the port district with Ser Marlon.

Unlike in King's Landing, patrolling the streets of White Harbor did not carry the same immediate risks to one's life. Over the past few decades of his rule, Lord Wyman had established a highly efficient system of oversight in the city. White Harbor even had an armed force akin to the Gold Cloaks of King's Landing, though on a much smaller scale.

For the sake of safety, however, Ser Marlon had carried an official writ from Lord Wyman and had mobilized a fifty-man unit from the White Harbor Guard to protect Clay. While necessary, this precaution thwarted Clay's original plan to experience the city's bustling streets firsthand.

After a hearty lunch, Clay barely had time to rest after filling his stomach with fresh seafood and roasted meat when Ser Marlon came to drag him out of the castle.

New Castle, perched atop the high hill, was already within the city. So, after passing through the inner fortress walls, Clay and his entourage entered the bustling outer city of White Harbor with little effort.

As soon as they reached Fishfoot Yard Square, Clay intended to explore the lively marketplace. Just as he nudged his horse forward, however, a galloping guard rode up and whispered something into Ser Marlon's ear.

Ser Marlon listened calmly, then turned to look at Clay. The glance he shot at him carried an air of foreboding—his plans for a leisurely tour of the harbor were about to be scrapped.

And sure enough, his instincts proved right. Moments later, Ser Marlon's voice confirmed it.

"Clay, Lord Wyman has sent word—the candidates have been selected. They are already assembled in New Castle's training yard, and he requests your immediate return."

Lord Wyman had not explained Ser Marlon of the exact purpose of this group. He had only instructed a rigorous selection process, rejecting anyone who showed disloyalty or excessive ambition.

Ser Marlon did not fully understand why such strict standards were necessary. After the initial screening, Lord Wyman had personally conducted the final selection, without involving Ser Marlon. Being fiercely loyal to his lord, Ser Marlon saw no reason to ask further questions.

Clay hesitated only briefly. "What about the patrol this afternoon?" he asked, making his meaning clear.

"Hmph. Go ahead, I'll handle it for you," Ser Marlon assured him. "However, we were supposed to have two patrols this week. Since this one is canceled, we'll add another one over the weekend."

…

Clay rode back to New Castle with twenty-five guards accompanying him. The soldiers stationed at the castle gates, beneath the banner of the merman, recognized their young lord's return. Without a word, they eagerly swung the gates wide and eagerly took hold of his horse's reins with practiced efficiency.

Having grown accustomed to such treatment over the past few days, Clay simply nodded at the guard—whose name he did not know—before leading his escort toward the training yard.

The vast training ground was noticeably less crowded than the last time he'd been here. The number of candidates had been cut in half, leaving only twenty men standing there.

The moment Clay appeared, they all straightened their backs, standing at rigid attention. The disappearance of the previous twenty-two candidates had sent them a clear message—this young lord had far higher standards than most.

Clay circled around them slowly, his gaze scrutinizing each man. He was satisfied with what he saw. At least there were no candidates who were excessively tall or short, as both extremes could hinder mobility. Given the tasks they would undertake in the future, even the slightest limitation in movement could be fatal.

With a wave of his hand, he dismissed the White Harbor Guards who had escorted him. They were no longer needed as a display of authority. The armored guards, relieved from their duty after running all over the city with him, gave respectful salutes before departing.

Once the last guard had disappeared from view, Clay turned his full attention to the remaining men—these Mandarly side branch members who had made it through the selection.

Clay began with a simple question. "Do you know why you were chosen?"

A long silence followed before one man finally responded, cautiously, "To serve as your sworn shields… like the Kingsguard protects His Grace—the King."

Clay's gaze snapped to the young Manderly cadet who had spoken. The sharpness of his eyes made the boy instinctively shrink back, unable to hold his gaze.

But Clay did not let him off the hook so easily. Striding forward, he wasted no time before asking, "Then tell me—what is the most important quality for my sworn shield?"

Though Clay's tone was not particularly harsh, but the question still left the young man frozen in fear. He lowered his head and stood there in silence, as if struck mute.

Seeing no other response, Clay answered his own question. He tapped his temple with one finger and said firmly,

"I do not doubt your loyalty. I trust Ser Marlon's judgment on that matter. But what I need most from you is your mind. In other words, I need men who can think for themselves."

Noticing the confused expressions around him, Clay elaborated.

"My sworn shields must be able to assess situations on the battlefield on their own. I don't need mindless brutes who simply follow my commands. If that were all I wanted, I could hire a bunch of sellswords for a few copper stars. Why would I need you?"

Clay realized he was starting to sound like a drill instructor, but he had no choice. In this era, common folk harbored an ingrained reverence for nobles. Even though these men descended from the same noble bloodline as himself, they had grown up with a deference that ran deep in their bones.

If he spoke to them too gently, they would not take his words seriously. His approach had to be firm.

"Do you understand me?!" Clay suddenly shouted.

The first response was scattered—only a couple of voices answered, and they were so soft they were barely audible.

"Louder! Do you understand me?!" he demanded.

After a few more attempts, a resounding, unified reply filled the air:

"UNDERSTOOD!"

"Good!" Clay nodded in satisfaction. "I know most of you cannot read or write. That is not a problem. However, from now on, you will all be assigned to the White Harbour Guard. In addition to your daily training, I expect each of you to be able to write a letter within one month."

"In one month's time, I will personally test you. Those who pass will remain. Those who fail—or those who attempt to cheat—will be dismissed. You will not be welcome here."

The men exchanged uneasy glances, their faces filled with apprehension. Clay knew it was unreasonable to expect a group of simple farmers to learn the basics of writing in just a month. But what he sought was not literacy itself—it was their ability to learn.

In his vision, these recruits, if they endured and succeeded, would one day become Westeros' first generation of Witchers.

Their role on the battlefield would be that of elite vanguard troops, capable of achieving the impact of a hundred men, if not more, under the right conditions.

Swordsmanship and physical prowess were essential, of course. But first and foremost, Clay required men with sharp, adaptable minds.

A rigid and unthinking soldier, when thrown into chaos, would only get himself killed once his command structure collapsed.

He would rather have too few than too many. Even if he could not recruit a large force, Clay would ensure their quality.

As the future founders of Westeros's first Witcher order, the sworn shields of Clay Manderly would not be men of mediocrity.

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[Chapter End's]

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