Game of Thrones: The Witcher System

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Five days passed in the blink of an eye.

That morning, a squad of House Manderly's finest armored cavalry gathered in the courtyard of New Castle. Their mission was to escort the young lord of White Harbor on his journey south to the Twins.

Above them, more than a dozen banners bearing the blue merman sigil fluttered in the wind, their rippling shadows dancing across the assembled soldiers. As the morning sun casts its golden light upon their cloaks, the great gates of New Castle rumbled open.

Clad in full armor, Clay sat astride his steed, his breastplate gleaming with the golden trident of House Manderly. A longsword rested securely in its sheath, strapped to his saddle. With a firm grip on the reins, he guided his horse forward at a steady pace, his gaze sweeping over the ranks of his escort.

Each time Clay looked upon these knights, a sense of pride swelled in his chest. Encased in heavy plates, their visors down, lances poised at the ready—these men were the undisputed rulers of the battlefield.

And the Manderly family had no shortage of such warriors. This time, two hundred elite knights would accompany him on the journey south. More than a mere escort, their presence served as a display of strength—a silent yet unmistakable message to House Frey.

Just as he was about to set off, a slender hand reached out, gently grasping his reins. Clay turned his gaze downward and found his sister, Wynafryd Manderly, standing beside him in an elegant yet simple white gown.

"Remember your promise, Clay," she murmured softly, her delicate fingers brushing lightly through the mane of his steed.

Clay met her eyes and gave a small nod. He knew exactly what Wynafryd was referring to. House Frey, one of the largest families in Westeros, was relentless in their pursuit of advantageous marriages

"Don't worry, Sister. If any Frey dares to suggest such a thing, I will refuse them on your behalf."

He reassured her with a firm, steady voice. In truth, their grandfather had never uttered a word about arranging a match with them, which in itself was a clear message—Lord Manderly had no intention of tying his family to the Freys of the Twins.

"Enough of that. It's time for me to go. Farewell, Wynafryd."

A trace of relief flickered across her face, but it lasted only a moment. She nodded, stepping back as he straightened in his saddle.

With a gentle nudge of his heels, Clay urged his horse forward, leading his knights toward the harbor. Their journey would take them by sea, sailing south until they reached a small, modest port in the Riverlands—one of the closest landing points to the Twins. Though simple and unassuming, the port was sufficient to accommodate his two hundred men and their steeds.

As he rode through the streets of White Harbor once more, Clay could feel the weight of countless admiring gazes upon him. The people of the city revered him. News of his confrontation in Winterfell—the tale of how he had slain a Lannister knight in defense of his family's honor—had already spread far and wide, carried from tavern to tavern by the songs of traveling bards.

And beyond that, he was their young lord, the heir of White Harbor. His prestige had soared in recent days, nearly to the point where he could walk into any establishment and have his meal paid for by an eager citizen.

Upon reaching the outer walls, Clay and his escort of two hundred knights rode toward a military harbor—a section of White Harbor's docks reserved exclusively for House Manderly's fleet. Unlike the bustling merchant piers, this place was tightly controlled, its entry and exit governed by strict regulations.

Even Clay, with the merman banner flying proudly behind him, had to present his credentials before being granted passage.

For over a hundred years, the North had been without a proper navy. Ever since King Brandon the Burner set aflame and destroyed the last remnants of the fleet built by his ancestor, Brandon the Shipwright, the northern seas had remained largely undefended.

House Manderly, however, was an exception.

Though their fleet was nowhere near the size of the royal navy or the Ironborn's feared longships, the immense wealth of White Harbor had allowed them to maintain a respectable number of warships.

Standing on the dock, Clay counted twenty-four ships in total—ranging from large, heavily built sailing vessels to swift and maneuverable longships.

A burly man, barefoot and clad in a coarse tunic stiffened by salt and sea spray, stood waiting at the harbor A few other sailors stood behind him. As soon as Clay and his men approached, one of his escorts stepped forward.

"Young Lord, this here is the captain who'll be taking you on this voyage," the knight informed him. "We will be sailing aboard the Old Man of the Sea of White Harbor to the Twins."

Clay could not help but inwardly critiqued the uninspired naming conventions of House Manderly's ships but said nothing. Instead, he merely nodded, shifting his focus to the captain. He paid no mind to the man's rough and unkempt appearance—he knew full well that, once at sea, he would likely be far less capable than these hardened sailors.

The Old Man of the Sea of White Harbor was a formidable sight. A large sailing ship, built for naval combat, its thick hull and reinforced deck spoke of its purpose—to engage enemy vessels and assert dominion over the waters. Unlike the sleek raiders of the Ironborn or the merchant cogs that filled White Harbor's bustling docks, this was a true warship.

The captain stepped forward with a broad grin, his weathered face creased with deep lines.

"Lord Clay, I am Captain Stonn of the Old Man of the Sea of White Harbor," he introduced himself. "I promise you a smooth and comfortable journey."

Clay acknowledged him with a slight nod, exchanging brief pleasantries before following him toward the massive ship.

Their horses would be transported separately, loaded onto a second, smaller vessel, where specialized caretakers would see to their needs.

As Clay watched Captain Stonn stride confidently up the narrow, swaying gangplank connecting the dock to the ship, he took a deep breath. Then, under the watchful gaze of his knights, he became the first to step forward.

The moment his boot touched the wooden plank, a sudden, powerful rocking sensation overtook him. The movement was intense, unsteady. Even the unnatural resilience granted by the Trial of the Grasses could not help him now—his legs wobbled against his will.

But retreat was not an option.

Gritting his teeth, Clay reminded himself that he was an excellent swimmer. Even if he lost his footing, he would not drown—at worst, he would suffer a moment of embarrassment. And that was still preferable to showing hesitation in front of his men.

Mustering all his willpower, he forced his legs to obey, carefully adjusting his balance with each step. What should have taken no more than ten seconds felt like an eternity.

At last, his boots met the solid surface of the deck, and he exhaled in quiet relief.

Captain Stonn, who had been watching the entire time, flashed a grin, revealing a row of yellowed teeth.

"Young Lord, you're better than most of the green boys I've seen. For someone who hasn't spent much time on a ship, you crossed that plank steadier than most."

Clay maintained his noble composure, merely inclining his head slightly in acknowledgment. Yet, beneath his calm exterior, his legs still trembled faintly.

Behind him, the knights began boarding. The captain of his escort strode forward without hesitation, crossing the plank in a mere few steps, his heavy boots thudding against the wood in quick succession.

Most of the guards were seasoned veterans, well accustomed to the sea. Aside from a handful of younger men who faltered slightly, the hundred and fifty warriors boarded with ease.

The remaining fifty, tasked with overseeing the safe transport of the warhorses, would travel aboard the second vessel.

Once on board, Clay took note of something peculiar—the first thing his knights did was remove their heavy plate armor, stripping down to lighter chainmail for protection.

Frowning slightly, he turned to his captain of the guard and asked, "Why the rush to remove armor? The Bay of Bite is still home to many pirates, is it not?"pirates."

The man shook his head, leaning in slightly as he lowered his voice.

"Young Lord, when you're aboard a ship, shedding unnecessary weight is crucial. The ocean is unpredictable—if the waves grow rough, the constant motion will drain a man's strength in no time if he's wearing heavy plate armor."

His gaze flickered to Clay's own armor before he reached out, unfastening the straps without hesitation.

"You've not been on many voyages, my lord, so it's understandable. But trust me, this armor will be of no use to you aboard this ship. This isn't ten years ago—the pirates of the Bite wouldn't dare challenge White Harbor's fleet now."

Seeing his captain's confidence, Clay saw no reason to argue. He allowed the man to help him remove the armor, knowing he was surrounded by loyal guards. His only real concern was the unlikely event of a shipwreck, and if that happened, a suit of plates would be the last thing he wanted weighing him down.

Stepping into the cabin prepared for him, Clay leaned back, letting the gentle sway of the Old Man of the Sea of White Harbor lull him into the steady rhythm of the sea.

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[Chapter End's]

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