At eight in the morning, after a hasty breakfast that was absolutely over the top in terms of nutrition, Clay was dragged to the enormous courtyard in the center of the castle by Sir Marlon Manderly.
Clay took a quick look around. This place was four or five times bigger than Winterfell's training grounds. Several areas were separated by thick Oak Palisade, including an archery range filled with targets, a cavalry training ground similar to a track, and a swordsmanship training ground with a weapon rack filled with longswords.
Around these facilities, Clay even saw some structures that resembled stands, which brought a bit of relaxation to this otherwise serious place.
Sir Marlon was very old, but still burly and strong, his armor fitting him as though he wasn't even wearing it. He had a short sword for combat at his waist.
He led Clay into the training ground. Clay noticed some figures in armor at the entrance to the cavalry training ground.
Clay had good eyesight. Although the distance was great, he could see clearly that most of these people were very young. The oldest was definitely no more than 30 years old.
They were gathered in small groups, whispering and not knowing what they were saying, but Clay noticed that each of them had a very obvious Merman Sigil on their armor.
"These people are the branch family members. They were summoned this time so that they would know what the master's heir looks like."
Sir Marlon Manderly naturally slowed his pace, speaking to Clay, who was following behind him.
"Later, you'll get to know them. You decide how. Either drink them under the table or knock them out with your sword. Your call. But an old man's advice: knocking them out first and then drinking them under the table is the most effective."
"Aren't you worried they'll knock me down?" Clay asked Sir Marlon with a smile.
"Kid, don't think we're all blind and deaf. Plenty of people know what you did in Winterfell." Sir Marlon pointed to his ears.
Clay thought for a moment, feeling that this specially arranged meeting wasn't just about getting to know these Manderly branch family members.
"After it's over, you'll pick some of them to be your attendants. In a few days, the old master will preside over your Knighthood Ceremony. Originally, we wanted to ask Duke Stark to come, but it seems that won't be possible now."
As if he'd read Clay's mind, Sir Marlon added.
Nodding, Clay understood the old man's meaning. He was picking out his team. Thinking about it, it wasn't strange because Clay didn't have any brothers.
Take Duke Stark's family, for example. After Robb, as the eldest brother, inherited the position of Duke of Winterfell, Bran and Rickon would automatically become his assistants or stewards. Trust between brothers comes at a low cost.
But Clay didn't have that luxury. He was the only male heir of the Main Family Line. On the battlefield, he didn't even have Personal Guard he could trust.
Seeing the two of them walk in, especially when they saw the imposing Sir Marlon Manderly, these young Manderlys, who had just seemed lazy and relaxed, bounced up like rabbits.
Clay saw a small, chubby boy with thick hair eating with his back turned. He was slapped on the head by a companion as a reminder. He was just about to bare his teeth and swing his fist when he turned around and saw Marlon and Clay.
Very obviously, the little fatty completed a series of operations within five seconds: swallowing the unfinished food, tidying himself up, and standing at attention. In terms of agility, he kept up with Clay, the Witcher, which amazed him.
"They seem pretty afraid of you," Clay whispered.
"Heh, some of their fathers were raised by me, from their childhood."
"…"
It was an irrefutable statement, full of power and authority. Clay was impressed.
Clay stood with Sir Marlon in front of these people. His gaze swept across their faces, and they, in turn, were sizing him up.
The Manderly family had a long history, having been rooted in White Harbor for a considerable amount of time.
Generations had passed, and besides the Main Family Line, the remaining Branch Family Lines had continued to this day. The luckiest among them might hold a knighthood, managing a small village for the Main Family Line or themselves.
However, most had lost their surnames through intermarriage over generations. The people before him were likely the property owners Sir Marlon had found who could afford a suit of armor.
The rest, though they shared the Manderly surname like Clay, were no different from ordinary farmers.
This time, Sir Marlon had informed them that young Master Clay was selecting attendants, and those chosen would become young Master Clay's Personal Guard after training.
No one painted them a rosy picture, but every family that received this news had done their utmost to prepare the best armor for their sons or husbands. If they were truly chosen by young Master Clay, their family's fate would inevitably change.
"You all know why you're here, so I won't waste time. This is Clay Manderly, the grandson of Lord Wyman, son of Sir Wendel."
Sir Marlon, turning to the side, introduced Clay to them.
Clay saw a variety of expressions on their faces: envy, flattery, sternness, supplication, and so on. There was no hatred or jealousy. Under the immense prestige Count Wyman had built up over decades of ruling White Harbor, they simply couldn't afford to be jealous.
"Get in formation. Do I need to teach you again?" Sir Marlon suddenly frowned.
The crowd, who had just begun to gather around, jumped at the sound of his voice, and quickly lined up in an orderly row based on their height.
Clay understood. Count Wyman's arrangement was definitely not a spur-of-the-moment plan. These people knew their positions in the ranks very well, indicating they had been trained for a long time, perhaps even from the moment he arrived in Winterfell.
"In order, state your names," Clay suddenly spoke, having been observing silently.
Hearing Clay, Sir Marlon didn't say anything more. Clay was the protagonist today, and he had no intention of stealing the show.
After a moment of hesitation, the tall, seemingly simple and honest man spoke:
"Umer... Umer Manderly, my lord."
Nodding, Clay looked to the next person.
"Resta Manderly, my lord, my family is..."
Slightly shorter than Umer, this person spoke quickly, wanting to say more after his name, but Clay raised a hand to cut him off.
Clay glanced at him, then at the others behind him.
"I only need your names. There's no need to state your family ties; that's not important to me. Next."
Without looking at the somewhat embarrassed Resta, Clay turned to the next person.
"Rickard Manderly."
"Mort Manderly, my lord."
Listening to each name with a blank expression, Clay saw no need to be overly friendly. He didn't know these people at all, and being amiable would only make them think he was weak and easy to take advantage of.
If necessary, Clay felt he could even spill some blood. After all, he wanted a Personal Guard that could fight alongside him on the battlefield, the foundation for his future. Showing mercy and letting them go back to their lives would be the kindest thing he could do for them.
....
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