At eight in the morning, after hurriedly finishing a breakfast that was decidedly too rich, Clay was dragged to the enormous courtyard at the center of the castle by Ser Marlon Manderly, who had arrived unexpectedly.
At a glance, Clay saw that the place was a full four or five times the size of Winterfell's training yard. Thick oak fences divided it into several sections: an archery range filled with targets, a cavalry training ground resembling a sprint track, and a swordsmanship training ground with weapon racks full of longswords.
Around these facilities, Clay even spotted structures resembling spectator stands, lending a little relaxation to this rather solemn place.
Ser Marlon was very old, but he was still broad and powerfully built. He wore his armor as though he could not feel its weight, with a short sword for close combat at his waist.
He led Clay into the training grounds. Clay noticed several armored figures at the entrance to the cavalry training ground.
Clay had excellent eyesight. Though they were far away, he could see them clearly. Most were very young, and even the oldest could not have been over thirty.
They were gathered in twos and threes, muttering about who knew what, but Clay noticed that every one of them bore a very prominent merman sigil on his armor.
"These are all sons of the family's cadet branches. We summoned them this time so they could see what our lord's heir looks like."
Ser Marlon naturally slowed his pace as he spoke to Clay, who followed behind him.
"You'll get acquainted with them shortly. How you do it is up to you. Drink them under the table or knock them flat with your sword, your choice. But take an old man's advice: knock them flat first, then drink them under the table. That works best."
"Aren't you worried they'll knock me flat?" Clay asked Ser Marlon with a smile.
"Boy, don't take us all for blind and deaf. Quite a few people know what you did at Winterfell." Ser Marlon pointed at his ears.
Clay thought it over. He kept feeling that this specially arranged meeting could not have been intended merely to acquaint him with these Manderly cadets.
"Once this is over, you'll choose some of them as your attendants. In a few days, our lord will preside over your knighting ceremony. We originally intended to invite Duke Stark to do it, but it seems there won't be an opportunity now."
As though he had seen through Clay's thoughts, Ser Marlon added that explanation.
Clay nodded, understanding what the old man meant. He was choosing the core of Clay's own retinue. On reflection, that was hardly strange, since Clay had no brothers.
Take House Stark, for example. Once Robb, the eldest brother, inherited the title of Duke of Winterfell, Bran and Rickon would automatically become his assistants or stewards. Very little was needed to establish trust between brothers.
But Clay did not enjoy that privilege. He was the sole male heir of the family's main line. On the battlefield, he would not even have personal guards he could trust.
Seeing the two approach, and especially the stern-faced Ser Marlon, the young Manderlys who had been lounging about moments earlier sprang up like rabbits.
Clay saw a plump young fellow with thick hair eating with his back turned. A companion slapped him on the head to alert him. He was just about to bare his teeth and swing a fist when he turned and saw Marlon and Clay.
Quite visibly, the plump fellow managed to swallow his unfinished food, straighten himself up, and stand at attention within five seconds. In sheer agility, he rivaled Clay, a witcher, leaving him marveling.
"They seem pretty afraid of you," Clay said quietly.
"Heh. I beat some of their fathers all the way from childhood to adulthood."
"..."
There really was no arguing with that statement. Such imposing authority-Clay conceded defeat.
Clay followed Ser Marlon and came to a halt before them. His gaze swept across each of their faces, while they, too, studied him.
House Manderly had a long history and had been rooted in White Harbor for a very long time.
As generation after generation multiplied, the branches outside the main line had continued down to the present. Even the luckiest had only a knight's title, managing a small cluster of villages for the main line or for themselves.
The vast majority had lost their surname through generations of intermarriage. These men before him were probably members of propertied households Ser Marlon had found who could afford a suit of armor.
The rest, though they bore the same Manderly surname as Clay, were no different from ordinary peasants.
This time, Ser Marlon had informed them that Young Master Clay would be selecting attendants. Those chosen would become his personal guards after training.
No one had made them grand promises, but every household that received the news had done everything it could to prepare the best armor for its son or husband. If Young Master Clay really selected them, their families' fortunes would inevitably change.
"You know why you're here, so I won't waste words. This is Clay Manderly, Lord Wyman's grandson and Ser Wendel's son."
Ser Marlon turned sideways and introduced Clay to them.
Clay saw all manner of expressions on their faces: envy, ingratiation, solemnity, pleading, and more. There was little hatred or jealousy. With the immense prestige Earl Wyman had built over decades of ruling White Harbor, they could hardly muster jealousy.
"Get into formation. Do I need to teach you again?" Ser Marlon suddenly frowned.
The men, who had just seemed about to crowd closer, jolted at his words, then swiftly formed a neat line in order of height.
Clay understood. Earl Wyman's arrangement was certainly no last-minute plan. These men knew their places in the formation well, meaning they had already been trained. Perhaps it had begun as soon as he left for Winterfell.
"Tell me your names, in order," Clay, who had been watching coolly all this time, suddenly said.
Once Clay spoke, Ser Marlon said nothing more. Clay was the central figure today, and he had no intention of stealing the spotlight.
After a moment's surprise, the tall fellow who looked honest and stolid said hesitantly:
"Ummer... Ummer Manderly, my lord."
Clay nodded and looked at the next man.
"Rysda Manderly, my lord. My family is..."
This man, slightly shorter than Ummer, spoke very quickly. After giving his name, he tried to say more, but Clay raised a hand and cut him off.
Clay glanced at him, then looked at those farther down the line.
"I only need your names. There's no need to tell me about your family connections. Those don't matter to me. Next."
Without looking at the somewhat embarrassed Rysda, Clay turned to the next man.
"Rickard Manderly."
"Mott Manderly, my lord."
Clay listened to them one by one, his face expressionless. He had no need to appear all warmth and friendliness. He knew nothing about these men yet, and showing friendliness would only make them think he was weak and easily bullied.
If necessary, Clay felt he could even draw blood. After all, what he wanted was a unit of personal guards who could follow him onto the battlefield, the core of his future retinue. If the goal was to show mercy, sending them home to continue earning their living would be the greatest kindness he could offer them.
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