Ever since returning from Winterfell, Clay seemed to have become busy all at once. That afternoon, he was due to inspect the harbor district with Ser Marlon again.
Unlike in King's Landing, patrolling the streets here would not get a man killed by some unlucky accident. Over his decades governing White Harbor, Earl Wyman had established a very thorough system of oversight.
There was even an armed force here similar to King's Landing's Gold Cloaks, though much smaller in scale.
Still, for safety's sake, Ser Marlon had used Earl Wyman's written order to summon fifty men from the White Harbor Guard to protect Clay, thwarting his hopes of getting a taste of life among the common folk.
At lunch, Clay had filled his belly with delicious sea fish and roast meat. He had barely rested for two minutes before Ser Marlon dragged him out of the castle.
New Castle stood atop a high hill within the city itself, so Clay's party followed the road past the inner castle walls and entered White Harbor's bustling outer city with little effort.
They had just reached Fish King's Square, and Clay had wanted to take a stroll through the lively square. But just as he squeezed his horse's flanks to head over, he saw a guard ride up and say a few words close beside Ser Marlon.
Ser Marlon listened calmly to the guard's report, then turned toward Clay. One glance was enough to give Clay a premonition that his plans to tour the harbor that day were probably toast.
Sure enough, his intuition proved entirely correct, for Ser Marlon spoke a moment later:
"Clay, Lord Wyman sends word that the candidates have been selected and are now assembled in New Castle's training yard. His lordship asks that you return to New Castle immediately."
His grandfather had not told Ser Marlon what these men were meant to do. He had simply instructed him to tighten the screening, rejecting anyone with the slightest trace of disloyalty or an overly active disposition.
The old knight did not know why the requirements were so strict. After the initial screening, the old lord had handled the remaining selection himself, without his involvement. Completely loyal to the old lord, he had naturally asked no further questions.
"All right. Then what about this afternoon's patrol?" Clay's meaning was obvious.
"Mm, off you go. I'll finish it for you. But you were meant to do two this week. This one doesn't count, so we'll add another at the weekend."
With half the escort-twenty-five guards-following him on horseback, Clay returned to New Castle. Seeing their young master back again, the gate guards beneath the merman banner eagerly opened the gates. Without asking a single question, one of them obligingly took his horse's reins.
Already accustomed to this after the past few days, Clay merely nodded to the guard, whose name he did not know, and headed toward the training yard with his escort.
In the vast, open training yard, only twenty men stood waiting, a full half fewer than last time.
At the sight of Clay, the men immediately straightened their backs. The twenty-two candidates who had disappeared had sent them a clear message: this young master Clay demanded far more than most people.
Clay circled them once and was reasonably satisfied. At least none of them was overly tall or short, since either extreme would affect their mobility, and in their future work, even the slightest shortfall in mobility could prove fatal.
He waved to dismiss the White Harbor guards who had followed him. He no longer needed them standing behind him to lend him an air of importance. Having followed their young master all that way in armor, the guards breathed sighs of relief, saluted his back, and left.
Once the last guard had vanished from sight, leaving only Clay and these remaining members of House Manderly's cadet branches in the training yard, Clay began his questions:
"Do you know what you've been selected to do?"
Only after a long wait did someone answer cautiously:
"To become your personal guards, just as the Kingsguard protects His Majesty the King."
Clay immediately looked at the Manderly cadet who had spoken. His sudden gaze made the lad shrink back, afraid to keep meeting his eyes.
But Clay did not let him off. He walked straight over and, without giving him time, asked:
"Then what do you think matters most as my personal guard?"
Clay's tone was not actually harsh, but it still frightened the young man badly. He stood there with his head bowed, as though he had suddenly been muted.
When no answer came, Clay gave his own. Poking his forehead with one hand, he said solemnly:
"I don't doubt your loyalty. I trust Ser Marlon's judgment. But what I need more from you is your brains. In other words, I want you to use your heads and think."
Knowing that they surely had not understood, Clay continued:
"My personal guards must be able to judge situations for themselves on the battlefield, not be a bunch of idiots who can only follow my orders. If that were all I wanted, I could hire a whole crowd in this city for a few copper stars. What would I need you for?"
He increasingly felt as though he was dressing them down, but Clay had no choice. The commoners of this age had a bone-deep awe of noble lords, even if their ancestors had once been core members of House Manderly, just like Clay.
If Clay spoke to them gently, they would instead fail to take him seriously, and it would achieve nothing.
"Do you understand?!" Clay shouted at them. The first time, only one or two scattered voices answered, so quietly that he could not hear them at all.
"Answer me! Do you understand?"
After repeating this several times, Clay finally heard a unified roar in response:
"Understood!"
"Good! I know none of you can read, but that doesn't matter. Next, all of you will be assigned to the White Harbor Guard. Besides your daily training, I require you to be able to write at least a letter within one month."
"In one month, I'll test you myself. Those who pass stay. Those who fail or cheat can get out. You're not welcome here!"
Watching them exchange glances, their faces full of difficulty, Clay knew it was unreasonable to expect a group of simple, honest farmers to learn basic writing in a month. But their ability to learn was precisely what he wanted.
In Clay's plans, once those who could endure this and achieve something became the first witchers, their battlefield role would be that of vanguards. Under the right conditions, one man would have to do the work of a hundred or even more.
Swordsmanship and physical fitness were important, of course, but first, Clay needed minds that could work independently. If men with rigid, inflexible minds were sent behind enemy lines, their thinking would get them killed as soon as they lost their organization.
Better too few than too many unsuitable men. Even if Clay could not gather enough people, he would ensure their quality. As Westeros's future first generation of witchers and Clay Manderly's personal guard, they could not be mediocre men.
Posting first, fixing typos later. Doge face to save my skin!