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After preparing the first batch of freshly brewed Decoction of the Grasses, Clay felt a slight fatigue begin to creep in. It was manageable, however—nothing that would hinder his movements.
He held the three small bottles of the improved version of the decoction of the grasses in his hand, turning them over and examining them carefully. To the naked eye, they appeared no different from the original version. After a moment of contemplation, he placed them back into his inventory.
If he remembered correctly, this potion had no real preservation properties—it had to be used immediately after being made. Leaving it exposed for too long could lead to its efficacy diminishing, rendering all his hard work meaningless. It would be a shame if everything he had just done ended up wasted.
"For now, I'll stop making potions. I need to go check on those who have been selected and choose one lucky individual to become the second witcher after me."
Resting his chin on one hand, Clay muttered to himself. Yesterday, his grandfather had confided in him, telling him the full details. After Ser Marlon had screened the candidates, his grandfather had spent the time Clay was away constantly indoctrinating them.
These people, originally just distant branches of the Manderly lineage that had separated from the main bloodline over a thousand years ago, were already overwhelmed with excitement at the chance to meet the patriarch of their ancestral house—Lord Wyman Manderly.
Now, knowing they had passed a rigorous selection process and would soon return to New Keep, the fortress of their family, to pledge their allegiance to none other than the future Lord of White Harbor, Young Lord Clay Manderly himself, they felt as if they had been granted an opportunity to step into a bright and promising future.
Clay's grandfather had been tirelessly promoting his feats in Winterfell, subtly alluding to the fortuitous encounters he had experienced in Essos—experiences these chosen individuals would soon have the opportunity to partake in as well.
According to his grandfather, their enthusiasm and devotion were undeniable. Now, Clay intended to see for himself just what kind of people had earned his grandfather's approval.
---
Having officially joined the White Harbor Guard, these twenty-two selected individuals were ostensibly chosen to be Clay's future personal retainers. At present, they were housed in the barracks of New Keep, living alongside other guards.
Yesterday, the young lord they had eagerly awaited—Clay Manderly—had finally returned from those lands of the southern lords. Overcome with excitement, they had, for the first time as his personal guard, gathered at the port to welcome him home.
Although none among them could compare in stature or status to Clay's elder sister, Wynafryd, that did not dampen their enthusiasm for participating in this significant moment.
Twenty-two pairs of eyes had fixed unwaveringly on the tall, sword-bearing young man as he descended from the ship, trying to imprint his image into their minds.
Lying on his cot, Christen Manderly traced his fingers over the old suit of armor resting beside him, imagining what the future might hold.
This armor had once belonged to his great-grandfather, who had worn it when he fought alongside the then Lord of White Harbor. Back in those days, his great-grandfather had been granted land in the northern regions of White Harbor, living as a knight with honor and dignity.
But his grandfather and father had been reckless men, lacking any sense of responsibility. Squandering their inheritance without care, they had led the family to ruin. By the time it came to Christen's generation, all that remained of their once-proud lineage was this set of armor—unworn for decades.
For a long time, Christen had believed that selling this suit of armor, once a symbol of his ancestors' glory, was his only viable option. After all, a man had to survive.
Yet, one day, Ser Marlon Manderly—renowned throughout White Harbor—had sought him out, offering him a chance to change his fate and restore his family's name. The opportunity? To serve as a personal guard to Young Lord Clay Manderly, whom Christen had never even met before.
The rumors in White Harbor painted a fascinating picture of this young heir—he was the kind of man who dared to draw his sword against House Lannister in front of the king himself.
Unlike his father, Christen had never been one for idleness. He had, however, inherited his father's and grandfather's deep-seated disdain for the southerners, especially House Lannister, who had tarnished the very notion of honor during the Rebellion.
To serve such a master, Christen felt an overwhelming sense of anticipation. As Ser Marlon had said: from this day forward, Clay's sword would point the way, and they would follow.
---
As Christen was lost in thought, a familiar voice interrupted him.
Vito Manderly, a fellow guard, strode over to his cot, tearing a bite from a roasted chicken leg before pointing at the steel sword resting by Christen's bedside. With a playful grin, he invited, "How about a bout in the courtyard, Ser Christen?"
"Ser"—this was the nickname the others had given Christen. It was their way of teasing him because he was the most diligent among them, training and studying with unwavering effort. Everyone joked that he was hoping to impress the Young Lord Clay and earn a knighthood, reclaiming his family's lost honor.
Though he wasn't the most talented among them, his determination had earned him frequent praise from Ser Marlon. Sometimes, attitude mattered more than raw ability.
Vito Manderly was his closest friend among the twenty or so others, so he had no intention of turning down the invitation when Vito challenged him to a sword fight.
With a chuckle, Christen sprang from his cot, leaving his armor untouched. Grabbing his sword, he followed Vito, who had already devoured the rest of his chicken leg, out into the open courtyard.
Dressed in simple training garb, the two faced each other under the watchful eyes of their comrades. Having sparred countless times before, they were well aware of each other's strengths and limits, knowing that no real harm would come from their friendly duel.
This was something Lord Wyman Manderly had specifically emphasized when he visited them—they were not just guards but brothers-in-arms. They had to trust one another, knowing that in battle, each man would protect his comrade's back while focusing only on his own foes.
"Come!" Vito, who was slightly weaker in swordplay, took the initiative, charging forward with a loud battle cry.
A circle of eager onlookers had already formed around them. Watching these friendly duels was one of their favorite pastimes.
Standing just beyond the crowd, Clay observed the match with a calm and discerning gaze. No amount of praise or boasting could compare to what he could see with his own eyes.
More than twenty people couldn't form a tight enough circle. Slowly, Clay began to approach, his gaze sweeping across every single person in the area, not missing a single detail
Eventually, he withdrew his eyes, refocusing them on the two combatants. With his experience and exceptional observational skills, he had already concluded the outcome—Vito, the dark-curly-haired guard, was going to lose.
A duel was as much about stamina as it was about skill. And no one was immune to exhaustion.
Rapid breathing. Stiffening arms. These were the telltale signs of fatigue. Though the two swordsmen were on similar levels of skill, the black-haired bodyguard was slightly weaker in terms of physical strength compared to his opponent.
And sure enough, just ten seconds later, after a fierce clash, Vito lost his grip on the hilt of his sword. The weapon was knocked from his hands. The next moment, a large, slightly worn black longsword was placed before him, the sharp tip stopping just shy of his throat.
He had lost.
This was the result he had already anticipated in his heart, yet seeing it come to pass still left him with little motivation to speak further.
As he gazed at his slightly despondent friend, Christen was about to step forward to offer some words of comfort. However, before he could, he noticed that Vito seemed as though he had been paralyzed by some unseen force. His eyes were wide and fixed, staring blankly at something behind him.
Puzzled, Christen turned around, only to feel a hand land gently on his shoulder. A calm voice rang in his ear, carrying an undeniable presence:
"My personal guard—will you, as the victor, accept my challenge?"
Startled, Christen immediately turned his head back. His gaze met the young face, and without thinking, he instinctively called out the name:
"Lord Clay!"
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[Chapter End's]
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