After much fruitless thought, Clay realized the question was essentially the same as asking what exactly R'hllor, the Lord of Light, was. It wasn't something he could answer right now.
Since he couldn't figure it out, he wouldn't bother. Clay had always been a carefree sort.
He summoned the captain of his guard, who stood as straight as a spear. Clay ignored the man's apologies and asked, "Have you seen Robb and the others?"
"No, my lord. However, I heard a rumor at the feast yesterday that His Grace the King and Lord Eddard intend to bring the children of both houses closer together."
"Go on," Clay said, gesturing for him to continue.
"As you know, we Northerners have our ways. They'll likely need to cross swords to get closer, so I suggest you check the training grounds if you're looking for them."
Clay looked at the old soldier, Hosta, with some surprise. He knew Hosta's assessment was probably right on the mark.
Eddard Stark, in his wishful thinking, wanted his honorable and upright eldest son to foster a relationship with the crown prince. It was understandable, really. From his and Robert's perspective, the older stag and wolf shared a deep friendship, while they themselves were growing old.
Therefore, the young wolf and stag should also forge a friendship from a young age, just as they had in their youth. This would, at the very least, provide a great possibility for them to watch over and assist each other in the future, should war break out.
But Duke Eddard never expected that Robert's son, the valiant and battle-hardened king's son, was actually nothing more than a pampered pretty boy, and a very arrogant one at that.
Clay had already warned Robb to avoid contact with the royal family, but it seemed completely useless now. However, it wasn't entirely wrong either. The old wolf and the old stag were allies, but the young wolf baring its teeth at a brightly-furred little lion was perfectly reasonable.
"Let's go, let's see what's happening," Clay ordered. Hosta, whose armor was brightly polished, called for two guards to follow.
The distance wasn't far. When Clay arrived at the entrance of the training grounds, he saw two flags hanging on the wall: the Crowned Stag on the left, and the Roaring Lion on the right. A knight wearing Lannister heraldry stood guarding the entrance.
Seeing Clay's group approaching, the knight immediately raised his hand arrogantly:
"Halt! Who are you? The princes are currently sparring with the Stark whelp, and no one else is allowed in."
Everyone frowned, not because they were blocked, but because this knight from the Lannister family kept calling them "wolf cubs." This wasn't Casterly Rock. As vassals of The North, they found these words extremely offensive.
"Sir, it's not a wise choice to insult your hosts here."
Clay offered a gentle reminder. The knight had already recognized the Merman sigil on Clay and the others, but he didn't care. In his mind, the old Lord of White Harbor, Wyman Manderly, was still alive, and these people were most likely from a minor branch of the family.
Clay's words were meant as a warning, but in the knight's ears, they instantly became a blatant insult, calling him an idiot. He was immediately enraged.
"You damn brat! I'll say what I want about these wolf cubs! Even if Wyman Manderly were here, I'd say the same!"
This was clearly bluster. If their own lord stood here, this little knight would have to obediently step aside. He wouldn't dare offend the authority of the Earl of White Harbor, who controlled a great city and thousands of soldiers.
As soon as he said this, Clay didn't react much, but the two White Harbor guards were furious. They immediately started cursing, and one of the bolder ones had already put his hand on the hilt of his sword.
"What do you think you're doing?!" The knight shouted, not slowing down. The next moment, a finely crafted longsword was drawn, its gleaming tip pointing directly at Clay's eyes.
"Looking for death," Clay muttered to himself. He hated it when someone pointed a sword at him. He'd wanted to let it go, but it seemed the other man was pushing his luck.
Perfect for a warm-up!
A soft sound came from the ground, and Clay was already a blur, closing in on the Lannister knight. Before the knight could react, Clay slapped him across the carotid artery.
Agony and a powerful wave of unconsciousness forced the knight to drop his longsword and stumble backward, collapsing onto the ground. The longsword was immediately scooped up by Clay.
When the knight shook off the effects of the blow and regained his senses, his own sword was pointed right at his face, freezing him in place.
"P-p-please…" The knight, who had been so arrogant moments before, couldn't even form a coherent sentence. Clay watched the pathetic display, shaking his head in boredom.
With a clang, the longsword was sheathed. Clay's voice, cold as ice, echoed near the trembling knight:
"Just because you're Lannister, you should watch your head. Without that lion, it's not very stable, is it?"
Having dealt with the small fry, Clay entered the training grounds with his three guards. The Roaring Lion banners were everywhere, while the Crowned Stag and Direwolf flags were few and far between.
Clay immediately spotted Robb standing in the center of the grounds, his face flushed. Prince Joffrey, with his golden hair and blue eyes, was leaning back in a soft chair, sneering at Robb.
"Is this how you Starks train?" Joffrey stomped on the wooden sword at his feet.
"Should we get the Crown Prince some wooden armor, too?" a servant standing nearby chimed in with a smirk.
"Yes, since this is the Stark family's sacred jousting, let's go chop down their Weirwood trees and make some armor. We can leave the rest for the wolves; maybe they can make a few more wooden swords."
Joffrey nodded in satisfaction, already considering sending someone to actually chop down the Weirwood trees.
Clay watched Robb and Sir Rodrik, who were on the verge of exploding. So that's where that cowardice came from, he thought. The top is rotten, and the bottom's crooked. It was truly a masterpiece to follow such a master.
Clay knew of the Lannister family's power, but that was just a stereotype. He had never expected them to be so arrogant. This was simply rubbing the Stark family's faces in the dirt.
Cutting down a Weirwood was like smearing feces on the statue of The Seven in the South; it was just asking for trouble.
Clay had overestimated Robb and the old lord's patience. If it were him, he probably would have already slashed the jester's throat who had just spoken.
Robb held it in for a long time, repeatedly reminding himself that it was the crown prince, but the Lannisters' unrestrained laughter made him hate the training ground more than ever before.
Finally unable to bear it any longer, Robb threw his sword down hard and strode towards the exit of the training ground. Joffrey's triumphant laughter echoed behind him: "Oh, the Stark warrior is running away!"
Seeing this, Clay saw no need to go in. He simply turned around and went back to the exit to wait for Robb. But before Robb could come out, a guard from the Manderly family ran over, panting, and disregarding etiquette, whispered a few words to Clay.
As soon as he finished speaking, Clay's face turned grim. He roared at Hosta, "Call everyone! All of them!"
Before anyone else could react, Clay asked the guard fiercely, "Where are they?"
"Near the... Blacksmith's."
"Go get someone, surround the Blacksmith's for me! I want his head!" Clay roared. At this moment, he was far more like a lion than most people in this city…
"Don't worry, sirs, the contract is almost done, just need the phone number, one last step, it's frustrating."
....
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