I Want His Head!

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After racking his brain to no avail, Clay realized this question was as unfathomable as understanding the true nature of R'hllor, the Lord of Light—a mystery he couldn't hope to solve at the moment.

Unable to figure it out, he simply let it go. Clay had always been carefree like that.

Calling over the captain of the guards, whose posture was rigid and upright, like a javelin, Clay paid no attention to the man's apologetic demeanor and asked:

"Have you seen Robb and the others?"

"No, young master, but I did hear some rumors at the banquet last night," the guard replied. "It seems His Majesty the King and Lord Eddard intend to foster closer relations between their children."

"Go on," Clay motioned for him to continue.

"You know how we Northerners do things—getting closer usually means sparring with swords. So, I think if you want to find them, the training grounds would be a good place to start."

Clay shot a somewhat surprised glance at the veteran soldier, Hoster. He knew Hoster's judgment was likely correct.

Eddard Stark's hope for his honest and straightforward eldest son to forge a bond with the Crown Prince was easy to understand. Both he and Robert believed the enduring friendship between the stag and the wolf was a legacy worth preserving, especially as the weight of age pressed heavier upon them with each passing day.

They envisioned their sons forming a similar bond, one rooted in youth and trust, just as theirs had been. Such a connection would not only honor their own friendship but also strengthen the unity of their houses, ensuring they stood side by side in times of war.

What Eddard Stark could never have anticipated, however, was that Robert's valiant, battle-hardened son was, in truth, nothing more than a gilded ornament—an arrogant, hollow shell.

Clay had already cautioned Robb to keep his distance from the royal family, but his advice seemed to have fallen on deaf ears. Then again, perhaps it was not entirely wrong. While the old wolf had been an ally to the old stag, a young wolf bearing its teeth at a sleek, golden-haired lion cub seemed perfectly natural.

"Let's go enjoy the spectacle," Clay said casually, his tone betraying faint amusement. Hoster, clad in gleaming armor, nodded and summoned two additional guards to accompany them.

The training grounds weren't far. As they approached the entrance, Clay's eyes flicked to the banners hanging on the wall: the crowned golden stag to the left and the roaring crimson lion to the right.

Standing guard at the gate was a knight, his polished armor emblazoned with the proud sigil of House Lannister. The moment he spotted Clay and his entourage, his demeanor shifted. With an arrogant air, he raised a gauntleted hand, blocking their path.

"Hold it! Who are you? The princes are sparring with the Stark pups inside. No one else is allowed in."

The group frowned—not at being stopped, but at the knight's words. Referring to the Stark children as "pups" was an insult, especially here in Winterfell. This was not Casterly Rock, and such remarks were deeply offensive to anyone loyal to the North.

"Ser," Clay said coolly, his voice calm yet cutting, "insulting your hosts

The knight's eyes briefly flicked to the Merman sigil adorning Clay and his guards, marking them as members of House Manderly. Yet he remained dismissive. In his mind, the head of House Manderly was just an aging lord in White Harbor, and these were likely members of a lesser branch of the family.

Clay's words, intended as a warning, were instead heard as an insult. The knight's face reddened with fury as he snapped:

"You little whelp! I'll call those Stark brats whatever I damn well please. What are you going to do about it? Even if Wyman Manderly himself stood here, I'd say the same!"

This, of course, was utter nonsense. If the Lord of White Harbor himself were present, this lowly knight wouldn't dare utter such words, let alone stand in his way. Wyman Manderly, ruler of a major port city and commander of thousands of soldiers, wielded an authority that no minor knight could afford to offend.

The knight's reckless bravado elicited no immediate reaction from Clay, but his two White Harbor guards were visibly seething. Shouts of outrage erupted as one of them boldly gripped the hilt of his sword.

"What are you doing?!" the knight bellowed, his voice a mix of anger and panic. With practiced speed, he drew his finely-crafted sword, the blade gleaming in the sunlight as its tip pointed directly at Clay's face.

Clay's eyes narrowed. He is seeking his death, he thought, his disdain palpable. He had always loathed those who dared to point a weapon at him. Though he had intended to resolve the matter peacefully, the knight's arrogance left him no choice.

"Perfect", he mused, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "I'll use you for practice."

With a soft sound as his boots shifted against the ground, Clay became a shadowy blur, swiftly closing the distance between himself and the Lannister knight. The knight's eyes widened in shock, but before he could fully process what was happening, Clay was upon him.

With precise force, Clay struck the side of the knight's neck with an open palm, targeting the carotid artery.

Pain surged through the knight's body, overwhelming him with dizziness. His sword slipped from his hand as he staggered backward, collapsing to the ground. Clay effortlessly snatched the weapon from the air before it hit the dirt.

By the time the knight managed to shake off the dizziness and regained his bearings, he found his own sword pointed directly at his face. Fear rooted him to the spot; he couldn't move, his body trembling uncontrollably.

"P-please… p-please. . . have mercy…" The once-arrogant knight could barely string together a coherent sentence. Clay's gaze lingered on the pitiful figure before him, his expression one of cold disdain.

With a sharp clang, Clay slid the sword back into the knight's scabbard. His icy voice echoed beside the knight, sending a shiver down his spine:

"Lannister or not, you'd best watch your head. Without that lion to back you, you're not as steady as you think."

---

Having dealt with the minor nuisance, Clay led his three guards into the training grounds. The area was dominated by the roaring lion banners, while those of the crowned golden stag and the direwolf were sparse, almost insignificant in comparison.

Clay's gaze quickly found Robb Stark, standing in the middle of the grounds with a flushed face. Opposite him, the blond-haired, green-eyed Crown Prince Joffrey lounged lazily in a cushioned chair, mocking Robb without restraint.

"So, is this how you Starks train?" Joffrey sneered, carelessly kicking at the wooden training sword at his feet.

"Shall we craft a full set of wooden armor for His Grace, the Crown Prince?" one of his attendants chimed in, a wicked grin spreading across his face.

"Indeed," another agreed. "Since this is such a sacred Starks' duel, why not chop down one of their weirwood trees and make some armor out of it? With the leftovers, perhaps we can craft a few wooden swords for the little wolves as well."

Joffrey nodded in satisfaction, already considering whether he should order someone to actually cut down the weirwood tree.

Clay stood at the edge of the grounds, watching Robb and Ser Rodrik Cassel, both on the verge of losing control. So, that's where the coward outside gets his behavior from, Clay thought. It's no wonder—when the master is this crooked, the servant can hardly be straight.

While Clay was well aware of the Lannister's reputation for arrogance, he hadn't expected them to be so brazen as to humiliate the Starks to such extremes. This wasn't just mockery—it was outright trampling of House Stark's dignity, reducing it to dust.

Cutting down a heart tree? That was no different from defiling a statue of the Seven in the South. It was a direct assault on the Starks' faith and heritage—a move that could only lead to disaster.

Clay couldn't help but admire Robb and Ser Rodrik's restraint. Had it been him, his sword would already be swinging toward the neck of the jester who had spoken.

Robb, meanwhile, seethed with fury. He reminded himself, for what felt like the hundredth time, that Joffrey was the Crown Prince. But the shameless laughter of the Lannisters around him made him despise the training grounds like never before.

Finally, Robb could hold back no longer. He hurled his sword to the ground with a loud thud and stormed off, his boots thumping across the dirt. Behind him, Joffrey's mocking laughter rang out, cruel and cutting:

"Oh look, the mighty Stark warrior is running away!"

Seeing this, Clay decided there was no point in staying. He turned back toward the entrance, intending to wait for Robb outside.

However, before Robb could emerge, a breathless guard from House Manderly rushed up to him, disregarding all decorum as he leaned in to whisper urgently into Clay's ear.

The moment the guard finished speaking, Clay's expression darkened like a storm cloud. His fury ignited.

"Hoster!" Clay bellowed, his voice like thunder.

"Gather everyone. All of them!"

Before anyone could even process the order, Clay turned back to the guard, his voice cold and dangerous, dripping with wrath:

"Where is he?"

"N-near the blacksmith's forge…"

"Then gather the men and surround the forge!" Clay's fury surged, and his words were like a command from the gods themselves. "I want his head!"

At that moment, Clay resembled a lion far more than most within the city's walls…

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[Chapter End's]

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