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The safest and most reasonable place for the meeting was the open ground between the two armies. A stretch of wide, unobstructed land where no scheme could unfold undetected. There, in plain sight, was the only place suited for such a high-stakes conversation.
Each side brought exactly three people to the table: two for negotiating and one guard responsible for security. Any more than that would be seen as an act of sabotage, a violation grave enough to justify drawing blades on the spot.
Clay and Robb Stark were accompanied by Jory Cassel, the captain of Eddard Stark's guard and a man who had narrowly escaped death. He had lived through the Lannister ambush and was the one who had the most authority to speak on what had truly happened.
After entrusting command of the army to Lord Glover, Clay rode alone toward the center of the field where the meeting was to take place.
His horse's hooves crushed the summer grass beneath them. Though this stretch of land lay on the front lines of a war, it had yet to be touched by fire and blood. The late summer air carried a hint of autumn's coolness, and the scenery, under different circumstances, might have been pleasant and serene.
But no one standing here had the heart to admire such beauty. Everyone's gaze was fixed on the six figures drawing closer to one another. The fate of the Westerlands and the North—their own future—would be decided here.
"Robb, they didn't bring Lord Eddard," Clay said in a low voice as he rejoined Robb Stark and rode alongside him. There were only two possibilities in such a case. The first was that the Lannisters had never intended to negotiate in good faith. The other was that Eddard Stark was in such a condition that he could not appear.
Whichever it was, it did not bode well. Robb quickly understood the implication behind Clay's words.
The young Lord of the North gave a silent nod. After a night of sleepless torment, his emotions had cooled somewhat. In his heart, he had begun preparing for the worst—that his father might be lost to him forever.
Yet a part of him still clung to the fragile hope that his father would stand tall before him once more, that he would ride out to meet him, and Robb could welcome him back with pride, declaring that he was no longer a child.
But now, from the very beginning, events were unfolding in the direction Robb had feared most.
On the northern side, a rising tension was beginning to stir. On the western side, Tywin Lannister himself was suppressing his bitterness and regret. During the pursuit that had led to this conflict, his soldiers—fools, every one of them—had failed to recognize Eddard Stark's identity and had struck with reckless force.
Eddard Stark had been carried back the moment his identity was discovered. Bleeding profusely, he had been hastily bandaged and treated. But even with swift medical care, the wounds inflicted by the soldiers had left him grievously injured.
That very morning, when Tywin Lannister visited him once more, he had found Eddard's face pale as stone, his breathing so faint it was barely audible, and his body burning with fever, yet trembling as though caught in the deepest cold. Such was the condition of Eddard Stark.
He was, for all intents and purposes, hovering on the edge of death. Tywin, no stranger to life and death on the battlefield, had seen enough to know that, given Eddard Stark's current state, a single hard kick might have been enough to kill him on the spot.
Tywin had originally intended to bring Eddard Stark along, not to hand him over, but at least to allow the Northerners to see that their old wolf was still alive. That, he believed, would be enough to keep the negotiations from collapsing.
But now, that plan had to be abandoned.
If he were to bring Eddard Stark in such a state to the meeting, it would not be an act of diplomacy. It would be pouring oil on a fire. That little wolf cub, seeing his father like that, would surely draw his sword on the spot.
Thus, the Westerlands also sent only three men. Tywin himself, his younger brother Kevan, and the infamous terror of the Seven Kingdoms—Gregor Clegane, known by another name: the Mountain.
Tywin brought him with the clear intention of being prepared should negotiations fail. According to the intelligence he had gathered, the Northerners' delegation consisted of one grievously wounded man who had narrowly escaped death and two young warriors. Neither, he believed, could possibly be a match for someone like the Mountain, a seasoned killer hardened by countless battles.
If things went south and blood was spilled, and the Mountain managed to cut down one or even both of the young Northerners, then the Northern army would collapse on its own. A pack of wolves without their alpha would become nothing more than a mob.
Yet Tywin Lannister could not have imagined that Clay Manderly, the very man he believed he had already given sufficient attention to, would prove to be more dangerous than any of them.
If swords were drawn, none of the men present would be a match for Clay. That was precisely why Clay had dared to act with arrogance and bring only a severely injured Jory Cassel. He placed no trust in the so-called nobility of great lords. The higher their titles, the lower their principles. This truth had been proven time and time again.
"Clay, that brute over there—is he the Mountain? I recognize the hound sigil on his armor," Robb's voice rose beside him. There was no fear in it, only the hunger of a young warrior eager to prove himself.
Clay's gaze had been fixed on the Mountain for some time. In his mind, he was already comparing their strengths and weaknesses.
In terms of sheer size, the Mountain lived up to his name. The man stood over two meters tall, clad in heavy armor that added to his intimidating bulk. Even from the exposed parts of his body, it was clear that he was the sort whose muscles likely filled his skull just as densely as they did his limbs.
To fight someone like that head-on would be suicide. Even though Clay had undergone the mutations of a witcher, he was still no match for such a monstrous mass of strength and power.
He would have to take advantage of the Mountain's lack of speed and maneuverability, turning that critical weakness against him through relentless harassment. He thought of Oberyn's battle with the Mountain—a fight in which speed and agility had nearly secured victory. Though Oberyn had brought about his own death through arrogance, Clay would not make that mistake. He would not rest until the Mountain's head lay severed on the ground.
At last, both parties drew close to one another.
A simple wooden table had already been set at the center, utterly bare and functional, surrounded by four chairs. This was the highest standard of negotiation between the North and the Westerlands. The guards, of course, were not granted seats.
Clay's first impression of Tywin Lannister was not that of a noble lord of the Westerlands or a man radiating royal dominance. No, what caught his eye was something else entirely.
Riding straight toward them was... a bald man.
Clay had seen Kevan Lannister before, and the Mountain's massive form was unmistakable. That left only one possibility. The man on the white horse, his bald head gleaming under the sunlight, could be none other than the Lord of the Westerlands—Tywin Lannister himself.
The old lion cut a tall and imposing figure. Even mounted, he was only slightly shorter than the Mountain. His shoulders were broad and strong, suggesting that in his youth he had likely been a formidable swordsman.
His cheeks were framed by a thick, golden beard, dense and heavy like a lion's mane. His eyes were a pale green, a color that Clay found unlikable, though perhaps that was just his personal impression.
The two sides halted their horses at a distance of about twenty paces. Any farther, and they would have had to shout to be heard, which would have been far too undignified for a meeting of this nature.
Tywin had never seen Clay or Robb Stark in person before. The two young men rode side by side with no particular order. Without the banners fluttering behind them—one bearing the direwolf, the other a merman—Tywin would not have been able to tell who was who.
His eyes lingered for a few moments on Robb Stark beneath the direwolf banner, then his sharp, commanding gaze shifted to Clay Manderly beneath the merman standard.
If not for this battlefield genius who had appeared from nowhere to upend the situation, his son might have already taken Riverrun, dragging the ailing Hoster Tully from his sickbed in chains.
If they had also captured the old wolf, then the West's situation would be looking quite favorable. In that case, why would they need to sue for peace? They could have forced the North to surrender outright.
But now, because of this unforeseen variable, the tide of war had shifted dramatically, leading to this present state of affairs. Tywin had been forced to sit at this negotiation table, all because of this one young man.
"You are Clay Manderly, grandson of Lord Wyman?"
Tywin Lannister was the first to speak, addressing Clay directly. He had done this deliberately, just as he had instructed Kevan to visit Clay earlier. Young men were inexperienced, and tensions could be quietly sown through such small, calculated gestures.
At present, the Northern cavalry was like an unstoppable spear under Clay Manderly's command. Tywin needed to avoid clashing with it head-on. He had to find a way to make that spear break itself from within.
And what better method than internal strife and mutual distrust? It was both swift and effective.
"Yes, I am. But the name itself holds no importance. You may call me however you wish."
Clay's reply carried a hint of Jaqen's flavor, but he meant every word. If he had only relied on the Manderly name, he would never have come this far, never found himself commanding an army and negotiating face-to-face with Tywin Lannister.
Respect was not something granted by others. It was something he had carved out for himself through blood and steel.
"Tywin Lannister. What have you done with my father? I want to see him. Otherwise, there is no point in continuing this conversation."
Robb Stark's youth and impatience burst forth. He could not suppress his emotions, and with those words, the atmosphere instantly became tense. But his reaction was understandable. After all, they were speaking of his father.
Tywin, of course, had anticipated this demand and had already prepared a response. He answered coldly,
"Your father is well. But I, too, wish to see my son. That would be a fair and equal request."
The old lion understood perfectly well that Clay would never bring Jaime here in person. His words were meant to buy time. He had already sent orders to Grand Maester Pycelle in King's Landing, commanding him to arrive within two days. No matter what methods or medicines he had to use, Eddard Stark must appear lucid and coherent at the moment of exchange.
What happened to Eddard afterward, once Pycelle's potions wore off, mattered little to Tywin Lannister. The transaction would be complete. Jaime would be safely returned, and the North would be left swallowing a bitter loss.
The two sides locked eyes for a long moment. It was clear that neither of them had any way of fulfilling the other's demands at this time. Five minutes later, all four of them took their seats across from one another at the table, shrouded in heavy silence.
"Stark, let us speak plainly. We return Eddard Stark to you, and in exchange, you return Ser Jaime and the other western lords we captured. How does that sound?"
Kevan Lannister broke the silence. There was no point in this endless staring contest. It was foolish to the point of absurdity.
"Do I need to remind the two of you? As of this moment, the North has captured a total of twelve nobles from the West, all of them bearing prominent names and titles, including the Kingslayer himself. Lannister, do you not think your proposal is a bit too one-sided?"
Clay asked this without expression, his fingers interlocked as he coldly countered with a question of his own. On the way here, he had instructed Robb to remain silent as much as possible and let him speak on his behalf.
There was no other choice. The young wolf was desperate to save his father, and if he slipped up and agreed to something too quickly, it would ruin everything. A negotiation always began with outrageous demands before both sides started to bargain.
"We have Eddard Stark in our hands."
"And we still have the Kingslayer locked in a cage."
"He is the Lord of Winterfell."
"And the Kingslayer is the heir to Casterly Rock."
The moment those words left Clay's mouth, Kevan was momentarily stunned into silence.
As a younger brother, he understood Tywin's mind better than anyone. In Tywin's heart, Jaime was the one and only heir. Could he now deny that and say Tyrion was the rightful successor instead?
Faced with Clay's faint, knowing smile and the amused expression playing on his face, Kevan had no choice but to turn toward his brother.
I can't handle this. Your turn…
"Jaime may be my eldest son, but he serves as a knight of the Kingsguard. Do I need to explain the rules of the Kingsguard to you, Manderly boy from White Harbor?"
After a brief silence, Tywin finally opened his mouth, his gaze locked intently on Clay as if trying to use the sheer force of his stare to overwhelm him.
Tch. So he's just going to refuse to admit it, is he? Clay sneered inwardly. Tywin was treating him like some ignorant provincial bumpkin. And he actually expected him to tolerate that?
"Is that so, Lord Tywin? Funny, I don't recall hearing of any father offering up his son to the Kingsguard. You Lannisters really are something else. Three generations and still no one learns. This is the first time I've ever seen such a thing in all the years of Westeros. Truly, it has been an eye-opening experience."
As expected, Tywin's gaze instantly sharpened, a glint of ice-cold fury flashing in his eyes. His voice, when it came, was hard and edged like a blade pressed against frozen stone.
"Watch your words, Manderly. The origins of His Grace the King are not for you to question."
Clay, naturally, was unmoved by this attempt at intimidation. Coming from a man with such a rotten foundation himself, was this really the best he could do?
"Is that so? Perhaps you are unaware, but Ser Jaime and the Queen Regent were quite... indulgent during their stay in Winterfell, when King Robert was traveling through the North. It is something everyone in Winterfell knows well. Tell me, Tell me, Lord Tywin, do you really think Queen Cersei had no reason to arrange for the death of our King Robert?"
With a bang, Tywin Lannister slammed his hand down upon the table. Even with all his renowned self-restraint, his face darkened to a frightening degree. And with good reason. Clay's words were not only venomous but carried a weight that could shake the very foundations of power.
First of all, the relationship between Jaime and Cersei had never been proven. All that existed were rumors, rumors that a lord of Tywin's stature could afford to ignore. But Clay spoke with certainty, as if those whispers were known truths among the Northern lords and courtiers who had accompanied Robert on his journey. Even if the two sides were now enemies, some things remained too shameful to let slip.
Most dangerous of all, however, was Clay's final remark. The notion that Robert's death had been orchestrated by Cersei and the Lannisters was a secret known to only a select few. Even Tywin himself had only learned of it after the deed was done.
And now, that very truth had been casually revealed by a Northern noble youth, as if it were nothing more than a passing comment. This could ruin everything.
Tywin Lannister did not believe this was mere speculation on Clay's part. His mind began to race.
Joffrey's crown, while held firm by the Lannisters, still derived its legitimacy from his Baratheon blood. Even now, the boy did not bear the name Lannister.
If the lords of the Seven Kingdoms were to learn that Joffrey's claim came through treachery and murder, that he sat on the Iron Throne by spilling his father's blood, then even if Tywin had an army of ten thousand soldiers, it would not be enough to quiet the chaos that would follow.
Robb's eyes widened in disbelief. He could hardly resist glancing toward the calm and composed Clay beside him.
Where in the world did he learn all this?
Jaime and Cersei... doing that kind of thing in Winterfell? And even making noises? Why had no one told him about this?
Though still deeply worried about his father's fate, the fiery heart of a young man could not help but seize upon the juicier parts of the conversation.
"Well then, Lord Tywin, have you managed to collect yourself yet? Or would you prefer a bit more time to calm your nerves? After all, you are getting on in years. And if Ser Jaime is no longer your heir, you had best hurry to meet the Seven. Otherwise, with the way your so-called heir spends every day tangled in women's sheets, he may well die before you do."
As Tywin's eyes blazed with fury, Clay slowly turned his gaze toward the now-silent Kevan Lannister and said softly, a faint smile curving his lips:
"And when that day comes, Lord Kevan, you shall inherit your brother's title, shall you not? Yes... Lord Kevan. It has quite a pleasant ring to it, don't you think?"
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