King Robert traveled quickly. Clay had originally estimated that, with all his drinking and debauchery, he would take two months to reach Winterfell.
Yet only a month and a half had passed before Clay, chatting with Robb atop Winterfell's walls, spotted a royal knight riding ahead of the party.
He did not recognize the knight himself, but it was hard to overlook the Crowned Stag banner planted in his saddle, fluttering in the wind.
"Tsk, the stag's long antlers will be showing up in Winterfell any moment now. So, Robb, I heard the queen and both her younger brothers are coming this time. Has the direwolf sharpened its teeth?"
Clay clicked his tongue as he watched the two knights draw closer, the Direwolf and Crowned Stag banners advancing together, just as they had in the War of the Usurper decades ago.
"They must be the highest-born sister and brothers in all the Seven Kingdoms. I might even have to kiss her hand. Besides, guest right cannot be violated."
Robb tightened his cloak and spoke slowly, but his brows remained knitted.
Clay gave a crooked smile and reached out to tug at the young heir to the North's newly whiskered cheek. Robb dodged and asked him with a bewildered look:
"What are you doing?"
"Has anyone ever told you that you Starks can't lie at all?"
"Nonsense, we..." Robb instinctively tried to argue, but the words caught in his throat. After a while, he said glumly:
"Yes, the North has never taught us that..."
Robb stared blankly at the two horses galloping through the eastern gate. Only after a long while did he turn to Clay.
"Am I really that bad at hiding it?"
"I'm no wolf, but even I know that baring your teeth too soon will only get someone to shoot an arrow at you straightaway." Clay shrugged and patted Robb's shoulder.
"A word of advice: avoid meeting anyone from House Lannister unless you absolutely have to. Spare yourself the discomfort."
Over these days of talking about life and women with Robb, Clay had learned more than Winterfell's local dirty jokes. He had also learned that, although Duke Eddard rarely mentioned the War of the Usurper to his children, he had spoken plenty about House Lannister's misdeeds.
At least in Robb's case, he knew very well what foul deeds House Lannister had committed after entering King's Landing, and how the Kingslayer had earned his name.
So Robb's reaction to House Lannister did not surprise Clay at all. Like father, like son-the saying had not lied.
The next morning, Clay did not see the Stark siblings at the training yard as usual. According to his sister Wylla, who had finally remembered who her brother was, the lady of the household, Catelyn, had summoned Sansa and the others early that morning to instruct them in the etiquette of receiving guests.
Clay seized the opportunity to ask his sister, briefly and to the point, what she had done during her nearly two months in Winterfell and whom she had spent time with.
Wylla answered readily enough, but only two names appeared in her answer: Sansa and Arya.
As he looked at the cheerful Wylla, Clay's eyes filled with pity. She really had not understood the slightest bit of what the old man had intended by agreeing to let her come to Winterfell.
She rattled on at length, but Clay never once heard Robb Stark's name. The old man's dream of his granddaughter becoming the lady of the North had fallen through once again.
He could already imagine how the old man would react after Wylla repeated all of this to him word for word...
At noon, a procession of gold and silver wound its way toward them, and Clay finally saw the fabled king of the Seven Kingdoms and his party.
There were around three hundred of them, most nobles of rank and standing, with even the lowliest among them a knight.
Dozens of banners fluttered, most of them the Crowned Stag banners representing the royal house. Among the few others were several bearing a roaring golden lion embroidered on a red field. Lord Eddard must hate seeing those, Clay thought.
Standing on a relatively high spot, Clay had not had his guards raise House Manderly's merman banner. For one thing, there was no need; for another, he would soon be sneaking into his host's backyard, and keeping a low profile was always wise.
Before long, Clay spotted the man flanked by two Kingsguard in snow-white cloaks. Without a doubt, that was their most revered king.
Sure enough, even on horseback, King Robert could hardly conceal his obesity. Yet unlike the ugly brute Clay remembered, this king, though much more greasy, still retained his presence.
Long years in power lent a man a certain bearing. No one pointed him out, but it was obvious that no one else in the procession could have deserved the title of king.
Once he had seen the king, who drew the most attention, and the queen's absurdly ornate wheelhouse, everything became dull.
There was nothing more worth seeing here. Clay had no liking at all for the nobles' numerous, lengthy formalities, though he himself was a young nobleman of impeccable pedigree.
He reached out to tug at his excited sister Wylla, but she shook off her brother's hand without even looking at him, watching the knights bearing the embroidered Crowned Stag arms with keen interest.
He left her to it. Before coming, Clay had already made it clear to Wylla that he absolutely forbade her from approaching anyone in the royal family, and she had agreed. With her satisfying her curiosity for the moment, he could hardly force her away.
The king was in the North. Since Jaehaerys I had descended upon Winterfell on dragonback, this seemed to be only the second time a ruler of the Seven Kingdoms had passed through Winterfell's gates.
Times had changed, and things and people were no longer as they had been. Of the Targaryen royal family, once the closest to gods, only two survivors across the Narrow Sea remained in public knowledge. All the rest had turned to dry bones.
Then again, they had ruled Westeros for over two hundred years, after all. Clay knew very well the powerful influence the Targaryen name held among ordinary nobles.
To give the simplest example, after the War of the Usurper ended, Robert had been able to sit securely on the Iron Throne not only because he was genuinely a seasoned and capable warrior. His Targaryen blood had unquestionably been the greatest point in his favor in winning the crown.
Though he would still have to deal with the great trouble that was Daenerys in the future, for now Clay could only think about it. With nothing but White Harbor behind him, he did not yet qualify for a seat at the table.
Returning to his room, Clay took out his equipment for sneaking in at night and checked it again.
Clay had prepared an easily removed black overgarment to wear over his house robes. This was Winterfell, after all, crowded with people and prying eyes. This outfit was only for use after entering the Godswood, to conceal himself should anything happen.
Within Winterfell's main grounds, he absolutely could not wear an outfit that made him look so suspicious, especially now that Robert had arrived. Wearing it would make Clay an assassin even if he was not one.
Along the way, the people who usually stopped to greet him were all hurrying about. When they saw Clay, most merely nodded or grunted a greeting and left it at that. Clearly, House Stark had made thorough preparations to receive the king.
The clamor in the castle grew more pronounced as night fell. Clay was invited to the banquet in Winterfell's great hall, and this was an invitation he could not refuse.