"Kneel down!"
With a sudden and brutal motion, Christen swung his leg forward and slammed his boot into the back of Royce Coldwater's knee.
The sheer force behind the blow sent the pampered lord crashing down into the blood-soaked mud, streaked with scattered snowflakes and churned earth.
That single kick, delivered by one of Clay's personal guards, came down with such merciless power it nearly shattered the man's kneecap. Christen hadn't held back in the slightest.
Royce let out a strangled, instinctive scream, pain lancing through his body like fire. He was just about to cry out again when he felt the cold kiss of steel—his eyes dropped, and there it was: a long sword, still stained with blood that hadn't even dried, resting against the side of his neck.
He froze. Looking around, the lord found himself surrounded by a ring of cold, expressionless faces. Dozens of icy stares bore into him with quiet hostility. A violent shiver ran down his spine.
It was in that moment that he truly understood: they could kill him. They really might. These men didn't care who he was.
Had it not been for his guards shouting his noble title as he fell from his horse, had they not blurted it out in the chaos of the charge… then right now, he'd already be a corpse, lying nameless in the frozen muck.
"Shut up. Scream again, and I'll kill you right here."
Christen's voice cut through the cold air like a blade drawn straight from the depths of hell. It was colder than the wind-driven snow that slapped across the lord's cheeks, colder even than the steel against his throat.
Clay didn't say a word at first. He glanced at the lord lying on the ground like filth, a noble of the Vale reduced to groveling in the mud — he gave him no more than a passing look.
Instead, his gaze lingered on Christen, who stood there soaked in blood and caked with mud, looking more beast than man.
A trace of approval flashed through Clay's eyes.
Then he smiled, and said with a rare softness, "Well done, Christen. Very well done. You wiped out all three hundred of the Vale's men in a single engagement, with only a few slipping through the cracks. I'm pleased."
Christen was pleased too. Ever since he started fighting alongside Clay, he'd noticed something remarkable — his lord never fought head-on unless he had to. He always found a way to turn the odds in his favor, always found an advantage, always struck where the enemy was weakest.
When their soldiers descended like thunder from above, it was never a fair fight. They struck fast and hard before the enemy could gain their footing, sowing confusion and panic before the first sword even landed. After that, it was just butchery — Clay's cavalry cutting through the disorganized ranks like carving boards.
Maybe once you could chalk it up to luck. Twice, perhaps, to good timing.
But three times? Four times?
That was no accident.
This, Christen realized, was the secret behind Clay's unbroken streak on the battlefield.
It sounded simple when spoken aloud—just a single sentence, really—but carrying it out was something else entirely. To truly make it happen required an effort most couldn't even imagine. Out of ten thousand men, perhaps one could do what Clay did.
Seated firmly atop his warhorse, Clay wore a thick cloak of dark grey fur draped across his broad shoulders. After so many days of riding without rest, he hadn't had a moment to clean himself up. His face was now completely hidden beneath a rough, bristling beard, every last trace of youthful softness erased.
"Christen, I'm truly glad you won this fight," he said calmly.
There was a pause.
Then Clay continued, his tone still unhurried but carrying the weight of command, "I'm leaving these five hundred men to you again. For now, go help clean up the battlefield. The Vale cavalry's armor is good quality… far too good to be left behind for the crows."
"Yes, my lord!" Christen answered at once.
"And once you're done with that," Clay added, "take a team and go handle the horses. Keep the herd under control."
"My lord…" Christen hesitated, then spoke carefully, "Forgive my presumption, but once the herd is under control, we can't just leave them here, can we? We can't possibly stand around watching over a few thousand horses forever."
Clay nodded.
That… that right there was why he had chosen Christen from among his five witcher guards. The boy was sharp. He could think beyond the surface, didn't wait around for orders like some mindless soldier. In times like these, a quick-thinking mind like that was worth more than gold.
"Well, that's right," Clay replied. "That's why, once you've gathered the herd and gotten everything in order, I want you to lead them to Lord Harroway's Town. Ser Marlon is already stationed there with nine thousand troops holding the line."
He paused for just a breath before continuing, his voice steady and precise.
"The way is all open plains, so there's no one left who can threaten us. Remember, make it quick. Go there, hand the horses over to Ser Marlon, and tell him to send them to the Twins. After that, you take command of the two thousand cavalrymen from House Manderly and bring them back to me."
Clay's instructions came in one long stream, layered with responsibility and weight, but Christen followed every word clearly.
Deliver the horses to Lord Harroway's town. Pass the message to Ser Marlon. Take charge of the Manderly cavalry. Return with the two thousand riders!
That was the task; simple and direct.
To be honest, Clay could've handled this mission himself. But the truth was, he didn't trust himself to hold off the troops from the three castles with just the thousand or so soldiers he had left. Those men, beaten but not broken, could lash back at any moment.
Christen understood this, and he had no complaints.
"I understand, Lord Clay. I'll leave right away and carry out your orders as quickly as I can!"
Christen didn't waste a single heartbeat. After giving Clay a deep bow, he turned, mounted his horse in one smooth motion, and led his men off at full gallop. Their figures vanished into the swirling snow, the sharp sound of hooves slicing through the silence.
Only after Christen had disappeared from view did the young commander finally shift his gaze back to the figure still kneeling in the mud.
Lord Royce Coldwater hadn't moved an inch. His shoulders were now layered with a thin crust of snow, silent proof of how long he had been kneeling there, motionless and humiliated.
"I'm a reasonable man," Clay said at last, his tone light but his eyes sharp as ever. "I'll ask. You'll answer. If you don't answer, or if you lie to me… I'll take your head off. Fair enough, don't you think?"
There was a faint smile playing on Clay's lips… so faint it was almost imperceptible. But to Royce Coldwater, that smile was nothing short of demonic.
"Y-yes, Lord Clay… yes…" he stammered.
The lord from the Vale swallowed hard, his throat convulsing with the effort. He was trembling all over, the fear of death stripping him of any remaining dignity. At this point, he looked more like a pathetic jester than a noble lord.
"Good," Clay nodded slowly.
He really didn't want to deal with someone too stubborn. Breaking tough bones was a pain, and Clay wasn't in the mood for that sort of work today.
"Let's start with a little introduction, shall we?" Clay continued, his voice calm and almost casual. "You're a lord from the Vale. I'm afraid I don't recognize the sigil on your chest — I'm not very good with heraldry, I'll admit."
His words seemed innocent enough on the surface, even mildly self-deprecating, but the meaning beneath them landed hard.
And Royce Coldwater got it immediately.
I don't even know your sigil. I've never seen it before in my life.
That wasn't a comment… it was an insult. A naked, undisguised insult. The kind that struck deep into a nobleman's pride.
Had this been a different time—had there not been a blade at his throat and humiliation smeared across his face—Lord Coldwater might have risen to defend his house's honor. He might have protested, maybe even shouted, to prove his worth.
But not here… not now.
Not when a bloody sword still hovered inches from his skin.
Because weakness, in this world, was a crime. And if you were weak, then there was nothing… nothing at all… you could protect.
"I… I am Royce Coldwater, Lord of Coldwater Burn," he said at last.
Despite the panic that twisted his face, despite the shaking in his limbs, those words came out surprisingly smooth. Years—perhaps decades—of formal introductions had trained him well. When it came to stating his name and title, muscle memory kicked in. He didn't stutter. Not even once.
"Mm… House Coldwater, Coldwater Burn. Alright, Lord. Got it," Clay replied, giving a small nod, though there wasn't the slightest hint of respect in his voice.
He didn't even try to offer the man a shred of dignity.
"Now then, I want you to tell me about your army's layout beneath the walls of Stone hedge. Don't pretend you don't know—I won't believe you. And remember, this is your only chance. Believe me when I say, I have ways of finding out whether you're lying."
For Clay, there were simpler, faster ways to get answers out of a prisoner. He could have just dragged the man somewhere quiet and used an Axii Sign to make him spill everything.
But not here. Not now.
He was no longer just a nameless commander on the battlefield. At this moment, he was the North's war hero — the banner around which a thousand cavalrymen rallied. Every movement he made, every word he spoke, was being watched.
[PS: I changed "God of War" to "War Hero."]
If he did anything too harsh now, someone was bound to notice. And then the questions would come.
So, better to start by asking. If he could get what he needed just by talking, that would be ideal. But if he sensed this man was still hiding something…
Well then, Clay wouldn't hesitate to toss him into the little black room, and handle things properly from there.
"Ah… I…"
Royce Coldwater opened his mouth, instinctively wanting to refuse, to dodge, to lie. But then he saw Clay's expression, that faint, unreadable smile that didn't quite reach the eyes, and he looked into those still, dark eyes that seemed as deep and bottomless as an ancient well.
And suddenly, he was terrified.
He couldn't be sure just how much this godsent warlord of the North already knew about their arrangements beneath the walls of the three noble seats. Maybe he knew very little. Maybe nothing at all.
But what if…
Royce Corbett was just a lesser lord. He held no real sway over the greater politics of the Vale. He had no loyalty to speak of toward the realm as a whole.
And when things had reached this point… could anyone really say that Yohn Royce and those other high lords, the ones leading the army, bore no responsibility for this disaster?
If he threw away his life now for the sake of some meaningless sense of loyalty, wouldn't that make him a complete and utter fool?
Nobles were all the same, in the end.
First came themselves. Then came their families. Only after that, maybe, came everyone else.
That thought settled in his mind, sharp and clear. He clenched his back teeth, bracing himself.
Then, Lord Royce Coldwater spoke.
"Lord Clay," he said slowly, "since I've already been defeated, I would like to offer information about the three noble seats of the Riverlands… in exchange for the chance to pay ransom for my life. Would that be acceptable to you?"
Clay gave a small nod and smiled:
"A reasonable offer."
If the man was willing to talk, then that meant he wasn't a fool. And Clay wasn't some bloodthirsty butcher; he had no reason to kill someone who could still be useful.
"Lord Clay," Royce continued, "that old man, Yohn Royce, left two thousand men behind beneath the walls of Stone hedge to maintain the siege."
"You should already know they've stopped using cavalry. They've switched entirely to infantry assaults now. Over the past few weeks, they've taken sporadic losses here and there. I'm not sure of the exact number, but I'm certain it's more than two hundred."
"Hmm, Go on…"
"The remaining force — around one hundred or so — I just visited them two days ago to collect supplies. They've split into two large camps for the siege, one to the north, one to the west. The northern one is the original main camp. Most of the soldiers there left with Yohn Royce to pursue you."
"The western camp, though, probably hasn't moved. I estimate there are at least twelve hundred men still inside, though I can't give you an exact number."
Clay began doing the math in his head. One camp to the north, another to the west. That did align with how the Vale forces usually set up their camps.
To the south was the direction of Acorn Hall; he already knew the Vale had stationed troops there as well.
And as for the east…
Well, the Vale men had left that side open on purpose. But would anyone holed up inside Stonehedge actually dare to flee through the east?
Of course not.
They knew exactly where Riverrun was — out west. If anyone tried to flee east instead… they'd be marching straight to their death!
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[Chapter End's]
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