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So that was it… this kid turned out to be Yohn Royce's son. His eldest, no less. The kind who could inherit the title.
Well then, that changed things. For now, he wouldn't kill him. After all, a meticulous egoist like Clay always knew how to do the math.
If he were to kill this boy right now, the kid would become nothing more than a hundred-odd pounds of motionless organic matter. Just a heap of flesh rotting away in some forgotten patch of dirt, eventually turning into free fertilizer for the local plants and beasts. Clay had no intention of letting something that wasteful happen.
Now that he'd managed to capture Yohn Royce's precious son, it meant he had gained another card to play in the game of balance.
And Clay, well… he had a very flexible moral compass. So long as he won in the end, he didn't much care how he got there.
When the time came, he would simply press a small dagger against the soft, tender neck of this boy named Andar Royce and shout at the top of his lungs:
"Yohn Royce! Take one more step forward, and don't blame me for gutting your son!"
There was no need to worry. Nobles in this era were all the same. When it came to their children — especially their eldest sons, those carefully groomed heirs they treasured like priceless heirlooms… their hearts would always seize up. Clay had no doubt that, in that moment, Yohn Royce would be completely at his mercy.
Don't believe it? Then take a look at Tywin Lannister. Even he, a man who despised his second son Tyrion with almost theatrical disdain, still had to find roundabout ways—through the hands of others—just to deal with him.
And yet the moment Jaime Lannister, his beloved eldest, was taken prisoner, Tywin immediately went silent. Not a peep of resistance. Just like that.
That's the truth of it. The eldest son and heir wasn't just important… he was the family. The absolute core, second only to the head of house himself.
Clay imagined the scene in his head… him, standing proud while using the boy as leverage. But then, with a slight twitch of his lips, he decided it might tarnish his noble and heroic image just a little too much. So he made up his mind to leave the dirty work to one of his personal guards instead.
He gave a quick shake of his shoulders, brushing off the snowflakes that had settled on him. As he spoke, his breath turned visibly white in the air… thick, misty puffs curling out with every word. The cold was definitely intensifying.
Clay couldn't help but wonder if it was just his imagination. In his memory, that great winter from before hadn't arrived nearly this quickly. Back then, the snow in the North had lingered for years—slow, creeping, hesitant—before finally drifting down over King's Landing in the end.
But now? It was barely into the early months of the 300th year since the Conquest, and even the Riverlands were freezing like this. Something about that just didn't feel right.
Clay had no real idea what the climate patterns were supposed to look like across the Seven Kingdoms in the original timeline — how far the cold winds from the North usually reached or how each region was meant to respond to winter. It wasn't like this world came with weather forecasts, after all.
Still, even without that kind of knowledge, the speed at which the temperature was dropping had genuinely caught him off guard.
At the very least, he could still remember that back when the War of the Five Kings was nearing its end, young women in the South were still dancing barefoot, wearing nothing but thin, fluttering veils that barely counted as clothes.
Yet at this rate, if things kept up like this, the girls in the Riverlands would soon be forced to dance in thermal underpants. No… wait a second. That kind of thing didn't even exist here…
Now, it wasn't that Clay was being careless or letting his thoughts wander to pointless nonsense. The truth was, this sudden drop in temperature had already begun seriously affecting the army's combat performance. The soldiers were weakening fast.
But the current state of the battlefield didn't allow Clay the luxury of stopping to regroup. Robb Stark had messed up — in the worst place, at the worst possible moment — and now, just after Clay had returned to the North, he was forced to clean up the disaster left behind by that fool.
All the battles happening now, one after another, were Clay's desperate attempt to claw back control. He was trying to turn around a situation where the enemy held the advantage and his side was barely hanging on — and he was doing it all through tactical micromanagement, one painful step at a time.
Fortunately, the enemy wasn't exactly brilliant either. Their missteps were frequent and clumsy, and their incompetence, if anything, was doing Clay a favor. Had they shown even a little more skill or coordination, he might've been finished by now.
And as for King's Landing? All communication had been cut off completely.
The White Sea Guard he had stationed in the capital had gone blind… utterly and irreversibly. The last message they managed to send out was that the old lion had led his troops into the city to reinforce its defenses… and then Renly's massive army showed up to lay siege.
After that, not a single word made it out.
Not surprising, really. Even Tywin Lannister himself had been surrounded so tightly by Renly's forces, it was like he was trapped inside an iron barrel. It had been several months since then, and to this day, Clay still had no idea how the war in the South was progressing.
But now, Tywin Lannister had taken his army and surrounded the remnants of Robb Stark's forces at Harrenhal… and from where Clay was standing, this revealed at least two important truths:
First, something major must have happened in King's Landing. Otherwise, why on earth would Tywin Lannister abandon the city, a place of enormous political significance, without a fight?
After all, no matter what titles they claimed — king, lord, or anything in between — every single one of them, was really just fighting for one thing:
That thorn-covered Iron Throne!
Second, the old lion and the entire Lannister family couldn't have taken too much damage. If they had, would the Vale, under Littlefinger's command, have dared to form an alliance with them?
Clay understood Petyr Baelish better than most. If Tywin had truly been driven out of King's Landing in disgrace, then that carrion-feeding vulture would have wasted no time swooping down to tear into the lion's carcass, picking it clean without mercy.
And besides, if the Lannisters were nothing more than a shattered, half-dead army, how would they have even found the nerve to besiege Robb Stark in the first place?
Right now, the situation was clear: As long as they could hold Lord Harroway's Town — a key strategic stronghold — the Vale's forces would remain essentially crippled.
Aside from Yohn Royce's five thousand cavalrymen, who were still barely holding together their combat readiness despite sheer exhaustion and a growing shortage of supplies, the rest of the Vale's army was already worn down to the point of collapse.
Once the two thousand mounted soldiers from Clay's own House Manderly reached the battlefield, he could finally begin laying out a full-scale assault plan against Yohn Royce's troops.
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After crushing the northern encampment outside Stone Hedge, the siege that had lasted over a month around this Riverlands fortress was, for all intents and purposes, broken.
As for the western camp, they'd shrunk back into their shells like frightened turtles. Knowing they couldn't escape and trying to make some last stand as cornered beasts, they were clearly hoping to drag the whole thing out. But Clay had no interest in playing their game. Instead, he turned his horse around without hesitation and led two hundred men straight into Stone Hedge.
Stone Hedge was the ancestral castle of House Bracken. And to be fair, it wasn't badly built. Located on the great plains in the eastern Riverlands, the stronghold had everything a decent fortress needed; watchtowers, thick stone walls, arrow slits, and sturdy battlements. If not for those features, there was no way such a small garrison could have held out for as long as they did.
Lord Jonos Bracken, lord of the Stone Hedge, was a man whose fertility had clearly been blessed by the gods — he had five children The only problem was… all five were daughters.
What could you say about that? Statistically speaking, it was practically a miracle of its own kind. In a strange way, he might even be considered lucky… just not in the way he probably wanted.
By right, the current master of Stone Hedge ought to have been his eldest daughter, Barbara Bracken. But due to the usual gender issue — one that still hadn't faded from noble minds — control of the fortress had instead fallen into the hands of Jonos Bracken's illegitimate son: Harry Rivers.
Yes, even bastards had their moment.
Especially when a nobleman had nothing but daughters or simply no legitimate heirs at all, suddenly those "nameless" sons found themselves with something resembling rights.
Somewhere in the North, a certain bastard was probably feeling this deeply.
So, when Clay rode through the gates of Stone Hedge with his men, the one who stepped forward to greet him was a rather good-looking young man.
"Thank you for helping Stone Hedge, Milord…" he said, his voice calm but respectful. "You've driven out the wretched eagles that plagued us. Stone Hedge opens its gates to you, Lord Clay Manderly. I am Harry Rivers, son of Jeonos Bracken."
Clay nodded at him, offering no airs or pompous gestures. He didn't need to pretend to earn respect — In this world, it was power and blood that commanded fear and reverence, not posturing.
"Harry Rivers," he said, voice steady, "you're safe now. If Lord Bracken still has family members here, I can send people to escort them out of the city. The men from the Vale don't have the stomach to attack you again."
Clay dismounted from his horse, pulled off his gloves, and placed his bare hand on the young man's shoulder — the one who had stubbornly held Stone Hedge against all odds.
"You should know," Clay said, his voice calm but deliberate, "I can't promise Stone Hedge won't come under attack again. After all, Yohn Royce… probably isn't in the best of moods right now."
Clay gave a small laugh, then fell silent. He had no intention of adding anything more.
Harry Rivers stood there with his brows furrowed, a crease cutting across his still-youthful face. That lingering trace of immaturity was hard to miss, and his expression was filled with uncertainty.
He didn't truly understand the broader state of the war… every day, all he do was stand atop the walls and lock eyes with the soldiers of the Vale encamped below, watching and waiting, doing nothing more than staring each other down.
"Lord Clay…" the young man said solemnly, "my father tasked me with defending Stone Hedge. So I must see that mission through. It's my duty. And my honor."
The young bastard's tone was steady, serious. It was clear that he meant every word of it.
Clay gave a small nod. He understood exactly where Harry Rivers was coming from. Back in his own house, the boy had likely grown up ignored or dismissed because of his status as a bastard. But now, with war raging all around them, he had become the one holding up the family's name. The pillar they leaned on. This was his chance — his one chance — and there was no way he was going to let it slip through his fingers.
"Alright," Clay said at last. "I won't stop you. But I'll give you a piece of advice… send your sisters, or any other female kin you have, to Riverrun. There are twenty thousand soldiers stationed there. They'll be safe."
"Lord Clay…" Harry hesitated, then looked him in the eye. "Can't you protect them here, in Stone Hedge?"
He wasn't trying to pretend he was strong enough. He didn't make any empty boasts about defending his family. The reality was plain… right now, the total defensive force left in Stone Hedge barely added up to three hundred men. And no matter how brave you were, that just wasn't enough.
Clay went quiet for a moment. Then he spoke, his voice low but firm.
"Kid, you — and this place — Stone Hedge… you're not that important. If it ever comes to it, I will abandon this castle, without hesitation, if doing so serves my interests."
There was no warmth in his tone, no softness to cushion the blow. It was a harsh truth, plainly spoken. But it was the truth.
If the tides of war turned… if, for instance, the Old Lion decided to give up his siege of Robb Stark's battered forces and instead launched a full-scale assault westward — there was no way Clay would throw his life away just to defend a single castle in the Riverlands.
Everyone had their own responsibilities. Clay understood that.
Harry Rivers' duty was to defend Stone Hedge with everything he had, no matter the cost. And because Clay understood that, he respected the boy's decision.
But there was one thing he needed to make absolutely clear: If Lord Jonos Bracken's female relatives needed protection, he would help but only this time. No more than that. The choice was in Harry's hands.
Outside, the snow was falling even harder. The ground had grown so cold that the flakes no longer melted when they touched it.
Clay stood in silence, waiting for Harry Rivers' answer.
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[Chapter End's]
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