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Harry Rivers had finally agreed that he would send his half-sisters to Riverrun.
However, the boy was quite stubborn. He flat-out refused to let Clay's cavalry escort them, and instead, handpicked a few guards from the surviving members of the Bracken household — men he believed were still loyal.
Clay respected his decision. After all, this was a family matter for House Bracken. Clay had neither the reason nor the desire to interfere.
While Harry was occupied with his arrangements, Clay brought along his two Witcher personal guards and made his way to the western wall of Stone Hedge. From there, he could get a clear look at the Vale army's western encampment not far away.
Although the siege of Stone Hedge had, for all intents and purposes, been lifted, it wouldn't do to pretend the enemy's remaining forces weren't still right there beneath the walls. More than a thousand soldiers were still camped in plain sight.
These were no common rabble, either. This was the same army that had once routed Robb Stark's forces and forced twenty thousand Riverlanders to hole up in Riverrun. That alone deserved at least a sliver of respect.
The battlements were badly damaged. Here and there, patches of dried blood were vaguely visible beneath the thin layer of snow that covered everything like a burial shroud.
Clay could see it clearly that the Vale army had genuinely gone all out in their assault on Stone Hedge.
This wasn't some half-hearted show of force. The aftermath spoke of a real, brutal attack. If a battlefield like this could be created by men slacking off and going through the motions, then the Iron Throne would've long ago fallen into House Arryn's lap. The Targaryens and Baratheons wouldn't have even had a seat at the table.
Snow had been falling steadily for days. The fine, silvery flakes had blanketed the ramparts in quiet white, giving everything a solemn, almost ethereal stillness.
It was a scene once found only in the North. But now, nearly every castle in the Riverlands looked the same. Only the southernmost stronghold, Harrenhal, still saw rain instead of snow.
"Lord Clay…" one of the two Witchers beside him finally spoke after a long stretch of silent observation. He glanced at his companion, then offered a calm, honest assessment. "This Vale army camp to the west… it's clearly built for offense and siege, not for defense. It's full of holes — vulnerable from every direction."
Clay gave a slight nod. Indeed, the man was absolutely right.
An encampment meant to house such a large army, and yet the only thing standing between them and the outside world was a shallow, circular ditch. Beyond that, there was nothing at all… no defensive spikes, no watchtowers, not even a proper barricade. All that remained was a single, thin wooden wall, barely thick enough to keep the wind out.
Clearly, whoever built this camp had never stopped to consider what they would do if someone actually tried to attack them. As defenders, what were they supposed to rely on?
This was a textbook example of how complacent thinking could get people killed.
The Vale soldiers had grown far too confident in their cavalry. Ever since they'd crushed Robb Stark's army, the entire host — from the lowliest soldiers to the commanding officers — had been soaked in a kind of arrogant swagger, like they truly believed they were untouchable.
In their eyes, even the Northmen who had once bested the Lannisters' elite troops had been effortlessly swept aside by Vale cavalry, cut down like straw beneath a scythe.
So then, who in all of Westeros could possibly stand against the charge of the Vale's knightly legions?
Even Renly Baratheon's famed army of one hundred thousand? They believed that under the repeated charges of Vale riders, those men would soon break ranks, lose morale, and dissolve into chaos… until finally, they were ground into dust beneath steel-shod hooves.
That was what the Vale soldiers believed, and it was exactly how they fought.
But the fierce, unyielding defense of the eastern Riverlands' three strongholds had taught them a bitter lesson.
Horses, after all, were not tanks. They couldn't batter down stone walls.
No matter how formidable a cavalry force may be, when it faced a city like Stone Hedge —fortified and utterly emptied of anything useful, with every road scorched and every storehouse stripped clean — it could do nothing at all.
Frustrated, and with their pride already stung, the Vale commanders were left with no choice. Swallowing their pride, they decided to change tactics. They would fight the kind of battle they were least suited for; an infantry siege.
And the result?
Well, the banners of the Riverlands still flew proudly over all three eastern castles. That alone said everything.
"Lord Clay," the Witcher said again, voice firm now, "with a camp like that, why are we still letting them stay there? All it would take is one good assault, and we could crush every last one of them. Then, the stretch between Stone Hedge and Riverrun would finally be secure, with no threats left standing."
"That's true," Clay replied, his voice quiet but thoughtful. "But the real question is… how exactly do we fight them?"
"How to fight them?" the Witcher echoed, eyebrows raised in confusion. "My lord, do you mean…"
Clay raised a hand and pointed toward the distant enemy camp. His voice was calm, measured.
"Keep this in mind — we're not just up against the thousand or so Vale troops down there, those poor bastards who've already lost their horses. We still have to reckon with Yohn Royce's five thousand men, the few thousand more stationed at Acorn Hall and Stonehelm in the south, and let's not forget Tywin's twenty thousand."
He let that sink in before continuing, his voice steady.
"If we charge in, all blood and thunder, then yes, we could probably wipe out these helpless remnants. But that kind of battle is the least efficient way to win, and it will cost us dearly."
He turned away from the battlements and gestured toward the inside of the castle, his voice lowering.
"When we left Riverrun, we had two thousand two hundred men in total. But look at us now. Not counting the five hundred Lord Mallister took north as bait to draw the enemy away, our forces barely add up to around fourteen hundred."
"And what have we gained in return? We managed to kill off maybe a thousand Vale soldiers, give or take. Realistically, we're looking at a loss ratio of one to three—and that was with surprise on our side, with us planning every move while they had no clue what was coming."
Clay's tone sharpened, his gaze steady.
"So, if we follow your plan and throw everything we have at them in a full-on assault — even if we win, how many men do you think we'd lose?"
"One hundred? Two hundred? Maybe three hundred?!"
The two Witchers dropped their heads in silence, no longer meeting his eyes.
Clay exhaled slowly, a long breath that seemed to carry a quiet weariness. He felt the energy drain from him, a flicker of frustration stirring beneath the surface.
His men were brave, there was no doubt about that—he had no shortage of warriors willing to charge headlong into a fight. But how many of them actually used the thing sitting on their shoulders?
That was the problem.
To put it bluntly, Clay's troops were brawlers. Victory after victory had spoiled them, made them lazy in the mind. They had gotten used to a certain rhythm: listen to Lord Clay, charge when he gave the signal, and the battle would be won. Simple as that.
They didn't think. They didn't need to. Just follow orders, yell a bit, swing hard, and the day would be theirs.
And honestly, for this era, that wasn't such a bad quality. In fact, it was a damn good one.
Clay would admit that. For common soldiers, that was enough.
But now, he was no longer just commanding a few thousand men. He was Clay Manderly—commander of a force that, soon enough, would have to merge with the Targaryen army. When that day came, he would have to lead not thousands, but tens of thousands.
And in a lordly system like the one that ruled Westeros, if you didn't have a few skilled officers who actually knew how to wage war, you were finished. You couldn't just rely on muscle and obedience forever. And Clay couldn't very well staff his entire command with Dornish nobles either. That would carry consequences — serious, long-term consequences that would ripple through the future political landscape like cracks spreading in stone.
"All right, that's enough," Clay finally said, his tone softening a little. "I'm not blaming you two. This job still falls to you, after all. You'll be the ones taking men out there."
He turned back to the camp, eyes narrowing.
"But before you go, take another look at their camp. Haven't you noticed? Doesn't something about the color strike you as… odd?"
"The color?" one of them asked, puzzled for a moment. "Oh, right — why is there so little snow on their tents?"
At last, someone caught on, sparing Clay the trouble of answering his own question again.
The moment he'd stepped up onto the battlements and got a good view from above, Clay had noticed it immediately. The Vale's western camp was packed tight, far too tight for comfort, and the soldiers stationed there kept brushing off the snow from their peaked tents again and again, as if they were trying to keep them completely clear.
And the second he saw that, a plan formed in Clay's mind… a plan that, on a snowy day like this, would normally never be spoken aloud.
Fire!
That's right, a fire attack!
The entire Vale camp was built from wood—barricades, scaffolds, support beams, even the walkways. After this long holed up outside the walls, any moisture in that wood had long since dried out. And now, with the soldiers constantly sweeping away the snow, their entire camp had become something else entirely in Clay's eyes.
It wasn't a fortress anymore. It was a pile of kindling.
What had been gnawing at him this whole time wasn't just that the Vale troops were camped out there — it was their attitude, that maddening stubbornness, the way they dug in and refused to budge. But if their cozy little den suddenly went up in flames?
Clay didn't believe for a second they'd just sit there and burn.
And once they did come rushing out — panicked, disorganized, exposed — his cavalry would be waiting. Those riders had been standing by for hours, ready and eager. The moment the enemy broke formation, the knights would sweep in like a scythe through wheat. And anyone who still couldn't finish the job after that?
They might as well head home, leave their armor behind, and let someone more capable wear it.
"You two," Clay turned to the Witchers. "Tonight, pick out two sets of gear from the Vale soldiers we captured. Find something that fits. Use the cover of darkness and slip into their camp."
At that, one of them finally caught on. His eyes lit up, and his voice rose with barely contained excitement.
"My lord! You mean… we're setting it on fire?"
Clay saw the eager, almost boyish glint on the man's face, and for a moment, he couldn't help but wonder… maybe he was the one who'd gotten the most creative use out of Witchers on the battlefield.
"Gods above," Clay muttered, half-smiling, "someone finally gets it. Yes. You sneak in, find a good spot, and light the place up. Use Igni Sign — set fire to everything you can."
"I'll be out there with the main force, waiting just beyond the camp. You can break out from any side… it doesn't matter. Just make sure to tie a strip of white cloth around your right arm. That way, our troops will know not to cut you down by mistake."
With the help of the Axii Sign, the two Witcher bodyguards will melt into the camp under cover of darkness. They will move like shadows — silent and unseen — and in the deepest parts of the camp, where no flames will yet be visible, they will raise their hands and cast Igni. One spark will be all it takes… then will come the roar of fire, sudden and violent.
The moment the wooden perimeter goes up in flames, it will spread like wildfire through the packed camp. Between the Vale soldiers' crowded layout and the bone-dry timbers of their structures, the blaze will turn their camp into something else entirely.
A funeral pyre!
Clay will stand outside the camp with his army, watching as fire lights up the snow-covered night. It will be a terrible, beautiful sight — flames rising high beneath the stars, tents collapsing into embers, smoke curling through the cold air. His cavalry will scatter through the smoke and flame, cutting down the stragglers as they flee, hunting down those who try to escape the inferno.
There are many ways to take a castle.
Sometimes brute strength will be the fastest path. But more often than not, even the strongest fortress will begin to crumble… from the inside.
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[Chapter End's]
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