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The defenders stationed in the western encampment, after personally witnessing how their supposed comrades in the northern camp had been effortlessly crushed by Clay's cavalry, immediately halted all construction work along the camp's northern perimeter. The entire force drew back and huddled together, bracing themselves for a desperate defense.
But Clay didn't bother with them at all. He simply left them hanging in their fear, letting them stew in suspense for an entire day.
No one even entertained the idea of surrendering — because surrender wasn't something they could initiate. For one, nobody could quite figure out where Clay Manderly stood when it came to taking prisoners. Judging by the battles he'd fought before, there were hardly ever any survivors left to tell the tale.
Besides, all the women and children of House Grafton were still within the Vale. And as bad as the situation looked now, the Vale hadn't fallen yet. If someone dared play the traitor at this stage, it'd hand Petyr the perfect excuse to seize Gulltown for himself.
So, inside the western camp, the members of the Grafton family had no choice but to grit their teeth and prepare to resist until the bitter end, clinging to one last fragile hope: Yohn Royce — the very man whose name made their jaws clench and their teeth grind in hatred.
Hatred so intense it curved all the way back to love. In this world, it seemed, one more universal truth had just been discovered.
So they waited… one full day of it.
The soldiers remained crouched behind the camp's palisade walls, gripping their longswords and drawing their bows taut, their arms going numb with strain. Yet still, not a single shadow of Clay Manderly's army appeared.
Eventually, from the battlements of Stone Hedge, they spotted the Manderly banner flying in the wind — a golden trident-wielding merman on a sea-green field. And that was when the bitter truth sank in: Clay Manderly had ghosted them.
He'd strung them along for a day and then just vanished.
The whole western camp was seething with rage at this blatant lack of chivalry… this cowardly, deceitful act of ghosting.
After all, they'd been working themselves to the bone for half the day, putting up a front, making everything look just right — swords polished, banners raised, formation perfect — all for this moment, all to meet him in battle.
And what did he do? Didn't even show up. Wasn't this just messing with everyone's emotions?
On top of that, the snow hadn't stopped falling all day. It had lightened a bit, yes, but the cold still cut straight to the bone. Clay's cavalry were still dressed in thin summer clothes, and the Valemen weren't doing any better. Everyone's noses were running like leaky taps from the cold.
At long last, as dusk settled in and resentment simmered like a pot about to boil over, the Grafton commander finally forced himself to give the order. With no other choice, he called off the defenses and told the troops to stand down and rest.
There was no point wearing themselves out just because Clay hadn't come. What were they supposed to do, stand guard forever? Even the toughest men made of iron would break down sooner or later under pressure like this.
Forget it. Let him come whenever he wants. We're too tired to care anymore…
And the moment that resolve crumbled, the discipline holding the defense together unraveled along with it. The defenders let their guard slip. Inside the western camp, the soldiers from House Grafton and House Lynderly left only a hundred men to keep watch. The rest quietly slipped away, returning to their own tents in search of rest.
Some gathered around small fires to cook a simple dinner. Others, too exhausted to even try, simply crawled under their blankets and collapsed into sleep. After a whole day of bracing themselves for battle, with nerves stretched so tight they could snap, this sudden release left them drained.
By the time the last glow of the sunset faded from the sky and darkness completely swallowed the camp, the soldiers looked toward Stone Hedge and saw nothing but silence. No movement. No sounds of marching. No sign of Clay.
A collective breath of relief passed through the western camp.
Surely, they thought, there wouldn't be a night attack… right?
He wouldn't actually go that far… would he?
Of course, they were choosing to forget — quite conveniently — that just over a month ago, it had been a nighttime assault that crushed Robb Stark's twenty-thousand-strong army. The very same tactic. The very same trick.
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At that moment, under the cover of darkness, Garlan and Desmond (heh—admit it, you'd forgotten the Witchers' names by now!) donned the armor of Vale soldiers, adjusted the fastenings quickly and quietly, and rappelled down the western wall of Stone Hedge using a rope.
Though the snowfall had lightened, thick clouds still blotted out the moon, casting the night in heavy shadow. The visibility was abysmal — so poor, in fact, that under these nearly primal conditions, you could hardly see your own hand even if you held it right in front of your face.
Clay had been too busy to stop for even a moment, or else Garlan and Desmond would've likely downed two bottles of Cat Potion each, granting themselves the night vision true Witchers were meant to have for a mission like this. That, after all, would've been the proper Witcher way to do things.
But tonight, they didn't really need it.
The western camp, lit up with flickering torches, stood out like a beacon in the darkness. Even someone blind in one eye and nearsighted in the other could've seen it from a mile away.
Moving swiftly and with practiced ease, they crept all the way to the edge of the camp. Thanks to the common trick of "shadow under the lamp" — where the area closest to a light source is often left unguarded — they slipped inside without the slightest resistance.
All they really knew was that this camp was garrisoned by soldiers from House Grafton and House Lynderly. Everything else, they'd have to figure out for themselves. Even Clay hadn't been able to dig up more than that.
And how did they even know that much about the camp's composition?
Well, for that, they had one person to thank: Ser Andar Royce, who'd only started talking after taking not one, but two Axii Signs straight to the mind.
Turned out the young knight was a surprisingly tough nut to crack — strong-willed and iron-hearted. This was the first time Clay had ever needed to use the Axii Sign twice on the same man, and to him, that spoke volumes.
Something had clearly gone wrong with Yohn Royce's way of raising the boy.
As the eldest son, as the heir to Runestone, Andar should have been a pragmatist through and through — a man who understood that survival, not ideals, carried a noble house forward.
But instead, his head was stuffed full of chivalric nonsense. He clung to his ideals like a drowning man to a piece of driftwood… so stubbornly and so irrationally that it twisted into something unnatural. That isn't strength. It's a burden.
And people like that?
They were the kind who would drag their entire house straight into ruin.
Just look at Eddard Stark. And now Robb Stark. Both of them were crushed under the weight of the same misplaced ideals.
Though, if you really wanted to trace the root of it all, the blame probably should land squarely on Daenerys's father — the Mad King himself. Without warning, without cause, he had nearly wiped out the entire main branch of House Stark in a single blow.
That single act, brutal and senseless, was what eventually thrust Eddard Stark— so obsessed with honor and duty — into the position of Warden of the North. And with that legacy weighing heavy on his shoulders, he passed those same ideals down to his son, Robb, leading him further and further from the path of practicality and survival.
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Following Clay's exact instructions, the two Witchers didn't waste time sneaking into any command tent or attempting something as dramatic as assassinating a lord. That kind of high-stakes, high-risk operation wasn't impossible for them… it just wasn't necessary.
They moved quietly through the camp, at first tense and alert, their senses sharpened, wary of any Vale patrol that might stumble across them. But after just a few minutes of wandering through the heart of the encampment, it became obvious — shockingly obvious — that the Vale camp was in complete disarray.
It was relaxed to the point of absurdity.
Soldiers lay slumped over in every direction, armor loosened, weapons set aside. Many of them, bearing the green serpent sigil across their chests, had fallen asleep with half-eaten food still clutched in their hands.
Bonfires burned here and there in loose, unguarded clusters, and men sat around them in silence, not speaking, not moving much, simply staring into the flames as snowflakes drifted down from the sky, one after another.
The whole scene had a strange, haunting stillness to it—a kind of numb resignation that caught Garlan and Desmond off guard. They'd been prepared to use the Axii Sign to manipulate a few minds and blend in, but now that plan felt pointless. This wasn't a camp full of soldiers on edge or hungry for a fight. This was a place full of men whose spirit had been drained dry.
Still, it only took a moment of reflection for them to understand exactly what was going on.
Put yourself in their shoes. Think about it from their perspective, and suddenly it all makes perfect sense.
These soldiers had launched a sneak attack — without warning or honor — against the Northmen, who had been eager to ally with them. Because of that betrayal, twenty thousand Northerners had been routed and scattered, with countless nobles and soldiers dying in the chaos.
And now, standing right in front of them, was the one man the North called their war hero; Clay Manderly. He'd taken their horses, shattered the northern camp, and now stood with his sword poised at their throats… while they could do nothing but wait.
The truth was, neither House Grafton nor House Lynderly had any real interest in war to begin with. From the highest-ranking noble to the lowest soldier, not a single one of them had wanted any part of this.
They had been perfectly content in Gulltown, reaping the rewards of trade and living lives of comfort. Their standard of living was even better than that of common folk in most other Vale houses. Why would they risk any of that for a war?
And when they did fight, the cost was steep. Men lost their lives, precious supplies were wasted, and for what? They gained almost nothing from it, and even when they did manage to gain something, it was never anything they truly wanted. From the beginning, it had all felt like a bad bargain — a war that demanded far more than it ever promised to give back.
And now, here they were, surrounded by Clay Manderly's army with no way out.
To make things worse, Clay had failed to show up earlier that day. Whether he had done it on purpose or by accident didn't matter in the end. The result was the same. Whatever spark of will they had left had been extinguished completely.
Now, with the bitter cold biting at their skin, with the air frozen and the night stretching on endlessly, expecting this kind of army to hold on to even a scrap of fighting spirit was nothing short of a joke. It just wasn't possible.
Garlan and Desmond exchanged a quick look, and in that silent moment, everything fell into place. Now that they understood the situation, everything became a lot simpler.
If they were dealing with a bunch of diehard fanatics, soldiers ready to throw their lives away for pride or orders, then their mission would've been ten times harder. But this? This was something else entirely.
"Garlan, you go light up their granary. We passed it on our way in… it's right there, and there were only two drunkards outside. Easy work."
"Yeah. Let's split up. I'll take the granary, you head for their armory. Once we're done, we scatter. Find some random tent with no one inside, light it up, and move on. Don't give them a chance to put the fires out."
"Sounds good. Damn, you're always the schemer. Alright then… let's go."
They understood perfectly well how pitiful the Vale soldiers' situation was, but neither of them felt the slightest bit of sympathy. Because honestly, the Vale had brought this on themselves. If they hadn't listened to Littlefinger's whispering and sent their forces to ambush the Starks, none of this would be happening.
You make your choices, you deal with the fallout. That's just how it works. If you schedule a bloody meeting with fate, then no matter how bitter it gets, you see it through to the end. That's the truth.
The two Witchers moved out, splitting up and slipping through the torch-lit Vale camp beneath the cover of night.
No one stopped them. No one even noticed them. Most of the camp had spent all their strength during the day, and by now, they were deep in sleep, lost to dreams they probably didn't want to have.
Now and then they passed someone still walking, but those few weren't interested in talking to anyone. They just trudged along in silence, hollow-eyed, as if they weren't even sure where they were going anymore.
Garlan was the first to reach his target: a tall, wooden storehouse on the western edge of the camp, where the Vale forces kept their ration.
Earlier, when they'd passed by, the two guards stationed at the entrance — soldiers from House Grafton — had been drinking openly, gripping their spears with one hand and their flasks with the other, putting on a show of reckless abandon like men who knew tomorrow might never come.
Now, by the time Garlan circled back, the two of them were completely wasted, sprawled against the wooden wall of the granary, their helmets slid down over their eyes, snoring like beasts. The stink of alcohol hung heavy in the cold air, thick enough to taste.
It was sad. And maybe even a little pathetic.
With a quiet sigh, Garlan stepped inside.
A moment later, a rush of blistering flame surged from the palm of his hand, searing through the shadows and latching onto the dry wood and untouched grain inside.
The snow hadn't made it in. The supplies were dry.
The fire caught…
And it began to burn.
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[Chapter End's]
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