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The fire in the granary wasn't discovered until the two guards lying by the doorway were jolted awake by the searing heat. By then, thick black smoke was already curling up into the night sky like an enraged dragon, and only then did the entire western camp finally begin to stir, reacting sluggishly to the disaster.
The soldiers rushed toward the burning granary, but when they got there, all hope was already gone.
Grain itself was flammable, and the wooden structure of the granary even more so. Everything had been piled up in bulk, and worst of all, the idiots assigned to guard the place hadn't reacted in time. Now, the fire had grown into a roaring inferno, leaving them with no way to even begin fighting it.
When the news reached Gerold Grafton — the noble Lord of Gulltown — he instantly lost all composure.
The camp was cramped and poorly organized, with all their provisions stored in that single granary. The last shipment of food had come from the Bloody Gate, and that had been before that bastard Yohn Royce had taken his leave.
It had been a long time since then, and supplies had already been running low. By all logic, the next supply caravan from the Bloody Gate should have arrived long ago, but with no way to contact the Eyrie, Gerold had been left completely in the dark. He couldn't even ask if he wanted to.
And now, with this one blaze, every last scrap of food had gone up in smoke.
No lives were lost in the fire, but the two bumbling fools stationed at the granary hadn't even thought about trying to put it out. The moment they realized what was happening, they bolted in a blind panic, running for their lives without the slightest concern for anything else.
Gerold Grafton's stance on that kind of incompetence was crystal clear. He gave a simple wave of his hand, and the two were dragged away to be beheaded on the spot.
What crime was this, after all? Neglecting their duty to guard the army's provisions, leading to a complete breakdown in supply? Even if those two had ten heads between them, it wouldn't be enough to atone for it.
The Lord of Gulltown stood there, coldly staring at the scene of ruin before him. The granary had become a blazing hellscape. The fire lit his face in a blood-red glow, and the snowflakes that drifted down from the sky above never even touched the ground — vanishing in an instant from the heat, melting and evaporating all at once.
Even as he stood there, still trying to figure out what to do next, a knight from House Grafton came sprinting toward him, out of breath and completely ignoring any trace of courtly manners. He rushed up and grabbed Gerold Grafton's hand, his face etched with panic, and cried out,
"My lord, look! Over by the armory!"
At those words, Gerold Grafton whipped his head around, following the direction the knight was pointing.
Another thick column of smoke had shot up without warning, rising high into the dark sky and carrying with it a torrent of ash and heat.
That area… that was where the army's weapons and armor were kept.
A large portion of the soldiers' gear — blades, shields, suits of mail — all of it was stored there.
Ruined. Everything was ruined now!
That single thought flashed through the Lord of Gulltown's mind, and once it took hold, it refused to leave. The more he thought about it, the more dread tightened in his chest like a clenched fist.
The truth was staring him in the face. The fires had erupted suddenly, targeting two of the most critical facilities in the entire western camp: the granary and now the armory.
Unlike the clueless fools running about, still flailing to understand what was happening, Lord Gerold Grafton — proud heir of noble blood and aristocratic tradition — realized immediately that this was no accident. Someone had set these fires on purpose!
And at a moment like this, someone who had both the motive and the means to pull it off… there was only one possible culprit…
"Clay Manderly… "
That damned man hiding behind the walls of Stone Hedge, pretending to be weak… pretending, above all else, to be innocent. Gerold Grafton was absolutely certain: it could only be him.
All that talk about how Clay's forces had taken a serious blow after crushing the northern camp, how they'd been forced to retreat into Stone Hedge to recuperate. That the strength of the western camp had made the northern brat finally back off.
Lies. Every last word of it… utter lies!
Clay Manderly hadn't been weakened. He had just decided to use a more efficient method to crush his enemies. He didn't even need his army to take the field. Just a few spies slipping into the camp under cover of darkness, a few well-placed torches, and he had achieved everything he needed.
Suddenly, it hit Gerold Grafton like a hammer to the chest — every layer of defense he had built up in this camp, all the preparations he had painstakingly made, might truly mean nothing at all in the face of this northern commander.
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Meanwhile, Desmond and Garlan — the two arsonists responsible for the chaos — didn't hesitate for a second. Once they were sure the fires had fully caught, they turned and ran as fast as their legs could carry them.
While the rest of the Vale soldiers charged toward the flames in a desperate effort to extinguish them, the two of them ran in the exact opposite direction, slipping away as quietly and quickly as they could.
In the middle of all the chaos, no one paid any attention to the two suspicious figures fleeing the scene. And so, after tossing a few more torches here and there — setting even more tents ablaze and adding to the wildfire that was rapidly engulfing the camp — the pair made it to the outer palisade.
This was exactly how they had entered the camp in the first place, scaling the wooden wall from this very spot. The patrols around the perimeter back then had been so lax that the two infiltrators had slipped through without the slightest resistance, completely unnoticed.
But now, with fires raging across the camp, even the idle guards on the walls, who had clearly been slacking off just moments ago, suddenly remembered a thing or two about warfare. They knew perfectly well that this was the most vulnerable moment for their defenses, the kind of opening an enemy would seize without hesitation. Whatever distractions they had been indulging in before were immediately cast aside. They snapped to alertness in an instant, their eyes scanning the surroundings with sharp, watchful focus.
That, of course, was a real problem for Garland and Desmond. As tough as they were — even with all their Witcher training, even with the kind of deadly skill that made them walking nightmares in single combat — they still couldn't fly.
If the wall had been deserted, it might have been manageable. One of them could've crouched down and let the other climb up over his shoulders. The wall wasn't particularly high, and with a little effort, they'd be over it in no time. But now? The place was crawling with soldiers from the Vale, armed and on edge, running in every direction like the whole world was on fire. Trying to climb the wall now would be nothing short of suicide.
The two men exchanged a quick glance. No words were needed. They both knew they had no choice but to give up on escaping over the wall. Unless they planned to kill every soldier around them — which, tempting as it was, would blow their cover completely — they'd have to keep pretending to be just two more panicked Vale men trying to help.
It was a shame, really. If things had been different, they might've gone for it. Truth be told, their hands were itching. After all, ever since they'd started working under Lord Clay, it had been nothing but easy wins and smooth sailing. They hadn't had a proper fight in ages. Their skills, their instincts, their hunger for real battle… it had all been gathering dust.
Just then, a low, muffled sound rang out from the guard tower at the eastern gate of the western camp. Garlan and Desmond immediately turned their heads, ears pricking up.
Two deep, drawn-out blasts of the war horn. Everyone in the Seven Kingdoms knew what that meant.
Enemy cavalry was about to charge!
For the western camp, already in a state of chaos and confusion, it was a disaster layered on top of catastrophe. But for these two would-be escapees, still trapped inside?
It was a blessing…
Lord Clay's coming to get us!
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Atop the ramparts of Stone Hedge, Clay Manderly stood in silence, his eyes fixed on the narrow, overcrowded camp before him. This camp was the last thorn in his side — the final stronghold of the Vale forces in the vicinity of Stone Hedge. Once he uprooted it, there would be nothing left.
And when that happened, even if Yohn Royce returned, he'd find himself without supply lines, floating like a rootless weed in the wind.
Clay knew he was only three or four days ahead of that old fox. Breaking the Vale's horse fields and routing the northern camp had taken two days combined. Since then, Clay had kept moving nonstop, but that gap between them was shrinking fast.
Which was why he was desperate to finish this quickly.
If he could take the western camp now and wipe out the last remnants of Vale resistance near Stone Hedge, then the twenty thousand men stationed at Riverrun would finally be free to act.
Once his two thousand cavalry arrived, Clay was willing to gamble. Even with fewer than four thousand mounted troops under his command, he would find a way to force a final showdown against Yohn Royce's three thousand worn-out, retreating soldiers.
But if reinforcements didn't make it, and he was stuck with just the thousand or so riders currently at his side — men who'd already been through heavy fighting and were far from fresh — then even if he managed to scrape together a win by sheer strategy and willpower, the cost would be devastating. Out of those thousand-plus soldiers, he'd be lucky if a few hundred were left standing by the end. That would be the best-case scenario.
The night air had turned colder still.
The soldiers patrolling the battlements of Stone Hedge couldn't help casting envious glances at the thick fur cloak draped over Clay's shoulders. It looked warm. Heavy, too.
But there was nothing they could do about it. The weather had changed too fast for anyone to be prepared. Just over a month ago, the skies had still been clear and bright. Sure, there'd been a few rainy days that brought a touch of chill, but no one had expected this. Now the world had gone white and bitter, the cold slicing through even thick wool, snowflakes slapping against their faces like icy slaps in the dark.
The soldiers were shivering uncontrollably, huddled around burning braziers wherever they could find them, leaning in close, pressing their bodies together for warmth. It was the only way to fight off the creeping cold.
Clay glanced their way and let out a quiet sigh.
This was just a night patrol; no serious exertion, no bloodshed, no armor grinding against armor. If they were already suffering this much now, he could only imagine what a full-scale battle in this weather would do to them. By his estimation, fighting in these conditions would slap a fifty-percent debuff on the entire army's combat effectiveness. Maybe more.
But what could he do?
He couldn't exactly send a message across the field to Lord Petyr or Tywin Lannister, asking them to postpone the battle for a few hours so he could run home and change into something warmer. That would be absurd.
Impossible!
There was no room for pause anymore. Both sides would just have to grit their teeth and see this through to the end.
He waited a long time. The snow had piled thick on his shoulders, blanketing his cloak in white, yet still he stood there, eyes locked in the direction of the western camp. Unblinking. Unmoving.
And finally, he saw it…
Two columns of smoke, twisting into the sky like black ribbons against the night. At last, a flicker of relief passed through him.
Garland and Desmond had done it. They'd pulled it off!
Without a shred of hesitation, Clay gave the order. He knew exactly what that fire meant. It was the spark that would break the West Camp once and for all—the final straw that would snap its spine and bring the whole thing crashing down.
A seasoned veteran like him could smell the state of a battlefield even from miles away. He didn't need to be there to know what was happening. He had the instincts of a true commander, and those instincts were screaming at him now: it was time to strike.
"Orders!" he barked. "Every cavalry unit in and around Stone Hedge, stop all rest and recovery. Move out immediately. Form up outside the enemy's western camp and prepare for assault. Any soldier who arrives early and encounters retreating enemies is to strike them down without hesitation. But listen closely… if you spot enemies wearing a white armband on their forearm, capture them alive. Do not harm them. I repeat… do not touch them. Anyone who disobeys this order will be executed under military law."
The moment the command rang out, those who heard it first didn't wait. The quick-thinking officers grabbed their weapons, rallied their men, and charged straight through the already open western gates of Stone Hedge, heading out into the night.
Clay Manderly had spoken!
That alone was enough to tell them everything they needed to know. Something big had just gone terribly wrong in the enemy's camp, and now it was their job to press the advantage.
As for why things had gone that way? What caused the chaos?
Honestly, they didn't care.
They didn't need to care.
And that, more than anything, was what made them good soldiers in a time like this. In this brutal, unrelenting age, that simple willingness to obey — swiftly, without hesitation or doubt — was the mark of the best.
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[Chapter End's]
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