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Clay's cavalry, numbering more than a thousand, reacted with astonishing speed. He left a few hundred men behind to guard Stone Hedge, while the rest rode hard and fast, reaching the outskirts of the Western Camp in less than half an hour.
And there, right before their eyes, stood the encampment… engulfed in raging flames that lit up the entire night sky like a second dawn.
Because the buildings within the camp had been pitched far too close together… perhaps because, when the people of the Vale had first set up camp, they had never even considered the possibility that one day their stronghold would be set ablaze — the fire spread like a beast unchained. The moment the granary and the armory caught fire, the flames quickly jumped to several nearby tents. And before the Vale soldiers could clear any space to form a firebreak, Garlan and Desmond had already taken the chance to set a few more fires of their own.
Just like that, the Vale troops lost control. In the blink of an eye, while they were still scrambling to respond, the fire had already become unstoppable.
Sleeping soldiers were roused from their tents by the searing heat of the inferno. The moment they opened their eyes, flames that could blister skin were already licking at their faces. Thick, choking smoke billowed through the camp as chaos erupted across the entire western camp. Confused shouts rang out from every direction — loud, frantic, and devoid of any clear meaning.
Lord Gerold Grafton, alongside the newly arrived Lord Jon Lynderly of Snakewood, took one look at the situation and immediately realized how dire things had become. With the flames consuming the camp, any semblance of command had completely fallen apart.
This was the harsh reality of war. The command structure in this era was as fragile as paper. Without any alternative means of communication, once the soldiers lost contact with their officers due to the fire and chaos, they would scatter like sand blown apart by the wind; disorganized, leaderless, and beyond saving.
"What do we do, Lord Gerold? There's no way to recover from this. If this turns into a riot, none of us will make it out in one piece!"
Lord Jon Lynderly was already starting to panic. He knew all too well what could happen if these Vale soldiers suddenly realized there was no path left for retreat. Men like that — men who saw only death ahead — were capable of anything. History was filled with examples of such moments spiraling into catastrophe.
Lord Gerold Grafton, the lord of Gulltown, turned and glanced at Jon Lynderly. In that brief look, he saw everything — he understood exactly what the Lord of Snakewood was trying to say.
The truth was right in front of them. Even if they somehow managed to extinguish the flames, there was no way they could hold the Western Camp any longer. From Grafton's vantage point, he could already see the tongues of fire reaching up and licking the wooden palisades.
And once the fire was gone, what would they even have left? No food. No weapons. Not even the most basic defenses. Just over a thousand soldiers huddled together in the wilderness of the Riverlands, with nothing left to do except wait for death.
"Sigh… how the hell did it end up like this? What was that idiot Yohn Royce doing? How could he let someone like Clay Manderly, that damn scourge, barge in here like this?"
That question was burning in both lords' minds. Ever since they'd learned that Clay had appeared in the region like some war god descending from the heavens, their curses aimed at Yohn Royce had never stopped for a moment.
What kind of betrayal was this?
They had trusted Royce, believing in his supposed military skill. That was why they'd agreed to leave their troops behind to guard his camp. And now, look what had happened. He went chasing after Clay Manderly — only to end up herding him straight back to their doorstep.
Sometimes, the two lords couldn't help but wonder if Yohn Royce, that bastard, had planned it all along. Was he using Clay Manderly's blade to get rid of two troublesome merchant houses who never quite obeyed?
In any case, it all came down to one thing — Yohn Royce had screwed them over completely. And now they were going to die for it.
So be it. If this was how it was going to be, then they weren't going to play nice anymore. After all, he was the one who made the first move.
"Fine. Things have already come to this. If we try to leave now, it'd be disgraceful. But if we wait until the fire's out and end up getting tied up by our own men and thrown at Clay Manderly's feet, that'd be even worse."
"We need to be smart about this. Since Clay Manderly clearly doesn't intend to spill noble blood, we shouldn't push our luck either. Let's go, Jon Lynderly. Take as many men as we can gather. Head for Stone Hedge. We'll surrender to Clay Manderly."
There really was no other choice. For nobles, surrendering usually meant their lives would be spared. But it also meant that whatever honor their family name once held would be completely shattered.
And noble lords were all about appearances. To kneel before their enemy in full view of their own soldiers — men sworn to them by oath and blood — how could they ever return to their own lands afterward and still hold their heads high as the ruling lord?
If there had been even the slightest chance of survival, neither of these Vale nobles would have chosen to bend the knee to Clay. But they understood all too well… right now, Clay Manderly had a hundred different ways to roast them alive in the flames, without even giving them the chance to surrender.
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By the time the two lords, disheveled and covered in soot, managed to round up roughly five hundred scattered soldiers and open the eastern gates of the burning camp to escape the inferno behind them…
They were greeted by the sight of a thousand mounted knights, already formed into a flawless battle line, standing tall and unyielding under the glow of the firelit sky. It was as if they had known, long beforehand, that the two nobles would come out to surrender.
The two Vale lords exchanged a glance, both gritting their teeth in silent fury. There was no doubt about it now. This fire — this whole damned mess — had been started by Clay Manderly himself, that treacherous bastard who cared nothing for chivalry or honor.
Otherwise, how could it be that the very moment the camp caught fire, his troops were already lined up outside in full formation, perfectly positioned, just waiting for them to come out and surrender? What kind of coincidence was that supposed to be? No, there was no such thing.
But in war, the victor is king and the loser is nothing. Losing meant losing, no matter how bitter the taste. Letting out a long, weary sigh, both men lowered their heads, shoulders slumping with defeat, and began leading their five hundred scattered, beaten soldiers toward the center of the enemy line… toward the towering banner bearing the golden trident and the merman.
As soon as they moved, the enemy cavalry responded with silent precision. The thousand cavalryman split neatly into two flanks, galloping around both sides of the surrendering force and gradually surrounding them, a clear measure to guard against any last-minute betrayal.
When the two groups closed to within the range of a single arrow's flight, a lone knight rode out from beneath the merman banner. He held a smaller version of the Manderly family's sigil and stared coldly at the disheveled remnants of the Vale army before him. His voice rang out sharp and hard:
"State the name of your commander. Then lay down your arms. You'll be taken into our custody. Any resistance will be treated as open hostility… and punished with death."
Gerold Grafton and Jon Lynderly nearly ground their back teeth to pieces. In better days, if a mere knight had dared speak to them like this, he would have been dragged out and fed to the Vale's eagles before the sun rose.
But now, the times had changed. They were no longer the ones in control. What could they do?
Drawing in a long breath, Lord Gerold Grafton forced a smile onto his face… though in the darkness, no one could see it anyway. His voice, tight but steady, rose into the night:
"I… I am Gerold Grafton, the current Lord of Gulltown. I request an audience with your commander, Lord Clay Manderly. I will kneel to him, but not to a knight."
The beginning of his statement was still quite soft-spoken, humble even, but as he went on, the old habits crept back in, and he couldn't help slipping into that irritatingly self-important noble tone. Standing beside him, the more pragmatic Jon Lynderly could only listen in embarrassment, sweat beading on his brow.
Fortunately, the knight before them understood exactly who the Lord of Gulltown was. He didn't take offense at Graftson's posturing. With a wave of his hand, he raised his voice and replied clearly:
"Very well, Lord Grafton. Hand over your sword. If you do, you remain the Lord of Gulltown, and Lord Clay will grant you audience. Refuse… and there is no count here… only my enemy."
"You impudent—! You—!"
Gerold Grafton exploded in anger, his voice rising sharply as he stepped forward, ready to curse the man to his face. But before the words could even leave his lips, Lord Lynderly reached out and shoved him back, cutting him off on the spot.
Damn it. If you want to die, don't drag me down with you!
The knight had made himself perfectly clear. Play nice, and he'll treat you as a lord. Get cocky, and you're no better than a nameless rebel. He'll strike you down without hesitation.
Clay Manderly… that was the man who had slaughtered over ten thousand Lannisters, a bloody specter whose name struck terror across Westeros. And now, he stood backed by the full might of the Manderly family, still strong and untouched by defeat. To argue rank and status with a man like him… what, were they tired of living?
"Ahem… no, no, this is all a misunderstanding," Lord Lynderly quickly stepped in, trying to smooth things over with a tone full of submission. "We will follow whatever Lord Clay Manderly's commands. I am Jon Lynderly of Snakewood. We only ask to be treated as nobles should be."
The knight gave a cold glance at Lord Grafton, who was still huffing and puffing like a cornered dog, then let out a quiet snort and said nothing more.
With another wave of his hand, a few soldiers stepped forward from behind. They moved swiftly and without ceremony, reaching for the sword belts at the waists of the two Vale lords. In a few smooth motions, they unfastened their weapons and checked them over for any hidden blades or dangerous surprises. Once they confirmed the men were truly unarmed, one of them nodded silently up at the mounted knight.
"Go on, then, Lords," the knight said, his voice flat but heavy with warning. "I trust I don't need to teach you how to speak to Lord Clay Manderly. He doesn't have my patience. If you want to see the sunrise tomorrow, think carefully before you open your mouths."
The moment those words landed, Lord Grafton — who had just been released by Lynderly and was ready to burst again — froze in place. His mouth opened, but whatever he had planned to say stayed locked behind clenched teeth. He hesitated for a moment, then slowly deflated, as if someone had pulled the wind right out of his chest.
A man's name carried weight like the shadow of a tree, and Clay Manderly's shadow was long and terrifying. There were far too many corpses behind him. The Vale army had only barely managed to defeat Robb Stark's Northern host by launching a surprise night raid. And even then, the number who truly died in open battle had been far fewer than the songs would suggest.
But Clay Manderly… he was something else entirely.
He had taken a force smaller than theirs, outnumbered and outmatched on paper, and used it to utterly wipe out Jaime Lannister's army of twelve thousand. Not a retreat, not a rout… a total annihilation.
This wasn't just a matter of winning or losing. It was a difference in the food chain. The Vale might have its pride, but in front of Clay Manderly, even they had to admit the truth.
So, when it came to the knight's warning, the two counts had no choice but to swallow their pride. If Clay Manderly decided to kill them, he wouldn't even blink. To him, it wouldn't be a burden. It would just be cleaning up the battlefield.
After all, they were already enemies. Swords on the battlefield didn't ask who you were before they struck. Hundreds, even thousands of soldiers had already died… what harm would it be to toss in a noble or two for dramatic effect?
And besides, neither of them came from powerful military families. Their houses weren't known for iron armies or battlefield dominance. Clay wouldn't need to weigh the consequences too much if he wanted them dead. They were merchant houses more than anything else. If he wanted them gone, he'd do it without a second thought. And if he hesitated… well, he wouldn't. Not even for a second.
Left with no options, the two nobles stepped away from the safety of their own soldiers and followed behind the knight's horse. The terrain was rough and uneven, the darkness making every step uncertain. Their boots slipped and stumbled as they made their way, one awkward step at a time, toward the tallest banner in the field — the one that held the golden trident and the merman of House Manderly.
And then, as they finally came close, they saw something that made their hearts skip a beat.
Right in front of them, standing at the very center of the battlefield, were two figures in Vale armor, still mounted on warhorses. They were speaking in low voices with a third man — a young man draped in a long black cloak.
The way the surrounding soldiers stood around him, the way their eyes never strayed from his figure, how the very air seemed to pull toward him… it was obvious.
That young man was Clay Manderly.
The knight who had brought them over stepped forward and leaned in close, whispering a quiet report into Clay's ear, identifying the two nobles who now stood behind him.
Clay raised his eyebrows slightly. He hadn't expected that. Had he really caught such big fish in one net?
His eyes shifted, landing squarely on the two lords. The moment they met his gaze, both men felt their scalps tighten, a chill crawling down their spines.
So this… this was Clay Manderly?
He was terrifying…
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[Chapter End's]
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