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"My lord… it's confirmed. Every warhorse we left here… they're all gone."
The knight from House Royce delivered the grim report in a voice so faint it was nearly inaudible. He didn't dare lift his head even a little.
And who could blame him? The aura Lord Yohn Royce was radiating at this moment was like a killing frost, so bitter and intense that it felt as though even the air around them might freeze solid. Every knight from the Vale standing there, already shivering from the cold, felt the chill bite even deeper into their bones just from his presence.
But no one dared complain. In fact, all of them could more or less understand why their lord was this furious. After all, this was a man who held himself in high esteem, a veteran general who fancied himself a true war commander — one of the finest in all the Seven Kingdoms. Whenever he had a chance, he liked to compare himself to Randyll Tarly of the Reach.
Not long ago, he had led the army of the Vale to a crushing victory over that "wolf pup," Robb Stark, completely routing the boy's twenty-thousand-strong host in a single, decisive battle. With that victory under his belt, he hadn't thought much of the remaining Northern force… especially not of the young man named Clay Manderly.
Yohn Royce had repeatedly told his followers: if Clay Manderly had the good sense to stay holed up in the Twins, he'd leave him be. But the moment that boy dared march south and meddle in the war, there'd be hell to pay.
And then Clay really did show up at Riverrun. Not only that, he had the audacity to lead two thousand cavalry east out of the castle, as if challenging him directly.
To Yohn Royce, that was nothing short of an insult.
I already crushed the army your king personally led — twenty thousand strong! And now you think you can ride around under my nose with just two thousand? You must think I'm a joke, don't you?
Well then, Yohn Royce would make sure the boy learned what true warfare looked like — what it meant to face someone seasoned by years of blood and steel. This little brat clearly needs a lesson in just how brutal and unforgiving the real world can be. If Royce didn't teach him now, the lad might just start thinking he could fly.
So, brimming with confidence, Yohn Royce led five thousand cavalry northward, determined to chase down Clay Manderly's force and wipe it from the field.
But what came next quickly turned into a living nightmare for this proud noble of the Vale.
The first trap was sprung at Mummer's Ford. That was where Clay Manderly gave him his first real headache. The young man's maneuver spoke for itself. He had deliberately split his forces, sending half of them straight for the enemy's supply lines. The message was clear, even without a single word: What will you do now, Lord Royce?
Back then, Yohn Royce had five thousand men under his command, an overwhelming advantage. So he made a bold decision… he played his hand.
He divided his army. Two thousand men, led by Lord Lyonel, were sent north to intercept the raiders, while Royce himself took the remaining three thousand and pressed on in pursuit of Clay Manderly's main host.
But the deeper he advanced into the narrow valleys flanking the Trident River, the more the unfamiliar terrain began to turn against him. He was a stranger here, after all, and that disadvantage revealed itself more and more with each passing mile.
Little by little, he started to fall behind. Clay Manderly's army, though smaller, was moving faster, more decisively, always seeming to be just out of reach.
And then came the second blow… another slap to the face, clean and merciless. In a swift, ruthless skirmish between scouts, Clay's men utterly humiliated Lord Royce. It was a dazzling victory for the Northerners, and it shattered the illusion Royce had been clinging to — that his experience and superior numbers would guarantee victory.
After the clash, the truth could no longer be ignored. Almost every scouting party Royce had sent out vanished without a trace. Within just two days, his entire force of three thousand men was left stumbling blindly through enemy territory, stripped of all intelligence. Not a single scout could be found.
It was a situation Yohn Royce could scarcely believe. Yet the bloodied corpses scattered across the wilderness left no room for doubt. This was the truth.
From that moment on, something in him shifted. The arrogance he had worn like a second skin began to peel away, and for the first time, he started to regard Clay Manderly as an opponent worthy of his attention… someone he had to take seriously.
Even so, he remained unconvinced. In his heart, he still believed that Clay was relying on trickery and minor tactics, refusing to fight him head-on because he lacked the courage.
And to be fair, that wasn't exactly wrong. Clay would have to be a fool to charge at three thousand Vale knights with only fifteen hundred men.
Still, Yohn Royce burned with frustration. That humiliation festered inside him like an ember buried beneath the ash, and he told himself again and again that he had to catch up to Clay Manderly no matter what. There had to be a final clash — a real battle — where he could show that cocky upstart just what Vale cavalry were made of.
But then… after crossing the Blue Fork on the stone bridge near the Fairmarket, he saw them again… the tracks Clay Manderly had deliberately left behind, evidence of yet another split in his forces.
Hoofprints led in two different directions. The path forked like a taunt.
Yohn Royce stared at those marks in the mud, and a slow, burning rage filled his chest. It wasn't just frustration anymore… it felt like outright mockery.
This is bullying, he thought, his face twisting with disbelief. This isn't just some clever tactic — this is the boy spitting in my face.
Thankfully, he didn't let his anger cloud his mind completely. After a long and bitter stretch of contemplation, he forced himself to calm down and made a decision: he would pick one direction and continue the pursuit.
But then, just when he thought he had gotten a grip on things, he saw another set of tracks — this time, a curved trail, one that circled back around in a wide arc.
Yohn Royce could swear to the Seven, or to the Old Gods, or even to R'hllor the Lord of Light if need be, that the moment he laid eyes on those winding prints, he almost fell off his horse.
This wasn't mere disrespect anymore. This was something deeper, more deliberate. It was contempt — naked and gleeful. Clay Manderly wasn't just outmaneuvering him; he was toying with him, making a fool of a lord of Runestone right out in the open.
It was in that instant that something inside Yohn Royce snapped. His composure, his certainty, the self-image he clung to as a battle-hardened noble… they all started to crumble.
And it wasn't just him. His knights from the Vale, those once-proud riders who had marched with such righteous fury, began to feel it too. They had been played — and they knew it. All of them had become nothing more than winded monkeys chasing shadows, flailing and screeching while their clever opponent danced just out of reach.
In the beginning, their determination to chase Clay south had burned hot and bright. They wanted to tear him apart for mocking them so brazenly.
Yohn Royce had taken that rage as a sign of strength, believing that morale was still on his side. But the longer they marched, the more that righteous fire began to flicker and fade.
He could sense it — slowly but unmistakably, the spirit of the army was changing. The anger that had once driven them forward had worn thin, and what remained was doubt — cold, creeping doubt.
The men started asking themselves if they were being lured into yet another trap. Was this chase even worth it? Was Clay Manderly still leading them by the nose?
Day after day, they were either marching or preparing to march, with barely a moment to rest. And ever since Riverrun had issued the order to scorch the land and leave nothing behind, there hadn't been a trace of life along their path… not even a ghostly silhouette.
How could the soldiers not start to question everything?
Yohn Royce tried to rally them several times, speaking to his men, urged them forward, did his best to reignite that old fire, but the response was pitiful. His words fell flat, stirring barely a flicker of spirit among the ranks.
Eventually, even he gave up. Because the doubt that had taken root in the hearts of his men had begun to spread to his own.
He started to wonder. This anger, this headlong pursuit into the south… had it all been part of Clay Manderly's plan from the very beginning?
And with that chilling thought came an unexpected shift in perspective. For the first time, Yohn Royce found himself empathizing with Jaime Lannister, the infamous Kingslayer. Had Jaime once stood where he stood now? Lost in the fog of war, chasing shadows and bleeding pride?
He couldn't say for sure. But right now, Royce knew one thing… he had no other choice. The path ahead, however uncertain, was the only one left to him. He had to keep pressing south, no matter how bitter or hopeless it felt. If he turned back now, if he made one more wrong move, he would lose his army's trust forever.
Fortunately, perhaps by the mercy of the gods, he finally caught a break. At the ferry crossing of Mummer's Ford on the Red Fork, he came upon unmistakable signs of Clay Manderly's army.
But before the flicker of hope could kindle into anything more, a heavy realization struck him.
His southern push had stripped nearly all mobile forces from north of Stone Hedge. And Yohn Royce knew better than anyone the sorry state of defense in the three eastern castles. They were little more than hollow shells right now.
If Clay Manderly's true target was any of them… if he turned his force against those castles now…
Then everything would be lost.
Once this thought took hold, a sickly gray pallor crept across Yohn Royce's face, and despair settled in his eyes like storm clouds. There was no denying it anymore — he had been thoroughly, utterly defeated in this unseen duel against Clay Manderly.
If the boy hadn't been saddled with only two thousand Riverland riders, all of them under-trained and lacking proper battlefield grit, and instead had five thousand of the North's elite cavalry — the very same troops Royce had once fought against — then the truth was, he might never have made it out of the banks of Trident alive.
Jaime Lannister hadn't been wrong to lose. And neither was he.
Faced with a battlefield genius like Clay Manderly, it wasn't about courage or pride anymore. No matter who you were, the only option left was to retreat and protect what little you had left.
Even though his heart was still heavy with the sting of failure, Yohn Royce knew he couldn't afford to wallow in it. As the commander of the three eastern castle armies, it was his duty to act. If the castles were in danger, he had to rise and defend them.
So, without hesitation, he rallied his remaining troops. They were exhausted, their strength long since worn thin, but he turned them southwest toward Stone Hedge. But they hadn't gone far before they ran into two broken and battered soldiers fleeing from the military horse field.
And that was when Yohn Royce knew, with painful certainty, that for once, he had guessed correctly.
But it was already too late.
Clay Manderly had already struck. He'd gone for the horse field… the most crucial piece in Royce's entire supply chain. There were four thousand warhorses there.
And the moment that number hit him, Yohn Royce felt like something had torn inside his chest. It was as if his heart itself had been sliced open and left bleeding.
Without uttering a single word, he ordered his men to rush toward the horse grounds at full speed.
But when they finally arrived, all that remained was a field of death and destruction — burned ruins, trampled earth, and corpses scattered like leaves in the wind.
Clay Manderly, it seemed, was the kind of man who only knew how to kill. Burial was someone else's problem.
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Yohn Royce took a long, deep breath, trying his best to calm the storm inside him. He knew better than anyone that this was not the time to fall apart.
He reached out and grabbed the fleeing soldier by the collar, yanking him up from the ground. The man was caked in mud and dried blood, barely recognizable beneath the filth. Yohn's voice was flat, stripped of all warmth.
"Tell me. Where did Clay Manderly's troops go?"
"M-my lord… I-I don't know. I think… I think they went in the direction of Stone Hedge."
"And our warhorses? Don't tell me Clay Manderly took them too?"
The soldier — one of the lucky few who had made it out alive — looked like he was about to cry. He didn't know. He truly didn't know. The only reason he'd survived was because he had been scared enough, cowardly enough, to run the moment he caught sight of the Manderly banners cresting the ridge.
If not for that instinct to flee, he would've been buried beside his brothers, lying cold and silent in the snow-covered meadow of the stable grounds.
His voice trembled as he spoke. He stretched out a hand, as if wanting to cling to the man gripping him, but stopped himself halfway… too afraid, too unsure of what would happen next.
"My lord… my brothers and I fought with everything we had just to break out. I swear, I really don't know what happened after. I don't know where the horses are. I would never dare lie to you."
For a moment, a flicker of fury sparked in Yohn Royce's eyes, but he swallowed it down before it could grow.
He was an old hand, a seasoned commander, and he'd been around long enough to see through nonsense like this. There was no "breakout." That was just a coward's lie to cover up a rout. The truth was plain… this man had turned and run the second the enemy showed up, and that was the only reason he was still breathing.
But killing this deserter now would accomplish nothing. All it would do was deliver a fresh blow to an already fragile morale, like stomping on a cracked shield.
He didn't know why, but Yohn Royce suddenly thought of the Freys — of the noble house that Clay Manderly had orchestrated into ruin with his own hands.
He remembered how Lord Walder Frey had once earned the scorn of the realm for arriving late to the Trident, a shame that clung to him like a curse for the rest of his days. The "Late Lord Frey," they had called him, and that title had followed his family like a shadow, even after their house was long gone.
Now, the weeds over House Frey's graves had grown knee-high, and it seemed that bitter nickname was about to pass on to him — Yohn Royce, Lord of Runestone.
The Tardy Lord Royce!
And the worst part was, there wasn't a single excuse he could offer in his own defense.
Because he had been late. Not by a little. Not by a few hours or a day. He was late by a margin that had already caused irreversible damage.
And now, no matter how tired his soldiers were, no matter how many had fallen behind, he had to get to Stone Hedge as fast as possible. He had no choice left.
If he arrived late again, if the main camp beneath Stone Hedge was already wiped out by the time he got there, then the entire eastern front of the Riverlands would collapse into chaos.
And that… Yohn Royce knew with painful clarity, was a burden he could never afford to carry.
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[Chapter End's]
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