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"A surrender ceremony?"
Yohn Royce could hardly believe what he was hearing. The guards surrounding him stared in stunned silence, their faces also frozen in disbelief.
If they were truly a defeated, broken force, reduced to ragged remnants, cornered and hopeless, then perhaps such a suggestion might have made sense. But that wasn't the case at all. They still had thousands of men under their command. Though the journey here had been grueling and full of hardship, they had not been defeated in battle. So how could anyone even bring up something like a surrender ceremony?
Even if they were to surrender… to whom would they yield? To him? To Clay Manderly?
As he shook off the absurdity of that idea, a deep humiliation surged through Yohn Royce's chest — so sharp and overwhelming that for a moment, it nearly made him lose control.
Clay Manderly was the one trapped inside Stone Hedge, surrounded by his forces. And yet, how dare he speak to him like that?
Yohn Royce jerked his head to the side. His bloodshot eyes locked onto the young man standing before him: Garlan Manderly.
The boy's expression was as relaxed as ever, completely unfazed. There was still that grin on his face, even a hint of mischief lurking beneath it, and that infuriating look reminded Yohn of another man he loathed just as much.
"Watch your tongue, boy. Think very carefully before you speak again. If your mouth can't find the words, then I'll let my sword do the talking for you."
His voice, heavy with the force of a landslide, carried the weight of rage barely held in check. Garlan Manderly, however, took it all in with a thrill of satisfaction. The more the Lord of Runestone fumed, the more convinced Garlan became that he was even easier to provoke than expected.
He swept a casual glance across Yohn Royce and the men around him. Their faces were flushed red with fury, every vein straining under the surface. It wouldn't take much more to push them over the edge.
But no… that wouldn't do. If things escalated too quickly, it would ruin the moment. The tension needed to build more slowly, to ripen. Only then would the eventual payoff be sharp enough to leave a mark. He couldn't let it end just yet.
So Garlan adjusted his tone, ready to carry the conversation in a slightly different direction.
"Lord Clay sent me here," he said smoothly, "because he trusts that all of you are reasonable men. Gentlemen who understand how to talk things through."
Coming from Clay Manderly's messenger, these words landed better than expected. Royce and his knights, for all their pride, couldn't help but feel a little soothed.
Now you're talking. Say more like that, and maybe we'll let you finish!
"But let's not forget," Garlan continued, his smile sharpening, "it was you who stooped to such cowardice. You launched a shameless ambush against our Northern army, without warning or cause. Because of that, His Grace King Robb remains trapped in Harrenhal to this day."
The Vale knights, whose rigid faces had only just begun to ease, instantly tensed again. Being called shameless and dishonorable right to their faces left them choking on their own silence. The worst part was… they couldn't even argue back.
Because deep down, they all knew it was true. That ambush had been underhanded.
Garlan Manderly pressed on without skipping a beat.
"So in response," he continued, his voice casual and smug, "Lord Clay led his troops to lure your fools away from Stone Hedge, then crushed the weak rabble you left behind at the base of the walls without breaking a sweat. Just two days ago, House Glovers and House Lynderly from your western camp bent the knee to us. They surrendered completely."
He didn't mention Yohn Royce by name, not even once… but every word of that speech, from start to finish, dripped with one message that couldn't be mistaken: You're pathetic!
And that single, unspoken insult struck each and every knight of the Vale like a slap to the face. No matter how polished the delivery, they felt the sting of that word "incompetent" cutting deep.
Yohn Royce stood there in a bit of a daze, uncertain whether the young knight before him was bold… or simply suicidal. Was Garlan Manderly completely unafraid of death? Did Clay Manderly actually send him here to negotiate in good faith, or was this just a ploy to provoke him into a rage?
Garlan's lips were still moving, clearly ready to keep talking, but then he suddenly noticed something on the other side — faces twisted with fury, one of the Vale riders had already drawn his sword.
Ah. So this was the limit of the pose he'd been holding. Push it any further, and someone was going to snap.
Time to pause and change tack.
Garlan Manderly, clearly well-versed in the art of agitation, shut his mouth just in time. He said nothing more, choosing instead to quietly wait for Lord Yohn Royce, who already looked so angry his mind had gone blank, to make his move.
For a brief moment, the Lord of Runestone stood there, hair still mostly intact, thinking frantically. His thoughts were teetering on the brink of combustion, nearly consumed by rage, until something managed to claw its way back into his mind.
His son… his son was still in their hands!
And just like that, he understood. He finally saw why this cocky little knight from House Manderly dared to act so arrogant. If the roles were reversed — if he had captured Robb Stark and brought him to the gates of Winterfell — then perhaps he would be talking with the same smug, infuriating tone.
Clenching his jaw, he forced himself to breathe, long and deep, over and over, until he was sure his voice would come out steady and clear. He stared hard at Garlan's face, which was still brimming with sarcasm and mockery, then spoke through gritted teeth in a cold, heavy tone.
"Enough. Drop this pathetic attempt at provocation, boy. You will not goad me so easily. Now speak plainly and tell me… what will Clay Manderly require to release my son?"
Garlan Manderly was briefly impressed. He had watched Yohn Royce practically foaming with rage moments ago, yet now the man was somehow swallowing his fury and speaking like a proper lord once more. That, at least, was something.
Tilting his head slightly, Garlan gave a faint smile and replied with a soft chuckle.
"Simple. Have your Vale men surrender all their warhorses and armor. March back to the Bloody Gate on foot, and we will promise not to stab you in the back the way you did us. How does that sound?"
"You… arrogant little brat!"
Yohn Royce nearly lost control again. Under different circumstances — if he held the upper hand, if he were rested, if his army had not just trudged across half the Riverlands — these words might not have riled him so easily. But right now, after the long and draining march, he was in no state to remain calm. With his eldest son in enemy hands and his fate still unknown, the pressure bearing down on Yohn was suffocating.
His tolerance for provocation had worn thin. Even the slightest jab was enough to push his temper to the brink. A careless word, a mocking tone… anything could set him off. And this damn kid just kept pushing.
"Lord Yohn Royce," Garlan said, his tone suddenly tinged with mock surprise, "weren't you the one who just claimed you wouldn't be so easily provoked? What happened to that resolve? Breaking your word so quickly? Oh, right… Lord Clay did ask me to deliver a message to you, Lord Royce."
Seeing Yohn's brows twitch upward at the mention of a message, Garlan adopted a deeply sympathetic expression, one that appeared almost mournful.
"Lord of Runestone," he said slowly, with the solemn air of someone delivering unwelcome news, "Lord Clay Manderly wishes you to know that your Vale army's supply base — Lord Harroway's Town — now belongs entirely to House Manderly."
He delivered the words with a voice full of sympathy, as if he genuinely felt sorry for the loss. But the slight smirk tugging at the corners of his lips told a different story. No matter how hard he tried, he simply could not hide the delight in his eyes.
And sure enough, the moment the words left his mouth, every knight and soldier from the Vale turned deathly pale. They knew better than anyone just how important the Lord Harroway's town was. Losing it… was unthinkable.
Yohn Royce felt the world tilt. His vision darkened, and for a moment, he nearly collapsed. He couldn't tell if Clay Manderly was bluffing or not. But the longer he thought about it, the more his heart sank.
He hadn't seen any sign of Manderly's cavalry on the battlefield. And now, suddenly, everything makes sense.
This was a mistake caused by a fatal gap in intelligence. Back when the Vale army had mobilized in full force and launched their surprise attack on Robb Stark, they'd used Lord Harroway's town as their base of operations. At the time, they had no idea that the Manderly cavalry wasn't even with the main Northern host.
They had believed they were striking a fatal blow… believed they had already crushed the strongest force the North could offer. Once Robb Stark was defeated, they had immediately launched their campaign across the Riverlands. It wasn't until much later, after interrogating prisoners, that they learned Clay Manderly's forces had never even been on the field.
But by then, the battle plans had already been laid down in full. Both the Vale and the Lannisters were convinced that the North no longer posed any real threat, so Lord Harroway's town — tucked up in the rear — was left with only minimal defense.
Two thousand men had been stationed there, more than enough, they thought, to hold out if anything happened. In the worst case, if they were attacked, they'd just need to get a message out. The Vale's swift riders could race back in time to reinforce.
But things hadn't gone the way they had planned. The situation had veered so far from their original assumptions that now, they were beginning to grasp something truly terrifying:
Lord Harroway's town might truly be lost!
Yohn Royce swallowed hard. A bitter taste rose in his throat, but he forced it down and clung to a sliver of doubt. Even now, he wasn't ready to concede defeat. He pressed on stubbornly and said,
"You expect me to believe that… just because you said so? That's a bit—"
But he didn't even get to finish his sentence. Garlan Manderly cut him off mid-thought with a casual shrug and a scornful smile playing at the corners of his lips.
"You're welcome to go and see for yourself," he said. "We're just giving you the facts. What you choose to do with them… well, that's your problem, not ours."
"The terms Lord Clay offered you weren't a trick," he added, his tone light but with an unmistakable edge. "You chose to strike first… so you should've been ready to face the consequences."
And with that, the words hung in the air, and the entire field went still.
The silence was so sharp, you could hear a pin drop. Only the heavy breaths of men and horses filled the emptiness.
Yohn Royce was trembling all over — not because he lacked discipline or resolve, but because this was hitting harder than anything he'd prepared for. If Lord Harroway's town had truly fallen, then the camp beneath Stone Hedge was lost too. His force of three thousand men might just barely manage to circle around the enemy and retreat toward the Bloody Gate on foot, enduring whatever it took.
But what about the rest? What about the other five, nearly six thousand soldiers?
Some had already lost their horses. And now, with winter winds biting through every layer, and no more supplies to be had, were they really supposed to walk home through the cold like that?
Even if Clay Manderly's cavalry didn't lift a finger against them, this sudden, brutal shift in the weather could still claim more than half of those six thousand lives before they ever reached safety. And if that happened, if those troops were lost, then the Vale would be completely finished.
Their whole system of governance was sluggish and fractured. Each noble house had only so many trained men to send — every battle was a one-shot gamble. If they lost everything in a single campaign and couldn't replenish in time, then they'd have no choice but to lay down their arms and accept defeat.
The Vale was no exception.
Their knights were famed across the Seven Kingdoms, yes… but mounted fighters were the hardest and slowest to train. This campaign had already gone forward against the objections of countless lords and factions, forced through by sheer will. If it ended in total failure… if Yohn Royce returned home with just his own troops while the rest were left behind to be butchered in the wilds, there would be no forgiveness.
He didn't need to imagine what would happen; he could already see it clearly.
In that moment, Yohn Royce finally understood something he hadn't wanted to believe. The terms Clay Manderly had offered… they might not have been meant to humiliate him after all. They may very well have been genuine. It was possible that this Northern commander was actually showing him mercy.
Because if Clay truly wanted to, if he had no interest in negotiation, then of the nine thousand Vale soldiers still scattered across this part of the Riverlands, the six thousand beyond Yohn's immediate command might never make it past Blood gate alive.
When he'd first heard that Lord Harroway's town had fallen, his gut reaction had been to run. Get out now. Take his troops and retreat as fast as they could. It was obvious, after all… Clay Manderly had already set the trap. He was planning to close it soon, and they were all inside.
If they didn't move quickly, they were done for.
But almost as soon as the thought had taken hold, Yohn realized he couldn't leave. Not yet.
He was the overall commander of the Vale's entire campaign. And whether he liked it or not, that meant he was responsible for every detachment, including the ones still spread across the countryside, completely unaware of what was happening here.
He remembered how, during the first crossing of the Red Fork, Lord Lyonel had brought two thousand men through unscathed, every man accounted for. If Yohn turned his back now and left, those two thousand would be completely surrounded, trapped with no hope of rescue.
And then Garlan's voice cut through the haze again, calm but unmistakably firm.
"Lord Clay also said… if the Lord still hasn't made up his mind, he's welcome to head south and meet up with the rest of your troops. He's not in a hurry. But don't make the mistake of not coming. If you don't show up… then there will be no such person in this world as Andar Royce."
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