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Nearly two months had passed since the knights of the Vale first launched their invasion of the Riverlands. And now, at last, Edmure Tully, the man who was nominally the master of this war-torn region, had returned once more to Stone Hedge, one of the few castles that still showed him a measure of loyalty.
Of the twenty thousand soldiers under his command, three thousand remained stationed at Riverrun, tasked with guarding against the ever-present threat of a sudden attack from Jaime Lannister and the forces of the Westerlands.
The remaining seventeen thousand marched eastward in force, their ranks stretching far and wide as they moved in tight formation across the plains, advancing in a great, unbroken wave toward Stone Hedge.
The distance between Riverrun and Stone Hedge wasn't far. So long as the cavalry lingered nearby, patrolling the roads and keeping watch, the supply lines could remain secure, ensuring that the army's rear wouldn't be left vulnerable.
Half a month after Harry Rivers had sent out his urgent letter, Clay stood atop the battlements of Stone Hedge and saw them; an endless tide of soldiers flowing steadily across the land.
The Riverlands host had formed up in what could only be described as a lopsided square, a rough phalanx lacking precision but carrying force. At its center surged the core of the army: two thousand Tully cavalry, pressing forward in a dense, rippling mass. The sight of them stirred no words in Clay — only a furrow of the brow, and silence.
To the left and right of the cavalry moved the flanking forces, both wings composed of infantry drawn from the Riverlands' noble houses.
Because Clay had earlier borrowed the cavalry for his own maneuvers, these wings were left entirely to the foot soldiers. On the right flank marched the disciplined lines of House Vance, a steady, unified column. On the left, a mixed host of other Riverlands houses made up the remaining strength, though their banners were jumbled and their ranks moved with a less practiced rhythm.
This, too, was characteristic of the Riverlands: a realm where the overlord was weak, and his vassals strong.
Clay had not truly grasped the depth of this imbalance at first, but in time, he came to understand it well. When it came to raw power, measured in both the size of their domains and the number of men they could summon in a real war, the Vances had long since surpassed their liege lords, the Tullys of Riverrun.
There were, in fact, two separate branches of House Vance in the Riverlands, one ruling from Atranta, the other from Wayfarer's Rest.
Together, these two branches controlled more territory than House Tully itself. Their forces were not only numerous but also seasoned by the brutal lessons of battle. During the Riverlands' first confrontation with the Westerlands, House Vance had taken heavy losses, many of them due to the misjudgments of Edmure Tully himself.
Yet even those losses had not truly harmed them. For House Vance, it had been a wound, but not a mortal one. And now, once again, it was the Vances who had shouldered much of the burden in raising this new host of twenty thousand men.
Were it not for the fact that House Vance was split into two separate branches, ruling distant lands and rarely producing truly extraordinary leaders across the generations, it might well have been House Vance, not House Tully, that ruled the Riverlands. The fact that the Tullys had managed to retain their position for so long now seemed less a natural outcome and more a historical oddity.
Still, blood ties endured. Both branches of House Vance traced their lineage back to the same ancestor, and that ancient bond had never completely withered. In moments like this, they stood as one. It was little wonder, then, that the entire right wing of the Riverlands army was made up solely of the infantry raised by House Vance.
At the center of the army flew the silver trout of House Tully, rippling brightly against the sky as Edmure Tully led his personal forces forward. They were fewer in number than those on the right, but he still advanced step by steady step, drawing ever closer to the gates of Stone Hedge.
From his vantage point atop the walls, Clay swept his gaze across the land, but he saw no rear guard trailing the main host. Then again, it didn't really matter. At this short distance, the need for a rear formation was negligible.
With a soft sigh, he shook his head and turned to descend from the battlements, preparing to go out and receive the man who rule the Riverlands.
The way Edmure Tully arrived, draped in ceremony and dressed in full pomp, only highlighted how uncertain he truly was. If he had real confidence, true authority, there'd be no need for all this posturing, no need to wrap himself in such self-important grandeur.
But Clay no longer had any interest in playing these petty little games with him. He had long grown tired of these theatrics, these hollow rituals that meant nothing in the face of real war. There was no point in wasting breath challenging Edmure on it now.
So he left the west gate of Stone Hedge with just two personal guards in tow. Once outside, he rode to the nearest ridge that overlooked the plains and waited there quietly on horseback, watching as Edmure's forces gradually drew near.
"Garlan," he said, his voice light and almost teasing, "tell me… how do you think the fighting strength of these Riverlands men compares to our House Manderly?"
There was a flicker of amusement in his eyes as he looked toward the young knight beside him.
"Lord Clay," Garlan replied, glancing around to make sure no one else was near, "since it's just us here, I'll speak plainly. I haven't seen much of their infantry, but when it comes to cavalry… the Riverlands riders all seem to share one major flaw. Their fighting spirit isn't quite there."
"Oh?" Clay tilted his head. "Not quite there how?"
"Well…" Garlan scratched at his temple, his brows furrowing in thought. "It's hard to explain exactly. All I can say is, compared to our Manderly riders… or even just the North's cavalry in general, there's something missing. That edge. That raw drive. But I don't really have the right words for it."
As he struggled to put it into words, the other guard, Desmond Manderly, who had been quiet until now, finally spoke up.
"They're too afraid to die."
Garlan blinked, then repeated the phrase silently to himself. His eyes lit up in sudden understanding, and he nodded at once.
"Yes, that's it. That's exactly it. They care too much about their own lives. Every time they go head-to-head with the enemy, it shows. Us Northerners… we fight like we're ready to trade blow for blow, like we're willing to suffer so long as we take the other guy down with us. We charge with fury, with pride, and let that pressure overwhelm the enemy. But these Riverlands folk… they don't have that."
"I've been watching closely," Garlan continued, his voice calm but certain. "In every recent battle, the moment an enemy brings down their blade, their first instinct isn't to strike back or look for an opening. It's to raise their arms and defend, to shield themselves as hard as they can."
"That's just not how we fight in the North. "If someone dares to swing at me, I'm not stepping back. I'll shout, and I'll cut him down before he even gets the chance to land a second blow."
Clay nodded slowly, his expression calm but thoughtful. His two guards had summed it up well; this was the core difference between the Riverlands and the North. A difference not just in training or tactics, but in spirit.
Historically, the Riverlands had always been a mess, a patchwork of divided loyalties, fractured histories, and shifting powers. They had never truly possessed a shared identity, no unified sense of self.
Take House Stark, for example. The Starks had ruled the North for thousands of years. That legacy ran deep, and it gave the people of the North a strong sense of unity. Their warriors were fearless, and their culture honored strength and sacrifice. Beyond the harsh land and bitter winters, it was the stability of their rule that mattered. In the North, when a soldier died in battle, his sacrifice meant something. It wouldn't be ignored or forgotten.
But in the Riverlands? This land had been conquered and reconquered for generations. When the Targaryens unified the Seven Kingdoms, they didn't crown some storied local hero as the region's lord. They handed power to a sycophant… a collaborator who served as little more than a guide for foreign conquerors.
Under such conditions, the people of the Riverlands had developed a subconscious expectation that chaos would eventually return. And when you live expecting the worst, your instincts change. When danger comes, your first thought isn't victory… it's survival. That deep-rooted impulse to protect yourself first, above all else, was etched into the very soul of this region's armies.
The Reach wasn't so different. Their lands were rich, but their hearts were divided. House Tyrell had never commanded the same level of reverence as the Starks in the North. They lacked the gravity, the unshakable authority needed to hold everything together. Despite having the strength to crown themselves kings, the Tyrells had always sought out others to lean on, never daring to rule alone.
Whether it was the descendants of the "Garth Greenhand" or the old Gardener kings, the Tyrells had no blood ties to either. And in an era where blood determined power, the Tyrells were, at their core, a hollow house… top-heavy, with a shaky foundation, never built for greatness.
If House Stark were ever to fall, the other Northern lords might, under pressure of force or necessity, kneel to whatever new family held Winterfell. But deep down, they'd never truly submit. In their hearts, they'd always be waiting, biding their time, looking for the chance to welcome a Stark heir back home and restore the old order.
But if something like that happened in the Riverlands… or the Reach? The moment word spread, the other lords would sit comfortably in their keeps, chuckle into their wine, and forget the name Tully or Tyrell as though it had never mattered. Then, without hesitation, they'd start calculating how to grab a bigger slice of power for themselves.
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"Lord Clay Manderly, I'd wager that right about now, both Tywin Lannister and Petyr Baelish absolutely loathe you."
In the great hall of Stone Hedge, Edmure Tully let out a long, wistful sigh as he spoke, his tone tinged with wonder and admiration.
The prominent nobles of the Riverlands were gathered under one roof, seated at a banquet that had been hastily named a victory celebration. But as they looked toward Clay, who stood calmly beside Edmure, their gazes were filled with something more than respect. They knew, every one of them, that without Clay Manderly's string of dazzling maneuvers and improbable victories, they wouldn't be standing here at all, hosting this banquet.
And so, eager to express their gratitude, they spoke up one after another, echoing Edmure's words and showering Clay with praise, each seemingly trying to outdo the last. They raised his accomplishments to the heavens, speaking as if Tywin Lannister and Littlefinger might be dragged before him in chains at any moment, just to complete the celebration.
But Clay only smiled softly and shook his head.
"There's no need for that, Lord Edmure," he said, his voice even and unhurried. "What left the deepest impression on me in this campaign was the courage your Riverlands soldiers showed on the battlefield. Without them, what glory could I possibly claim as my own?"
His words, modest and courteous on the surface, were delivered with such composure that they might have passed as simple gratitude… but to Edmure Tully, they stung like a hidden barb. His expression tightened, shifting with a faint discomfort.
Because to his ears, Clay's humility sounded dangerously close to mockery.
Wasn't he implying that the Riverlands soldiers had always been brave and capable fighters, but that under Edmure's command, they had stumbled and failed again and again? That only once Clay took the reins did they begin to win? Wasn't he, in essence, pointing out that while the troops had potential, it was Edmure who had squandered it… so badly, in fact, that he'd ended up cowering in Riverrun, too frightened to even face the Vale's advance?
A faint flush crept into Edmure's cheeks. He opened his mouth, searching for a retort, something to defend himself with, but no words came. Clay hadn't attacked him outright, hadn't said anything he could challenge directly. And the worst part was, Edmure had no victories of his own to point to, no shining moments to hold up in protest. So he stood there awkwardly, tongue-tied and silent, quietly stepping aside as the moment slipped away from him.
Just then, the Lord of Raventree Hall, Tytos Blackwood, stepped forward with impeccable timing, coming to his liege's quiet rescue. Holding a goblet of wine, he approached with a smile and broke the tension with practiced ease.
"Lord Clay," he said warmly, "we've got seventeen thousand men camped outside Stone Hedge now. The tide is in our favor, and everyone's spirits are high. Would you be willing to share with us what your next move might be?"
He offered Clay the cup in a respectful toast, then tipped his head back and drained his own in one smooth motion, the gesture full of open confidence.
Then he looked at Clay again, spreading his arms wide as he spoke, his voice ringing with conviction.
"After this battle, I have no more doubts about your military skill, my lord. You've proven yourself beyond question. From this point forward, House Blackwood will stand behind you in all the wars to come."
His declaration struck a chord among the assembled Riverlands lords. Their murmurings rose at once, voices layering over each other in a swelling tide of agreement and excitement, until Edmure Tully's half-hearted coughs were drowned in the noise like pebbles tossed into a river.
No one had sworn any formal oath, of course. This was not some grand declaration of fealty to Clay Manderly, but the message was unmistakable, as clear as if it had been written in bold letters across the hall.
Edmure Tully had taken one step closer to losing full command of the Riverlands' armies!
Because the truth was, none of these lords were fools. They had all seen how Edmure faltered in war; how his strategies failed, how he hesitated when it mattered most. Everyone here had watched him shrink back at the moment of decision, when courage was needed most. No one needed to say it aloud; it was written in every eye.
No one was calling for the downfall of House Tully — not yet — but in times like these, when every decision could mean life or death, putting your soldiers in the hands of someone who actually knew how to win… well, that wasn't betrayal. That was just common sense.
All of it, every whisper and sideways glance, every shifting allegiance and polite toast… it all came back to one thing.
Edmure Tully had simply let them down too many times on the battlefield!
But Clay wasn't bothered by any of this. In fact, he welcomed it. If the Riverlands lords wanted to hand him their troops, he'd take them gladly. He knew Edmure relied on him now, had no choice but to lean on his strength. And as long as that remained true, there was nothing Edmure could do to stop him.
Once this chaotic stretch of time had passed, once the storm settled and the dust cleared, Clay would begin to step forward from the shadows, moving steadily into the light. When the battle for King's Landing reached its end, when the outcome was decided, then perhaps it would be time for the banners of House Targaryen and House Manderly to fly side by side.
And when that day came, whose hands held the Riverlands armies wouldn't matter anymore.
But right now? Oh, right now, those armies were still very useful indeed.
Clay nodded once toward Lord Tytos Blackwood, his gaze firm, his voice low and commanding.
"My lords," he said, his tone cutting through the noise like a drawn blade, "the time has come."
His eyes swept across the crowd, steady and unshaken.
"It's time… for us to strike back."
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[Chapter End's]
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