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Inside the great hall of Stone Hedge, as Clay's voice fell quiet, every pair of eyes turned toward him.
This banquet had been convened for one purpose alone; to celebrate Clay Manderly's remarkable military achievement, and from the moment it began, he had stood at the center of everyone's attention. Now, as he spoke, all ears hung on his words. For this man, who had in practice already become their Lord commander, was about to reveal his next move.
"Lord Clay! Let's strike back! Let's march out right now and lift the sieges on Acorn Hall and Stone Mill! That would basically drive the Vale forces out of the Riverlands once and for all!"
Even before his words had fully faded, another man stood abruptly, raising his voice in sharp opposition.
"No, that's not the right move, Lord Clay. We should head north first and wipe out the two thousand Vale knights who were lured away by you earlier. They're still stuck north of the Red Fork, and if we seize control of the crossing, there's no way they'll escape!"
"That's right! That area's where the Trident splits — the rivers crisscross the land, making it a nightmare for cavalry to move swiftly. If we block the crossings now, we could trap them completely and crush one of their cavalry units for good!"
This counterargument quickly gained traction. Their logic was sound… these men were thinking about the scattered Vale cavalry still unaccounted for in the north.
Word had recently come from Lord Mallister, who had finally made it back to Seagard after a grueling retreat. He had brought with him the latest update: the Vale knights who had pursued him relentlessly had turned away only after he'd made it safely behind Seagard's walls. Realizing that they had no hope of breaching the defenses, they had no choice but to retreat, frustrated and empty-handed.
But their retreat posed a new and pressing dilemma.
These two thousand knights weren't like the troops Clay had rattled and demoralized under Yohn Royce's command. They hadn't been led astray or manipulated into poor decisions, they had simply failed to catch their prey. Their strength remained very much intact.
If Clay chose to lead his forces south to strike at the Vale soldiers still besieging Acorn Hall and Stone Mill, what would happen if those two thousand cavalrymen suddenly crossed the river at Mummer's Ford and attacked his rear?
A Riverlands noble raised this concern, and his words immediately struck a chord. Voices rose in agreement, fists pounded the long table, and goblets spilled wine all across the polished wood.
This was the nature of their dilemma. If they chose to strike north, it would give Yohn Royce, who now commanded only the battered remnants of his army in the south, enough time to retreat, regroup, and plead for Tywin Lannister's support.
But if Clay turned south instead, then the two thousand knights still roaming in the north would escape unscathed. Letting them slip away would already be a costly mistake. Worse still, they might begin harassing his supply lines, striking at the rear when his army was most vulnerable. Two thousand cavalry could bring chaos to any rear guard, and to guard against them properly, Clay would have to commit at least twice that number, just to ensure the rear remained secure and his logistics continued uninterrupted.
"Lord Clay, do we have the strength to launch a two-pronged offensive?" came a voice from across the hall. It was Lord Norbert Vance, speaking with thoughtful gravity. "I heard your men have already taken the town of Lord Harroway. Could we perhaps order the troops stationed there to press the Vale forces from another direction?"
Clay turned his gaze toward the Riverlands noble bearing the sigil of a tower and a dragon intertwined. After a brief pause, he shook his head slowly and answered with quiet finality.
"I'm afraid that won't be possible. I know it may disappoint you, but those troops can't be moved… not even a little. That town has become the Vale army's logistics hub. It doesn't just supply the ten thousand Vale soldiers on the Riverlands. Right now, every single grain feeding Tywin Lannister's massive host is also being shipped from there."
His reasoning was airtight. In war, logistics often determined victory long before blades ever crossed. And if one could grip the enemy's supply heart in their fist, then the outcome of the battle would tip sharply in their favor.
"Oh… I see. That makes sense," Norbert Vance nodded slowly, processing the explanation. But then something clicked in his mind, and his brows suddenly lifted as a gleam of excitement broke across his face. "Wait… Lord Clay, are you saying the old lion might soon be out of food?"
That question, blurted in growing astonishment, sent a stir through the hall. The other Riverlands lords, who had remained quiet till now, began to smile, their expressions lighting up with sudden hope. They might not be confident about winning a direct confrontation, but when it came to dragging things out, they were masters of the game.
If Clay Manderly's words were reliable — no, if they were accurate — then both the Vale forces and the Lannisters wouldn't be able to last long in the Riverlands. Not in this kind of bitter cold. Not with empty stomachs. Only a fool would keep hammering at stone walls when they had nothing left to eat, and stone couldn't fill a belly.
"Well… something like that," Clay replied with a casual wave of his hand. His smile was calm, even faintly amused. "But maybe not quite so soon. If they're really about to run out of supplies, then they'll have only two choices: either pull back, or throw everything they have at us in a desperate charge."
The ease in his voice stood in stark contrast to the shifting mood within the hall. Several nobles grew visibly tense. Because what Clay had just said wasn't really a question of what might happen. It was a clear signal of what would happen, and who would bear the cost.
True, the Vale knights could, in theory, skirt around Lord Harroway's Town if they had no food left to scavenge, assuming Clay's men did nothing to stop them. But that possibility applied only to the Vale army.
What about the old lion?
The man had fled King's Landing in the first place because the capital had already run out of food. There was nothing left to eat. That was the whole reason behind his grand disappearance.
And after living for a time on the emergency rations the Vale army had grudgingly shared with him, now even the Vale lords themselves were on the brink of famine. Who would bother feeding him anymore?
So the question was: what would Tywin Lannister do when he had nothing left to eat?
He had only two real options. First, he could push southward, crossing the open plains of the Reach and seizing food from the nobles and common folk of that fertile land, pillaging their granaries to keep his army alive.
But if he did that, he risked being bogged down by the local armies of the Reach. Though they might not be strong enough to stop him outright, they could stall and harass his march, making his campaign a slow and bitter grind.
Or, second… he could steer the red-and-gold lion banner west, cutting across the river of Red Fork, and make a direct push through Golden Tooth back into the Westerlands, back to his homeland.
There was, of course, a third possibility: that Tywin might choose to follow the Vale army and retreat east, taking shelter beyond the Bloody Gate. But from what Clay knew of both parties, neither the Vale nor the Lannisters were likely to agree to such a move.
Think back to over a decade ago… when the Mad King opened the gates of King's Landing to Tywin Lannister. And what happened afterward? Now imagine today, the Vale lords opening the Bloody Gate for Tywin, welcoming him in with his weary, battered army. The parallel was haunting. So many years apart, yet the scene would play out nearly the same. Just with different names on the walls.
And Clay knew… Tywin Lannister was not a man who placed blind trust in others. Especially not in the Vale. After all, the Vale had once allied itself with both the North and the Riverlands for a long stretch of time, and even now, those former allies still held considerable influence within the Vale's ruling circles.
And what if he went in but couldn't get back out? That would be a disaster. The core strength of House Lannister was all here: Tywin himself, Lord of the Westerlands and former Hand of the King, along with his children, a king without a throne and a queen without a crown. If the Vale decided to take them all in one sweep, then House Lannister might as well surrender outright.
No. Knowing Tywin's cautious nature, there was no way he'd willingly go begging for food in the Vale.
So if the east was out of the question, and the south too risky, then the simplest and most likely choice for Tywin would be to march west — linking up with Jaime Lannister at the Golden Tooth and launching a pincer assault on Edmure Tully, slicing through the Riverlands to get back home.
Which meant that in the days to come, the Riverlands would have to face an army that had carved its way across the land in blood and fury. It was an army still brimming with strength, fueled by desperation and hunger, and burning with the single-minded desire to return home. With only twenty thousand men under Edmure Tully's command, could they truly stop such a force?
It was true that, in Clay's memory, there had once been a battle—the famed Battle at the Red Fork—often remembered as Edmure's one moment of genuine glory, the Warlord of the Trident. Though the final outcome of the war had not changed much, at least that day, he had secured a victory. Hadn't he?
But that was only a memory. And this time, Clay was not placing his hopes on the past repeating itself. Not with the Edmure Tully he knew now. Not with the Riverlands in its current state; fractured, exhausted, and barely recognizable.
In short, there was only one word for the whole situation: precarious!
"Gentlemen," Clay said at last, clearing his throat and lifting a hand to quiet the murmur of voices around him.
He waited until the room settled before continuing in a calm but firm tone. "We've already cut off the food supply lines for both the Vale forces and the Lannisters. That alone puts us in control of the board."
He paused briefly, his gaze sweeping across the gathered lords, "The old lion will definitely try to hold out until something breaks in King's Landing. I'd bet anything he's still dreaming of slipping in and stealing the prize while everyone else is fighting."
A cold smirk touched Clay's lips as he went on. "But we're not going to worry about him right now. First, we take care of the enemy still inside the riverlands borders… the Vale army, with Yohn Royce at their head."
"They've already split into two large chunks, one to the north, the other to the south. You all just laid it out clearly enough, so I won't repeat it again."
"The current situation is simple: the southern force wants to flee, but they're too slow to escape. The northern force can escape… but they haven't realized they need to."
His voice grew firmer, more resolute. "So here's my personal recommendation: we strike north first, then turn south. Now that it's our turn to attack, we'll make sure this blow cuts deep. We'll make the Vale remember the pain. Make them tremble whenever they see our banners."
"We start with the northern force — two thousand tired cavalry, stranded and alone. I'll lead the entire cavalry strength of the Riverlands, and we'll combine that with the two thousand iron-armored horsemen sent by House Manderly. Together, we'll surround this isolated force and aim to crush them in one swift, decisive battle."
Even before he finished speaking, a perceptive noble had already gestured for his men, who stepped forward carrying a rolled-up map of the Riverlands.
The Riverlands lords didn't wait for further instruction. They moved quickly, clearing space on the long table, wiping away scattered goblets and dishes, and laying the large map flat across the polished wood surface with practiced hands.
Clay gave a small nod of approval, then reached for the carved wooden game pieces the attendant had brought; each one hand-painted and shaped to represent the banners and armies in play. With a measured hand, he began to place them on the map.
First, he set down a trout-shaped piece just north of the Red Fork, where the river flowed east to west like a drawn sword across the land.
Then came a carved eagle, placed carefully to the south of Seagard.
"I'm estimating this will be the battlefield," Clay said, his eyes fixed on the map. "Lord Mallister sent a letter saying that the Vale army gave up the pursuit about three days ago. So right now, they're almost certainly still on the far side of the river."
"There's only one usable crossing in the area: Mummer's Ford. And their commander won't have heard a word about the chaos down south. He'll be leading his men back along the same path they came."
Clay gripped the command baton tightly in his hand and gave the map a sharp crack, striking the line of the Red Fork with force. His voice rang clear across the chamber:
"We block them at Mummer's Ford, and they won't be able to get back. This is where we trap them. If we can't wipe them out completely, then at the very least, we break them… shatter them so badly that they'll never be a threat behind our lines again."
The sharp strike and the firm declaration snapped everyone to attention. The room, which had felt hushed and cautious a moment ago, now buzzed with renewed energy. Eyes locked on the map, tracking the positions of the pieces, and slowly but surely, nods of agreement began to ripple through the gathered lords. It made sense. It felt solid.
And no one stood up to argue.
Seeing that no one raised a fresh objection, Clay nodded slightly and pressed on.
"At the same time, Lord Blackwood, and the two Lords Vance… I need the three of you to assist Lord Edmure. Take command of all the infantry and hold Stone Hedge. Make sure the rear lines of my cavalry remain secure."
"Also," he added, his gaze shifting toward the southern region of the map, "apply as much pressure as you can on Acorn Hall and Stone Mill. Let them feel the weight of our presence outside their walls. Make them worry that we might strike at any moment."
"As long as we hold them off until we return victorious, then this war will already be half-won."
The four men Clay had named didn't all react the same way. The three Riverlands lords tasked with "assisting" Edmure Tully exchanged quick glances… none of them needed it spelled out. They understood perfectly well what Clay was doing. This wasn't about support; it was about oversight.
Clay was worried Edmure might do something reckless, so he was telling the three of them to keep the Lord's temper in check; cool the fires before they burned anything important.
As for Edmure Tully himself, Clay knew this arrangement would sit like a stone in his gut. A slight like this, in front of everyone? It would sting. But Clay couldn't care less how the man felt. A noble title meant nothing without the strength to wield it. And Edmure had no command over the army, not anymore.
Still, Clay wasn't particularly concerned. He had long ago come to see Edmure Tully and Robb Stark as two sides of the same broken mirror.
Robb had been reckless to a fault… brave, perhaps, but foolish enough to charge ahead without thinking, eager to gamble everything for one bold move. That's how things like "rushing light cavalry into enemy lines" ended up happening.
Edmure, on the other hand, was the exact opposite. Timid, hesitant, paralyzed by caution. In a real battle, the idea of him leading the charge against someone like Yohn Royce? Completely unrealistic. He'd never do it.
So Clay gave these instructions as a safeguard, nothing more. It was a way to lock down the risks before they even had a chance to take root.
Because if another disaster struck while he was away, if the main force were wiped out behind his back, then he would be in serious trouble.
It had already taken all the precision and finesse he could muster just to pull this entire situation back from the brink. The war had been on the edge of collapse, and through relentless maneuvering, Clay had managed to bring it back under control.
But if Edmure Tully got another chance to throw it all away?
Then Clay might as well pack up, run back to the Twins, and play the obedient heir, waiting for the rest of Westeros to tear itself apart. And maybe he'd survive long enough to link up with Daenerys and seize what was left when the dust finally settled.
If Edmure Tully and Robb Stark each got to make one fatal mistake, one for each of them, then Clay would be done with the whole thing.
Because at the end of the day, there were some burdens even he couldn't carry.
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[Chapter End's]
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