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Lord Tytos Blackwood fixed his pitch-black eyes on the young knight from House Piper of Pinkmaiden, the one who had just spoken with such outrageous boldness.
That boy had been brought in on his own recommendation. The Lord of Pinkmaiden had vouched for him with unwavering confidence, and Tytos had taken a look for himself. At the time, the lad had seemed decent enough. He had behaved well on the road too, quiet and obedient throughout the journey. But the moment they arrived and stood before Lord Clay, this fool chose that very moment to pull a stunt like that.
Tytos Blackwood knew all too well what kind of man Clay Manderly was.
He had stood atop the walls of Riverrun himself and watched with his own eyes as the man behind him, this very same Lord, drove the Lannister besiegers straight into the river, and then slaughtered every last one of them.
From the moment this war began, the number of people who had died at Clay Manderly's hands had already climbed into the tens of thousands. And this brat from House Piper… where in the seven hells did he find the gall to demand troops from Clay Manderly? To ask him for soldiers, to fight a war?
Did he have no sense of his own worth? Tytos Blackwood knew exactly where he stood. He wouldn't dare so much as breathe the wrong way in front of a man like Clay Manderly, one who commanded ten thousand troops with a single gesture. No posturing, no bravado. Just quiet obedience and full cooperation. That was how one survived in front of such a man.
If this arrogant little upstart ended up angering the man seated at the head of the table—the man who hadn't said a word yet, then the rest of them might as well pack their bags and go home. There'd be no need for any of them here.
Tytos Blackwood understood very clearly that Clay Manderly alone was more than capable of handling those two thousand Vale soldiers, who had long since lost their edge. The only reason he'd brought along the rest of them was because he no longer cared for military glory. Whatever spoils they earned would be shared, sure, but to Clay, it hardly mattered.
And now this nobody dared step up and try to stick his fingers into Clay Manderly's military command?
Tytos silently prayed that Clay wouldn't connect this idiot to him—that he wouldn't mistake the boy for some kind of envoy, sent by Tytos to test the waters.
If that happened, then he was truly doomed.
Therefore, right now, the top priority was simple: distance himself from this thick-skulled fool as quickly and as clearly as possible.
"You," he barked, his voice sharp, "do you have any idea what you're saying?"
The Lord of Raventree Hall was, after all, a trueborn noble of the Riverlands, his bloodline as old and proud as any. The weight of his presence alone was more than enough to crush the spirit of a minor knight from a small southern house.
The moment the young knight felt that pressure in the Lord's tone, all his earlier arrogance vanished. His bravado deflated like a popped bladder.
But the pride of youth is a stubborn thing. Even after being glared down and silenced, the young knight still stiffened his neck and muttered under his breath, "Give me two thousand men, and I swear I'll crush the Vale army. If Clay Manderly could do it, then so can I."
What he got in response was a savage kick.
The Lord of Raventree Hall didn't hold back in the slightest. With all the strength he could muster, he drove his boot hard into the boy's side, sending the little bastard flying across the tent like a sack of grain.
"Shut your mouth! You don't know a damn thing!"
The knight from House Piper hit the ground with all the grace of a dead goose falling out of the sky. But before even a full second had passed, he sprang back up as if someone had jabbed him with a hot needle. His face turned a furious shade of red, and he pointed a trembling finger at Tytos Blackwood, his entire body shaking.
"Lord Blackwood, you—"
"You what? Huh? Who gave you the guts to talk like that?" Tytos roared, advancing on him with a fury that seemed to fill the entire tent. "Let me ask you something… do you even know where the enemy's two thousand troops are stationed?"
"I—"
"Shut up! I already know you don't!"
He didn't even pause before firing off the next question.
"Do you know their current level of readiness? Their formation, their morale, how many nights they've gone without proper rest?"
"Do you even understand the terrain north of the Red Fork? Do you know where the river bends, where the hills rise, where your men will bottleneck and die?"
"Do you know how to command troops? Have you ever led a real battle?"
"You don't know any of it. You don't even know the proper way to lead a cavalry charge. You think you can just shout and gallop in, and somehow the enemy will roll over and die? Is that your grand strategy?"
Tytos Blackwood was livid, his voice thunderous, each word sharper than the last.
"You're an idiot! Forget two thousand riders—give you four thousand and you'd still be toyed with like a fool by the Valemen army."
"Do you know why we all respect Lord Clay?" he growled, jabbing a finger toward the head of the table. "Because on the battlefield, he can do what none of the rest of us can. That's why he's the one commanding the army. Do you understand now?"
Clay listened quietly as Lord Tytos Blackwood unleashed his furious tirade. Through it all, he didn't offer the slightest reaction, nor did he speak a single word.
In truth, he understood perfectly well why the Lord had erupted like that. It wasn't simply about putting the foolish young knight in his place. No… Tytos was afraid. Afraid that Clay might seize upon this incident and use it as a pretext to assert more power than they were willing to give.
Yes, the command had been handed to him openly, with the Riverlands lords giving their nods and formal approval. The hilt of the blade was in his grasp. But that didn't mean they were truly prepared to let Clay Manderly march across the realm with their full military strength while they sat comfortably behind the lines, eating well and sleeping soundly.
They didn't have hearts that broad, nor the courage to go that far.
Because if Clay Manderly kept winning battle after battle, it would become impossible to say whose orders the army truly followed. Sooner or later, the question would rise: Was this still their army, or had it become his?
And the army… the army was the lifeblood of every noble house. The one thing they could never allow another to control. The one thing no lord, no matter how magnanimous, could afford to share.
So Tytos Blackwood had howled and raged, not just to distance himself from the blundering knight, but to signal where he stood. To reaffirm his own place, and protect what was his.
His storm of words had left the young knight from House Piper utterly dazed. Completely stunned.
Because he realized, with no small sense of dread, that he hadn't been able to answer a single question.
Inside the main war tent, the rest of the nobles exchanged glances, some thoughtful, others strange and unreadable. Meanwhile, the boy's face burned with shame. His cheeks flushed a deep red as he cast a nervous glance at Clay Manderly's expressionless face. And then, without another word, he turned and fled the tent in a panic.
To him, it felt like the most humiliating moment of his entire life.
But whatever storm churned inside his heart, no one else cared. His inner turmoil mattered little here. What mattered was that he had finally understood his place and chosen to leave.
Lord Blackwood, watching him go tactfully, finally let out a quiet breath of relief.
"Lord Clay," he began, "please don't take what happened just now to heart. I—"
Clay lifted a hand and waved him off, cutting him short before he could finish.
"I'm not interested in hearing that, Lord Blackwood," he said calmly. "Let's move straight to the matter at hand. I don't care about things like this. There will always be fools among us. I just hope, next time, you'll make sure there are fewer of them."
Since the commander himself had already extended a way out, Blackwood didn't hesitate for a second. He nodded quickly, seizing the offered grace without protest.
Clay glanced at him briefly, then let the conversation drop without another word.
Turning away, he stepped toward the long table in the center of the tent, where a large, detailed map had been carefully laid out. As he stepped up to it, he raised the baton in his hand and tapped it lightly against a marked location: Mummer's Ford.
And then, without pause, he began the formal discussion of their battle strategy.
"My Lords," Clay called out, his voice lifting just enough to command the attention of everyone present.
Around the tent, the murmuring fell silent. One by one, heads turned toward him.
He gave the map a few light taps with the tip of his baton, the crisp rustle of parchment ringing clearly through the quiet room. Then, in a steady voice, he began to speak.
"Our army is here now, fully assembled… ten thousand strong. Four thousand cavalry and six thousand infantry. Our numbers are solid, and our supplies are in good shape."
He let that sink in for a moment before continuing, calm and composed.
"The enemy has no more than two thousand men. All of them cavalry. From what I can tell, they're likely low on food… half-starved, even."
Clay gave this short summary of their current situation, clear and to the point. Then he pressed on, his tone unwavering.
"Along the route from Seaguard to Mummer's Ford, there are no large castles or strongholds, apart from Raventree Hall, that can support a force of that size, offer shelter, or replenish their grain stores. And we've received no messages or warnings from Raventree Hall."
He looked up, his expression steady.
"That means they haven't made a move on the Hall."
"So…"
With a smooth, practiced motion, Clay used the baton to draw a boundary on the map, marking out a region north of the Red Fork, west of the Blue Fork, and south of Seaguard. The movement was clean and deliberate, the meaning unmistakable.
"Our enemy is definitely somewhere within this area."
"But," he added, pausing for just a breath, "this stretch of land isn't exactly small. Even if we split up and sent all ten thousand of our men combing through it, there's still no guarantee we'd find them in time. Which means, I'm issuing orders now."
The moment the word "orders" left his lips, every noble in the tent straightened up almost instinctively. Expressions sharpened, the air tense with focus. Clay's voice remained calm, but it carried weight.
"Lord Tytos Blackwood."
"My lord!" came the immediate reply.
"I'm assigning you command of our entire infantry force. I want you positioned at Mummer's Ford. Build full defensive fortifications facing north. I don't care how you do it, but if the enemy tries to come through your section, not a single one of them gets past you. Understand?"
"Yes, Lord Clay!"
Clay gave a brief nod of approval.
"Lord Norbert Vance."
"My lord!"
"I'm leaving five hundred cavalrymen under your command. You'll hold position north of the Red Fork. You have two missions."
He raised one finger.
"First, send out scouts. I want eyes everywhere. Track the enemy. If you spot any movement, report it to Lord Blackwood immediately so he can prepare."
Then he raised a second.
"Second, if the enemy tries to fall back across the Red Fork, or decides to avoid Mummer's Ford altogether, it's your job to drive them straight into the trap we've set. Do you understand what I'm asking?"
After hearing Lord Norbert Vance's loud and earnest promise, Clay gave gave another nod, then fell silent for a moment as he considered the current arrangement in his mind.
He had three thousand five hundred cavalrymen remaining. He would lead them north himself. Those two thousand enemy riders still hiding somewhere out there — he would be the one to drag them into the light.
But right now, the entire northern stretch of land was still reeling from the effects of a heavy snowstorm that had just passed through. The temperature had started to rise again, and everything was in that miserable thawing phase, snow melting into thick, sticky mud. The once solid ground had turned into a sprawling, wet quagmire. Under these conditions, cavalry movement was bound to be severely slowed.
And that was the real risk. With the terrain in such a state, it was entirely possible that he and his men might ride right past those two thousand stragglers without ever knowing it.
That was exactly why Clay had insisted on leaving six thousand infantry behind.
The soldiers from the Vale had turned into desperate men. Every last one of them was a fugitive now, desperate to get home, willing to risk anything. If Clay failed to find them, if they managed to slip past him and flee south through Mummer's Ford… then this entire operation would mean nothing.
It would all be for nothing.
That was why a blocking force had to be stationed at the ford, the only viable crossing point for anyone trying to flee south or east. It was their last line of defense, their final safety net.
And truth be told, two thousand men wasn't a large enough force to pose a serious threat. But even so, the Riverlands infantry had never been known for its strength. If it came to a real fight, Clay wasn't about to take a gamble on whether they could hold the line.
Six thousand infantry. That was the safest bet.
Any more than that, though, and Edmure Tully would probably blow a fuse. Clay had already pushed him far enough for one day, and there was no need to stir things up any further.
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After the war council broke up, Clay turned down the invitation to join the Riverlands nobles for whatever kind of feast they had planned.
To be honest, camp banquets never held much appeal for him. Aside from food, drink, and the usual dirty jokes, there wasn't much going on.
The Vale soldiers, during their raids, had behaved like thugs. When they swept through the Riverlands, they didn't just strike at enemy troops, they'd also killed a lot of merchants who'd only come hoping to do business. The kind of people Clay's army would've welcomed.
The Vale troops got what they wanted in the moment, sure. But they'd also ruined everything in the long run. Now, the army camps were quiet enough to hear birdsong, and even the birds sounded bored. There was nothing. No entertainment, no distractions, nothing to lift morale.
Clay didn't mind. He had no interest in the kind of amusements Westerosi merchants liked to peddle anyway.
But the rank-and-file soldiers? They felt it.
He'd seen the way they looked around camp with nothing to do. The way they stared into fires or picked fights out of boredom. The way silence hung over them like fog.
And the more he thought about it, the more he understood.
Most of these men, long before they ever joined the army, had lived hard and joyless lives. Backbreaking labor. Empty stomachs. No future to call their own. The small pleasures they found here, even the foolish ones, carried real meaning for them.
So… yeah. He'd just found another good reason to wipe out the Vale force once and for all.
————————————————————
The army spent the next full day resting in place.
Clay personally inspected the defensive line that Lord Tytos Blackwood had built at the ford. It passed muster. Solid enough, well-positioned. Nothing glaringly wrong.
And so, at first light the following morning, he led his three thousand five hundred cavalrymen out of camp and began the march north.
This time, they didn't bring much food.
There were two reasons for that. First, their main camp was still right there at Mummer's Ford. If supplies ran low, they could always swing back and resupply without much trouble.
Second, and more importantly, the terrain up north was a disaster. The roads, the plains, even the smallest trails were nothing but sucking mud. If they wanted to stay fast and ready to fight, Clay had to find a way to lighten the load on his cavalry.
Because if they did manage to find the enemy, and those two thousand Vale men decided to run… then every extra pound they carried would matter.
And Clay wasn't about to lose a chase because his horses were too tired to gallop.
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[Chapter End's]
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