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"Lord Clay, we have a total of five thousand four hundred sixty-four cavalrymen under your command. Of those, one thousand four hundred sixty-four remain stationed at the camp outside Stone Hedge. The other four thousand are all assembled here and await your orders."
The one speaking was Clay's personal guard, Christen, who had led two thousand elite cavalrymen from House Manderly to reinforce the front lines.
Originally, Christen had planned to cut off Yohn Royce's retreat, anticipating the old man would try to flee eastward. But to his surprise, the seasoned knight had instead turned south, completely evading the ambush Christen had carefully prepared.
With no choice, Christen brought his cavalry to rendezvous with Clay instead.
And now that the main force from his own house had arrived, Clay found himself, at least on paper, in command of nearly thirty thousand soldiers across both regions.
However, facing a group of Vale cavalrymen abandoned by Yohn Royce and still lingering in the north, using foot soldiers to block their path was proving ineffective.
The Riverlands were thick with vegetation, especially here in the Trident region. The terrain made it easy for an army to disappear, no matter how large. Even if Clay were to pull nearly all twenty thousand men from Stone Hedge and march them northward, scattering them across such an immense stretch of land would barely create a ripple.
Once the forces were spread thin, the enemy would only need to strike at one vulnerable point after another. Piece by piece, they could dismantle the larger army.
He couldn't allow this battered remnant from the Vale to regain momentum, or worse, try something reckless like launching a surprise counterattack with their dwindling strength.
Still, infantry had their use. Their strength lay not in pursuit or ambushes, but in defending fixed positions, and that was exactly what Clay needed them to do.
So, from the twenty thousand stationed at Stone Hedge, Clay carefully selected six thousand infantrymen. Then, combining that force with all the cavalry he could muster, leaving only the bare minimum behind to protect the camp, he set forth.
A grand force of ten thousand, in one sweeping motion, struck camp and began marching north.
To an outsider, it might seem as though Clay Manderly was being overly cautious, dispatching ten thousand troops to crush a mere two thousand. But in truth, he was not being overly cautious at all.
Because this time, like his enemy, he was essentially blind on the battlefield.
All he had to rely on was a single letter from Lord Mallister, informing him that the enemy had already left Seagard. Beyond that, he knew nothing… nothing about the enemy's current location, or their morale.
And according to Clay's estimates, assuming the Vale forces had no means of securing fresh supplies, they were likely already half-starved by now.
Anyone with even a shred of military knowledge would know that a desperate army, cornered and driven by hunger, could be far more dangerous than one fighting for glory or gold.
These men weren't wielding their swords for honor, nor for riches. They were fighting simply to stay alive.
And when survival becomes the only goal, when death is just a breath away, a man becomes something else entirely. That kind of desperation can give rise to a terrifying strength.
So no, they must never be underestimated.
And there was another concern. Clay didn't have the luxury of time like he had during the last campaign.
If these two thousand men managed to bog him down again with some clever trick, he would be unable to return south in time should something go wrong.
After all, Robb Stark was still holed up in Harrenhal, being surrounded and under siege.
If Clay Manderly, the commander who had already turned the tide and now commanded nearly thirty thousand troops, were seen wandering the northern wilderness while his liege lord remained embattled in the south… well, it would not reflect well on him.
Therefore, Clay set a clear and unwavering objective for this campaign:
He would sweep through the north like a cleansing fire. Strike fast. Strike hard. Locate the enemy and annihilate them in a single, decisive engagement. Once and for all, he would wipe away the threat looming in the northern reaches.
Only then would he be free to turn his full gaze southward, whether to defend or to strike.
There could be no delay. The entire matter had to be resolved within ten days!
As the army began to move in earnest, Clay's command team finally started to look more organized and disciplined. His personal retinue of officers now carried the air of true authority.
Through a steady, hands-on command style, he had taken full control over the Riverlands lords who rode beneath his banners. Even Edmure Tully, the nominal Lord Paramount of the Trident, had in practice been stripped of all actual power.
Thus, when Clay raised his standards again, especially this time bringing ten thousand troops against an enemy of barely two thousand, not a single soul across the Riverlands believed he could lose.
It was a sure thing. But more importantly, it was a golden opportunity to earn military merit and glory.
Who wouldn't want a piece of that?
From great lords to minor knights, the nobles of the Riverlands were suddenly all eager and ablaze with ambition.
There was one good thing about this army, at least on the battlefield: merit was rewarded by skill. If you could fight, you'd rise. The path to honor and advancement was clear.
And everyone knew one thing; Clay Manderly was a better commander than the rest of them combined.
So what was there to hesitate about?
They followed closely at his heels, hoping to seize a few scraps of glory, perhaps a few spoils, or a smattering of honor, if fortune spilled from Clay's overflowing bowl.
In the days before the army set out, Clay found himself constantly surrounded, hemmed in on all sides by nobles both great and small, pestering him without pause.
House Blackwood, House Mooton, House Piper — every house sent envoys or came in person. Young heirs, grizzled veterans, ambitious sons. Each one angling for a place in Clay's northern campaign, all vying for favor.
To be honest, Clay found the whole affair rather headache-inducing. He didn't know any of these Riverlands lords. Who was who, what their strengths were, what they were actually capable of. He had no clue.
So, rather than struggle with it, he simply threw the entire mess to Edmure Tully, who'd been quietly pushed to the sidelines ever since arriving at Stone Hedge and was practically drawing circles in the corner out of boredom.
After all, these were Edmure's people. He knew them far better than Clay ever would.
Clay wasn't opposed to sharing credit with others. In truth, he didn't care for such credit at all.
If the time had been right, would Clay Manderly even be wasting his breath with these people?
Another outburst or two, and one breath of dragonflame would've taught them all how to behave.
But sadly, it still wasn't the right time.
In the end, Clay only brought along Lord Titus Blackwood of Raventree Hall. As for the rest, he let things play out however they would.
He chose to bring the Lord of Raventree for two reasons. First, because he had a good relationship with him, and among the Riverlands nobility, Titus held considerable influence and prestige.
And second… well, if those two thousand desperate horsemen got truly reckless and decided to attack Raventree Hall in a frenzy, then at least by keeping Lord Titus at his side, Clay would have someone to handle the aftermath, should things go wrong.
On the eighth day of the sixth month in the year 300 of the Aegon Calendar, the great host rumbled forth from the massive encampment outside Stone Hedge.
Clay himself led four thousand cavalry ahead of the main force. Upon reaching Mummer's Ford, he halted and established camp, waiting for the infantry under Lord Titus Blackwood to catch up.
Stone Hedge wasn't far from Mummer's Ford. With their strength restored and the horses well-fed and rested, the cavalry needed only three days to arrive at the same crossing over the Red Fork that Clay had passed back and forth across several times before.
The river still flowed in its quiet, steady way, its waters free of ice. The temperatures hadn't yet fallen low enough to freeze it over. But for the soldiers who still hadn't been issued proper winter clothing, the chill was hard to endure all the same.
They had pushed to reach Mummer's Ford early, all to seize control of the crossing ahead of time.
From the moment the raven had flown from Lord Mellister to Riverrun, to when Clay learned of the news, and then until the army finally set out, that entire chain of events had taken no small amount of time.
But Clay had marched through the Trident before. He knew better than anyone how fast cavalry could move through these lands.
Even if the recent blizzard had slowed down that force of two thousand riders, even if the snow had bogged their southern advance… they couldn't afford to delay any further.
If Clay took his time now, moving at a leisurely pace, and those horsemen had already slipped past Mummer's Ford ahead of him, then all of this… this entire campaign, would amount to nothing more than a dance performed for the blind.
He had to close that gap immediately. Block off that route before it was too late, before all their efforts became wasted.
"Lord Clay, with snow this deep and heavy, those two thousand men… they've got no supply lines behind them. Cavalry can only carry so much dry rations, after all," someone said.
"You remember Yohn Royce's troops, my lord. They moved fast, sure, but they were light riders with barely any baggage trains."
Evening was falling. The last light of day bled across the plains of the Riverlands like spilled wine, the setting sun casting a bloody hue over the landscape. The snow had only just begun to melt, leaving everything looking bleak and barren under the dying light.
Near the command tent in the heart of camp, Christen had just finished directing the soldiers as they built a large bonfire. Then, brushing the cold from his gloves, he made his way over to his lord, who sat alone on a tree stump, staring into the flames with a far-off look in his eyes.
He lowered his voice as he spoke.
Clay blinked and came back to himself. He had, in truth, been thinking about the very same problem just now. He gave a small nod and replied softly.
"You're right. They're all light cavalry. Their supplies are limited. And north of the Red Fork? There's no food up there. Nothing that could sustain them."
He fell quiet for a moment, then his lips curled faintly as he continued, his voice carrying the weight of something darker, "So you see, Christen… the situation up north might be even more interesting than we imagined."
"Two thousand men, swords in hand, still breathing… and no food. So tell me… what do you think they're going to do?"
Christen, Clay's head guard, froze slightly at those words. Something clicked behind his eyes, and his face began to turn ugly.
"My lord… they wouldn't try to attack Raventree Hall, would they?"
Clay raised a hand and waved it lightly, cutting him off mid-sentence. He shook his head slowly, his voice low and unreadable.
"I don't know, Christen. I don't know what they've done, or whether they'll need to kneel before the gods and beg forgiveness for their sins. But that's not our concern."
"What matters, what we must do, is send every last one of them to meet the gods. Do you understand?"
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Two days later, Lord Titus Blackwood of Raventree Hall arrived at the crossing at Mummer's Ford, leading a host of six thousand infantry.
He entered the command tent with long, powerful strides, his black cloak, made from the feathers of ravens, rippling behind him. There, beneath the heavy canvas of the tent, he presented himself to the commander of the ten-thousand-strong army.
"Lord Clay," he said, "our infantry has fully assembled. Supplies and rations are fully stocked, we have enough to sustain the army for a full month."
Inside the tent, the air was thick with tension. The space was already packed with nobles — men of House Manderly and lords of the Riverlands alike. From knights to highborn lords, they stood shoulder to shoulder beneath the flickering torchlight.
And the moment Lord Blackwood finished speaking, a young man from the Riverlands, unable to hold back any longer, suddenly raised his voice and shouted:
"My lord, our army is strong and well-prepared! Now's the time to strike hard and fast, cross the Red Fork in one decisive push, and wipe out every last one of those damned Vale bastards!"
Clay glanced over. The voice came from a young knight, likely one of the landed knights from Pinkmaiden.
The boy looked quite pleased with himself, proud to be the first to speak. He straightened his back and threw a smug look around the tent, clearly enjoying the attention. But when he saw that Clay had said nothing in response, he pressed on, shouting even louder:
"Give me two thousand riders, my lord! I'll lead them in myself and come back with Lyonel Corbray's head as a gift for you!"
The moment those words left his mouth, the tent fell utterly silent.
Still riding the high of his fantasy, the young man didn't notice the change in atmosphere. In his mind, he was already leading a glorious charge into the Vale, breaking the enemy lines in a single blow, and becoming the toast of the entire noble court.
But what he failed to realize was that everyone else around him was now watching him with a very different expression.
It was the look people gave a fool, one so lost in his own performance that he didn't even realize he was making a spectacle of himself.
Clay didn't say anything. He'd seen plenty of this back at Stone Hedge.
During that time, he'd been swarmed by countless fools who had no sense of reality, all of them swaggering in with big words and bigger egos. It didn't take more than a few of them to completely disrupt the order of the ten thousand men under his command.
Clay had learned his lesson then.
After everything, it turned out he was the one doing all the real work, while the people who made the decisions were a bunch of empty-headed heirs and second sons who had never fought a real battle in their lives.
That was why, this time, he let Edmure Tully choose the Riverlands men who would accompany him. And before the army set out, he'd even asked Lord Titus Blackwood to review the list again.
Yet even after all that… this kind of clown still managed to slip through.
Clay remained silent, but not everyone had his patience.
As the man responsible for selecting these soldiers, Lord Titus Blackwood's face immediately darkened. He turned sharply and stepped toward the overeager young knight, closing the distance between them in just a few strides.
Now they stood almost nose to nose, and on Lord Blackwood's weathered face, hard and lined like the bark of an old oak, there flashed a look that was anything but kind.
A cold, dangerous gleam lit his eyes.
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