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The ground was far too wet. Thick, heavy mud clung stubbornly to every hoofprint, only to be violently flung aside as iron horseshoes struck down hard, tearing open the soaked earth again and again.
For nearly three full days now, the thirty-five hundred cavalrymen under Clay's command had been riding deep into the Trident River basin.
It was a vast plain, endless and open at first glance, but dense patches of woodland dotted the landscape, breaking the line of sight again and again. Worse still, the aftermath of a recent heavy snowfall had left behind treacherous trails of half-melted slush and deep, clinging muck. These conditions made it nearly impossible to track the enemy's movements. Any trace they might have left behind was swiftly swallowed by the mud, erased before it could be found.
Left with no better option, Clay had to personally select the strongest, most enduring warhorses in the army, sending them out with Christen to scout the area in all directions.
By rights, someone like Clay, Westeros's very first "Witcher," ought to have been a master of tracking. That was a skill that came naturally to men like him. But the problem was, in the real world, commanders didn't get the luxury of riding off alone to sniff out trails in the mud. His status and responsibilities didn't allow for that kind of reckless freedom.
And let's be honest… if the army really did lose sight of its commander for even a day, things would fall apart fast. The whole force might just dissolve right there on the spot, every soldier wandering off in a panic to find their own way home.
Right now, Clay and his men were positioned roughly due south of the Fairmarket, and to the east of Raventree Hall.
After crossing the Red Fork, Clay had led the army westward, hugging the river's edge as they searched along its banks.
That was the most likely place to spot enemy tracks… close to water. If the Vale men were moving at all, they'd need a water source to survive. That made this stretch of the river the most promising lead.
In the earlier days of the march, when snow still clung to the earth, the men could at least scoop up fistfuls to melt down for water. But now, the thaw had progressed too far, and fresh snowmelt was becoming harder and harder to find. The water they needed wasn't falling from the sky anymore… it had to come from the river.
Clay knew the Vale folk. He had come back from the north himself, and he understood exactly what they would be thinking.
They'd want to reach the Red Fork as quickly as possible, then follow its flow. The moment they found a crossing, whether it be a ford, a shallow streambed, or even just a cluster of stones poking above the water, they would seize the chance and cross without hesitation.
Every moment they remained on the northern bank was another moment closer to disaster.
That was why, after crossing the river, Clay had also kept to its edge, scouring both banks as he went.
But it was all in vain. All his searching, all his careful strategies, none of it had paid off.
Eventually, a new thought occurred to Clay, one that gave him pause.
Maybe these people were moving slower than he'd originally assumed. Maybe, just maybe, they hadn't even reached the Red Fork yet. Maybe they were still out there, somewhere to the north, stumbling through woods and muck, still hoping the river would come into sight.
Overhead, the sun hung high in the sky, casting pale golden light across the muddied landscape. It was the designated rest hour.
Clay dismounted, boots sinking lightly into the damp ground. One of his personal guards had already stepped forward, setting down a simple wooden stool beside him. It was crude, roughly fashioned, but steady beneath its worn legs.
A commander ought to be treated like one, especially when he held command over more than ten thousand men. There were some tasks Clay didn't even need to lift a finger for anymore. Without asking, someone would have already done it for him.
Sunlight draped across his shoulders, tracing a warm line along the back of his cloak. Yet despite the clear skies, there was little warmth to be found. In the past, during breaks like this, the camp had always been lively. Soldiers would be pacing, stretching, or sharpening their blades. There would be movement, noise, the pulse of life.
But now, things were different.
Whether they were men from House Manderly or bannermen from the Riverlands with their patchwork of family sigils, all of them gathered in small, scattered groups, huddling together in corners, doing their best to find shelter from the cold wind.
A few had even managed to dig up a handful of dry twigs and brittle leaves, no one knew exactly where they found them, and used them to start a small fire. The moment the flames took, more soldiers drifted toward the warmth, forming a tight circle around it like moths drawn to a flickering lantern.
There was no helping it. The cold had simply become too much to bear. Or rather, for this time of year, in the heart of summer, such temperatures were almost unbearable for the Riverlands.
"Shame I can't make a proper thermometer," Clay muttered under his breath, voice so soft that not even the guard beside him could hear. "No way to tell exactly how cold it is right now."
"Going by how it feels, though… it's definitely not above ten degrees."
He exhaled slowly, his breath curling faintly in the air, and added with a touch of irritation, "Such a pain. One of these days, I swear, I'll take the Citadel for myself. Then I'll have those lazy old maesters study what real knowledge actually like."
His tone was quiet, casual, almost like a man speaking to himself out of habit rather than expectation. No one around him caught the words. They were meant for his ears alone.
The air was thick with a pungent, earthy stench, with rot and decay pressed into every breath he took.
It was the natural scent of the grasslands, of course, the smell that always came with damp meadows. But this year's sudden snow, followed by rapid melting and pools of stagnant water, had accelerated the decomposition, stirring up something far worse. The ground reeked. It was like the land itself was rotting beneath their feet.
Clay wrinkled his nose slightly, about to look away, when something on the horizon caught his eye.
Four cavalrymen… charging fast!
His gaze narrowed, and in the next moment, his entire body sharpened, like a blade pulled taut. The sudden shift in posture betrayed a silent alertness, even before the others noticed anything at all.
Clay's vision, enhanced after the mutation, was far sharper than that of any ordinary man. And today, with the air so clear and crisp, he could see much farther than usual.
Even from a considerable distance, he recognized them. These weren't just any cavalrymen, they were scouts. His own scouts, the ones he'd sent out earlier.
Leading the charge at the front was Christen Manderly… his personal guard and commander of the scout regiment.
Clay knew very well that this wasn't the time they were supposed to be back.
When scouts were sent out, there was never any strict requirement for them to return the same day. In fact, under normal orders, Clay allowed up to three full days for a round trip, giving them enough time to search thoroughly and return safely with their report.
So, for them to come back this early… and in such a hurry, there could only be one explanation.
Unless that kid had suddenly lost his mind and was foolish enough to disobey direct orders, which Clay seriously doubted, then it had to mean they had found something.
Rising smoothly from the stool, Clay brushed the dust from his cloak, took a breath to center himself, and with one swift motion, swung himself up onto his horse.
The black stallion, well-trained and deeply attuned to its rider, responded immediately. The moment Clay pressed his legs gently into its flanks, the horse moved forward without hesitation, picking up speed as it galloped to meet the oncoming riders.
Christen reached him in no time. With a sharp tug on the reins, he brought his own mount to an abrupt stop, the horse rearing slightly with a whinny of protest. But Christen paid it no mind.
Grinning from ear to ear, eyes shining with uncontainable excitement, he called out at the top of his lungs, "Lord Clay! We found them! We've got them!"
His voice rang across the field, loud and eager, filled with pure exhilaration.
They had been wandering through these meadows for days now, all in the hope of tracking down those damned Vale cowards. So of course, the moment Christen's shout echoed through the camp, every head turned toward the sound.
Soldiers of every rank, from Manderly men to Riverlands bannermen, all looked up as one. The spark of hope flickered in their eyes like a long-lost flame rekindled. They had been waiting for this moment… craving it.
Watching Christen's face stretch into an ecstatic grin, his mouth nearly splitting to the ears, Clay raised an eyebrow and asked calmly, voice even and unreadable, "So, you found them? The Vale men… you've confirmed their location?"
"Yes, my lord!" Christen's reply came instantly, with unwavering certainty.
Clay lifted a hand slightly, palm down, signaling for him to lower his voice.
Only then did Christen realize how loud he'd been, and with a sheepish grin, he gave a small nod of apology before continuing more quietly, "My lord, we kept pushing west with the scouts, and eventually, we passed that horseshoe-shaped grove full of poplars… you remember the one, right?"
Clay nodded. He did. The first time he'd returned with the army, they had taken a brief rest in that very forest, so the place was still clear in his mind.
"Well, go on."
"We'd already searched that area before, and thought it was clear," Christen continued, his voice lowering as the tale grew more focused, "but… you know how sharp our noses are. Something about it just felt off to me. Like there was a scent in the air that didn't belong."
"So I turned my brothers around and had the men circle back."
"And sure enough… we found fresh horse droppings."
"They tried to be careful, I'll give them that. The stuff was hidden, covered up as best they could. But not good enough. There were still signs."
"The quantity wasn't much, so it clearly wasn't from a large cavalry force. But even so, it meant someone had definitely passed through there. Recently."
"So I started sweeping the area again, this time slow and close to the ground. And sure enough, we found them. Just a few faint hoofprints, barely visible in the soft earth."
"I remember thinking then, maybe we weren't the only ones out here."
As Christen said this, his confidence was practically glowing off him. Clearly, things had gone exactly the way he'd hoped, and this time, his gut had been right.
"I followed the tracks northwest," he said, eyes gleaming now, "just kept moving in that direction, tracking step by step."
"We crossed two hills, and just beyond the second one, I saw them. Vale sentries. Their forward pickets, set up ahead of their main force."
By now, the young witcher's excitement could no longer be contained. His pride spilled from every word. He had done it… and he knew it.
"I moved in on my own, staying low. Used the trees as cover, crept up as close as I could without being seen."
"Lord Clay, I saw them. Their whole camp. I'd say it's around two thousand strong. All of them gathered in that one spot, resting."
"Once I confirmed the count and position, I turned around and rode straight back."
Clay nodded slowly, absorbing the report with practiced calm. Then he asked, "They didn't spot you, did they? This is open plain, after all."
"No, milord!" Christen answered without hesitation. "Vale scouts have never been much good. And judging by what I saw, they're in pretty bad shape. Every man out there, whether they were scouts or just regular soldiers, looked like they were doing everything they could not to move. Honestly, it looked like they were trying to save every bit of strength they had left."
Clay understood. He didn't doubt Christen's information, not for a moment. The boy had been on enough scouting missions to know what he was doing. He had the experience. Even if there was a small mistake somewhere, it wouldn't be a fatal one.
"So," Clay murmured, "they're to the northwest of us, then?"
He replayed Christen's report in his mind, each detail slotting into place like pieces on a map. In just a few moments, the full picture emerged.
Before the campaign had even begun, Clay had spent long, solitary hours poring over the terrain of this battlefield, learning every hill and hollow like the back of his hand. He knew this land better than most of the men who lived on it.
So even without Christen spelling it out completely, Clay already knew exactly where the Vale army was now camped.
"The main host is slower," he said to himself, thinking aloud. "If we set out now, we'll reach them by tomorrow afternoon."
A quiet hush fell around him, broken only by the soft snort of his horse and the distant rustle of wind through the grass.
————————————————————
In truth, Clay had been lucky.
With an area this vast, the chances of two armies stumbling upon each other were almost nonexistent. There was simply too much space, too many places to get lost in. Finding one another out here was like trying to catch smoke with your bare hands.
But fate had chosen to tilt the scales.
One of the scouts sent out by Lord Lyonel had been spotted by Clay's men. Rather than letting him slip away, Christen and his team had silently followed him. Through that one man, they had tracked the Vale army straight to its heart.
Lyonel Cobray, Lord of Heart's Home, was also out of options. From the moment they had left Oldstone, they had already run out of food.
They had pushed southeast, driven by nothing but sheer will, until the moment finally came when the army could no longer pretend. A decision had to be made.
The half-rotted fruit they scraped from the forest floor, and the little that still clung to the trees, offered almost nothing. Not in energy, not in nourishment, and certainly not for a force of two thousand starving men.
The soldiers could barely speak anymore. Hunger had hollowed them out. They marched with blank eyes and trembling legs, moving forward only because the idea of home still flickered in the backs of their minds—something small and quiet to keep them going, step by step, toward the Blood Gate.
But hope couldn't feed them. And willpower couldn't fill their stomachs.
At last, the entire army came to a stop, not by command, but because they could not move another inch.
And so, Lord Lyonel Cobray gave the only command left to him.
Kill the horses!
The army had gone north, and now came crawling south again, exhausted and worn thin. Of the twenty-five hundred warhorses that Lord Lyonel Cobray had brought with him, nearly a thousand were already gone.
It wasn't surprising. Warhorses were far more delicate than most people imagined. The smallest illness, a pulled tendon, a bad fall… any of it could bring the entire beast down.
Lord Lyonel counted them again, one by one. The numbers came back just over sixteen hundred.
Barely more than the number of cavalrymen still under his command.
When they had first split from Yohn Royce's force at Mummer's Ford, he had commanded a full two thousand riders. Fresh, armed, and accounted for, every last one of them.
Now, between accidents, disease, hunger, and the endless strain of the road, he had lost over five hundred men.
Many had simply collapsed, too weak to go on. One by one, they had fallen behind. And Lyonel hadn't dared to stop and wait… not even once.
Because he knew. He knew exactly how bad things were. If even the main host could barely hold together, what chance did the stragglers have?
The Lord of Heart's Home let out a long, weary sigh.
He already knew what would follow. When this war was over, if it ever ended, there would be mourning songs sung across the Vale again, just like in the old days. Every village, every holdfast, would have its own grief to carry.
He did not know exactly what Yohn Royce had faced out there, but of one thing he was now certain.
His army had already walked straight into a trap. And the trap had been set and baited long ago, by Clay Manderly.
Still, none of it mattered if they couldn't survive the day.
"Brother," said a calm, steady voice beside him. "Kill the horses. If you don't, a lot of the men won't even live to see nightfall."
It was Lyn Cobray who spoke, sword still in hand. The famed Lady Forlorn. Her name was known across the Seven Kingdoms, and the Valyrian steel in his grasp gleamed darkly in the gray light.
There was blood on his blade, fresh and red. Just minutes ago, he had used it to end a soldier's suffering. The man's wounds had festered, fever had taken his mind, and there had been nothing more anyone could do.
Half the men in this army wore Cobray colors. They were family, kin, retainers of a house already deep in decline. And every man who died out here was more than just a fallen soldier. Each one was a loss the house could scarcely bear.
But still, there was no other way forward.
Just as Lyonel opened his mouth to speak, ready to give the grim command, to kill the horses and fill their stomachs, he felt it. Something shifted in the air. An instinct flared, sharp and sudden, like a spark in the dark.
He froze. Then he whipped around, gaze snapping to the distant hilltop.
His sword slipped free of its sheath in a sharp, fluid motion.
He understood!
Someone out there wasn't even going to let him finish this last meal.
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