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After a long day of forced marching, Clay and his men finally arrived at the southeastern edge of where the Vale soldiers had halted.
The army took shelter behind a low hill, using its gentle slope to conceal their presence as best they could.
But Clay knew this was not a position they could hold for long. The distance was far too close… far from safe. The only reason they hadn't been discovered yet was because the Vale soldiers were still in a disorganized state. Their scouts were sluggish, and their patrol routes short.
If the Vale forces recovered their usual vigilance and resumed regular patrols, then unless Clay's side covered their tracks flawlessly, it would only be a matter of time before they were exposed. Their discovery would be inevitable… just a question of when.
This was not a campaign that could afford delays. Clay had no intention of being drawn into a slow, grinding battle with the Valemens. This fight was meant to be a thunderclap, a single, overwhelming strike.
Both sides were dancing in the mud, and if anyone's movements faltered, if their timing slipped even slightly, they would lose their footing and be swallowed by the mire, dragged down into chaos and humiliation.
So Clay did not waste a single moment. As soon as everything was in place, he gave the order to attack.
Three thousand five hundred cavalrymen surged forward, not a single rider held back in reserve. They broke into seven square formations, each consisting of about five hundred horsemen, and advanced from three directions: east, south, and north. All seven formations converged on the Vale encampment, which had been thrown together in haste and was crude in design.
The thunder of hooves gave the enemy a sliver of warning, but it was far too little and far too late. In cavalry warfare, a handful of seconds could mean the difference between life and death. The Vale soldiers had been caught completely off guard.
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"Move! Now! Get on your horses, quickly!"
Lyonel Cobray, Lord of Heart's Home, sprang to his feet from beside the campfire where he had been resting. His hand shot to the steel sword at his hip, drawing it with practiced ease as he spun around and bellowed at the soldiers nearby — most of whom remained frozen, unable to grasp what was unfolding before them.
Because he saw it clearly.
At the head of the charging force, flying high and proud above the thundering cavalry, a banner cut through the wind.
A white merman wielding a golden trident on a blue-green field. It surged toward him like a curse, snapping in the air with terrible finality.
Seven hells… Clay Manderly. How could it be him?
Lord Lyonel Cobray could scarcely believe his eyes. This man should have been crushed by Yohn Royce and his three thousand troops. At the very least, he should have been driven off the field, scattered and broken.
So how in the name of the gods was Clay Manderly not only alive, but leading this charge, riding at the head of a cavalry force bearing down upon him?
Yohn Royce, you worthless piece of shit… what in the seven hells were you doing?
In that instant, Lord Cobray grasped the truth with cold, sinking certainty. There was no doubt now. The man thundering toward him with lethal intent, Clay Manderly, had not been defeated. Far from it. Whatever battle had taken place, Yohn Royce had gained nothing. He had failed to bring Clay down, failed even to slow him.
And worse still, after suffering a defeat, he had said nothing. He had not sent a raven. He had not dispatched a single rider to deliver a warning. He had simply allowed Lyonel and his two thousand men to charge blindly forward into enemy territory, alone, isolated, and abandoned without a word.
Lord Lyonel's gaze swept over the battlefield, and in a single glance, he saw the truth; there would be no escaping this.
The enemy had struck from three sides, and judging by the overwhelming number of riders pouring toward them, Clay's cavalry force was nearly twice the size of their own battered host.
More than three thousand mounted warriors, fresh and full of momentum, were charging hard. On the other side stood barely over a thousand exhausted survivors, men worn thin by fatigue and hunger. Many of them had not even had the chance to sit down for a proper meal.
Yohn Royce, you damned old bastard. You've ruined everything!
But cursing Royce wouldn't change anything now. Lyonel Cobray understood perfectly that what mattered at this moment was finding a way out, some sliver of hope to break through the encirclement.
He didn't even consider mounting a defense. That would've been delusional.
His troops, those who were still alive, had already been run ragged. They had lost nearly a quarter of their number just trying to flee, and the ones left standing had gone days without a full meal, worn down to skin and bone.
And the enemy?
From atop their warhorses, they looked like a different breed entirely. They waved their longswords high, brimming with energy and spirit. One glance at their movements, at the way they surged forward with strength and precision, and Lyonel could tell they were well-fed and well-supplied. Their logistics must have been near flawless.
There was no way to fake that kind of strength!
Nearby, his younger brother, Lyn Cobray, was gripping their family's Valyrian steel blade, Lady Forlorn. But it was clear he had no idea where to go or what to do.
After all, he was still young. And at this moment, all the arrogance and bravado he'd shown on their march north had completely vanished.
Leonor's eyes narrowed, noting with painful clarity that Lyn's hands, wrapped tightly around the hilt of the ancient sword, were trembling.
He understood. Of course he did. His brother was afraid. But this was no longer the time for fear. Not now, not when death was closing in on them from every direction.
"Lyn. Get on your horse. Break west and take the household guard with you."
Lyonel's voice rang out sharp and unyielding, like iron striking stone. By now, the Cobray household knights had closed in around them, loyal and disciplined, waiting for their command.
"But my lord… what about you?"
One of the men turned toward him, confusion and panic flashing in his eyes.
Lord Lyonel Cobray did not blink. He raised a hand and waved it sharply, his expression cold and resolute.
"Stop your damn whining. Take Lyn and ride west. Don't look back. No matter what happens, you must not let him, Clay Manderly, get his hands on you… or on our family's ancestral sword. Do whatever it takes to make it back to Heart's Home. Do you understand?"
The man opened his mouth to speak again, but before he could get a single word out, Lyonel stepped forward and kicked him hard in the chest, sending him sprawling into the muddy ground. His voice roared out, hoarse and angry.
"Get out of here! Don't waste my time, I've got Northerners to kill. Now move!"
He was forty years old, but there was nothing sluggish about him. His body moved with the strength and precision of a man still in his prime.
With a single, clean motion, he vaulted into the saddle and lashed out with his riding crop, striking aside the guards who reached for him as if to hold him back. As his horse surged forward, he turned briefly to glance behind him, just once, at his younger brother Lyn Cobray and at the long, dark blade of Valyrian steel gripped tightly in his trembling hands.
Then Lord Lyonel Cobray drove his horse eastward, riding straight toward what remained of his front-line troops who were still struggling to form ranks and defend their ground.
As he rode away, the commander of the household guard looked after him for a moment before turning quickly to the still-stunned Lyn Cobray. Without a word, he grabbed him by the arm and began hoisting him up onto his horse.
Everything around them had collapsed into chaos!
The entire battlefield had erupted in confusion and frantic motion.
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Seven square formations, each five hundred strong, had launched their attack from three sides: east, south, and north. But it was the eastern flank that bore the true weight of the assault, with fifteen hundred of Clay's finest, a concentrated core of disciplined fighters at the heart of the offensive.
And among them, leading the charge, were Clay's heavy cavalry, clad head to toe in glinting steel.
Under ideal conditions, given just a bit more time, Clay would have preferred to arrange them into perfect formation. Those solid, wall-like lines of plate-armored riders would have advanced in unison, moving as one like a living fortress.
But the battlefield today allowed no such luxury. The terrain was uneven, the enemy was still shifting, and every heartbeat counted.
To the north and south, the flanking forces were commanded by Ser Brynden Tully, the Blackfish, and a knight from House Vance, each leading their own squads. Their mission was clear and straightforward: strike hard and fast, pin the enemy in place, and support the center until the enemy line collapsed.
This was not a battle of annihilation. There was no need for it.
Clay had already made this clear to his commanders before the attack.
The reason was simple. From the moment he recognized that the Vale army was collapsing under logistical failure, Clay knew that all he needed was to shatter their cohesion. Break their lines, send them scattering… and the rest would take care of itself.
The Riverlands had already been stripped bare by scorched-earth tactics. Supplies were scarce, and food even scarcer. With winter creeping in and each night colder than the last, the land itself would soon finish what his army had started.
Of course, if the Vale soldiers had any sense, if they possessed the clarity of mind to drop their weapons and kneel, Clay had no desire to butcher them without cause.
But time was running short. The Seven Kingdoms might still afford to turn their swords against one another, but once the threat in the far north pressed its weight down on every man's throat like a mailed fist, Clay was eager to see just how many of these highborn lords would still find the strength to sneer and laugh.
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The ground was thick with mud, the kind that clung to hooves and sucked at legs with every step. But even so, as more than a thousand heavy cavalry surged forward, the sound of their charge still broke across the fields like thunder rolling in from the mountains.
It was a sound filled with weight and fury. It brought an overwhelming and almost unbearable pressure that vibrated through the air. It was a sound unlike anything else in the world, something that could not be copied and could never be mistaken.
The charge had begun from a distance, so at first, the riders did not immediately spur their horses into a full gallop.
Doing so would have placed enormous strain on the animals, wearing them down and shortening their usefulness in future battles.
Instead, the cavalry began with a steady trot. The pace was slow but deliberate, allowing the horses' muscles to warm and their blood to rise. The rhythm was measured, preparing both beast and rider for the brutal momentum that would soon follow.
Then, once they had drawn close enough to make out the enemy's formation, once the shapes of men and banners became clear against the murky light, the signal was given.
The cavalry leaned forward. Spurs bit into flanks. The trot turned into a gallop, and a wall of steel came roaring toward the Vale lines.
Normally, when heavy cavalry like Clay's central force were about to engage disciplined infantry formations or clash head-on with enemy horsemen, the weapon of choice would be the heavy lance. A long, solid spear as tall as a man, crafted from specially selected wood, designed for one purpose and one purpose only: to break through enemy lines with sheer force.
But looking at the Vale army ahead of him now, Clay could tell this wasn't the kind of enemy that needed to be broken by lance.
They weren't ready. Or if they had made preparations, those defenses were sloppy at best… more for show than actual use.
In this situation, lances would be wasted. Better to draw their swords and carve a path through with clean, efficient steel.
That, at least, was what Clay believed.
But…
As the charge neared its peak, just seconds from impact, Clay realized something wasn't quite right.
The Vale soldiers weren't scattering.
In fact, their will to fight burned brighter than he had expected… far brighter.
Out of nowhere, from the very front of the Vale formation, a banner suddenly surged upward through the air.
Three black ravens in flight, each holding a red heart, on a white field.
It was the sigil of House Corbray!
In that moment, all the chaos and panic within the Vale lines disappeared.
The murmurs died, the fear went silent. And within a remarkably short span of time, the Vale soldiers began to move. Their movement was not aimless, but sharp and disciplined, forming up with speed and precision that stunned even the charging cavalry.
Then, even though their horses were clearly slower, they still dared to face Clay's fully armored cavalry. They rode straight into the center of the oncoming tide without a single moment of hesitation.
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In that moment, with their backs against the wall and death bearing down on them, the Vale riders showed the world why they were once hailed as the finest cavalry in all the Seven Kingdoms.
They charged without hesitation, stubborn as stone, reckless to the point of madness.
A cavalry-on-cavalry clash was nothing like the more measured brutality of infantry combat. When two massive warhorses, each galloping at full speed with riders clad in steel, slammed into one another with no room to maneuver and no time to swerve, the result was never pretty.
If you were lucky, your horse might fall first. Its neck would snap under the impact, and it would hurl you through the air. You would hit the ground hard enough to rattle your bones, but you would still be able to breathe.
If you were not lucky, your bones would shatter. Tendons would tear. And death would come swiftly, offering no mercy at all.
This was the kind of fight no cavalryman wanted.
It was not clean. It was not tactical. It was raw and brutal, a gamble of flesh and steel where both sides lost far more than they gained.
The sound of it was sickening. It was low, wet, and heavy. The crunch of muscle and bone colliding left no room for poetry and offered no space for fantasy. It was the language of pain, spoken plainly and without filter.
Blood sprayed high into the air, catching the light as it scattered across the field, melting the last wisp of brittle snow that clung to the dead grass.
All around them, the battlefield rang with screams. Horses shrieked in sharp, metallic voices. Men cried out in agony as the final moments of their lives tore loose from their throats.
For a brief window of time, Clay's central cavalry had the upper hand.
Their charge, driven by sheer speed and crushing weight, tore open a gap in the Vale formation. They ripped straight through the front like an axe cutting through rotted wood.
Only two or three dozen riders on Clay's side lost their mounts in that brutal first impact, thrown down as horse and rider slammed into equally desperate enemies.
But in the very next heartbeat, that advantage began to fade.
Their armor, which had served them so well in the charge, now became their burden.
It was too heavy!
And those who had fallen? Without help, without someone or something to haul them up, they had no chance of getting back on their feet quickly.
And on a battlefield like this, if you could not stand back up, if you were trapped beneath the weight of your own armor, then there was only one fate waiting for you.
It was the kind of fate that needed no explanation.
The first wave of Clay's charge had run its course. His central cavalry, moving like a crashing tide, had smashed through the Vale formation and burst out the other side, breaking the line wide open.
The warhorses thundered forward, and the column regrouped across the western plain.
But the weight of their armor, which had been so effective in the charge, now became a burden once more. The horses felt it most. Every step grew harder than the one before, and each breath came more slowly beneath the crushing weight of steel.
Clay understood this too well. If he hoped to preserve his strength for what still lay ahead, his men and their mounts would need a moment to recover.
And that moment would be bought by the riders of the south and north.
It was their turn now.
The cavalry from the riverlands, flying the banners of House Tully and House Vance, began their charge, galloping out in force from the southern and northern wings. Their banners streamed behind them, catching the wind like flame.
Since their numbers far outmatched the enemy's, Clay had made one thing clear: the Vale must not be allowed to regroup. No breathing room. Press the attack.
The riverland host surged forward, and soon they too had closed the gap. Once again, the battlefield erupted into chaos as blades met at close quarters.
But this time, things did not go as smoothly.
Unlike Clay's knights, the southern and northern riders lacked the same discipline, the same training that came from years in the saddle under strict command.
According to the plan, each wing was meant to charge diagonally, aiming toward their own right. This maneuver would avoid any risk of friendly collision between the two flanks.
But plans are one thing. Execution is another.
In the heat of battle, the southern vanguard drifted off course. Their charge, already disorganized, veered from its intended path.
And just as Ser Brynden Tully, the Blackfish himself, led his northern riders into the enemy's line with lances raised high, he saw it.
The error…
The riders from the south, instead of flanking the enemy, were barreling straight toward his own formation.
"No! Wrong! You're off course!"
The old knight immediately recognized the mistake and bellowed with all the strength in his voice, trying to cut through the roar of hooves and steel and reach the friendly forces crashing toward him from the opposite side.
But it was too late.
What followed was nothing short of a disaster.
Two thousand cavalry from the riverlands had just charged into a trap. And it was a trap they had built with their own hands.
And the Vale didn't even have to spring it. The trap was already closed.
If there was a word for it, it was… natural. A perfect, unintentional encirclement. A gift delivered into the enemy's hands on a silver platter.
When the two friendly forces collided, their momentum vanished in an instant. Some riders managed to slow just in time. Others swerved away. A few even leapt clear from their saddles.
But all of them lost their speed!
And for cavalry, speed was life.
Surrounding them now were the battered remnants of the Vale army, both cavalry and infantry. These were men too exhausted to flee, yet not so broken that they could not still fight. They had already made peace with death and were prepared to stand their ground.
At this moment, the riverland cavalry had lost their momentum and could no longer rely on the force of a charge.
They were in deep trouble!
They had walked straight into an encirclement, and they did not even realize it.
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