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Having just finished leading a fierce charge, Clay, his entire body soaked in blood, now pulled the reins of his horse atop the western plains of the battlefield.
This time, unlike before, he had no advantage from the terrain. There was no high ground beneath his feet, no vantage point from which he could take in the full scope of the battle with a single sweeping glance.
And yet, even without a clear view, his instincts had already begun to sound the alarm, honed and sharpened by the unforgiving crucible of countless battles.
Something was wrong. The men from the Riverlands might be in trouble.
"Lord Clay, I didn't see Ser Brynden break through… What's going on in there?"
Christen, who had just taken two sword attacks head-on thanks to his Quen Sign, was now crouched off to the side, wincing sharply as he bound a shallow cut on his left arm. Despite the enchantment's protection, one of the knights from the Vale had still managed to slice through and leave a clean gash.
He gritted his teeth, drawing in a breath of cold air as the pain flared, the blood trickling down in thin rivulets.
But as a mutated witcher, his regenerative abilities had long surpassed those of ordinary men. With a bit of rest after the battle, a wound like this would heal on its own in no time.
"They're in trouble, no doubt about it," Clay said flatly, his voice cold and calm like still water beneath ice. "But we can't go help them. Not right now."
If one could observe the battlefield from above, with the all-seeing clarity of an omniscient gaze — what some might call a god's-eye view — the reasoning behind Clay's decision would become immediately clear.
When cavalry charges, the first assault almost never breaks the enemy. It is a rare thing, so rare that it borders on the miraculous, for a single charge to decide the course of an entire battle.
More often than not, it's a grinding series of waves: coordinated attacks in multiple echelons, riding in again and again until the enemy is shattered, scattered, and unable to regroup.
That had been the plan from the beginning.
Clay and his main force would launch the initial strike. Then, as their momentum broke the enemy lines, the flanking forces from the north and south would follow up with charges of their own.
The battlefield was wide enough to support this strategy, and the combined strength of the northern and southern cavalry, only two thousand men in total, wasn't so large that it would crowd the field.
But in the chaos of battle, something had gone wrong.
Somewhere along the line, the southern troops had lost their bearing.
They charged the wrong way!
Instead of pressing forward or circling to flank, they ended up jammed directly into the thick of the melee, right in the heart of the battlefield. To make matters worse, over a thousand battered Vale soldiers, those who had survived the first assault, were already retreating into that same space.
If Clay were to lead his cavalry into that chaos now, the entire formation would grind to a halt, completely gridlocked.
So now, like it or not, he had to harden his heart.
There was only one way forward.
The Riverland forces trapped in the melee had to break out on their own. Only once they cleared the field would Clay's main force have room to maneuver again.
"Now—turn around! We're not charging again. Head west!"
The sickening sound of a blade sinking into flesh rang out in the thick of battle.
Ser Brynden Tully, his face splattered with blood, drove his sword clean through the chest of another Vale soldier. Thick rivulets of crimson streamed down his ash-grey hair, clinging in wet streaks to his face and armor.
A grizzled veteran of countless battles, he didn't need time to think. The instant he realized his troops had been forced to halt their advance, he understood just how dire the situation had become.
In this kind of close-quarters melee, especially in the brutal chaos of mounted combat where swords swung wide and fast from horseback, the men of the Riverlands were clearly at a disadvantage.
Within the narrow limits of his vision, Brynden could already see the horror taking shape. Again and again, Vale knights found their openings, slipping past defenses with the ease of seasoned killers and slashing open throats in a single, fluid motion.
Everywhere he turned, the battlefield glimmered with the cold flash of steel, blades cutting through the air in a deadly rhythm.
Through the thunder of hooves and the sharp clash of weapons, ringing and echoing like hammer on anvil, rose a chorus of agonized screams. Raw and ragged, they pierced the air as dying men tumbled from their saddles and fell bleeding into the mud.
Right now, what Brynden Tully wanted more than anything was to find the commander from House Vance and throttle him with his bare hands.
But the man was nowhere to be seen.
Helpless to vent his fury, Brynden could only grit his teeth and give the next best order. He had his personal guard wave his banner high, bright and unmistakable, urging his men to turn around and follow him.
They had entered the battlefield from the north, which meant retreating east, toward the left, was no longer an option.
Their only hope now lay to the right. They had to break west, punching through the thinnest part of the enemy lines, where numbers were sparser and resistance might be weaker.
Under normal circumstances, that wouldn't have been too difficult. But without the momentum of a cavalry charge, even this relatively simple maneuver had become agonizingly hard.
The Vale knights, seasoned and ruthless, immediately sensed that the Riverlanders were in disarray. Like predators catching the scent of blood, they pressed the attack with renewed ferocity. Their assault was stronger, fiercer, and more relentless than before.
Even though the Riverlands forces still held the advantage in sheer numbers, their individual skill in combat could not match that of their enemies.
Without speed and without formation, the strength of cavalry, their ability to strike as one unstoppable unit, was completely lost.
Every step forward now came at a terrible cost, paid for in blood.
There was no clever tactic remaining, no maneuver that could ease their path through the slaughter. The only choice left was to fight.
Step by step, they would have to carve their way through with steel.
But with the Vale troops now fully unleashed, wild with bloodlust and fury, how could they possibly expect the enemy to let them escape so easily?
Chaos ruled the field!
The two forces crashed into one another in a savage and grinding melee, so brutal it became painful to watch. Faces were torn open, limbs severed, bodies falling like sacks of meat into the churned and blood-soaked earth.
Casualties skyrocketed.
But no one had the time to count the dead. No one could afford to.
Clay turned his head slightly as he spoke, his voice as cold and steady as ever. "Wait until Ser Brynden Tully breaks through with his men. Then lead our forces and strike in from the west. Mark my words. Attack northward. I want that entire northwestern corner of the Vale's formation ripped apart."
He was speaking to Christen, who stood just behind him, waiting for the order.
Christen gave a single nod of acknowledgment and said nothing more.
He didn't need to.
Looking at the battlefield stretched before them, there was no question: they would win. Their side had the upper hand, and the outcome was already certain.
But this unnecessary bloodshed, this swelling pile of casualties that never should have happened… that was something else entirely.
And judging by the tone Clay had used just moments ago, Christen already knew what that meant.
The knight from House Vance, the one who had led the southern troops so disastrously astray…
The best ending for him now would be to die here, in the chaos of the fighting.
Because if he lived to see the end of this battle, Lord Clay would cut him down without hesitation. No trial. No mercy. Just one clean stroke of the blade.
Christen Manderly had no doubt about that.
They were lucky this war had been lopsided from the start, a one-sided slaughter where their forces held overwhelming superiority.
If the two sides had been evenly matched, if there had been any real parity in strength, a mistake like this, a breakdown in coordination and command, could have led to total collapse.
An army routed! A campaign lost!
This kind of error couldn't go unpunished. Clay would have to make an example of someone.
To kill one man as a warning to the rest!
Even if that man was a highborn heir from one of the great houses of the Riverlands, Clay wouldn't care. That kind of thing meant nothing to him. In Clay's eyes, noble blood wasn't a shield. It was just noise.
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With a heavy grunt, Ser Brynden Tully raised his small round shield and rammed it straight into the chest of a Vale knight, sending the man tumbling from his horse.
He was soaked through with blood, head to toe, like someone pulled dripping from a pool of it.
His battered armor clung to his frame in soaked patches, and his breath came in sharp bursts as he finally caught a glimpse of dry yellow earth beyond the Vale army's formation.
The sight stopped him cold for half a second.
At last… they had broken through.
There was still a chance to escape.
And yet, it was absurd when he thought about it.
Two thousand cavalry had thundered into the lines of barely a thousand defenders. By all rights, they should have broken through and crushed them. Instead, they were the ones who ended up trapped, overwhelmed, and driven back.
In the end, it all came down to failure. Failures in leadership and failures in individual combat had both played a part in dragging them into this disaster.
The parched, yellowing plains of the Trident stretched endlessly outward, swallowing human life without pause, chewing through it moment by moment with quiet, ravenous hunger.
By the time Ser Brynden Tully finally pulled the tattered remains of his force free from the meat grinder and rode up to Clay's position, even his pale, bushy eyebrows had been stained red with blood.
"Lord Clay…"
His voice came out hoarse and low as he opened his mouth to speak. But the words stalled, caught halfway to forming, and in the end, he said nothing at all.
He didn't know what to say.
Standing before him was a young man, far too young by most standards. Yet from his presence alone, from the sheer weight of killing intent that poured off him, Brynden felt a cold unease take root deep in his chest.
It wasn't directed at him. He knew that much.
But that didn't make it any easier to stand in front of.
Clay glanced at the battered Riverland soldiers behind Ser Brynden, then asked quietly,
"Not even seven hundred left, is there?"
They had all seen enough war to make such judgments at a glance. You didn't need a count to know. Just one look, and the number settled in your gut.
When Brynden said nothing, Clay reached down into one of the saddlebags slung at his side, pulled out a flask of water, and held it out to him.
Then, after a brief pause, he reached out and gave Brynden's shoulder a firm pat.
"It wasn't your fault. Go and rest. I'll handle the rest."
Ser Brynden Tully gave a small nod. He didn't say a word. He simply nudged his horse forward and rode past Clay.
But when he had only gone about five steps, the old knight suddenly reined in his horse, turned around, and raised his voice in a rough shout,
"Lord Clay! That boy from House Vance… is there any chance you'll spare him?"
Clay didn't look back. His reply came calmly, without the slightest tremor,
"Go and rest."
Ser Brynden Tully, brother of the late Lord Hoster, uncle to Edmure, and a man revered throughout the Riverlands for his honor and bravery, stared in silence at the back of the young commander. The boy sat tall in his saddle, cloaked in heavy fabric, his figure still and unmoving like a statue carved from iron
After a long pause, Brynden let out a quiet sigh and lowered his gaze.
He understood…
The boy from House Vance was already a dead man walking.
In times of peace, a killing between noble houses would have caused scandal, outrage, and cries for justice. But on the battlefield, the rules were different.
They bent. Sometimes, they disappeared altogether.
Because when one man's blunder nearly brought down an entire army, when the price of that mistake was paid in the blood of comrades and kin, then unless he carried the name and authority of a great lord, there was often no path back.
A death like that was never pretty, but it sent a clear message.
If even this couldn't be done, then what meaning did discipline hold? What value did an army have in the eyes of its commander?
Brynden had lost nearly a third of his force just trying to break free.
And no sooner had he made it out than Christen, who had clearly been waiting for this moment, spurred his heavy cavalry forward and charged directly at the northwestern flank of the Vale's formation.
If they delayed any longer, that foolish knight from House Vance was going to get every last one of his thousand men killed.
Clay couldn't rush in himself. The lanes between the clashing forces were already too congested, packed so tight that even a single push would only make the chaos worse.
That left just one option:
Carve a hole. Cut straight into the Vale army like slicing flesh from bone.
Relieve the pressure on the trapped troops inside, and let the rest be up to them.
Christen's charge struck like a thunderclap.
Five hundred heavy cavalry crashed into the exhausted Vale soldiers, who had already been pushed far past their limits.
This time, the Vale knights didn't have it in them to meet the heavy charge head-on.
There was no wall of steel forcing them back. No desperate last stand.
Only chaos…
With a burst of crimson light and the sickening crunch of bone, the leading wave of Christen's cavalry bowled over the defenders who hadn't moved quickly enough. Bodies were thrown into the air like broken dolls, their weapons spinning from their hands.
Close behind, the rest of the Riverland riders surged forward. Their longswords swept through the air, each stroke carving another flash of death into the chaos.
Five hundred cavalry had stormed in from the central-western flank of the Vale formation, slicing clean through the ranks before wheeling sharply to the north.
The Vale forces couldn't stop them… not anymore.
They were already locked in brutal, chaotic close-quarters combat with the Riverlanders still trapped inside the encirclement, bloodlust clouding their minds, instincts overriding discipline.
By now, none of them were watching their flank. No one was even thinking about what was happening behind them.
But in doing so, they had lost the one and only chance they might have had to win this battle.
Christen, armored head to toe, clad in thick plate and heavy gauntlets, looked like a walking fortress. He led the charge like the point of an arrow, absorbing the brunt of the enemy's resistance.
Yet not once did he show even a flicker of fear.
The dull golden light from the runes of the Quen Sign shimmered faintly across his armor's surface, forming a barrier between him and harm.
Before any strike could even hope to threaten him, it had to pierce that shield. Only then could it reach the solid steel beneath.
It was brazen, even shameless in its advantage. But then again, this kind of shamelessness had to be earned.
Without that, what right did Christen Manderly have to lead the vanguard of an entire army?
Every inch of that right had been carved out with sweat and steel, earned through battle by always charging first and bleeding before any of his men did.
And this time, his assault went even smoother than the last. In less than ten minutes, his five hundred riders had already ripped open a deep, jagged gap in the Vale's formation.
They had cleaved through and isolated a group of Vale survivors about equal in number to their own.
Clay watched from afar, then gave a simple wave of his hand.
Another cavalry unit, rested and rearmed, surged forward like a tide and slammed into the disoriented cluster of Valemen that Christen had just cut away from the main force.
If a single overwhelming charge couldn't crush the enemy outright, then Clay Manderly wasn't going to waste time clinging to a tactic that was already failing.
He adjusted his approach without hesitation.
Divide the Vale knights. Split them into smaller groups and destroy them, one by one!
And it worked.
The exhausted Vale soldiers, now separated from their core and reeling from the loss of cohesion, couldn't hold any longer.
The moment Clay's fresh wave of heavy cavalry crashed into them, the line broke. They scattered.
Some ran. Others hesitated, then bolted after them. The rest were too slow to decide, and those were the first to die.
Because courage had its limits. The fiercer a man fights, the deeper his terror cuts when that courage finally gives way.
And these Vale soldiers were bone-weary, half-starved, and pinned down on sodden ground. They had no chance of outrunning the well-fed Riverland warhorses.
One by one, they were cut down from behind. Swords pierced their backs and tore them from the saddle like dolls being ripped apart.
If Clay had sent light cavalry instead, they could have picked the fleeing men off even faster with bows. It would've been cleaner, more efficient.
But that didn't matter now. The result was the same.
After repeating the tactic one more time, the Vale's main formation finally began to collapse.
They had never been a confident army.
They fought as men burdened by grief and the aching weight of homesickness, driven forward only by a desperate hope to survive and return, and by their unshakable pride in being part of the most famed cavalry in Westeros.
But even pride had limits.
And now, even that was crumbling.
When the banner of Lord Lyonel Corbray was hacked down by a single swordstroke, it marked the beginning of the end.
The Vale's final resistance had entered its death throes.
It was only then that the southern troops, the ones led by the knight from House Vance, finally broke free from the slaughter and stumbled out from the collapsing enemy lines.
Clay didn't even glance at the pale-faced man.
To him, that knight was already dead.
Just not yet. Not until the time was right.
Now that the congestion in the field had cleared, it was time for the final assault to begin.
The thunder of hooves once more shook the ground. The slaughter wasn't over!
It had only just begun again!
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[Chapter End's]
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