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"My lord, what should we do about the main camp north of the Tumblestone River? There are still over three thousand men stationed there. Wouldn't it be a pity to simply let them slip away?"
It was Lord Glover who raised this question. Although according to the current plan, he was to lead a thousand cavalrymen at the break of dawn, riding swiftly southward to position themselves between the Golden Tooth and Riverrun.
He was to lie in wait there, seizing the opportunity to strike at the retreating Lannister forces once the remainder of the Northern army had broken through the three camps surrounding Riverrun.
Clay smiled faintly at the question, waving his hand in a casual gesture before giving his answer.
"Lord Glover, I have never once said we would let them go. From the very beginning, our goal has been to keep all twelve thousand of the Lannister troops trapped here on the plains of the Riverlands. That objective has not changed in the slightest."
"In the beginning, we attacked the northernmost camp first because I feared that its strength was too great. Without routing them early, the thousand men under your command might not have been enough to hold them back, and that risk was unacceptable."
"But now, that northern camp has been reduced to just over three thousand men. That makes them comparable in strength to the southwestern camp. I am confident that, with your leadership and your troops, you will be able to crush them in one fell swoop. That is the first reason."
As he spoke, Clay raised one finger, and then a second.
"The second reason is that, from a broader view of the battlefield, the camp north of the Tumblestone River is actually the least likely to make it back to the Golden Tooth. It is the furthest from there, and more importantly, there is a wide, fast-flowing river standing between them and safety."
"As long as we act swiftly and destroy the only ford they can use to cross south, they will be stranded on the other side, helpless and unable to do anything but stare at us across the water."
"Even if they realize the situation is hopeless and attempt to flee, it does not matter. Once we have dealt with the remaining seven thousand soldiers, the last three thousand will be left entirely at our mercy."
"All of this, however, depends on you, Lord Glover. You must guard the road to the Golden Tooth with everything you have. Not a single soldier, not even one, must be allowed to pass through."
"Remember this well. I do not care how many men you lose. Even if all one thousand of your troops fall, I will not blame you. As long as we keep the full twelve thousand enemy soldiers trapped here, it will be a resounding victory."
His voice rang out loud and clear, firm and unwavering, as though every word struck the ground with weight.
The Northern lords gathered around the map, tracing lines across the parchment with careful fingers. They followed the direction of Clay's imagined assault, watching as the plan unfolded before them, and at once, comprehension lit their eyes.
Their commander had expanded the battlefield of this second engagement beyond just Riverrun, stretching it across the vast lands west of the Tumblestone River.
With the natural barrier of the impassable mountains in the west, Clay had cleverly used five thousand men to create a massive encirclement, large enough to trap all twelve thousand Lannister troops inside.
Every step was laid with danger, every move calculated to drive the enemy toward annihilation.
"Well said, Lord Clay. We will follow your command. Lead us forward to a second and even greater victory."
…
By midnight, the moon hung high above the treetops, casting silver light across the still and silent Northern camp.
Unusually, Clay found himself unable to sleep. No matter how he tried, rest would not come.
In the end, he gave up, dressed himself, and decided to take a walk around the camp.
His personal guard, Christen, made to follow him, but Clay waved him off. Here, there was no one who would dare pose a threat to him.
With five thousand troops under his command, Clay was the uncrowned king of this army.
He passed by row upon row of tents, pausing now and then to listen to the heavy snores coming from within. A small smile curled his lips. Good. The Northern soldiers had strong minds and steady hearts. They would face a fresh battlefield tomorrow, and yet they still slept soundly tonight.
He encountered a pair of soldiers on night patrol. When they moved to salute him, he stopped them, pointing quietly to the nearby tents to remind them to keep the noise down.
He patted them both on the shoulder, and as they stared at him with shining eyes, Clay walked on toward the rear of the camp.
Since he could not sleep, he might as well disturb someone else's rest. But considering there was a battle tomorrow, he had to choose someone who would be of no use on the field anyway.
Yes, it had to be him. His prisoner. Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer.
Clay knew exactly where the Kingslayer was being held. He did not need anyone to show him the way. With quiet steps, he made his way toward the northern edge of the camp.
He passed by the stables where the warhorses were kept and stopped to inspect a few of the steeds at random. Fortunately, all seemed in good condition. His forces had the advantage of resting before the fight and superior numbers, so their losses had been very limited.
According to the report submitted by Lord Horwood, the total number of casualties, including both the dead and the wounded, was fewer than two hundred men. For a large-scale engagement involving seven to eight thousand troops, such a figure could scarcely be considered significant.
It was a loss well within the limits the Northern host could endure. As long as casualties remained below one thousand, their overall strength would not be seriously diminished.
Clay soon arrived at his destination. Standing before him was Jaime Lannister, guarded by more than a dozen soldiers. As Clay laid eyes on the man behind bars, his thoughts drifted involuntarily to Edmure Tully, still held in the Riverrun camp.
He was probably in the same miserable state right now. The sight was almost comical. This war had only just begun in earnest, and already, two of the most prominent heirs from opposing sides had ended up as each other's prisoners.
To those who knew this was the real world, it was a strange coincidence. To someone unaware, it might seem as though some hidden hand behind the scenes was watching closely and intervening whenever one side grew too strong, striking a blow to maintain a forced balance between the two.
"Lord Clay!"
The flickering light from the torches illuminated the faces of the soldiers. Some of them had clearly been drowsy moments before, but the sight of Clay instantly roused them. After this victorious battle, his prestige in the army had soared to new heights.
The minds of common soldiers were simple. The one who led them to victory was a good leader. And if that leader could lead them to triumph time and again, then he was someone they would willingly follow to the ends of the earth.
Thus, when they saw Clay approaching, each one of them straightened their backs in excitement, trying to make themselves appear more disciplined and capable in front of him.
"You have all worked hard. Take a break for a while. I would like a word alone with the Kingslayer. Wait outside and rest for a bit. Once I leave, you can resume your duties."
Clay smiled warmly and waved his hand, signaling that they were free to go.
One soldier, however, looked uneasy and raised his voice in concern.
"Lord Clay, allow me to stay behind. I heard that the Lannisters can turn into lions and bite people. You must be careful."
Clay gave the earnest soldier a peculiar look. The man's expression was so serious that it made Clay realize he genuinely believed what he was saying. It was not his fault. This soldier was likely a young man from some remote, impoverished village in the North, probably just a farmer before joining the army.
To someone like him, the young lord of House Lannister, a knight of the Kingsguard, the infamous Kingslayer who had betrayed his king, was nothing more than a strange and distant legend. Add to that the deep-rooted Northern disdain for the Lannisters, and it was not surprising that one simple phrase, passed through countless mouths over the years, would eventually twist into something this absurd.
"Do not worry, Northern lad. The Lannisters do not eat people, nor do they turn into lions."
The voice came from within the wooden cage, where Jaime Lannister was being held. Clearly, he had not been asleep.
"My lord!" the soldier tried to insist, but Clay had no intention of arguing further.
"There is no need to worry. This man was captured by my own hand on the battlefield. He does not even have a sword anymore. How could he possibly harm me? Go on, get some rest. We still have the rest of the night to get through."
The anxious soldier was forcefully dragged away by his more perceptive companions, leaving only Clay and Jaime Lannister behind in the quiet of the night.
"So, you are the one who defeated me?"
Jaime's tone was laced with realization. Clay's words had made it clear to him that this was indeed the man who had humiliated him on the battlefield, the one whose brute strength had left him utterly powerless. Though he was now a prisoner, the presence of such a mysterious Northern figure brought him some relief from the awkwardness of his current position.
"Yes. Are you surprised, Kingslayer? I am the one who bested you. The two thousand cavalry you led now lie dead at my hands. For someone like you, a noble standing at the very summit of the Seven Kingdoms, I imagine that must be hard to accept."
Clay spoke with a hint of sarcasm, though he was not trying to boast. This was his enemy, a man who had been soundly defeated. There was no need to be courteous.
Jaime's eyes narrowed sharply. From the look of the young man in front of him, clad in armor and exuding authority, he had assumed he was the heir of some powerful Northern house. What he had not expected was that this young man was actually the commander of the Northern force.
He had met the members of House Stark in Winterfell. He knew each of Eddard Stark's children by face. He was certain that the man standing before him was not one of them.
This puzzled him. If he was not a Stark, then why had the North entrusted him with so many cavalrymen? Why would they place such an important military force under the command of someone entirely unknown across the Seven Kingdoms?
He did not doubt Clay's words in the slightest. At this point, what purpose would a lie serve? Why deceive a captive like him, especially now?
Ever since he had been captured, the one thing Jaime Lannister found hardest to accept was not the defeat itself, but the fact that he had been so foolish. He had failed to notice the North's movements to divide their troops. He had been completely blind to the decoy tactics employed by that cavalry force that had so enraged him. Most of all, he had never even considered that such a heavy ambush might be lying in wait for him here.
From the very beginning, Jaime Lannister had been calculated against, trapped at every turn, and it was his own arrogance and blindness that had cost him dearly. Because of that, he had lost two thousand of his finest cavalrymen.
"You... who are you, really? I don't believe I've ever seen you before."
The words were spoken with difficulty. To be defeated and not even know by whose hand was something Jaime Lannister could hardly bear.
But his curiosity overwhelmed all else. He had to know who Clay really was.
"Clay Manderly. A man as small and insignificant as I am could never hope to attract your notice. We met once in Winterfell, but you were far too proud to ever lower your gaze and look upon someone like me."
Clay answered him with a blank expression, his face devoid of emotion. He knew full well how proud he himself was, and precisely because of that, he loathed those who carried even more pride than he did.
"Manderly... from White Harbor, then?"
Thanks to his solid education in heraldry, Jaime repeated the surname aloud once, and the connection struck him immediately. He knew which house this young man came from.
"It doesn't matter whether I'm a Manderly or a Targaryen, or any other name you might guess. It's all the same. Here and now, you are nothing but a defeated man at my mercy."
Clay had no interest in discussing his lineage. What was there to talk about, really?
After a brief silence, Jaime gave a short, bitter laugh. It was unclear whether he was mocking himself or someone else. He sighed softly, then leaned his mud-splattered and bloodstained body against the wooden cage with a look of weary resignation.
"You are right. You're absolutely right, Clay Manderly. You were brilliant. You defeated me in a single battle. To think that even Edmure, heir to Riverrun, with twenty thousand troops at his back, couldn't force me to suffer any real losses."
His voice was tinged with melancholy, as if he were reminiscing about the glorious days that had followed his departure from Golden Tooth, those days filled with victory after victory.
"But you are different. I did not misjudge you. You had no more than six thousand men, am I wrong? I know the North's strength well enough. Yet with those six thousand, you managed to swallow two thousand of mine in one decisive strike."
"That is still not quite right. You underestimated, my lord. I had twelve thousand."
Clay corrected him with a cold and calm voice, as though pointing out something trivial.
The words made Jaime Lannister freeze for a moment. Yet even as a prisoner, his mind began to spin rapidly. After a brief moment of thought, he grasped Clay's true intention. He looked around the valley with its surrounding ridges and realized what it meant. His face paled further.
"No... no, that can't be. Some of them must have gotten out. Someone must have escaped to carry word to Riverrun. Lord Westering, he'll know what to do…"
His voice trembled now. There was a desperate uncertainty buried deep within it, a quiet plea that he himself could barely hear.
But Clay allowed him no space for such hope. He struck down Jaime's last illusion without the slightest hesitation.
"I'm afraid not, Kingslayer. Not a single one of your two thousand riders made it out."
Jaime Lannister's body suddenly erupted with furious energy. Like a maddened lion, he began shaking the wooden cage with all his might, his eyes wild, his breath heavy.
Clay's face remained still and cold, as though carved from a block of unmelting ice.
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[Chapter End's]
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