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Early the next morning, before the sun had fully risen above the horizon, Clay had already dispatched Lord Glover with a thousand cavalry. They swiftly departed the main camp, riding straight toward the road that ran between Riverrun and the Golden Tooth.
No matter how Clay altered his strategy, this unit was always going to be deployed to that specific position. Their mission was to block any fleeing Lannister forces from escaping Golden Tooth and retreating westward into the Westerlands.
To put it bluntly, if Clay's taco wrapper tore open, then this squad would be the one responsible for stuffing the exposed filling back inside.
As for Clay himself, by around eight in the morning, he had already issued orders to all the nobles under his command who led troops.
First, Lord Severn and Lord Hornwood were ordered to lead a force of two thousand five hundred men. They were to cross the Red Fork at a ferry point east of Riverrun and then follow the River road, charging straight toward the Lannister encampment located southeast of Riverrun.
Clay, on the other hand, would lead the remaining two thousand men across the still relatively calm Tumblestone River from the west, threatening the Lannister camp from the southwest.
Once both forces were in position, they would immediately launch a coordinated assault on the Lannister encampment outside Riverrun.
As for the Lannister troops stationed north of the Tumblestone, whether they chose to fight or flee, as long as they lagged even a step behind Clay's movements and failed to cross southward in time, Clay was confident he could trap them completely on the northern banks of the river.
He had sent four of his personal witcher guards toward the vicinity of the Golden Tooth, and through his ability to sense their thoughts, he knew they had performed admirably.
While Clay was preparing to encircle and annihilate Jaime Lannister's two-thousand-strong cavalry force, the four guards—disguised and hidden—had already infiltrated the Lannister logistics division. Through methods including but not limited to ambushes, poisoning, and arson, they had inflicted tremendous pressure on the enemy's supply lines.
Working seamlessly as a team, the four of them were able to strike down even Lannister units ten times their size, picking them off one after another during pursuit.
In the past few days, they had burned down three Lannister granaries near the Golden Tooth and slain no fewer than fifty supply soldiers. Nor did they spare the livestock used for transport. A single act of poisoning the animals' water sources had crippled a quarter of the Lannister supply force's transport capacity.
It could be said that they had done both the kinds of deeds expected of men and those no man should be capable of—and they had done all of them with chilling efficiency.
One could hardly blame the Lannister supply troops. After all, this was the first time that witchers, these elite special operatives of unmatched prowess, had made their debut on the stage of Westerosi warfare. The absence of defensive preparations from any quarter was to be expected.
In previous wars, ambushes on supply lines were not uncommon, but those were typically conducted by entire elite cavalry squads, acting more like mounted bandits, launching raids against enemy logistics.
Such squads generally numbered in the dozens at the very least, and they had to be highly mobile. Expecting infantry to carry out such tasks was nothing but a fantasy.
But no one had imagined that four witchers, disguised as ordinary Riverlands refugees, would silently infiltrate the very heart of the Lannister supply system without raising a single alarm.
This was a new mode of warfare, a transformation that came with a price. And the Lannisters were now paying dearly for their ignorance.
Therefore, when Clay finally broke the siege surrounding Riverrun and crushed the two large Lannister camps to the south, the remaining three thousand troops on the northern side would undoubtedly flee the battlefield.
But then another problem would arise immediately—they would have no food left.
This was not a planned relocation of camp, where the army moved slowly with all their wagons and supplies. This was a sudden retreat. Could one really expect every soldier to have enough dry rations packed and ready?
So even if it came to starving them out, Clay was determined to see those three thousand men wither and die along the northern banks of the Tumblestone.
Lord Glover's thousand cavalry, in truth, had been prepared specifically to intercept any survivors escaping from the two southern camps.
The main army had assembled. The cries of soldiers and the neighing of warhorses echoed across the plains.
Within half an hour, nearly five thousand cavalry had been divided into two formations, standing in flawless ranks upon the sunlit plains of the Riverlands. The rising light of dawn bathed their armor in a golden glow, casting long shadows across the dewy grass beneath their horses' hooves.
The soldiers stood tall, their spirits visibly lifted. It was clear that the rest they had taken the previous night had allowed their bodies to recover fully. Their posture, eyes, and expressions all radiated vigor and readiness.
"Lord Clay, the army has been assembled. We await your command!"
The voices came from the two leading lords, who stood at the head of their respective columns. With them were the other Northern lords who had joined Clay's campaign, and together, they all spoke in unison, their voices carrying solemn weight.
This was the moment of departure. A ceremony of war. At this sacred juncture, the commander would deliver his orders to the army. Once issued, those commands would become law. Any soldier who defied them would face the unforgiving justice of military discipline.
Clay gave a brief nod, then pressed his heels into the flanks of his steed. The warhorse surged forward, and he rode alone to the front of the gathered host.
Raising his voice as high as he could, he called out, wishing his words to reach every ear among the Northmen:
"Soldiers of the North! Yesterday, we won our first victory against House Lannister. Thanks to your courage and valor, we slaughtered all two thousand of their cavalry right here upon this field."
He paused, his voice gaining intensity.
"And now, farther to our south, just beyond the ancestral fortress of House Tully, lies Riverrun. Outside its walls, ten thousand Lannister foot soldiers lie encamped, completely unaware of the doom that awaits them. They spend their days lazing in their tents, lying with camp women, and feasting on roast meat. Tell me, what should we do?"
A heavy silence lingered over the army for two heartbeats, and then, a bold voice rang out from the ranks:
"We ride down there, kill them all, and take everything they have. It all belongs to us!"
Clay pointed the tip of his riding whip in the direction of the voice and laughed loudly.
"That's right! The meat is already at our lips. If we do not take a bite now, are we even men? For that very reason, we charge into the Lannister camp. We kill their soldiers, we seize their supplies, and we grind their banners beneath the hooves of our horses."
Clay's words clearly struck a chord deep within the hearts of the Northern soldiers.
For many of these soldiers, who had once been mere farmers before donning armor, what did it matter to them whether the Tullys in Riverrun lived or died? Why should they lay down their lives for the sake of some noble lord whose name they barely knew?
In this rigidly hierarchical society, matters of nobility belonged to the nobility. Common folks had no place, no voice, and certainly no share in those affairs.
Clay understood this truth better than anyone. That was why, ever since the Western Host had begun its march south, he had repeated one message to his soldiers again and again:
Follow me, Clay Manderly, south, not for the sake of rescuing noblemen whose names you cannot even recall, but to strike down the Lannisters and take their armor and their swords for yourselves.
There was no need for lofty ideals or noble causes. That one promise alone was enough to fill the hearts of these common Northern troops with wild excitement.
Someone in the ranks could no longer hold back and shouted Clay's name. That cry spread like wildfire, and soon the entire host of Northern cavalry was swept up in feverish chants, each voice calling his name with unrestrained fervor.
Clay rode among them, circling through the formation atop his steed. Wherever he passed, the soldiers raised their fists and hammered upon their shields or breastplates with powerful blows, filling the air with the resounding clash of iron and steel.
When he had completed his circuit, he returned to his original position. Under the gaze of thousands of men, he drew his longsword from his hip. Lifting it high into the southern sky with his right hand, he declared the order that would set everything in motion:
"Men of the North, march south!"
As they watched Clay's figure silhouetted against the sky, and looked out over the nearly five thousand troops who were now burning with zeal, the gathered lords could not help but feel the same thought rising unbidden within their hearts:
Among these five thousand soldiers, the name Clay Manderly held far more power than that of Stark.
Fortunately, this army had been cobbled together from the forces of various Northern houses. One family had sent a hundred, another three hundred, and when the war ended, each group would return to their own land. But if Clay alone were allowed to retain command of this entire host, with his extraordinary talent for leadership and the immense loyalty he now commanded, then should he ever harbor ambitions beyond the battlefield, the peace of the North would no longer be certain.
And they must not forget that he was not alone. Behind him stood the vast and powerful city of White Harbor, his greatest source of strength. Now, they also held control over the Twins, bringing it into the domain of House Manderly. In the future, any fleet that sailed into the Bite would be forced to lower their sails at the sight of his banner, for in that region, his house was the uncrowned king.
…
"How long has Lord Jaime been gone now?"
The question came from the lips of the Lord Westerling, one of those left to guard Riverrun. It had been four days since Jaime Lannister led his troops away, and now, standing beside him, the Lord of Crakehall listened as Westerling voiced the concern that had begun to gnaw at his heart.
None of them had ever entertained the notion that Jaime Lannister might be in any danger. With two thousand cavalry under his command, he should have been able to ride freely across the western banks of the Green Fork, sweeping aside any scattered resistance in the Riverlands But the problem was that it had now been five days. Not a single message had arrived.
"Five days," someone replied, voice taut with concern. "By now, he should have returned. Could it be he pursued too far and lost contact?"
The Earl of Crakehall slowly shook his head, clearly just as lost in speculation. He too had no idea what Jaime Lannister could be doing.
This man—eldest son of House Lannister, a knight of the Kingsguard, and the favored heir of Lord Tywin himself—was no ordinary commander. Though some of the Western Lords were older than he was, in his presence, even they had to lower their heads and tread lightly.
And who could blame them? With Tywin Lannister standing behind him, and with his own reputation already proven on the battlefield, they had no choice but to follow his lead. After all, it was Jaime Lannister who had brought them victory over the Tullys and shattered an army of twenty thousand. Now, they had the remnants of that force—no more than a few thousand battered troops—pinned down inside Riverrun. All signs pointed toward inevitable triumph.
But still, Jaime had been gone five full days. That alone was enough to cause the first tremors of dread.
Could he have fallen into an ambush? That hardly made sense. According to the messages from Lord Tywin at Harrenhal, he was currently facing off against the northern forces moving south along the Kingsroad. It seemed that Eddard Stark's son, that little wolf cub, had some bite after all. They had clashed fiercely, and neither side had come away with the advantage. Both armies had now pulled back to a cautious distance.
By all reports, the western banks of the Green Fork should be the safest front in the entire region. Aside from the defeated Riverlords holed up in Riverrun, there were no organized enemies left to pose a threat.
Yet for some reason, the Lord of Crakehall could not shake the creeping sense of unease that had begun to gnaw at him.
He regretted not stopping Jaime when he had the chance. At the time, he had agreed that the cavalry was being wasted sitting idle and might as well sweep through the Riverlands, mopping up scattered forces and securing provisions.
In truth, he had believed it was the right decision. But now, in hindsight, the choice suddenly seemed terribly reckless.
"We must send riders north at once and reestablish contact with Lord Jaime as soon as possible. He is the commander of this army. To lose contact for five whole days is unacceptable. If Lord Tywin hears of this, he will have our heads."
That remark earned immediate agreement from the other Westerly nobles present. Not a single one of them dared challenge Tywin Lannister's authority. Their necks were far too fragile to test his patience.
They all knew far too well what the Rains of Castamere meant. Lord Tywin never smiled, and he had never shown mercy, not even to his own men when discipline was at stake.
None of them wanted their house's name etched into Lord Tywin's memory for the wrong reasons.
Just as they were preparing to return to their respective camps and dispatch scouts to search for Jaime Lannister, a deep, thunderous horn suddenly sounded from outside the command tent, followed almost immediately by the swell of chaotic noise rising in the distance.
"What is happening?"
The Western lords exchanged confused glances, none of them able to grasp the cause of the commotion.
Suddenly, Lord Crakehall froze. As though struck by instinct, he threw himself to the ground and pressed his ear firmly to the earth.
He listened for only a few seconds, but when he lifted his head, his face was as pale as snow, drained of all color. He leapt to his feet like a spring loosed from its coil and shouted, his voice cracking with horror:
"Cavalry! A cavalry force, over a thousand strong, charging this way!"
In that moment, silence fell over the tent as shock seized everyone within.
Cavalry? But whose cavalry could it be?
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[Chapter End's]
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