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"Who said I was going to fight them? Lord Karstark, I never underestimate my enemies… because doing so would mean I'm also underestimating myself. I think you know what I mean."
Clay gave Rickard Karstark a curious glance as he spoke, his tone carrying a peculiar edge.
The Lord of Karhold looked momentarily dazed, clearly not grasping Clay's full meaning. But Clay didn't bother explaining. It wasn't time to involve Rickard Karstark yet. That would have to wait — until after he crossed the Red Fork once more.
"My lord, for now, your only job is to recover from your wounds as quickly as possible. If you truly want revenge, you can't do it lying in bed, too weak to ride a horse," Clay spoke calmly, leaving no room for further conversation. He had no time to waste.
After the army marched west for quite a considerable distance, they suddenly wheeled south.
The reason for heading west first was simple — Clay wanted to avoid running straight into the Vale troops, who in his eyes moved at a pace slower than a crawling tortoise.
Over the past few days, thanks to the prisoners they'd captured, he had already confirmed who was pursuing them: Yohn Royce of Runestone.
That old man had always shown a fervent obsession with joining the war on the Vale's behalf — his attitude stood in stark contrast to the pacifist of eastern Vale, like those from Gulltown, who only cared about trade and profit.
The surprise attack in the last battle hadn't just happened because Littlefinger gave him the opportunity; there was no doubt Yohn had been pushing hard behind the scenes. If the entire Vale had truly wanted to stay out of the war, then not even Littlefinger holding young Robert Arryn hostage would've been enough to force their hand.
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A day and a half after Clay left the Fairmarket, Yohn Royce finally arrived… though belatedly, and clearly sensing something was wrong.
After suffering heavy losses among his scouts, Royce's army was like a blind man on the battlefield. Every step they took had to be made with extreme caution.
Although the land stretched out before them in open plains, it was still dotted with low hills and dense patches of forest. And to Yohn Royce and his men, every single woodland looked like it could be hiding an ambush — because if they were in the enemy's shoes, that's exactly what they would have done.
So at every turn, Royce had no choice but to send men ahead, inching into the forests with utmost care. Only once the area was deemed safe could the main force pick up the pace and move on. He had considered abandoning the chase more times than he could count, feeling like a fool chasing shadows.
But in the end, he forced himself to keep going.
The reason was painfully simple: if he let those two thousand men — at least that's what he assumed Clay had — slip away now, then based on everything he had analyzed about Clay Manderly, the young man would show no regard whatsoever for honor or decency… and would march straight north to launch a surprise attack on Lord Lyonel's forces.
Ravens were perfectly fine for fixed-point communication, but when it came to two cavalry units constantly moving across an open battlefield, sending a timely warning was close to impossible. And if things played out the way he feared — if Clay Manderly truly took his two thousand men and ambushed Lyonel's troops while they were completely unprepared — then the consequences would be catastrophic.
All it would take was for Clay to crush those two thousand soldiers under Lord Lyonel, and then vanish without a trace. With no clear trail to follow, one glance at the map of the Riverlands would tell anyone that Clay Manderly's army would be like a fish diving into the sea… no one would have any idea where he'd gone.
And that didn't even take into account what kind of punishment he himself might face if he failed. Yohn Royce was confident that Littlefinger wouldn't go too hard on him personally, but the bigger issue was this: if that happened, the whole war effort would fall apart completely!
As he'd said before, they only had ten thousand troops in total… a dangerously small number. Right now, half of them, five thousand men, were still stationed beneath the walls of the three eastern castles, keeping an eye on the people inside. Those troops couldn't be moved.
If Lord Lyonel's two thousand men were wiped out, maybe a few survivors would make it back, but the loss would already be devastating. It wouldn't change the outcome. It wouldn't save the war.
And in that kind of situation, was he really expected to hold the entire Red Fork, stretching from west to east, with just three thousand cavalry? Was he supposed to guarantee that Clay Manderly wouldn't find a single crossing point to take his army south?
What kind of sick joke was that?
By now, Yohn Royce had begun to vaguely sense it. That young man, Clay Manderly, the way he had split his forces at the Mummer's Ford back then, maybe that wasn't some desperate escape at all. Maybe, from the very beginning, it had been a carefully laid trap meant to ensnare an old veteran like him.
Clay had deliberately forced him to divide his troops. He had seen through Royce's obsession with capturing the entire enemy force, and so he'd taken advantage of that, boldly splitting his own army. Then he'd led the largest portion himself, circling endlessly between the narrow strips of land flanked by the Blue Fork and the Red Fork, drawing Royce in.
As much as it infuriated him, Yohn Royce had no choice but to admit it — this kid was a tough opponent on the battlefield. He played dirty, and he played to win. If not for the fact that Clay had been making no effort to hide his movements, Royce would have lost track of him a long time ago.
Back when he first heard that Jaime Lannister had been utterly defeated by a young lad from the North leading just five thousand troops, Yohn Royce had laughed about it openly at Runestone, mocking the Kingslayer without restraint. But now… he was starting to understand Jaime Lannister.
In a way, they were comrades-in-arms. Who knew... maybe one day, they'd have the chance to sit down together and share their stories, trading hard-earned lessons from bitter experience.
"Move!" he snapped. "Order the troops to pick up the pace. Stop wasting time combing through these damned forests that don't have a single soul in them. I see it clearly now. After blinding us, that little bastard knew we'd be foolish enough to get stuck chasing shadows in these useless woods."
"He thinks I'll just walk right into his trap? He suddenly veers north... and what, we're not supposed to realize that Fairmarket lies in that direction? Is he trying to cross the Blue Fork and vanish? I don't believe for a second that you're that slippery."
Yohn Royce grumbled a few complaints to his second in command, then gave his steed a sharp squeeze with his legs. The spurs dug into the horse's flanks, and the warhorse, stung by pain, instantly surged forward with a burst of speed.
The Lord of Runestone had a fire simmering inside him.
He had seen the black banner with the red dragon flying over King's Landing. He had fought in the Rebellion, stood by Robert Baratheon in the war against Balon Greyjoy at Pyke. His battlefield experience was second to none — he had seen both victory and defeat, and he had always considered himself the undisputed master of military command in all the Vale.
They had just crushed Robb Stark's army. Sure, it had been a dishonorable sneak attack, but in war, victory was what mattered. And they had won. They'd scattered twenty thousand Northerners and sent them fleeing in all directions.
But no sooner had that triumph passed than they ran into disaster outside the three noble seats east of Riverrun. He had thrown himself against the castle walls and come away bleeding from the forehead, like a fool butting his head into stone.
And now, this chase… it was slowly eating away at whatever pride he had left.
He felt like, apart from their superior numbers and better equipment, his side had lost control of everything on the Riverlands battlefield. Everything else was being dictated by a young man he had never even seen with his own eyes. And that filled him with a deep, choking frustration.
He would have preferred if Clay Manderly had three thousand men under his command, and they could meet in a proper, head-on confrontation, settle things with one decisive battle.
But this? This felt like being toyed with. It was just like one of those teasing prostitutes in King's Landing, flaunting themselves right before your eyes — swaying their hips, fluttering their lashes — just enough to set your blood on fire, to make you lunge. And yet, no matter how fast you chased, they always stayed just out of reach, laughing as they danced away.
Was this really something an old man like him was meant to endure? What did they think he was, the High Septon of King's Landing, free to indulge in both sacred and profane pleasures?
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Christen had carried out Clay's instructions perfectly.
As the one personally tasked with covering their retreat and erasing all traces of the main force's departure, he led his men with meticulous care, ensuring that not even the smallest clue was left behind.
That sneaky bastard — five hundred men had crossed the river, and originally, all Clay wanted was to make it seem like a thousand had gone north, just enough to sell the illusion. But Christen, ever the efficient overachiever, had taken it one step further. Not only did he pull it off, he went so far as to create tracks and signs suggesting that two separate groups of a thousand men each had split off and scattered in different directions.
And sure enough, the result was brilliant.
By the time Yohn Royce arrived at the Fairmarket, riding at full speed, what he saw before him sent his blood pressure soaring.
Sweat gleamed on his forehead, his temples twitching with visible veins. Because once again, he realized… Clay Manderly was still playing the same infuriating game.
He had split his forces again!
Again. And again. And again.
Yohn Royce cursed silently, over and over, blaming Wyman Manderly for raising such a grandson and clearly failing to teach the boy any proper sense of conduct. Who in the world fights wars like this? Was Clay trying to drive him, an old and weary man, to an early grave?
It wasn't long before the scouts returned with their report. On the opposite bank of the river, the tracks left by the supposed two thousand troops had indeed split into two distinct trails. One was heading northwest, straight toward the area around the Twins, while the other was veering south… destination unknown.
"Clay Manderly…"
Yohn Royce could barely restrain himself. He felt like if he stared at the scene any longer, his whole body might just explode from rage.
If Clay had truly gone north to the Twins, then at least that would be easier to manage. That location was far from the main theater of war, and even if Clay made another move later, Royce would have plenty of time to fortify and respond in advance.
But now, the boy had presented him with another massive headache.
The northern trail looked like it might be aimed at Lord Lyonel's forces — the same ones that had been chasing the detachment Clay had sent off the first time he split his army at Mummer's Ford. And the southern trail? If that group managed to find another crossing over the Green Fork, they could strike straight at the heart of the Vale's main army like a dagger to the gut.
Yohn Royce took several deep, steadying breaths, drawing in the cold, biting air of late autumn. His lungs burned slightly with the chill, but it did little to calm him.
Was it raining?
He looked up, and saw that, without his noticing, soft snowflakes had already begun to fall from the gray, heavy sky above, drifting gently through the air like feathers shaken loose from a pillow.
He wasn't sure why, but in that moment, a phrase surfaced in his mind… one he hadn't thought of in years.
The words of House Stark:
"Winter is coming."
Unconsciously, he shivered.
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