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Rickard Karstark stood frozen, staring blankly at Clay. For a long moment, he said nothing, only turning things over in his head. No matter how he thought about it, he just couldn't figure out where Clay had managed to gather so many men from. The speed at which this force had been assembled was nothing short of terrifying.
"My lord Clay… did you perhaps send word to Winterfell in advance and rally the remaining forces of the major houses?"
His voice was cautious, almost tentative. After all, House Karstark was no minor house. In the North, they commanded considerable influence — a vast and powerful house that ruled over everything east of the Last River, with several lesser houses sworn to their banner.
Even so, if they pushed themselves to the absolute limit, squeezing every last able-bodied man from their lands, the most they could muster was around four thousand. That meant stripping the entire house bare, to the point where even kitchen hands wielding cleavers would have to be counted as soldiers — only then could they barely manage such a number.
But in response, Clay let out a short, scornful laugh.
"No no no, Lord Karstark," he said, his tone as relaxed as it was deliberate. "These nine thousand men? They're all personal troops of House Manderly. They answer to no one but me, Clay Manderly. Not a single copper star connects them to Winterfell. Have I made myself clear?"
"What? That's impossible! How could House Manderly possibly have nine thousand men?!"
The moment those words left Clay's lips, Rickard Karstark's eyes went wide with disbelief. He blurted out his protest before he even had time to think, momentarily forgetting that the man standing before him was, in fact, the current head of House Manderly.
The Lord of Karhold wanted to believe Clay was spouting nonsense. But knowing what he did about Clay's character, he couldn't quite convince himself of that. Clay had no reason to lie to him… no motive, no gain!
Gods above… how could the Manderlys possibly field a force of nine thousand on their own? And if you included the thousand-odd men standing here already, that brought the number past ten thousand. Add to that whatever forces Winterfell might contribute in hopes of rescuing Robb Stark…
Rickard Karstark suddenly realized he didn't dare keep counting. If he went any further, the total number of troops Clay was about to command would surpass even what Robb Stark had taken with him when he marched south, wielding the combined strength of the entire North.
So in the end… who was really the King in the North?
"Milord Clay, you… these… these troops, all of them… where did they come from? Honestly, I'm completely caught off guard."
"Surprised? That's fine," Clay replied flatly. "But I'm only asking you one thing. A force of nine thousand… can you command them? Yes or no. Give me your answer."
"Uh… yes, yes, Lord Clay. That's more than enough."
"If you really want to know where they came from," Clay said, his tone sharp but unhurried, "then go find out for yourself. From now on, two of my personal guards will stay with you. They'll escort you to the army. Ser Marlon Manderly will be waiting for you there… ask him whatever you want."
Rickard Karstark fell silent. He knew he had already pushed things too far. Clay wasn't pleased with him, that much was clear. In the past, if some hot-blooded youth had dared speak to him like that, he would've already thrown a punch and taught the brat a lesson then and there.
But now… the entire future of the North's revival rested on this young Manderly who looked far too young to shoulder such a burden. And more importantly, Clay had already proven his worth again and again, winning battle after battle. In front of him, Rickard Karstark simply didn't have the grounds to act tough.
Clay's meaning had been perfectly clear: I don't trust you. That's why I'm sending two of my personal guards to keep an eye on you. You can help me lead the army because I need your experience—and you need my soldiers to avenge your son.
The moment Clay mentioned Ser Marlon by name, the message was obvious. Rickard Karstark understood immediately: That camp is full of my people. My own blood is among them. If you dare try anything funny, I have someone on hand who can take back command of those troops at any moment.
Rickard's expression shifted through a whole storm of emotions. There was anger, stirred up by Clay's unflinching bluntness. There was shock, shaken loose by the realization that all nine thousand soldiers were Manderly personal troops. And somewhere deep in his eyes, there was a faint glimmer of unease… even a touch of fear.
Thank the gods Clay Manderly still stood on the North's side!
Because if he were to suddenly bend the knee to some other king, with the size and strength House Manderly now commanded, he'd be more than qualified to claim a Warden title on the spot.
All Clay had to do was turn his army around, take his ten thousand men, and find a way to crush that fool Edmure Tully's twenty thousand at Riverrun. If he pulled that off, the entire Riverlands, along with White Harbor, would fall right at House Manderly's feet.
"Enough, Rickard Karstark," Clay said at last, his voice flat. "I'm not going to ask you how you managed to lose the battle at Harrenhal. I know Robb's personality… he has his stubborn side, sure… but he's not the kind of man who refuses to listen to reason. There were so many of you… did none of you actually try hard enough to talk him out of it?"
"And another thing," Clay's voice was calm, but each word landed with weight, "You lot, compared to us younger ones, shouldn't you have more experience on the battlefield? You clearly noticed there was major troop movement near the Bloody Gate. If you didn't trust Lysa Tully, then why didn't any of you send someone to investigate it yourselves?"
"I am the cavalry commander myself, so I know better than most — if your side had made even the slightest preparations, or hadn't grown complacent and lazy, there's no way a force of ten thousand could've broken through your defenses in such a short time."
"So don't talk to me like you're the victim here. From where I stand, the North's defeat — our most elite twenty thousand men buried in a single blow… wasn't just Robb Stark's fault. Every one of you shares in that responsibility."
Clay shot a cold glance at Rickard Karstark, who stood there stunned, mouth slightly open, as if he couldn't believe what he was hearing. Then, rising slowly from the boulder by the riverbank, Clay rolled his stiff shoulders and muttered in a low voice:
"So know your place, Karstark of Karhold. Right now, you're serving under me as a way to atone. If not for that, I could have had you executed for desertion on the spot, and not a single soul would dare say a word against it."
"Your rotten temper… go ahead, throw it around all you want. Just don't let me see it again. Understand this, I, Clay Manderly, am not exactly a man of saintly patience either. All of you… your foolishness got my soldiers killed, and now you come running to me, crying for revenge?"
Behind him, one of Clay's personal guards stepped forward and draped a thick cloak of dark brown fur over his shoulders, the heavy folds settling around him like the mantle of a mountain king.
Clay fixed his eyes on Rickard Karstark once more, his voice low and level — so calm, it was chilling.
"I'm not your father. I owe you nothing. And I certainly have no duty to avenge your son. Far too many have already died in this war. So pull yourself together, my lord, and stop talking to me with that kind of foolish tone. Did you hear me clearly?"
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Rickard Karstark left without another word.
With two of Clay's witcher personal guards shadowing him — part escort, part watchful wardens — he rode east at a steady, unrelenting pace.
Clay had deliberately kept Yohn Royce's forces tangled in the Riverlands, playing a relentless game of cat and mouse across the countryside. The entire purpose of that drawn-out maneuver was to buy time… enough for the main army on the eastern front to march south without interruption.
When he passed through Raventree Hall, a messenger was already waiting to deliver the news. Ser Marlon, leading the last of Clay's cavalry forces, two thousand elite riders from House Manderly, had launched a surprise night raid on Lord Harroway's town, using the same ruthless tactics Clay had employed before.
By the time Clay arrived at Raventree Hall, word of Ser Marlon's success had already reached the castle. That had been arranged in advance; Clay had given clear orders that any critical developments were to be reported directly to Raventree the moment they happened.
This particular victory had been decisive. They had completely wiped out the Vale's rear guard, a full thousand infantry assigned to logistical support, and taken full control of what had been both the Vale and the Lannisters' central supply hub.
Naturally, such a blow could not be kept hidden for long. Sooner or later, both the Vale lords and the Lannisters would find out. But it didn't matter. By the time they did, seven thousand infantry would already be entrenched there, fully deployed in defensive formation, ready and waiting for them to come charging in.
Rickard Karstark had misunderstood one crucial thing. Clay had never intended to attack the Vale cavalry-turned-infantrymen who were camped beneath the walls.
The reason those troops struggled to take castles wasn't a lack of courage. It was something deeper, something ingrained. At heart, they were still cavalry. Fighting on foot simply wasn't in their blood.
That's why they couldn't even manage to take a lightly defended castle guarded by just a few hundred men. If they had been trained, armored foot soldiers, true professionals ready to throw their lives into a siege, then the three noble seats in the east would have fallen long ago.
What Clay really wanted was to drive the very idea of cavalry out of those infantrymen's heads — cut off the thought at its root.
He'd already known for some time that those dismounted riders had been gathering their warhorses in a centralized location, keeping them close so they could remount and return to the saddle whenever the chance came.
But this wasn't King's Landing's pleasure houses, where whether you were a king or a beggar, the service came with a smile.
This was war. And those thousands of steeds, strong, well-bred mounts from the Vale, were now his most coveted prize. With them, Clay could take his most ordinary soldiers and, with a little training and patience, turn them into far deadlier cavalry units. No matter what, mounted troops would always outclass infantry.
And once the Vale lost those horses, they would be completely crippled. If it ever came to a one-on-one fight, footman against footman, they wouldn't even stand a chance against the Riverlands infantry commanded by Edmure Tully.
As soon as Clay captured those horses and claimed them for himself, the Vale would lose the last of its bite. After that, all it would take was for either Daenerys or Clay himself to make a short visit to the Eyrie, and those lords, who thought themselves so high and mighty, would be forced to their knees, licking his boots for mercy.
Right now, Clay was simply waiting for the five hundred men under Christen's command to rendezvous with his own forces.
And down south, the northern flank of the Vale army's camp…
Was like a pair of silky black stockings stretched over a woman's legs!
Just waiting to be torn open.
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[Chapter End's]
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