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Truth be told, the moment Clay feinted with that opening jab and lured Yohn Royce far away, the outcome was already sealed in his mind… every last soldier outside the three castle walls in the Riverlands was as good as dead.
These men were never much good at fighting on foot to begin with, and now they were still wandering around in the dark, completely unaware that the wolf's jaws from the North were already pressing right up against their throats. For an army like this, not slaughtering them properly would almost feel like an insult to their performance so far.
So, once Clay crossed the Red Fork for the second time, his sights shifted. He no longer cared about the few thousand Vale soldiers who had been forced off their horses. No… his new target was what he had truly been longing for all along: the famed warhorses of the Vale.
Warhorses were a different breed entirely. Unlike ordinary mounts, they were trained to face the chaos of battle. Even if an arrow struck them, they wouldn't rear up and fling their rider to the ground in a panic.
Their stamina, their speed in a charge, even the sheer strength of their bodies — all of it far surpassed that of a regular horse.
It's no exaggeration to say that a well-bred warhorse could be worth as much as three or four common horses. And the upkeep wasn't cheap, either. Feeding and caring for such a beast could easily bankrupt someone over the course of a year, unless they had deep pockets to begin with.
Naturally, these creatures were monopolized by the nobility. Ordinary folk couldn't even dream of affording them. That's why, among the great noble houses, only the Vale lords had thrown everything into building up their cavalry — channeling the wealth they'd earned through trade into raising and maintaining these elite horsemen. The rest couldn't hope to muster cavalry forces numbering in the tens of thousands.
There was no mystery to it — just cold, hard cost. This noble-style conscription relied heavily on the common folk to raise and stable the horses. For those families, it was a crushing financial burden. Without strong support from above, it simply wasn't sustainable.
Clay waited for quite a while, loitering on the banks of the Mummer's Ford, until eventually, the pounding of hooves announced the arrival of Christen and his troops. The young lads came galloping in, one after another, full of energy, even grinning from ear to ear. They had done something wrong, and yet they looked like they were celebrating… well now, not bad at all!
Christen dismounted and stepped forward to deliver his report. This was his first time commanding troops on his own. Compared to all those campaigns he'd followed Lord Clay through in the past — marching north and south across half the realm — this experience felt completely different. How should he describe it? It was… thrilling, really.
"Lord Clay," he said eagerly, "just like you ordered, I made it look like we'd crossed the river and gone north. Also… I took the liberty of doing a bit extra. After we passed through, I left clear tracks pointing in two different directions. The Vale men'll see it for sure."
Clay's lips twitched ever so slightly.
This kid… is he saying old Yohn Royce wasn't dizzy enough already? And now you've gone and thrown in another layer of confusion—just to make it harder for that poor man figure things out? Seriously?
Tsk. And where'd you even learn this kind of initiative from?
Certainly not from me. No way. Definitely not me!
With a firm clap on Christen's shoulder, Clay finally allowed himself a rare smile. His face, which had stayed taut and unreadable for days, now eased just a little. That was the most visceral feeling this war had brought him — having no one under his command.
It wasn't that he truly had no one to use. Back during the last war, several of the northern lords who fought alongside him had proven themselves to be reliable pillars of strength — men he could count on, skilled in battle and sound in judgment.
But the problem was, most of that group had been buried in the ashes north of Harrenhal, all thanks to Robb Stark's reckless stupidity. Now, with Clay leading this campaign into the Vale entirely on his own, he was quickly realizing that he barely had anyone left who truly understood warfare.
None of them were really his people. Even poor Ser Marlon, with his beard gone completely white, had been dragged into this and made to work like a draft mule. Clay had put him in charge of the nine thousand men marching south, and honestly, that was already a huge burden on the old knight.
With no other choice, he'd had to throw people like Christen — originally part of his special personal units — onto the battlefield and force them into the role of commanders. It wasn't ideal at all. But what could he do? He was just one man. He couldn't be everywhere at once.
"All right, take a breather. You've got two hours. Drink some water, grab some food — we've already got it prepared for you. Once everyone's eaten and rested, go tell the boys…"
Clay grinned, voice low but full of promise.
"Tell them Lord Clay Manderly is taking them to get rich."
"Get rich?" Christen blinked. "My lord, you mean—?"
"Scram. You'll know when we get there. Now move your ass and go deliver the damn orders!"
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Meanwhile, in the town of Lord Harroway, where the dust and smoke had only just begun to settle, Ser Marlon Manderly's command tent stood in the northern quarter of the town.
He'd chosen that particular location for a reason. It sat right alongside the Kingsroad, which ran just to the north. Even if the battle turned against them, this spot offered the fastest and safest route for a retreat.
That choice had been made with Clay's safety in mind. What Ser Marlon had not expected was that Clay never intended to personally take command of this army to begin with.
"My lord, all remnants of the Vale troops inside the town have been cleared out. As per your orders, not a single one was left alive."
A knight from House Manderly rode into the command tent and delivered the news directly to Ser Marlon.
Among the nine thousand troops under his command, the two thousand elite cavalrymen were the true backbone of the force. Without them, the wildling troops might start getting ideas, and the four thousand green recruits would be left feeling scared and directionless.
Ser Marlon understood this perfectly. That was why, when the army reached the area just north of Lord Harroway's Town, he gave the order for House Manderly's cavalry to launch a fierce and immediate assault.
The Vale soldiers stationed there had been completely unprepared. Under the cover of darkness, they barely lasted an hour before their entire line collapsed. And then, swords dripping with fresh blood, the Manderly cavalry stormed into what was once the enemy's central logistics hub.
At daybreak, Ser Marlon gave the order to send the four thousand recruits into the town. As the supply and support center of the Vale army, this place had held a significant number of their troops. Two thousand blades alone wouldn't be enough to clear them all out quickly.
Therefore it was the perfect opportunity to send in the fresh recruits. They could clean up the battlefield, finish off any survivors who had slipped through the cracks, and, more importantly, get their first taste of blood. After seeing real death with their own eyes, they'd be far less frightened when they entered a true battlefield.
And the victorious Manderly cavalry had only suffered fewer than a hundred casualties. They still had more than enough strength left for a follow-up pursuit.
The Vale soldiers had mostly scattered in two directions. Those fleeing west were trying to rejoin Yohn Royce's main host, while those heading east were retreating toward their homeland, the Vale, since the Bloody Gate lay in that direction.
Faced with this situation, Ser Marlon didn't hesitate for even a second. He gave his order on the spot.
"Let all the eastbound enemies go. Focus everything on slaughtering the ones retreating west. Kill as many as you can. And if you spot their main host coming to reinforce them, don't engage… fall back here immediately."
Ser Marlon knew very well that once they fled into the Vale, there was no way he could chase them. That was one reason. The second was that he actually wanted those survivors to bring news of their defeat back home. That had been Lord Clay's original command — to draw as much of the enemy's attention as possible toward this place.
He had carried out Clay's will to the letter. Letting the eastern forces go while chasing down the western ones… that was the logic behind it.
Now the recruits began entering the battlefield.
It didn't take long before the stench of blood and the sight of mangled, torn corpses made some of them retch uncontrollably. Even those who had seen death before now stood pale-faced, throats tightening as they fought the urge to vomit.
Before launching the assault, Ser Marlon had repeated his orders again and again to the cavalry under his command — this time, show no mercy. Let the blood of the Vale spill freely, and let it serve as a sacrifice to honor the restless souls of the Northern soldiers who had died north of Harrenhal.
And so, with their restraints fully cast aside, the two thousand cavalrymen of House Manderly turned Lord Harroway's Town into a blood-drenched slaughterhouse. With every swing of their blades, scarlet blood sprayed through the air like a gruesome storm.
Some Vale remnants who had managed to hide themselves in dark corners and survived the first wave were eventually discovered by the fresh recruits entering the town. As a result, brutal hand-to-hand combat broke out once more. The recruits, having never tasted real war, struggled at first. Even though they had the numbers, their lack of experience meant they still suffered losses in those initial, chaotic clashes.
But as the fighting wore on and they gradually overcame their fear, especially after catching up to and cutting down those panicked, cornered enemies who were already half-broken, their nerves began to settle. Soon enough, they started forming small groups on their own, moving through the streets with grim determination as they hunted down every last enemy soldier still drawing breath in the town.
As for the army consisting of more than three thousand wildling captives, Ser Marlon issued them a very different order: get to work digging trenches outside the town.
And what were the trenches for?
Why, to pile up the soil into makeshift earthen walls, of course.
One trench, two flanking walls, followed by a repetition of the pattern.
There was no other choice. Lord Harroway's Town didn't have any walls of its own. It was practically impossible to defend in its original state. And although Lord Wyman had supplied the army with a decent amount of equipment back when they set out from the Twins, it wouldn't matter how well-armed they were if they couldn't hold out against the first wave of enemy assault. All that gear would just end up being loot for someone else.
So, over the course of a single day, the four thousand fresh recruits, with more than three hundred casualties, though most were only wounded, finally managed to finish clearing out the town completely. They seized a large quantity of supplies and weapons in the process.
After that, Ser Marlon put the remaining three thousand to work as well. Every last man was sent out to dig.
The overall situation on the battlefield near Riverrun had been thoroughly discussed between Clay and Ser Marlon before Clay left. Marlon knew very clearly who his enemies were, and what to expect.
Because of that, his engineering standards were extremely strict.
And so, as the hours slipped by and the rest of the world paid no mind, a strange little fortress of dirt slowly began to rise up from the earth.
And by the time their enemies finally laid eyes on that odd-looking fortress in its full form… well, by then, it would already be too late for regrets.
After all, there's no such thing in this world as a medicine for regret.
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[Chapter End's]
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