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The moment Clay's banner appeared above the battlefield of Harrenhal, its effect was immediate and undeniable.
Brynden Tully's host wasted no time. Almost at once, his men pressed forward against the Westerlands army opposite them, testing the enemy lines with a probing assault.
It seemed no one dared display hesitation or cowardice in front of Clay. Not a soul wished to be seen shrinking from battle under his eyes.
After all, Clay Manderly had carved his path to this very height through blood, step by step over the corpses of his enemies. Every noble present knew this truth, and none had the stomach to defy him openly, much less risk drawing his ire by refusing orders.
So when Clay's summons arrived, commanding them all to assemble in his central camp, they had little choice but to force themselves onward, even if their hearts quailed.
And deep down, many of them already understood that this time would not be like before. Clay Manderly was unlikely to be patient, nor inclined to listen kindly to excuses.
This campaign was not as it had been in earlier days. Back then, the armies under Clay's banner had largely belonged to the Riverlands themselves, and those lords still clung to the final vestiges of their right to refuse.
But now, the balance had shifted. Clay commanded thousands of his own Manderly household's elite warriors, trained and disciplined in ways the Riverlords could not easily match. On top of that came ten thousand men from the North, lent by Lord Horroway's town, who had marched south in solid ranks to join him. With their arrival, the scales tipped decisively in his favor.
These were not Riverlands troops. They were loyal to Clay directly, his true retainers and sworn allies, and the Riverlands nobles had no voice here, no leverage to use against him.
The northern reinforcements, more than ten thousand strong, raised not the slightest objection to the coming battle. That support alone meant that in this war at Harrenhal, Clay Manderly's authority now stood at its peak, nearly absolute.
In the past, when Clay had not yet set foot on the front lines himself, the Riverlords could sometimes delay or excuse themselves by claiming the chaos of battlefield command. They could drag their feet, hide behind excuses of circumstance, and avoid following his orders to the letter.
But not now. Not when he was here in person, watching them with his own cold eyes. No one would dare gamble their life by courting death beneath his gaze.
So the Riverlands nobles, led by Edmure Tully himself, spurred their horses as hard as they could and hurried at the fastest pace possible toward Clay's central camp.
The moment they entered the great command tent, their eyes were drawn to him at once. There sat the young commander who now held thirty thousand men under his banner, his face calm, almost unnervingly so.
It was not the calm of ease, nor the calm born of confidence, but a stillness that felt unnatural, a silence heavy with unease, as though it hid something darker just beneath the surface.
Yet none among them dared to speak of it. They swallowed their discomfort, lowered their heads, and obediently settled onto the rough wooden stools that had been placed before them.
It was already more than enough to be given a seat. These great lords, men long accustomed to silken cushions and velvet benches, now found their pampered backsides pressed against hard, unyielding blocks of timber. The contrast bit into them like cold iron, yet not a single one dared to utter a word of complaint.
Only a handful had stools at all. The rest, stripped of privilege in this soldier's world, had no choice but to remain standing, grouped behind the more powerful Riverlords, forced into the posture of retainers rather than peers.
When Clay saw that most had arrived, he wasted no time on pleasantries. Without the least hesitation, he began what would be the final war council before the battle.
"My lords," Clay said, his voice steady, "I will begin with a simple question. Have you received the orders I sent through my messenger?"
The words dropped into the tent like a stone sinking into ice-cold water. Moments before, the room had been filled with low murmurs and the restless shifting of so many men crowded together. Now, the noise vanished. The atmosphere froze, hard and brittle, as if the very air had turned to glass.
Not a single voice answered. Every man there knew the truth, yet not one dared to speak it aloud. To admit it would be to condemn himself. To deny it would be to call Clay a liar. Either way, it was a death sentence.
Clay had anticipated their silence. He had known all along what their answer would be, and he had no intention of allowing them to slip away on excuses like eels through a net.
"My messenger," he went on, his tone still steady, almost conversational, "reported back to me clearly and without error. He told me that he had placed my commands directly into the hands of Edmure Tully, and of Ser Brynden Tully, who has so suddenly discovered the spirit to seize opportunities on the battlefield. And," his gaze moved slowly across the assembled lords, "into the hands of more than a few of you seated here today."
His voice sharpened slightly. "So, my lords, I expect a clear answer."
Clay's words were not thunderous. He did not raise his voice, nor did he pound the table. Yet the weight of them pressed upon every man like the slow tightening of a vice.
"If," Clay continued, "it should prove that my messenger lied to me, that he never once placed my command into your hands, then he will bear the punishment. He will pay with his life, and with his blood he will wash away the stain upon your honors."
For a heartbeat he allowed them to cling to that fragile sliver of hope. Then his eyes gleamed with cold amusement, and his lips curved into a smile that offered no warmth at all.
"But if my messenger spoke the truth…" Clay's smile vanished, his expression hardening like iron in the forge. He swept his gaze around the tent, and a sharp, mocking laugh broke from his lips.
"Then you, my lords, owe me an explanation. You will tell me why the orders I gave were ignored, and you will account for the state of this battle before my eyes."
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Christen was beginning to feel the weight of exhaustion.
The moment he realized it was when he drove his sword through the chest of a fleeing Lannister footman. The steel struck bone, and instead of yanking it free at once, as he should have, he hesitated. For that brief instant, he let the blade remain lodged in the man's ribs.
At the start of the battle, he had not been like this at all. Then, his body had moved as though fire burned in his veins, every stroke sharp, every thrust pulled free without thought. Now, the fire was guttering.
He could feel it in the ebb of magic within him, his strength flowing out faster than it could be replenished. His eyes fell upon the enemy before him: the Westerlands host, sprawling across the plain in endless ranks. Though panic rippled through their lines, they still stood like a sea of men without end. At that sight, a heavy weariness welled up inside him.
There were simply too many. No matter how many he cut down, the tide did not recede. It was impossible to kill them all.
His position had carried him deep into the thick of it, to the very middle of the Westerlands force besieging the northern gate of Harrenhal. Along the way, he and his men had smashed through four infantry formations, taking them unawares, scattering them in bloody disarray. But their luck, it seemed, had run its course.
For this was no rabble. The Westerlands army, in theory, was regarded as the most disciplined, best-equipped host in all of Westeros.
Their response was swift. Too swift.
Here, before Harrenhal, their finest men had been gathered. This was their strength in its entirety.
It did not take long. Under the sharp commands of mid-ranking officers, the surrounding infantry began to adjust. Lines wheeled, shields shifted, and formations reoriented to meet the oncoming threat. Perhaps they could not fully turn to face Christen's lightning-fast charge, but at the very least, they no longer left their undefended backs exposed.
That small adjustment alone changed everything. To Christen, it felt like slamming against a stone wall where before he had cut through rotten wood. The difficulty of the charge increased a hundredfold in an instant.
The northern gate loomed ahead, almost within sight. But Christen did not need to turn his head to know the truth: the number of comrades still charging at his side was dwindling with every breath. The thunder of hooves behind him was thinning out, one rider gone, then another, swallowed by the tide.
In the end, they were no more than five hundred men hurling themselves into the teeth of nearly ten thousand of the Westerlands host. The fact that they had come this far was already a miracle, already the best result anyone could have expected. From here onward, every foot gained would be bought with their lives, each advance paid for in blood.
He tilted his head, almost without thought, and a heavy javelin whipped past, close enough that he felt the air stir against his cheek. He never looked to see who had thrown it.
He did not have the time.
The longsword in his grip, once flawless, was now battered and scarred. Countless clashes with enemy steel, with chain and plate, with the brittle resistance of bone, had left it notched and jagged, the edge pitted with cracks.
Even so, when he twisted his wrist and let the power of his charging horse drive his strike, the ruined blade slid across a soldier's neck with dreadful ease, parting flesh and vein.
Another one dead.
Christen knew it. But the thought lasted no longer than half a heartbeat. Already his attention had snapped forward again, because something strange was happening on his right flank.
The Westerlands soldiers there seemed to be in disarray, their line rippling with confusion.
And Christen was certain: he had never struck from that direction. There was no reason for them to be breaking on their own.
What he could not yet know was that the panic over there was ten times greater than the pressure he himself was suffering here in the midst of the melee.
For, as ill luck would have it, the king himself and his mother had somehow emerged from the safety of the northern encampment. Tywin Lannister had kept them under strict guard, forbidden them from stirring beyond their tents. Yet, they had managed to slip free.
And not only that… they had come straight to the front of the northern host, with Sandor Clegane, the so-called Hound, trailing at their side like a loyal beast on a leash.
The man commanding the siege, Lord Damon Marbrand, had no idea what was unfolding behind him. How could he? Not long ago, his own son had led a reckless sally from the camp, only to be struck down in a single merciless blow by Christen. Grief and fury had driven Damon into the melee at the gate, where he fought with blind determination, oblivious to the chaos devouring his rear. The northern camp behind him had dissolved into disorder, yet he remained fixed at the front line, unaware of how swiftly the ground was shifting.
So when he turned and suddenly found himself face-to-face with Joffrey Baratheon, and with Cersei Lannister at his side, her crown still perched on her head as though she were at a coronation instead of a battlefield, Damon was struck dumb. Words deserted him. All he could manage was to force himself down to one knee and offer, dutifully and by rote, the homage a vassal owed his king.
He had not even drawn breath to speak when Joffrey began to shout. A torrent of wild commands spilled from the boy king, so incoherent and unreasonable that they left Damon reeling.
The king ordered him to throw every soldier he commanded, without exception, into the assault on Harrenhal. The castle, Joffrey declared, must be taken within the hour. And should anyone fail, Joffrey swore he would personally take their heads.
Watching the boy "perform" in such familiar fashion, Ser Sandor Clegane, who had meant to remain no more than a silent, hulking shadow at his side, could not keep the scowl from his face. With a rough hand, he drew the bewildered Damon Marbrand a step aside and, in a low growl, laid out what had just transpired within the camp.
In Sandor's blunt view, this wretched little bastard Joffrey had… well, let's just say his grand "southern hunt" had reached its end, for now.
Lord Damon, however, was not particularly concerned with that judgment. In his eyes, such matters did not touch him. This was Tywin Lannister's household problem. The old lion himself would soon have to come and clean up the mess his grandson had just made.
Even as Damon was still calculating, in his heart, how best to manage the dangerous presence of both mother and son, a sudden roar of voices broke out from outside.
Startled, he hurried out to see what had happened. It took him only moments to understand.
Brynden Tully, the infamous Blackfish, who had been lurking for hours in the woodland along Damon's flank, seemingly idle and unwilling to commit, had chosen this exact moment to strike.
Damon had just dispatched his reserves to blunt that treacherous old knight's ambush when a new sound split the air behind him: the shrill cries of warhorses, mingled with the raw thunder of men screaming to kill.
He spun around, and for a heartbeat his mind went blank.
What he saw was a banner snapping in the wind, bright and unmistakable. A golden trident gripped by a merman, the proud sigil of House Manderly, streaming forward with the charge.
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