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The scouts who had gone south eventually returned with news after all.
But regrettably… it wasn't good news.
Out of the ten scouts they had sent, only four made it back alive. The rest had perished along the way — killed either during the march south, or in skirmishes with scouts from the Vale and the Lannisters. People often assumed that being a scout was an easy or fortunate assignment, but in truth, their casualty rate was often even higher than the soldiers in the front lines of battle.
They never even made it to Harrenhal. In fact, they were barely halfway there before they were forced to turn back.
But even so, they had managed to locate the battlefield where the Vale's heavy cavalry had ambushed the Northern army.
There had been no time to bury the dead. Nearly twenty thousand corpses littered that battlefield, but the scouts could do nothing about it. After quickly surveying the scene and making a basic assessment of what had happened, they immediately resumed their mission.
It was not until they returned to Twins that they finally reported everything they had seen to Clay.
The battlefield lay just south of Lord Harroway's Town, already frighteningly close to Harrenhal itself.
It seemed that Robb Stark had never planned to wait for the Riverlands army to join him. His intention was clear — he meant to lead his forces directly into Harrenhal and plant his sword right on the doorstep of King's Landing.
Tactically speaking, it wasn't the wrong decision. If not for the unexpected factor of the Vale joining the war, it was a perfectly sound plan. But that was precisely the problem. The Vale struck at Robb Stark when he was utterly unprepared, stabbing him viciously in the back.
"We couldn't even tell how many of our men died… the ground was covered with corpses… ours… and theirs… it's really…"
The scout delivering the report looked utterly stricken, his face etched with raw pain. Anyone who saw so many of their own brothers left to rot in the wilderness… no one could stomach that sight.
"We saw banners from all the great houses there. Besides the ones from the North, we also found a few tattered eagle standards… there's no doubt about it. Those bastards from the Vale of Arryn ambushed us."
Clay nodded slowly. After asking a few more questions about the details of the battlefield, he finally dismissed them.
These scouts danced on the edge of a blade every time they left on a mission. One wrong step and they could lose their heads.
They deserved a proper rest. Especially now… they probably wouldn't have many chances to rest in the days ahead.
"It's confirmed then. The Vale has indeed joined the war. Seems like the contents of Robb Stark's letter were trustworthy after all," the old man muttered, stroking his grey beard. The thick, snow-white curls tangled across his cheeks and chin as his furrowed brows deepened in thought.
"Hmm… in that case, we have no choice but to prepare for the worst. That Robb Stark's blunder handed them over ten thousand of our men on a silver platter. I know… it sounds unlikely… but we have to be cautious and assume the enemy is capable of more than they appear."
Truth be told, even now, Clay still did not believe the Vale's cavalry were strong enough to crush the Northern army in a single decisive blow, not unless they sent every last soldier they had — and even then, with another twenty thousand men at their disposal, it still wouldn't be guaranteed.
Though they lacked reliable intelligence from the South, Clay had his own guesses. That cavalry force from the Vale… the ones who swept in, won their battle, and then vanished like mist… chances were, they hadn't gone far. Most likely, they were out there still, hunting down the remnants of the shattered Northern army, determined to keep grinding away at the North's remaining military strength, making sure they wouldn't have the power to interfere with the South's shifting political tides.
Tch… this balancing strategy was executed cleanly, Clay had to admit. It was sharp. Ruthless. Deserving of his full attention and respect.
"Clay, I've got an idea, would you like to hear it?"
"Go ahead, Grandfather."
"Hmm… look, right now, we've still got two thousand men holding firm here in the Twins. White Harbor's fresh troops could march south at any moment. No matter how you look at it, compared to the other weak points along the front line, we're the tough nut to crack."
Following his grandfather's finger, Clay studied the map carefully, his eyes lingering over the positions where the two sides were locked in stalemate… and the areas most vulnerable to sudden attacks.
He considered it for a moment, then gave a small nod of agreement.
"You're right. As long as the Vale folk aren't complete fools, they've got no reason to come after us. And if they do… with the help of the Twins, we can definitely hold them off."
The old man picked up the thread of the conversation without missing a beat, continuing smoothly where Clay had left off.
"If word of this gets back to the North… all those great houses, desperate to save their lords, they'll probably squeeze every last coin and every last able-bodied man they've got to send south."
"And when that happens… the Northern army will march through the Neck and come south. As for Edmure Tully… as long as he's got even half a brain… he'll lead the forces from Riverrun straight to the Bloody Gate and block the way. Those little eaglets from the Vale will be trapped, unable to advance, unable to retreat."
"That's why, in my judgment… they probably won't come after us. How much are we really worth? A few gold dragons at most?"
"The real issue here… is figuring out just how big these Vale lords' appetites really are."
That… that was the heart of the whole problem.
Littlefinger had orchestrated this entire scheme, that much was clear. But Clay understood something else very clearly… there was no way Littlefinger's aim was to utterly destroy the North. Even if he wanted to, he couldn't.
Right now, Roose Bolton and that unlucky Lord Cerwyn were both stuck in the Eyrie. And not to mention that pitiful Lord Cerwyn… but Roose Bolton…
Roose Bolton, along with him, young Arya Stark — who had been captured long ago.
Familiar, isn't it?
Wasn't this practically a ready-made, fully packaged Winterfell Return Delegation?
All they had to do was get rid of Robb Stark.
After that, Roose Bolton could ride back North with his men, claiming he was escorting Arya Stark home to Winterfell…
And then, find the right opportunity to quietly have Bran Stark meet an unfortunate end.
As for Sansa Stark… just marry her off to some noble who owed him a favor or who he wanted to pull into his camp.
Or better yet… something even simpler. Rely on pure military strength to seize control of the weakened Winterfell, then marry Sansa himself. And if he was ruthless enough… make little Rickon Stark vanish without a trace…
Finally, get a powerful king to lend his approval to the whole thing… and it would all be settled, neat and clean.
Truth be told, that was exactly how things had played out in Clay's memory. Roose Bolton had done all of this… only in the end, he overplayed his hand, and his own bastard, the infamous Flayer, ended up killing him. Serves him right, really!
Clay wasn't entirely sure if Roose Bolton had already turned traitor… but judging by the North's current pitiful state, with Robb Stark barely holding on, and Littlefinger lurking right beside Bolton… well, it would be strange if that scheming bastard wasn't cooking up something.
Having thought it all through, Clay couldn't help but curse under his breath once more at Robb Stark's disastrous envoy arrangement.
Hand-delivering a pillow to a man desperate for sleep… that's what this felt like. If they'd sent literally anyone else, maybe none of this mess would have happened.
The North had always been ruled by three great powers.
The Starks… of course, were at the top. The Boltons used to be second… but now, it was Clay's own House Manderly that had firmly secured that position.
The problem was… their foundation was still weak. The Boltons, after all, had once produced the Red King himself. Their family's history ran deep.
Littlefinger couldn't do much about House Manderly, so naturally… his hand would reach toward Roose Bolton instead.
"Grandfather, you mean… those little eaglets from the Vale might turn their attention to the nearly defenseless lords of the Riverlands?"
"Why not? If I were commanding the forces from the Eyrie… I'd burn, I'd kill, I'd pillage the fiefdoms without a second thought."
"Most of my forces are cavalry anyways. All I'd need to do is trick the Riverlands' army into abandoning Riverrun, lure them out of that turtle shell they call a castle, and suddenly… the whole place is filled with weaknesses, just waiting to be exploited."
Honestly speaking, Clay couldn't deny his old man's assessment was dead on the mark.
It was entirely possible Littlefinger would pull exactly this kind of stunt.
Edmure Tully lacked the stature to command real respect. And once his vassals saw their homes burned to ash, their lands plundered… they would lose their patience in an instant.
When that happened, Edmure Tully, unable to withstand the pressure, would probably rush out with his army in a desperate attempt to save face.
And by then… if Clay were the one commanding the Vale's army… all he'd need to do was send in an elite strike force to cut off the Riverlands' supply lines…
Follow that with a lightning-fast, brutal assault… and the entire army would collapse like rotten timber.
"Hmm… yeah, that's very possible. In that case, we should send a raven to Edmure Tully right away, tell him to stay put no matter what happens. As long as his twenty thousand men stay holed up inside Riverrun, the Vale's cavalry will never be able to truly relax."
"If they get smashed in battle again… that would be a disaster."
The two of them stared down at the map, both wearing troubled expressions.
The truth was, Clay had already thought through ways to break this stalemate. If all else failed… just give up on everything and ride for Dorne. Climb onto his dragon, soar over the Eyrie… and burn the whole damned place to the ground.
Let them taste for themselves what it meant to provoke the wrath of House Manderly!
But that… that was the most satisfying yet least cost-effective option. Unless they truly had no other choice, Clay didn't want to go down that road.
"Clay… now's the time I can finally ask you this."
"How… do you plan to deal with House Stark?"
Deep in thought, Clay was caught completely off guard by the old man's sudden question. He looked up, meeting his grandfather's slightly conflicted gaze, and in that moment, he more or less understood what this was all about.
When Clay didn't respond right away, Lord Wyman assumed he hadn't quite grasped the question and patiently rephrased it:
"Let me put it another way. Deep down… do you really want to save Robb Stark? He's still trapped in Harrenhal, after all. That cursed tomb where Harren the Black met his end… though at least the castle walls are still standing."
"If I had to guess, with those walls and fortifications, Tywin Lannister wouldn't have risked slipping out of King's Landing with heavy siege engines slowing him down. It won't be easy for them to take the place by force. Which means… Robb Stark is still salvageable."
"In the end… there's another layer to this you have to consider."
"Robb Stark's recklessness dragged the entire North into the abyss. That much is hard to deny. And all those Northern lords who threw their lot in with him… every last one of them bears a share of the blame for this mess."
"Except you. Except our House Manderly."
"You carry no responsibility in this. He's the one who ordered you to lead troops to the Wall. None of this falls on your shoulders."
The old man's eyes locked onto his grandson's, his voice steady and deliberate as each word fell into place.
"If… in the future… you want the North to kneel to you willingly…"
"There will never be a better chance than this. How you handle it… is entirely your choice. From this moment on… our family answers to you."
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