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Upstream of the Blue Fork, the current surged fiercely, yet the river itself narrowed sharply.
Throughout the entire upper reaches of the Blue Fork, there existed only a single crossing point where one could traverse the river heading east.
That place was called the Fairmarket!
There's no need to delve into the origins of that name… what mattered now was that it had become the target of Clay's marching army.
After two full days and nights of hard maneuvering, Clay's forces had pulled ahead of Yohn Royce, who was pursuing from behind, by more than a day's journey. For two cavalry-only armies, that was a safe enough distance… for now.
But if one were to spread open a map of the Riverlands, they'd see that the rivers flowing through the Trident's basin weren't spaced that far apart. That geography made rapid, large-scale movements especially difficult for an army of their size.
And so, if Clay truly wanted to throw Yohn Royce off his trail, to leave the man completely confused and chasing shadows, he still had one more thing to do.
A lead of one day wasn't enough. He needed more. After all, the eastern army—the real main force—still had to make its way south, and Clay needed to buy them as much time as possible. Ideally, he wanted Royce's host from the Vale to remain north of the Red Fork, wandering in circles until the very last moment.
Clay had to admit, there was a vast difference between those who had never fought in a battle and those who had set foot on a battlefield and lived to tell the tale. The two couldn't even be compared… they were as far apart as sky and earth.
The eastern army had nine thousand men, and seven thousand of them were fresh recruits. Among those, three thousand were wildlings — completely undisciplined and unorganized, fighting with nothing but brute strength. Clay had a very clear idea of what that meant for their actual combat strength.
Which was why this force could not be used offensively — especially not against the Vale's cavalry, which was well-equipped and battle-tested. If they tried, they'd be yanked around the battlefield, worn down until they collapsed from exhaustion, then surrounded and torn apart.
The only way to make use of their numbers was to force the enemy to attack them first. Only then could they organize themselves properly and rely on sheer numbers and firm defenses to fight back.
Looking across the entire battlefield of the Riverlands, there was only one place that met those requirements: Lord Harroway's Town. The strategy was simple in theory: strike where the enemy would be compelled to respond. But before they could put that plan into motion, they needed time. Time to dig in, to build fortifications strong enough to keep them from being overwhelmed in a single devastating blow.
After riding for most of the day, Clay's vanguard finally approached Fairmarket.
This small riverside town, nestled quietly along the Blue Fork, now stood completely deserted. Ever since Robb Stark's crushing defeat near Harrenhal, every lord and lady across the riverlands had sensed the storm that was coming.
And so, places like the Fairmarket — populated but lacking any real defenses — had been abandoned in haste. The townsfolk had fled to the nearest strongholds, clinging to the hope that the walls of a castle might shield them from the horrors of war.
Now, every last resident of the Fairmarket had taken refuge in Raventree Hall, the closest fortress still holding firm.
By the time Clay's forces arrived, not a single person remained on the outskirts. But something felt different within the town itself. Something stirred behind those empty walls.
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"Lord Clay, it's been confirmed—there's a group hiding in the town. I counted fifty-four people, but I can't be sure there aren't more tucked away somewhere."
Christen, one of Clay's personal witcher guards, had returned from a covert scouting mission.
The moment his team discovered someone was inside the town, they immediately sent word back to Clay.
Clay had ordered the army to halt at once. The Lord of Raventree Hall had once told him that the Fairmarket should have been completely abandoned. So where had this group of fifty-odd people suddenly come from?
It couldn't be enemy troops. That idiot Yohn Royce had already been scared off by Clay's ambushes and decoy tactics, and he was still far behind.
So when Clay first heard there were people inside the town, his instinctive reaction was that a gang of bandits must have taken over the abandoned place.
In times like these, chaotic and lawless, bandits were all too common. A few battered sets of armor and some rusted swords were all it took to start calling themselves a company. If they knew the terrain well enough and managed to fend off a few attacks from the local lords, those lords would usually just turn a blind eye and let them be.
This was the result of having no central power. Without a standing royal army, everything had to be handled by the local lords. And once those lords had been dealt with, it didn't matter what the king wanted anymore.
"Christen, can you tell who they are? We can't let anyone find out we're here. If they're bandits, wipe them out immediately. We can't risk them acting as the eyes and ears for the Vale."
Clay's voice was firm, his tone deadly serious. This wasn't the time for mercy. If these people really were just common bandits—or anything else, for that matter—then as long as they were alive, there was a chance they could reveal his position. And that was a risk Clay could not afford to take.
"My lord… they looked like soldiers. And unless my eyes were deceiving me… I think I caught a glimpse of the Stark sunburst banner. From the North. But I'm not certain. It was filthy, torn, and half-hidden. I only saw it for a moment."
Christen's voice held a trace of hesitation. He wasn't some fresh recruit. He was a seasoned veteran who had followed Clay through more than one hard battle. He knew the difference between bandits and soldiers.
Of course, there were times when soldiers turned to banditry. But what Christen had seen didn't fit that pattern. The group holed up inside the town was tightly organized. Their camp was set up with discipline. Watch posts were positioned with intent. And there were even sentries hidden with such precision that they would have gone completely unnoticed—if Christen weren't a witcher.
No peasant militia or desperate farmhands could have pulled that off. These were trained men. Real soldiers. There was no question about it.
And more than that, Christen could tell that this unit hadn't fallen apart. They still held onto their structure. They still moved like a proper fighting force.
When he heard this, Clay's brow furrowed. "Soldiers? And the sunburst of Winter's Glory?"
Could it be… a remnant of the Karstark forces from the North?
Clay trusted his guard's judgment. Christen wouldn't have brought up the banner if he hadn't been confident about what he'd seen.
Besides, Clay had always found it strange. At the battle north of Harrenhal, Robb Stark had brought nearly twenty thousand men to the field. The Vale's cavalry had shattered them with a surprise night raid—but even then, twenty thousand men couldn't just vanish.
So where had all those scattered troops gone?
"Send someone to capture one of the hidden sentries. Quietly. And have the army begin encircling the area. No matter who they are, we need to lock down everything around the Fairmarket."
"If they're our people, we'll bring them into the fold. If they're bandits… cut them down on the spot. Leave no one alive."
"Yes, Lord Clay!"
The witcher guards moved swiftly. Before long, they completed their task. One man was brought before Clay… filthy, foul-smelling, and clad in battered armor that looked like it hadn't been cleaned in months.
Christen and his team hadn't asked him a single question. They had simply knocked him out using an Axii Sign. The interrogation wasn't their duty—that responsibility fell to Clay, the commander of the army. They understood their role perfectly and never overstepped.
Clay nodded to them in silent approval, then stretched out a hand. Magic pulsed softly through his palm as he snapped his fingers just in front of the unconscious man's face.
The effect of the Sign faded in an instant, and the man stirred awake almost immediately.
His very first reaction was pure instinct. With a sudden jolt, he sprang up from the ground and reached toward the sword at his waist — only to grab at empty air.
His weapons were gone. Christen and his men had already stripped him of anything dangerous. They might not have been able to best Clay in a duel, but as his personal guard, their job was clear, and they left nothing to chance.
The moment he realized his hip was bare, the man froze. For a brief second, he just stood there in silence. Then he looked up—and his gaze locked onto the tall figure standing directly across from him… Clay.
In that instant, his gaze was pulled past Clay to the banner fluttering behind him in the wind—the golden trident and merman, the unmistakable sigil of House Manderly.
Something must have clicked in his mind. The man, ignoring the caked dirt all over his hands, rubbed his bloodshot eyes with force, smearing more grime across his face—but when he looked again, he finally saw Clay's face clearly.
And the very next moment, he collapsed to his knees.
He clutched Clay's leg, broke down completely, and burst into heart-wrenching sobs.
"Lord Clay… my lord, you've come at last, you've finally come! We… we lost the battle. All the brothers… they're all dead!"
He cried as if his soul had been torn open. Once proud soldiers of the North, they had followed Clay into countless victories, never flinching even when they faced enemies three or five times their number. But that powerful, unstoppable force had been shattered in a single ambush, crushed in chaos and confusion. And they hadn't even known how they died.
It had directly broken their spirits. He had watched his brothers — still dazed and weaponless from sleep — cut down like animals by the cavalrymen of the Vale, while he himself could do nothing but run. Just the memory of it was enough to plunge him back into a nightmare.
"You… you're a Karstark cavalryman? One of mine?" Clay asked quietly.
The soldier heard those words and nodded over and over again.
They had split off from Clay's main host, heading south ahead of him. But shortly after linking up with Robb Stark, they'd been ambushed. It had all happened so fast.
And all they felt now was shame… deep, choking shame.
"My lord, there are still more than seventy of our brothers holed up inside the town. Lord Rickard Karstark is with them too. He's wounded. There's no medicine, no healers in this cursed place—we have nothing. Please, my lord, let me take you to him!"
The soldier suddenly remembered something. He scrambled to his feet, eager to lead the way, but just as he was about to reach out and pull Clay along, his dirt-crusted hand stopped in midair when he caught sight of the fur-lined cloak draped over Clay's shoulders.
Clay didn't make it hard for him. He simply gave a small nod and said softly,
"Lead the way."
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[Chapter End's]
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