Read 20+ Chapter's Ahead in Patreon
"They came glooping out of the forest to the northeast. No battle cries, no horns… just a sweeping tide of flashing blades under the moonlight."
"Our cavalry was camped far off to the southwest, so we were the last to hear anything. By the time word reached us, it was already too late."
"The first to fall was the House Cerwyn infantry camp. I couldn't sleep that night and happened to be walking through the tents when it happened. I saw it with my own eyes — our young lads stumbling out in confusion, still half-dressed, only to have blades rip across their throats before they even knew what was happening."
"They panicked and broke ranks, fleeing in droves toward the center of the camp. What little defensive line we had, held together by scattered men from House Manderly and House Umber, was crushed in an instant… by our own."
"Once those two lines collapsed, that was it. We completely lost any chance of holding them off. We weren't shattered by the Vale's charge — we were undone by our own men, trampling each other in a blind rush to escape."
Rickard Karstark spoke in a low, rambling voice, his face drawn and weary. His greying beard was caked with dust and grime, twitching slightly as he talked.
"Later, I gathered our remaining horsemen and tried to break through. But by then, there was no structure left… no command, no order, just chaos. The Vale's elite heavy cavalry charged again, and with their second assault, they struck down His Grace Robb's direwolf banner."
"With the banner gone, the soldiers lost all direction. There was nothing left to rally around. They either fought desperately on their own… or scattered like leaves in the wind."
"I chose to ride north, to retreat all the way home. But luck wasn't with me. One of those damned eagle fledglings from the Vale shot an arrow clean through my waist. I fell from my horse."
"By the time I came to, my guards had already dragged me across the Red Fork. At that point, turning back to see how His Grace fared was out of the question. I figured heading for the Twins was better. At least you, or your grandfather, one of you would be there."
Clay listened in silence. He didn't speak a word. He simply lifted a hand, and the army physician at his side stepped forward at once. Without a word, the man knelt down and began unwrapping the filthy, foul-smelling bandage from Rickard Karstark's waist.
He didn't seem particularly fazed. Clearly, he was no stranger to wounds like these. He frowned slightly, muttered a quiet "Troublesome," and then calmly began pulling out the appropriate medicines and a small knife from the wooden case beside him.
Two of Clay's personal guards stepped forward and held Rickard down firmly. The treatment ahead would be painful — unbearably so. But if they didn't tend to the wound now, given the man's current condition, there was no way he'd survive the journey alongside Clay.
"Hah... hah... come on, do it! I can take it. Gods above, get on with it already! I can't wait to get better… I've got men to avenge my men!"
Rickard Karstark gritted his teeth as he spoke, and the army physician didn't waste time humoring him. Without a word, the knife in his hand sliced cleanly into the wound.
If the rotting flesh wasn't cut away, the wound would never heal. Better sharp pain now than endless pain later.
A thick stick was shoved between Karstark's teeth as his face turned pale with agony. Cold sweat poured down his brow, and soon the scent of blood began to seep faintly into the air of the bakery they'd taken shelter in. Judging by the speed and precision of the cuts, the physician clearly knew what he was doing.
After all, Westeros had no proper medical profession to speak of. Watching the man's steady hand as he carved into flesh without the slightest tremble, Clay felt fairly certain — this fellow had likely worked in a slaughterhouse during peacetime. Otherwise, there was no way he could be this practiced at butchering men.
Well…Clay thought to himself, perhaps that counts as being professionally trained, in a twisted sort of way.
————————————————————
Once Rickard Karstark's treatment was complete, Clay moved on to reorganizing the rest of the survivors. The task went smoothly. He had no trouble folding the seventy-some men into his own ranks, scattering them evenly across different units. He gave specific orders to each squad leader to keep a close eye on them.
It wasn't that Clay distrusted these comrades who had once marched south and fought beside him. But if word of his current plans got out… the consequences would be far too dangerous to risk.
If Yohn Royce caught wind that a northern force nearly ten thousand strong was charging straight at his undefended rear, Clay had no doubt in his mind — he wouldn't hesitate for even a second. He'd abandon everything and rush back to reinforce Lord Harroway's Town at full speed.
That place was something the Vale couldn't afford to lose. But their sudden victory had made them complacent. They believed the North had no more strength to threaten them… and so they'd let their guard down.
After helping Rickard Karstark mount a gentle-tempered warhorse, one trained to be easy to handle, Clay turned his gaze toward the empty town around them and gave a crisp new order.
"Christen, take five hundred men across the bridge. March back and forth a few times. I want it to look like the entire army crossed."
"Then take your troops and circle back. This time, keep the formation tight — two horses per row — and head west. Keep your trail as faint as possible. Also, I want the bridge torn down… but not completely. I want it to look like we pulled out in a rush, like we didn't have time to finish the job."
"Leave it just intact enough that they can repair it. Let them cross the Blue Fork and keep chasing. Do you understand what I'm getting at?"
Clay finished giving his orders, and Christen stood in place for a moment, mulling over the command. After a beat of silence, his eyes sharpened. He'd figured it out, the heart of Clay's strategy.
The real objective here was to create the illusion that Clay's entire army had already withdrawn east of the Blue Fork, baiting the Vale forces into following them across.
And once they crossed — while Clay's side hadn't actually gone anywhere — there would already be enough distance between the two forces. Enough time. Enough space. Enough room to maneuver.
What's more, this was a small town, and the surrounding area was thick with dense woods. In a place like this, any sign of a large army's movements could be covered up with ease. It was the perfect stage for deception.
"I understand, Lord Clay. I'll take the brothers across right away."
Clay gave a faint nod. The boy's instincts weren't bad. They didn't have many men left to rely on, and the only nobleman they had was already riding north with a detachment, just to draw away part of the enemy's force.
"I'll lead the rest into the woods and start pulling back now. We'll cover our tracks as we go. Don't wait for us. Just remember, the moment you finish your task, march straight for the Mummer's Ford. I'll be there waiting for you."
"Go now. Don't let me down."
For some reason, Clay found himself hoping he might hear it — a firm and steady voice replying with the words, 'I swear to complete the mission!'
But he knew all too well that such a wish would never come true in this world. The Christen standing before him had already turned his horse and was galloping off toward the cluster of five hundred riders Clay had gathered for him.
Clay gave a small shake of his head, as if trying to cast off the last of those lingering thoughts. Then, without another word, he gave the order for his men to begin moving into the woods west of Fairmarket.
There hadn't been any rain recently, so the ground was fairly dry. Cleaning up their tracks would still take time, but compared to dragging footprints through mud, it was definitely easier.
Meanwhile, on Christen's side, his five hundred riders were already putting on a show worthy of a thousand. They marched across the bridge with heads held high and hooves pounding in perfect rhythm. Dust filled the air. The sound of trampling hooves echoed everywhere. The bridgehead quickly turned into a storm of hoofprints and stirred-up earth.
The boy was going all out, as if terrified the Vale scouts behind them might not fall for it. His performance was dramatic, almost theatrical.
Clay watched him with a faint smile, then gave his horse a quick flick of the whip and rode off toward the west.
————————————————————
Clay had no intention of sending Rickard Karstark back to the Twins, even though he could have, if he wanted to.
Across the northern battlefields of the Riverlands, if you included the one or two thousand horsemen still under his direct command, the number of soldiers directly answering to Clay's orders had already exceeded ten thousand.
Among them were foot soldiers and mounted knights, men from the Riverlands, the North, and even beyond the Wall.
The composition of his forces was so chaotic and mismatched that Clay honestly didn't know how to even begin describing it.
And Clay was no supply corps commander with a talent for micromanagement. He wasn't the type to stand on the front lines shouting absurd commands like "move the formation five meters to the left."
Which was exactly why he needed a lot of capable people to help lead these troops for him.
At the very least, the eastern corps would have to hold a defensive line. And without someone experienced to help set up a proper formation, if they left it to a bunch of raw recruits to build fortifications on their own, the casualties would skyrocket in no time.
The army physician had assured Clay more than once that Lord Rickard Karstark's condition was stable, and that he would personally remain by the man's side at all times, watching over his health.
If that was the case, then Clay couldn't be blamed for what came next.
In fact, Clay had already made up his mind!
Rickard Karstark just didn't know it yet… but he'd already been drafted into service. In the days to come, he'd be helping Clay command the army.
At the moment, though, Karstark was still lying weakly across his saddle, his strength fading, but his mind sharp.
He couldn't quite figure out why Clay had decided to head west. Wasn't the Twins just north of the Blue Fork? Why not simply cross the river and go straight there?
"Lord Clay… what exactly are we doing?"
Rickard Karstark finally blurted out the question after holding it in for quite some time. He couldn't stand being left completely in the dark. The uncertainty left him deeply unsettled.
Clay let out a soft chuckle. "Why, we're going south, of course. There are three thousand Vale cavalry riding hard on our tails. What do you want to do… stand around and wait for them to catch us, then let them poke us to death with their dainty little lances?"
The moment Rickard heard that three thousand Vale riders were chasing them, his back miraculously stopped aching. He straightened up at once and asked in a rush, his voice full of urgency, "Three thousand men? Lord Clay, what's your plan for dealing with them?"
The old man looked downright frantic, words flying from his mouth as fast as the spit flew from his lips.
"I have to warn you, my lord… their fighting strength is no joke. Their cavalry charges are brutal, and their vanguard rides in full plate. You absolutely cannot underestimate them. Don't make the same mistake His Grace Robb made. You must not repeat that error!"
**
**
[IMAGE]
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Chapter End's]
🖤 Night_FrOst/ Patreon 🤍
Visit my Patreon for Early Chapter:
https://www.patreon.com/Night_FrOst
Extra Content Already Available