Read 20+ Chapter's Ahead in Patreon
Without a moment's hesitation, Yohn Royce chased across the Blue Fork.
After all, he was no stranger to war. He was an old hand who had weathered more than a few battles, and by now, he'd begun to realize something… Clay was deliberately forcing him to keep splitting his troops!
He didn't yet understand why Clay was doing this, but he was keenly aware of one thing: if your enemy wants you to do something, then whatever that is, you absolutely must not do it.
So, he summoned several men from the army who were familiar with the terrain of the Riverlands and had them check the geography. It was late autumn now, and the Trident was in its flood season. There was simply no way to cross the lower reaches of the Green Fork.
Choosing to trust his men this time, Yohn Royce led the entire army across the Blue Fork. Once they reached the eastern bank, he took a detachment and began pursuing Clay northwest.
But the further he chased, the more something started to feel… off.
There was no clear evidence, nothing concrete he could point to, but Yohn Royce couldn't shake the gnawing sense that he was being played. Deep down, his instincts were screaming… something wasn't right.
And soon enough, the field would prove those instincts absolutely correct.
"My lord… the hoofprints ahead… they veer off — they're turning… turning back in the direction we came from!"
A small group of ten-odd scouts, who'd been forced out at swordpoint by Royce himself, returned bearing news so shocking, it left Yohn Royce standing there like a statue, utterly dumbfounded.
Turning back? Heading in our direction?
Did that mean… those bastards had gone back to the Fairmarket?
Royce stood there for a long while, trying to make sense of what had just happened, but his mind came up blank. Then, one of the guards beside him muttered under his breath, half-cursing:
"Seven above… those bloody Riverlanders… made me waste my damn time again. Fuckin' pointless."
Wait a second… pointless? Waste of time?
Clay Manderly! You wicked little shit… you really are rotten to the core.
In that moment, after nearly a week of being led around in circles by Clay, Yohn Royce, the poor fool who had been danced like a puppet on strings, finally saw through to the real purpose behind it all… and it came to him through that one unintentional complaint from his guard.
All that stuff about splitting forces? The nonsense about fleeing north?
All of it was bullshit!
What that cunning bastard really wanted… was to drag fools like him in circles along the banks of the Trident, leading them through endless loops until they were completely disoriented. Then, the moment their heads were spinning and they'd lost all sense of direction, Clay would make a mad dash south, racing down the very road Royce had just chased him up from.
And the instant that thought clicked into place, Yohn Royce felt his breath catch in his throat.
Because suddenly, he realized where Clay was really headed…
That damned bastard was going south of the Red Fork, aiming to launch a surprise attack on the massive host stationed outside the three eastern castles — an army completely unprepared for any threat at all!
The color drained from his face in an instant. Forcing himself to calm down, Yohn Royce quickly retraced every step of his plan in his head, only to realize… it was flawless. There wasn't a single opening.
Clay Manderly had laid trap after trap, one after another, all in perfect sequence… and every single one had been meant for him to walk right into.
He'd gouged out his own eye — not for some ambush, not to set a snare somewhere — but purely to keep his movements hidden, to create just enough confusion to make the lie convincing. And Royce, the fool, had taken the bait without question, chasing him every step of the way.
If he had split his forces again back at the Fair, Yohn Royce swore he would've bashed his own head against a wall.
"Quick! Hurry! Send the order — have the army turn back to the Fairmarket immediately! Right now, without delay!"
All around him, his men looked at one another in confusion, their eyes filled with uncertainty. They couldn't understand what had gotten into their commander. They'd already chased the enemy this far… wasn't it only natural they wouldn't catch them? Why the sudden panic?
But Yohn Royce wasn't in the mood to explain.
The only thing racing through his mind now… was Clay Manderly. And the desperate hope that that little bastard hadn't gotten too far ahead. Because if he had… then it was already too late.
————————————————————
And Clay… the man Yohn Royce was so desperate to catch, the one he longed to confront that very second — had already crossed Raventree Hall and was charging south at full speed, his entire army pushing ahead as fast as their horses would carry them, aiming straight for the Red Fork.
He didn't wait for Christen. He trusted that the boy would get the job done.
They'd agreed to meet at Mummer's Ford — that was the spot, and Clay wasn't planning to stop.
Because they were advancing at full speed, it took just a single day for the vanguard of Clay's forces to reach the crossing at Mummer's Ford. And right at that moment, poor, clueless Yohn Royce had only just arrived at Fairmarket, preparing to cross the river.
With that maneuver alone, Clay had already gained nearly a full three-day lead. At this point, the Lord of Runestone — dizzy, disoriented, and completely outfoxed — could no longer even catch a glimpse of Clay's tail.
If, at this point, a heavy rain were to fall for three days straight… or worse, if it began to snow, Clay figured poor Yohn Royce might end up so turned around, he wouldn't even know where he was anymore.
At Clay's side, Rickard Karstark, his complexion looking much better now, had finally pieced together what Clay was trying to do.
His narrow eyes sparkled with barely contained excitement. In his view, Clay's only real option had been to return to the North, squeeze out every last soldier they had left, and then join forces with Edmure Tully of Riverrun for a final, desperate stand against the Vale and Lannister armies.
But what he hadn't expected was that Clay, with only two thousand cavalry under his command, had somehow managed to lure the enemy away from their stronghold, flipping the entire situation on its head and taking the initiative into his own hands.
Now, with the full picture in front of him and every piece of intelligence laid bare, Rickard Karstark only had to glance at a map of the Riverlands to feel a wave of satisfaction wash over him.
Because the entire region south of the Red Fork and north of Stone Hedge had been completely stripped of all mobile forces, thanks to Yohn Royce. The only troops left were the ones besieging Stone Hedge and Acorn Hall — two thousand cavalry who had already dismounted and were digging in as infantry.
If they didn't reach out and grab the prize now, all of Clay's efforts would have been for nothing.
So, after crossing the Mummer's Ford, Clay gave the order for the army to rest on the spot and let the horses recover their strength. And in that brief pause, Lord Rickard Karstark, unable to sit still, eagerly made his way to where Clay was resting.
When Clay saw him approaching, he looked him over a few times, then smiled and asked casually, "What's this, my lord? All healed up already? If the military healer in Riverrun are really that good, healing wounds that serious in just three days, then I can't let that man go. Our Northern army could use someone like that."
Rickard Karstark gave a slightly awkward smile. He could hear the meaning behind Clay's words — it was a gentle reminder: Your injuries aren't fully healed yet, so don't start showing off.
But he wasn't about to give up.
Ever since that crushing defeat, Rickard Karstark had been haunted every night by the memory of that ambush. In every dream, he saw soldiers screaming in despair as blades tore through their bodies, their ranks breaking apart in utter chaos.
He wanted revenge… desperately.
"Lord Clay… I… I know your next target is Stone Hedge. I was hoping to discuss a few thoughts with you. Just… think of them as suggestions, something to consider."
Rickard Karstark's tone was unusually courteous, even carrying a faint trace of deference. Under normal circumstances, a great northern lord like him would never speak this way. But now, given the state of the war, Clay could be considered the last hope of the North, and Rickard simply couldn't afford to act proud.
"Alright then, have a seat," Clay said with a relaxed smile. "There's nothing urgent going on right now, so say whatever's on your mind. You don't have to worry… I don't run things like a one-man council."
For some reason, Rickard Karstark suddenly thought of Robb Stark. After he had ascended to the throne, the young King in the North had become increasingly headstrong and controlling. If he hadn't insisted on sending the whole army south to Harrenhal, if he had listened to counsel instead of marching blindly, perhaps none of those later tragedies would have happened at all.
But Rickard couldn't quite tell whether Clay's remark was meant to mock Robb, or if it was just a casual comment.
Still, it didn't matter. Rickard himself held no love for Robb Stark anymore.
Both of his sons had died amid the chaos of the war. Robb Stark hadn't personally killed them, true… but wasn't it Robb's arrogance and overconfidence that had led to their deaths?
So honestly, even if Clay were to curse Robb Stark out loud, right here and now, Rickard might very well applaud — and then curse him right along with him.
"Lord Clay," Rickard said, his voice suddenly charged with emotion, "will you let me join the attack heading south… against the Vale's encampment outside Stone Hedge? Just give me five hundred men. I'll lead the charge myself. I want to be the vanguard, and I want to avenge my sons… and my broken army!"
His expression was fierce with conviction. His white-streaked beard trembled as he spoke. Clay could see how deeply this ran, and he understood… but he didn't agree.
"My lord, let me make one thing clear — your battlefield is not there. We lost nearly twenty thousand men in that one battle in the North. Who doesn't want revenge?"
"Then you tell me! Lord Clay! You tell me… WHERE IS MY BATTLEFIELD?!"
Clay's gaze hardened as he snapped back, "Then listen to me carefully. Since you think you're well enough to fight again, then get your ass to the Kingsroad. There are nine thousand men waiting there… for your command."
"Nine… how many?"
Rickard Karstark's roar of fury, which had been rising up in his throat, suddenly choked and died halfway.
Until now, he'd been convinced that Clay Manderly was deliberately keeping him away from any real command, that Clay didn't trust him and was using excuses to keep him sidelined. And given the death of his sons, the insult had become unbearable.
But now, Clay was telling him that there were nine thousand men waiting for him to lead?
That completely caught him off guard, leaving him speechless.
And just as quickly, confusion set in. His mind scrambled in circles as he tried to figure out how this had even happened… how Clay had managed to pull together an army that large in such a short time.
Sure, the North could still squeeze out a few more troops if pushed hard enough. But it hadn't been that long since their defeat near Harrenhal. Just how had Clay managed to conjure up nine thousand soldiers out of nowhere?
**
**
[IMAGE]
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Chapter End's]
🖤 Night_FrOst/ Patreon 🤍
Visit my Patreon for Early Chapter:
https://www.patreon.com/Night_FrOst
Extra Content Already Available