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Without bothering to check on poor Yohn Royce, who was still wheezing from exhaustion and dragging himself along the road in agony, Clay's army, now fully rested and regrouped, set out once more. Leading fifteen hundred cavalrymen, they marched swiftly toward the southwest, heading in the direction of Stone Hedge.
Originally, Clay had dispatched all three of his remaining witcher bodyguards, along with the elite outriders honed by the rigors of past battles. That left him with only these fifteen hundred men. No matter how one looked at it, it was clearly a case of strength pitted against weakness. If the enemy got wind of their approach in advance, then there would be no point in fighting this battle at all.
But it didn't take long for Clay to realize something rather absurd… this time, he was essentially playing a game of wits against thin air.
All the way down south, his troops had already advanced to a hill just twenty li northeast of Stone Hedge, yet it was only at that point that his elite scout-hunters finally spotted enemy sentries. There were just two of them. Only two.
When he heard the report, Clay couldn't help but mutter under his breath. Seriously? Is this how the Vale wages war? How much do they hate using scouts? Sure, every army has its own style, but this level of negligence… wasn't that just plain disrespectful?
Of course, in this case, Clay was actually blaming the Vale men unfairly. After all, up until now, they didn't believe for a second that Clay Manderly could possibly break through the blockade commanded by Yohn Royce and his five thousand cavalrymen, let alone descend like a thunderbolt straight into their rear lines.
If there was no threat, then why waste time and manpower patrolling with scouts? Even if they had taken it seriously at the start, the moment they began to feel secure, complacency was bound to follow.
However, on the battlefield, complacency is nothing short of a reckless sin.
And sins like that demand a price.
"My lord," reported Christen, who had just returned from reconnaissance with his squad of outriders, "we've confirmed the Vale's warhorse camp is located in a small valley just to our south. About three hundred cavalry are patrolling the area, but from the look of it, they're pretty lax."
After finishing their scouting, Christen and his men had quickly withdrawn from the area to avoid alerting the enemy.
"Four thousand horses — and the Vale's only stationed three hundred men to guard them? If we don't rob them, it would practically be a disgrace to their defense setup, which honestly deserves to be dragged out and executed on the spot. I really don't understand how King Robb ever managed to lose to a bunch like this."
The soldier standing close enough to Clay had overheard Christen's report and couldn't help blurting out his astonishment, followed by a sigh thick with incredulity and disbelief.
Clay, hearing this, clearly agreed. The Vale's so-called defense was so sloppy, so out of touch with reality, that for a brief moment, he almost suspected it was a trap laid in wait for him — an ambush hidden in plain sight, ready to spring the moment he walked into it.
If he hadn't known with absolute certainty that the fool Yohn Royce had been thoroughly outpaced and left far behind, he wouldn't have dared to even consider making a move on those horses.
But after thinking it through, and confirming that there was no enemy force nearby strong enough to pose a real threat, Clay made his decision on the spot. He didn't hesitate for even a second before issuing his order.
"Listen up! Five hundred men under Ser Christen's command — charge directly at those three hundred lazy, lounging Vale's men. Hit them before they can form up. Break them, scatter them, crush their line. Don't focus on killing, just drive them apart and smash their cohesion. Is that clear?!"
"At your command, Lord Clay!" came the immediate response.
"And another thing. Send two hundred men into the valley to gather up the warhorses. Pick soldiers who know horses well. If the fighting scares the herd, I want you to calm them quickly. Don't let them bolt, no matter what."
"Yes, my lord!"
Clay's gaze swept sharply toward the Vale's direction. His eyes were fierce and focused as he raised his voice and declared, "I'll take the remaining eight hundred and cut off the link between their horse camp and Stone Hedge. We'll also be ready for any counterattack they might throw at us. You all need to move fast… understood? We don't have time to waste. Anyone unclear about the plan?"
The captains who had just received their orders bellowed in unison, "Understood!"
"Good. Carry out the plan. And remember… right now, you are my soldiers. Don't embarrass me. More importantly, don't disgrace yourselves!"
"Move out!"
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For Clay, cavalry warfare was all about one thing… speed.
Strike before the enemy can react. Catch them off guard. Deliver a sudden, overwhelming blow that knocks them clean off their feet.
That was exactly how he had fought during the Battle of Riverrun, when he launched his surprise raid on the Lannister siege camps. And now, as they prepared to seize the Vale's warhorses, his approach would be no different. The men of the Vale had left a glaring weakness wide open, and Clay saw no reason not to exploit it to the fullest. As he always said, if there is an easy gain and you do not take it, then you are no better than a bastard.
Drunkard's Valley—the northern mustering point for the Vale cavalry and their warhorses.
Lord Royce Coldwater pushed aside the tent flap and stepped out, a look of deep satisfaction on his face.
He had always thought the Riverlanders were poor fighters, barely worth the steel they carried, but to his surprise, even this rural backwater managed to produce women of respectable quality.
Just now, inside the tent, that blend of resistance and surrender, the look of a woman fighting back only to slowly yield to his will, had stirred something primal in the Vale lord sworn to House Royce. The thrill of conquest had left him basking in pleasure.
"Mmm… once we finish off that idiot Edmure Tully, I should take my time enjoying myself before heading home."
Muttering under his breath, he couldn't help thinking of the woman waiting for him back at Castle Coldwater—overbearing, ugly, and fat, always prying into his business. The thought alone soured his mood.
Marching alongside Lord Yohn Royce these past days and fighting beyond the Bloody Gate, Lord Coldwater had finally let himself loose. Right now, he was feeling better than he had in years.
With his spirits lifted, even the people around him seemed more pleasant to look at. He squinted cheerfully into the sunlight, strolling about until his eyes landed on a certain low-ranking knight who had been diligently tending to his every whim. The man's son served as Coldwater's squire, ever desperate to earn a knighthood from him.
The moment the lord stepped out, the middle-aged knight quickly bowed low and hurried forward, wearing a fawning smile as he said in a hushed voice:
"My lord, that one wasn't bad, was she? If you're not fully satisfied, I can round up a few of the lads and search farther afield. That damned trout lord might've ordered everyone to be evacuated, but there's always a few who slip through the net, right?"
Coldwater was tempted by the offer, but after a moment's thought, he waved it off.
"No need. Lord Yohn should've won the battle by now. He's probably already marching back. The lord doesn't take kindly to this sort of thing—if he saw what we've been up to, I'd never hear the end of it."
He licked his dry, cracked lips, then clapped the middle-aged knight on the shoulder and grinned.
"Go on, take her. Consider that Riverlands peasant woman a reward. Just go easy on her, all right? I might still need her company later to pass the time, if you get my meaning. Understood?"
The knight tried hard to hide the eagerness in his eyes, but Coldwater saw right through it. With a lazy wave, the lord gave him a swift kick on the thigh, motioning for him to get going and stop pretending he wasn't itching to act.
In this era, whenever large armies set up camp—barring a few rare exceptions—there would almost always be a certain kind of woman drawn to the site. Soldiers full of youthful blood and unchecked desires needed a way to relieve themselves, and these women provided just that.
These weren't just local girls hastily rounded up from nearby villages. No, this had grown into something far more organized, a half-industrial system of its own. Wherever the army went, merchants with a sharp nose for profit would arrive soon after, hauling their "professional teams" in covered wagons straight to the edges of the military camp.
In a way, it was state-sanctioned, organized flesh trade. And in Clay's memory, back in the day, such things were dealt with simply—you locked them up, no need for debate.
But in this age, no one even pretended to object. Take Robert Baratheon, for example. During his siege of Pyke back in the Rebellion, or when House Tyrell surrounded Storm's End—through all of it, business was booming in the camps. The seafood trade, so to speak, was always thriving.
After all, when tens of thousands of men were packed together in one place, if the commander didn't want his troops getting too familiar with each other's swords, then this sort of outlet had to exist.
However, things were different now in the Vale.
Edmure Tully had carried out a strict scorched-earth campaign. With the northern army recently defeated and the Vale unable to fully wipe them out, the land was crawling with all manner of scattered, desperate soldiers fleeing in every direction.
In such chaos, merchants dared not come near. After all, no handful of golden dragons was worth risking your life.
And that, in turn, meant the Vale's vast army—now laying siege to the three noble seats in the East—had no way to ease their urges.
So when a lord could treat a peasant woman like a prize and hand her over to a knight under his command, and that knight not only didn't mind, but accepted her eagerly… well, it wasn't hard to understand. They were all being driven by desperation. And if you cannot draw your sword in battle, what else is there left to do?
Still humming a vulgar little tune to himself, Lord Royce Coldwater strolled along, savoring the memory of what had just taken place in his tent.
He wandered northward from the main camp of the three hundred stationed men, heading toward a penned-off area just beyond.
That was where they kept the fat sheep the soldiers had rounded up from nearby farms. The lord had already decided to pick one out for dinner, roast it slow and hot over the fire, and treat himself to a hearty meal to nourish his—let's say—worn-out kidneys.
Although a fine, chilly snowfall had begun to drift down from the grey sky above, and the flakes tangled in his disheveled hair brought with them a cold that bit at the skin, but the lord's spirits remained high.
As he approached the pen, the sheep huddled together nervously. It was as if they somehow understood that the man staring at them so intently was the very devil who would soon steal their lives. They let out soft, panicked bleats and crouched low to the ground, as though hoping to shrink into the crowd and escape his notice.
Just then, as Royce Coldwater was busy sizing up his next meal, trying to decide which of the plump beasts would best suit his appetite, a new sound reached him on the wind.
It was strange… distant shouting, loud and frantic, but laced with a kind of feverish excitement. And alongside it…
The unmistakable thunder of hooves.
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[Chapter End's]
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