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Clay's army, in the end, had still underestimated the burning desire of Yohn Royce and his battered remnants to return home.
They had chased them all the way to the lands west of the God's Eye, yet still failed to intercept this last remnant of the Vale's elite.
With no other choice, Clay sent riders at a full gallop to Lord Harroway's Town, carrying word to Lord Karstark to be on guard for a possible attack by the Valemen.
He already knew that the Winterfell reinforcements, eight thousand strong, had reached the area, bringing the total force stationed there to more than fifteen thousand.
Moreover, for months before this, seven thousand men had been engaged in earthworks, raising defensive fortifications that, should the Vale knights dare approach, would give them a bitter welcome indeed.
If they dared to come.
Now that the Vale host had fled, Clay shifted his attention toward another target, the old lion himself, who had yet to move from his position.
Setting aside those Vale soldiers, who by now were as skittish as startled birds, the overall situation on the battlefield could be read at a glance upon the map.
Clay himself commanded a mixed force of five thousand five hundred infantry and cavalry, positioned to the northwest of the God's Eye.
Further to the south was Edmure Tully, leading the remaining forces of the Riverlands, some fourteen thousand men, who were trailing behind Clay's position but had already advanced to the west of the God's Eye.
In the north, once it was confirmed that the Vale army no longer posed a threat, the host of fifteen thousand Manderly troops stationed in Lord Harroway's Town, together with the combined forces of the Northern houses, could send at least ten thousand southward to press toward Harrenhal.
Thus, counting only Clay's own forces, close to thirty thousand men had been mobilized, with twenty thousand already present upon the field.
Their opponent was none other than the main host of the Westerlands, commanded by Tywin Lannister himself.
Though the Lannister army had suffered some losses, first in the desperate defense of King's Landing and again in the long, grinding weeks of the siege of Harrenhal, Tywin still held command over no fewer than twenty thousand men.
And so, if one stepped back to take in the full scope of the map, the picture became clear: spread across the vast expanse of the eastern Riverlands, a great battle was about to unfold, with fifty thousand men poised to clash in a single, decisive confrontation.
True, Renly Baratheon had once boasted of commanding a hundred thousand when he besieged King's Landing, but how many of those could truly take to the front lines and fight? How many were simply names on a roll, or farmers pressed into service who would never see the heart of battle? By comparison, the armies now converging here were hardened forces, and the outcome of this war would determine the fate of many.
For that reason, Clay could not afford the slightest negligence.
Once his army reached the northwestern shore of the God's Eye, he ordered the host to halt and make camp.
This time, his adversary was no longer Ser Jaime Lannister, the arrogant young lordling he had fought before, a man careless in his pride and overconfident in his skill. That had been a single, fleeting opportunity to strike hard at House Lannister, and it had been taken. Now he faced Tywin Lannister, an old lion who had stalked the very peak of the Seven Kingdoms' political stage for more than thirty years. Against such a foe, there would be no tricks and no easy openings, only a head-on battle fought with all the strength they could muster.
"Send word to our southern flank," Clay commanded, his voice steady but carrying an edge that brooked no delay. "Tell Edmure Tully to bring his army here at once. If he meets any resistance or has second thoughts, make it clear to him that this order will not be given twice. If he refuses, and Tywin Lannister turns his strength upon him, I will not ride to his rescue. He can live with the consequences of his choice."
Clay bore no personal grudge against Edmure Tully. On ordinary days, he could tolerate the man's rashness, for it seldom caused true disaster. But this was different… this was a battle involving fifty thousand soldiers. If his side could not follow orders with absolute discipline, if he could not give commands to every host and have them obey without question, then sheer numbers would mean nothing.
In this war, Edmure Tully could listen, but he could not be allowed to speak. There was no room for divided authority.
An army was a machine of force, and the one thing it could not endure was orders coming from more than one mouth.
Thus Clay made no move to ride south and join with Edmure himself. As the commander of this coalition, every soldier on this battlefield now had to heed his voice alone. Titles, lands, and the weight of noble birth meant nothing in this moment.
The messenger bowed, wheeled his horse, and spurred it into a gallop. Hooves churned up thick clumps of wet earth, spraying mud high into the air as the rider vanished down the road.
Standing nearby, Lord Tytos Blackwood, who had already brought his men forward to join Clay, watched the messenger's retreating figure with a furrowed brow. Concern flickered in his dark eyes as he turned to Clay and spoke in a low voice.
"My lord," he said carefully, "treating the Tully boy this way… might it not be a little…"
It was not that Tytos felt any loyalty toward Edmure Tully. His first allegiance was to House Blackwood, and only after that to the Riverlands. As for the Tully family in its current state, there was no one among them whom he deemed worthy of his allegiance.
No, the reason he spoke now was because he felt Clay's approach pressed Edmure too hard.
From what he knew of the young lord, Edmure might no longer be in the bloom of youth, yet in matters of temperament and inner strength, he was still far from being the sort of man who could truly stand on a great stage.
Especially since the war had begun, he had not once won a battle on the front lines through his own skill or command. That left him all the more sensitive to slights against his authority.
Tytos, for his part, was following Clay now, but he still thought it best to coax rather than corner the man who bore the Tully name.
What he did not understand was that Clay had no intention of indulging Edmure Tully's weaknesses.
"Do not trouble yourself, Lord Tytos Blackwood," Clay said evenly. "Even if Edmure Tully wishes to defy me, the Riverland lords under his banner will push him toward me themselves. They will make him march his host here, and when he arrives, he will hand over command without a fight."
"But, my lord…"
Clay knew well enough what weighed on his companion's mind, yet it was not something he himself shared. He raised a hand to cut Tytos off, a brief flick of the wrist telling him to hold his tongue, and offered his own explanation.
"Lord Tytos, we both know the truth. The noble Lord Tully's talents do not shine on the battlefield. That is why I must strip this thought from him from the very start. Even if the method seems harsh, it is necessary."
As he spoke, Clay lifted a hand and pointed toward the southeast, the gesture sharp, his expression touched by a cold smile.
"If I do not take back, firmly and without hesitation, the command I lent to Edmure Tully for a time, and instead leave him and more than ten thousand of the Riverlands' main strength to drift idly in place, all it would take is one mistake. One single lapse, and the old lion will catch the scent, drive his cavalry straight into Edmure's host, and smash it apart."
He let the words hang for a moment before his voice cut deeper. "Tell me, Lord Tytos… would you rather see what happened to Robb Stark's Northern army happen all over again to the Riverlands' host? Or would you prefer to watch Edmure Tully be taken prisoner by the Lannisters for a second time?"
On any other day, every word Clay Manderly had spoken would have been cutting enough to pierce the heart, stripping away pride and leaving nothing but the sting. Yet now, Lord Tytos Blackwood found himself unable to deny a single one of them. He could only admit, if only to himself, that every word was true.
With a quiet, weary sigh, Tytos let the matter drop. Silence was his only answer. If blame was to be laid anywhere, it could only rest on Edmure Tully himself, for the man was hopeless beyond salvaging. If he had shown even the faintest spark of worth on the battlefield, one decisive victory or a single moment that proved his command, the Riverland lords would never have so uniformly leaned toward handing authority to an outsider like Clay.
Once that question was settled, Clay wasted no time. He summoned every commander in his host to his command tent, calling them together to plan their next move.
The truth was plain: with such a force marching openly toward Harrenhal, it was impossible to believe the old lion would be caught off guard, sitting in blissful ignorance until they struck.
It was not that Clay was intent on making a show of force for its own sake. But this was not a column of three thousand light-footed men; this was thirty thousand soldiers, and if one counted the supply trains and all the men working behind the lines, the numbers swelled even higher.
A host like that could never move quietly. Men and horses needed to eat every day. Patrols rode the surrounding country. Messengers came and went in a constant stream. The noise of such an army was as constant and unavoidable as the tide… there was no hiding it.
So rather than creeping forward with false caution, only to be discovered by Tywin Lannister in the end, Clay preferred to advance openly. It spared his soldiers needless hardship, and if the old lion dared to march out from his lair and offer battle in the open field, then so much the better.
In any case, with the Riverlands in the sodden state it was now, a mire of churned earth and ankle-deep mud, no army could move with true speed. This would not be a war of sweeping maneuvers or sudden flank attacks. Here, battles would be fought knee-deep in muck, where no one could slip unseen behind the enemy's lines.
Better, then, to march the armies straight to face one another, fight it out, and let the victor be the one strong enough to stand when the mud settled.
Clay knew this truth well. Tywin Lannister understood it just as clearly.
That was why, when Clay's host pressed toward him, Tywin did not break from Harrenhal, even knowing full well that the enemy came with superior numbers. He stood firm beneath the castle walls, unmoving, for the same reason Clay advanced without concealment.
It was not that Tywin meant to sit and wait for death. The moment he learned of Clay Manderly's approach, he had a raven sent flying west to Jaime Lannister, ordering his son to lead his forces to Goldentooth and make a show of moving against Riverrun.
Tywin had considered ordering his golden son Jaime to lead the army straight into the Riverlands' heart and strike at their home ground. But the truth was, he could not say for certain what Clay Manderly was truly thinking.
Right now, Tywin found himself pinned beneath the looming shadow of Harrenhal's walls, his every move anchored in place, his grasp over the broader battlefield slipping away. In such a position, how could he be sure of the northern lord's real intentions?
What if this supposed march to face him was nothing but a feint, a lure meant to draw out the last reserves of the West, his own final stores of strength, only for Clay to turn suddenly, devour them whole, and leave him with nothing?
It wasn't impossible, was it?
The thought was not so easily dismissed.
So, instead of throwing Jaime into the Riverlands with sword in hand, Tywin gave a simpler command: raise the lion banners over the gates of Golden Tooth.
The purpose of this gesture was never to frighten Clay Manderly.
The old lion knew perfectly well that such theatrics would do nothing to shake the resolve of what was, by now, the North's last true hope.
But the Riverlands… oh, the Riverlands still carried the scars of memory, deep and unhealed. The sight of that crimson lion snapping in the wind above Golden Tooth might be enough to send unease rippling through their ranks, to stir fear in old wounds.
If that pressure could build, if it could force the Riverlords to beg Clay to turn back with his army and race to Riverrun's defense, then Tywin's own position before Harrenhal would suddenly feel much lighter.
Even to the north, where an unknown host of northern soldiers lingered, their numbers uncertain, there was little worry in his mind. No matter how many they were, they would not be enough to swallow his twenty thousand whole.
Tywin Lannister perhaps understood the true depth of the North's war-worn strength even better than Robb Stark himself, who now sat confined in his keeping. Whatever size that northern force might be, it was, without question, the last army the North could muster. Clay Manderly was not the kind of man to gamble it away.
"We have five thousand five hundred men at present," Clay said, his voice steady as his gaze swept over the lower-ranking commanders gathered inside his tent, "and before long, that number will rise to nearly twenty thousand. But right now, we are not yet in a position to launch an attack. That's fine. The time for that has not yet come."
"Christen," he called, his tone shifting into command.
"My lord!" came the immediate reply.
"I'm ordering you to go through our ranks and pick out the finest five hundred riders we have. Take them and ride for Harrenhal. I want you to attempt a strike on Tywin Lannister's camp."
He paused for a heartbeat, his voice gaining weight. "Remember, your goal is not to cut down the enemy. Your goal is to let Tywin Lannister know that Clay Manderly is here."
"And more than that," Clay continued, leaning forward slightly, "I want you to push as close to Harrenhal as you possibly can. Make certain the garrison sees you with their own eyes."
"I'm concerned that Harrenhal may not be able to hold much longer. We cannot let Tywin snatch it at the very last moment. If that happens, our position will become far more difficult."
Most in the tent assumed he was speaking out of worry for the safety of the northern nobles trapped within the fortress. But in truth, that was not the heart of it.
Clay was calculating the consequences: if Harrenhal fell and Tywin Lannister took those northern lords as hostages, withdrawing behind its towering walls, then Clay would be left with only one choice; an ugly, costly siege.
And Clay had no intention of throwing his strength against cold stone.
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[Chapter End's]
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