Read 20+ Chapter's Ahead in Patreon
Under Clay's orders, his most trusted guardsman, Christen Manderly, led a handpicked force of five hundred heavily armed cavalry and began to move eastward, heading toward Harrenhal, which lay a hundred miles from the main camp.
Tied to the rear of each warhorse fluttered a banner, each bearing the colors and sigils of different noble houses.
When the wind swept past, the air was instantly filled with a riot of color, fluttering standards of red, blue, gold, and green, all swaying and snapping in the breeze like a living tapestry.
Ordinarily, no army would march like this. In battle, only a fifth, perhaps a quarter at most, of the soldiers would carry banners, both to mark formations and to rally troops. But this time, Christen Manderly's mission was not the ordinary kind.
He had only five hundred men. Even if they could catch the enemy off guard, imitating Clay's own sudden-strike tactics, there was no hope of shaking the twenty thousand hardened veterans under Tywin Lannister's command. The gulf in numbers was a wall no clever trick could breach.
Five hundred cavalry, if they had been five hundred of those legendary war engines, each mounted on five pairs of massive wheels, perhaps then it would have been worth attempting. But men and horses alone could not alter the balance of this war.
Clay had set the tone for this sortie with crystal clarity. This was not meant to break Tywin's siege or destroy his troops. Their purpose was singular: to deliver a powerful surge of confidence to the Northern host trapped within the walls of Harrenhal.
As the one steering the course of the entire Riverlands campaign, Clay knew all too well that while their own numbers seemed large at a glance, there were problems he could not ignore.
In this contest with Tywin Lannister, the roles had shifted. Now Clay's side was the one fighting on the outer ring.
After all, he was the one who had marched here to strike. Outside Tywin's siege lines around Harrenhal, Clay had drawn another circle of steel, enclosing the lion in his own trap.
But that meant his thirty thousand troops were now split across three separate battlefronts.
Even if Edmure Tully finally swallowed his pride and brought his forces to join them, there would still be two battlefields that could not easily link up or come to each other's aid.
The army in the north was composed entirely of infantry, most of them untested in real battle. Clay would never allow them to operate alone. If Tywin's cavalry legions swept down upon them in a sudden charge, it would spell the end of everything.
That northern force was the very foundation of his strength, his lifeblood, and he could not afford to lose even a fraction of it.
————————————————————
While Christen rode out at the head of his cavalry, the columns snaking away from camp, and Clay did not remain idle. Once he had chosen a safe position on the northwest side of the Gods Eye, where the wind favored his own lines, he set the men to work establishing camp. Then, without delay, he sent every one of his outriders fanning out into the surrounding countryside.
Tywin Lannister had lingered here for months. When it came to the lay of the land and the shifting conditions of the battlefield, there was no doubt he understood it far better than Clay did. And that was no trivial matter. If you did not know the ground you fought upon, then the advantage belonged entirely to the enemy. They could strike from any quarter they pleased, at any time they chose, and you would be left in the weakest position of all, reacting to their moves, always a step too late to stop them.
That was something Clay would never allow!
While his men scouted and prepared, the days passed, and on the second day, the messenger he had sent south returned. The man brought with him a letter penned by Edmure Tully himself, co-signed by the two Lords Vance.
In it, they pledged to lead their main forces north as swiftly as possible to join Clay's host, and asked that he prepare camp for their men ahead of their arrival.
It was, Clay admitted, a reasonable request. He could have ignored it entirely, letting them set up their own camp when they came, but there was no need for that now. Since Edmure Tully had already lowered his head, Clay saw no reason to deny him a measure of face.
In the great matters, he would never yield an inch. But in small matters, there was no harm in being generous.
Strike with the stick, then offer the date. Clay knew the value of that old tactic well. Overused though it might be, it still worked.
"Send word to the logistics corps," he commanded, his voice carrying out from the command tent. "Cut down the trees nearby without delay and expand the camp to house at least twenty thousand men. The walls and the pits must all be made ready in full. Begin at once. I will inspect it myself later. If anyone is found shirking their duty or treating the work carelessly… kill them."
The order spread through the camp like wildfire. This was no army of strangers, but men who had followed Clay step by step through battle after battle. They knew their commander's orders were not to be taken lightly.
If you thought his command was unjust, you could come to him and argue your case. And if Clay Manderly judged your reasoning sound, your words could become the army's new order. But before that, you were bound to obey the order already given.
On the battlefield, Clay showed no mercy to the enemy. And when it came to discipline and efficiency within his own ranks, he was no less ruthless. Without such resolve, he would never have risen to the position he held now.
————————————————————
While Clay remained at camp, overseeing the preparations for the coming battle, his dragon had decided to cast all restraint to the wind.
After Gaelithox was last sighted near Prince's Pass, it had not linger for long. Soon after, it slipped away, sending wordless winds over the mountains, and made its way quietly into the lands of the Reach.
It was in the villages there that whispers first reached human ears, rumors of a great dragon's shadow falling over the countryside.
The villagers, unlettered and fond of embellishing tales to suit their own taste, spoke in ways that twisted the truth, shaping it into something meant to shock and amaze whoever listened.
The Dornish agents sent to investigate knew this well enough. They did not take every word at face value, but instead sifted through the chaos of contradictory stories, picking away the falsehoods until the core of the truth began to emerge.
The dragon from Sunspear had indeed been seen in this land, and it had flown northwest. And more than that, its searing, molten breath had already descended once upon the heads of the Reachfolk.
This was no small matter. If that fiery breath had truly fallen upon one of their castles, then it might well mean that Dorne and the Reach were already on the brink of open war.
By the gods, this had to be confirmed without delay.
The agents exchanged a brief, grim look, and set off at once toward the northwest.
It did not take long before they saw it, a dark, looming shape still trailing black smoke into the sky. A castle… or what had once been a castle.
At least, they assumed that was what it had been. For to their eyes, this charred ruin, blackened from foundation to turret, bore no resemblance to the fragrant, sunlit halls they associated with the lords of the Reach.
They checked their maps, spoke to the few surviving locals who still trembled at the memory of what had happened, and at last confirmed it… this was what remained of Starpike, the place every Dornishman loathed to the marrow of his bones.
Or rather, it had been Starpike.
Now it was nothing more than a massive, gutted ruin, a place that would swallow gold dragons and laborers alike in endless measure, yet might never be restored.
From the frightened farmers who had been unable to flee, the Dornishmen heard the same thing again and again, that the place was cursed, touched by the malice of the gods themselves. If they ever had the chance, they would abandon it without hesitation, never looking back.
It could be said, without any exaggeration, that the very foundation of the Peake family, one of the most renowned and deep‑rooted noble houses of the Reach, had now been scorched to ruin, burned nearly beyond recognition by that magnificent blue and gold dragon.
How to put it… not even the gods themselves could save it now.
————————————————————
When word from the border reached Sunspear, both Daenerys and Prince Doran fell into silence at the same time.
They had prayed it would not come to this, clinging to the hope that such a calamity might be avoided. But now the truth was laid bare before them, there was no undoing what had been done.
A great castle of the Reach's high nobility lay in ashes, its stones blackened and its towers fallen. No one even knew if any member of House Peake had survived. And if Gaelithox had truly unleashed its fury in one unbroken sweep of flame, burning every last soul to dust and scattering them to the wind, then the Peake name might already be gone from the world.
If that were the case… then the consequences would be disastrous.
For the other lords of the Reach would inevitably think the same thought: if a dragon could burn Starpike to the ground as easily as snapping a twig, then why… why could it not burn their own keeps just as easily?
Their wives, their children, their kin… all still lived within those walls. The moment this news reached King's Landing, any Reach lord who could still eat and sleep in peace would have to be either a fool or a man with no one left to lose.
They would act, and they would act quickly. Either they would scramble to devise some weapon capable of threatening a dragon, or they would pack their households and slip away from their castles before the skies above turned dark with beating wings, refusing to remain inside their own homes as living targets.
Daenerys and Prince Doran understood well enough how those Reach lords would think. If this had happened to them, they would be making the same choices.
In the Water Gardens, Daenerys sought out the Prince of Dorne once again, her voice steady but filled with quiet urgency as she spoke her mind.
"Prince, I have decided… I will leave Dorne on Drogon's back."
The very first words from her lips made Prince Doran's brow crease deeply, "Your Grace, if you leave Dorne, may I ask… what exactly is it you intend to do?"
"I'm going to find Clay. That is his dragon, and only he can rein it in. None of us can control it."
"And besides, he must be told what is happening in the south. He cannot keep losing himself in the troubles of the north."
Prince Doran gave the faintest nod, yet he did not voice agreement with her plan.
He understood all too well what Clay had meant in the beginning, that the dragon was still young, and it needed time to grow. But the affairs of the North would not wait for them.
And so Clay himself had gone north, to hold matters at bay for as long as he could, until the dragon was strong enough to stand on its own. Only then would his mission be complete.
Doran was no mere mindless echo to repeat Clay's will, yet with no word from the north, Doran could not help but think Daenerys's decision to seek out her husband now was a dangerous gamble.
Even so, the situation had already reached a point where hesitation served no one. If both "stags" were to turn their antlers and charge at Dorne together, the weight upon them here would be crushing. In a matter of this grave, King Clay truly did need to hear of it at once.
"Your Grace," Doran asked at last, his voice steady but carrying the weight of caution, "do you even know where His Grace Clay is now?"
"Our latest intelligence is already two weeks old," he continued, "and if you ride Drogon through the Riverlands in search of him… I fear their welcome for you will be anything but warm."
His words were sincere, without the slightest hint of mockery.
For among all the Seven Kingdoms, none hated dragons more fiercely than the Lannisters. That much was beyond doubt, for the blood feud between them and House Targaryen ran deeper than any wound, and it was they who had struck the final treacherous blow that ended the dragon kings' reign. If the true-born dynasty returned, there could be no place left in the world for Lannister breath to draw.
After them came the Baratheons. Their guilt was just as clear; they too had been chief architects of the rebellion. The next three houses, Stark, Tully, and Arryn, were lesser accomplices, but accomplices nonetheless.
The Starks, truth be told, had never been the most ardent foes of the dragonlords. Were it not for that strange and brutal day in King's Landing, when men were roasted alive without cause, they might still have been counted among House Targaryen's most loyal vessels. But in the end, the dragon king had slain their kin, and the Mad King himself had died upon the floor of the throne room. That closed the matter.
The Tullys, however, had far more reason to tremble. They knew all too well how their house had risen to power.
When Black Harren burned in his mighty castle, the Riverlands had descended into chaos. It was the Targaryens who had reached down to pluck the Tullys from obscurity, setting them up as the dragonlords' voice and hand in that troubled land.
They had been little more than a well‑fed, obedient hound until the day came when the hound turned with the rest and sank its teeth into its master's throat.
And now, with the master's bloodline returned and the worst of the traitors dealt with, what fool could believe this new lord would keep by his side a dog still stinking of the kill?
Impossible!
So if a dragon's shadow passed over the skies of the Riverlands, every noble there, without exception, would live in restless fear, never knowing when fire might descend.
That was what Doran truly feared. A dragon was no lifeless machine, and Daenerys, for all her courage, had never once set foot in the Riverlands. If something were to happen to her there before King Clay could arrive…
Then all Doran could do was bow his head in pity for those doomed Riverland lords.
For Gaelithox's fire would not be aimed at her foes alone, it would carry Clay's wrath, poured down upon their keeps and fields alike.
And when that day came, many would die!
**
**
[IMAGE]
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Chapter End's]
🖤 Night_FrOst/ Patreon 🤍
Visit my Patreon for Early Chapter:
Extra Content Already Available