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Robb Stark thought to himself: his left hand truly could not wield a sword.
His right side had begun to throb again. Every movement tore at the wounds that could never properly heal, each step and each breath draining his strength, sending sharp jolts of pain stabbing through his nerves.
Yet he had no choice but to grit his teeth and endure, for the armies of the Westerlands had already forced their way up onto the battlements.
To be honest, storming a castle was nothing more than throwing the attackers' lives into the jaws of death in exchange for wearing down the strength of the defenders.
The purpose was simple: to exhaust their war machines, their supplies of oil and stones, and in the end, the defenders' very lives.
The men on the walls had the advantage of terrain, fighting from heights shielded by stone battlements. That was their strength.
But strength was always relative.
The defenders had to stretch their numbers thin, guarding every stretch of the wall, every tower, every gate. For once a single breach was opened, once a point in the line collapsed, the rest of the defenses would crumble into meaninglessness.
The attackers, on the other hand, needed only to probe again and again, striking from one angle then another, until they found the weakest point. When they did, they could gather their might, concentrate their numbers, and overwhelm that single place with sheer force. That was the true advantage of the offensive.
And what was happening now was the direct result of that very reasoning.
The garrison at the East Gate had been drawn away by threats from the southeast. That meant this gate, which had seemed the hardest to conquer, had instead become the most vulnerable.
Chaos engulfed the whole stretch of the East Gate. At first, the soldiers still remembered to shield Robb Stark, their wounded and weary King in the North. But as the fighting grew more desperate, as blood sprayed and steel clashed, each man thought only of survival and forgot about him altogether.
Before long, his guards had been cut down or scattered, leaving Robb Stark alone to raise his sword in defense. He forced back the blades that lunged toward his body, each strike demanding more strength than the last.
Although his swordsmanship was formidable, that skill belonged to his right hand alone.
Few men in this world could fight with both hands equally, and Robb Stark, in his battered condition, was no exception. Every exchange pushed him backward, step after step, leaving him with no choice but to give ground.
Fortunately, his instincts as a warrior had not abandoned him. Years of battle had tempered his reflexes, and they allowed him to twist his body and narrowly evade most of the killing strikes aimed to take his life.
"Woooo…"
Another horn sounded across the battlefield.
Robb Stark twisted his body again, narrowly avoiding the sword aimed at his skull. Then he drove his own blade backhanded, plunging the point straight into the eye socket of the Lannister soldier before him.
He did not linger on the sight of the poor wretch stumbling backward, shrieking in agony, until he crashed against a shattered merlon and crumpled lifeless to the stones. Instead, Robb lifted his head, frowning in confusion as he looked beyond the walls toward the Lannister encampment outside.
They were all men of war here. Every soldier knew the meaning of battlefield signals. So why would the horns be sounding now? What were they trying to announce?
If his ears had not deceived him, that particular call meant only one thing… an enemy attack.
An enemy attack?
Where could that have come from?
Then, in the corner of his vision, Robb caught sight of it. A streak like a gray-black arrow, a charge of men thundering down upon the red tents of the Westerlands host.
At their head galloped a massive knight clad head to toe in iron, his armor glinting in the snowlight. Behind him snapped a towering banner, its fabric straining in the wind as it cut through the falling snow.
Upon it gleamed the sigil of a golden trident-bearing merman on a field of deep blue.
Manderly!
Reinforcements had arrived!
Robb Stark wanted to laugh aloud, to shout his relief to the sky, but the stabbing pain in his wounded side refused to let him control even the muscles of his face.
Yet inside, his heart was blazing with joy. Joy so fierce and sudden that he could not put it into words, not even in thought.
Clay Manderly, that bastard, had finally arrived at the moment he was most needed.
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Four hours earlier…
"Target the Westerlanders' right-side camp. Rip down that ugly lion banner. Everyone ready your lances and prepare to charge!"
Christen raised his voice so all could hear, leading five hundred handpicked heavy cavalry, the finest warriors in the Manderly host. They had ridden swiftly, cutting across the plains with relentless purpose until they reached a position dangerously close to the northwestern flank of the Westerlands army.
From afar, they had already noticed the signs. The Westerlanders seemed wholly absorbed in their assault on Harrenhal, their attention fixed on the towering walls ahead.
Most of their strength was pressed against the stone, gnawing at it like ants at the base of a mountain. Which could only mean that the camp behind them was left bare and hollow, stripped of its defenses and ripe for the taking.
What an opportunity this was, Christen thought.
If he let this golden chance slip through his fingers, Lord Clay would definitely reward him with a freshly inked Axii Sign and command him to dance like a fool in the middle of camp, surrounded by laughter and pointed fingers.
Clay Manderly had never actually forced such humiliation on him, for Christen's record had always been solid and dependable, unmarred by failure.
But he knew well enough that his lord harbored the idea. More than once, Clay had reminded him of it with a grin that held no mercy and a tone that made it clear the jest could become reality.
The moment Christen imagined that scene, with himself capering in disgrace before his comrades, mocked and jeered by the entire host, cold sweat prickled across his back, leaving a ring of dampness under his tunic and a bitter taste in his mouth.
Utterly shameful!
No, to keep his honor intact, he had to do better. In fact, he made up his mind right there: in this battle he would seize some weighty Westerlands noble alive, drag him back, and let him perform the ridiculous dance for Lord Clay.
He had just made ready to press onward when his eyes caught movement. A Lannister patrol, two hundred mounted men at least, was already riding toward them.
That was hardly surprising. By now, they had reached the very edge of the Westerlands' encampment, well within reach of a cavalry charge. If no one had noticed them until now, then these were not Tywin Lannister's troops at all.
Since they had been spotted, there was no sense in shrinking back. Christen gave the order at once to prepare for the oncoming attack.
This time, Lord Clay had outfitted them all with lances. These weapons were devastating when it came to smashing through enemy lines, but they were also fragile, easily broken in the first clash. And once a cavalryman had driven deep into an enemy formation, if he failed to break clear, the lance would almost certainly be lost. Then he would have to fight on with sword in hand, surrounded and exposed.
The loss rate of such arms was appalling. After one battle, if fifty lances remained unbroken out of the five hundred, it would already be considered a miracle of thrift.
The North and Riverlands, where Clay is, were nothing like the fat-bellied Reach in the South, where great lords swam in wealth. Here, every tool had to be used with care. If lances weren't needed, they were never drawn.
But now, there was no choice. Now was the time to unleash them.
"Now! On my command… ATTACK!"
Crisen bellowed, his roar ripping through the air, and with a hard tug on the reins he urged his warhorse into a furious gallop, spearheading the bloody clash that was about to unfold.
Behind him, the five hundred heavy riders thundered forward, almost all of them men of the Manderly line, sworn to Lord Clay's command. Their voices rose like waves crashing against stone, fierce cries tearing through the din of pounding hooves.
"FOR LORD CLAY!"
"FOR THE MANDERLY!"
"FOR LORD CLAY!"
They shouted with every ounce of their lungs, spurring their mounts with brutal kicks of the heel, driving iron into flesh until the warhorses surged faster, muscles bunching and stretching under steel and leather.
The five hundred fused into a single force, a gray-black arrowhead of death, and hurled themselves at the Westerland cavalry who had scarcely had time to react.
The Westerlands commander, leading barely two hundred, proved to be made of iron himself. He understood immediately that the initiative was lost. His numbers were already thinner than his enemy's, and if he allowed his men to meet the Northmen head-on in such a charge, there was no chance of coming out ahead.
But retreat was not an option. He knew what lay behind him.
If he turned and fled, he would be opening the road straight into their camp. And the camp, unguarded and stripped bare of fighting men, would be smashed to pieces by five hundred armored riders tearing through it like a storm.
This knight, hailing from House Sarwyck of Riverspring, knew all too well that Lord Tywin Lannister had nearly emptied the camp of every soldier fit to fight. It was an all-in gamble, a reckless commitment that left no room for error and no margin for retreat.
If he dared let these five hundred through, then countless Westerland men would find no sleep tonight.
Their tents would be trampled flat, their camp ground churned into mud and ruin beneath the hooves of these iron-clad beasts.
And when that happened, it would make no difference what name he bore. Even if he were a Lannister by blood, Lord Tywin's wrath would still see his head roll.
So, either way, death was waiting. Better, then, to grit his teeth and clash headlong with these detestable Northmen. Perhaps, in the madness, some slim chance of survival might be carved out.
With his mind set, the knight gave the order. His men steeled themselves, cursed under their breath, and forced their horses into a counter-charge.
They had no lances. No patrol ever carried such cumbersome weapons.
Instead, they yanked free the standard longswords hanging from their belts, raising steel high, shrieking and howling, each man trying to summon courage from his own voice.
But the battlefield is merciless. Longer reach means greater power, and shorter blades spell danger. Against five hundred leveled lances, whether those swords would ever touch enemy flesh was very much in doubt.
Both sides were on horseback, both charging at full tilt. What had seemed like a wide expanse between them vanished in a heartbeat.
Christen could already see their faces beneath the crests of their helmets. They were snarling, twisted with fury and fear, men who were prepared to die without hesitation.
So they, too, had come to wager their lives. Christen understood.
His left hand lifted ever so slightly, forming the silent sign of a Quen shield.
A faint flash of yellow rippled across his armor, magic flaring and then settling into an unseen barrier wrapped tight around steel. It would blunt what blows it could.
Better cautious than lying dead in the dirt. That old saying about safety lasting a thousand years echoed in his head.
The corner of his mouth curved upward in a cruel smile. He locked his arm tight around the heavy lance braced beneath it, the long weapon quivering with deadly promise. The iron tip didn't burn with flame, but it might as well have, for it was leveled straight at the Westerlands riders charging headlong toward him.
Two heartbeats later, the world exploded as the lines crashed together!
————————————————————
The instant Christen had the chance, he sent word back about the Lannisters' furious assault on Harrenhal.
A lightly armored messenger, trained to ride hard and fast, carried the message without delay, delivering it straight into Clay's hands at the command camp in the rear.
The moment Clay read it, he strode over to the simple sand-table map he had ordered set up earlier, his mind already racing.
The Lannisters throwing themselves against Harrenhal's walls with such frenzy could only mean one thing: Tywin Lannister was growing desperate.
"Messenger!"
Clay's voice cracked like a whip.
Outside the tent, two Manderly men-at-arms stood guard as always, clad in surcoats bearing the golden trident-and-merman of their house. At once, one of them swept the flap aside and stepped briskly in.
This was wartime. A commander of Clay's standing could not risk a moment when orders failed to be carried out. For that reason, two messenger were stationed outside his tent at all hours, alert and ready.
These were no ordinary errand-runners. Each was an expert rider and archer, mounted on the fastest horses the host possessed. Their task was to cut across the chaos of the battlefield, ferrying commands with absolute precision to every corner of the army.
"Lord Clay!" the man barked, standing straight.
Clay did not look up. His eyes were fixed on the carved ridges and inked rivers of the Riverlands laid out before him. He issued his orders calmly, his tone brooking no hesitation.
"Carry this command. Tell Edmure Tully, who is marching from the north, that he is not to close on my position. He is to change direction at once. Take his whole strength and strike directly east, make straight for Harrenhal."
His voice deepened, clipped and deliberate.
"Furthermore, order every Riverlands cavalryman to advance without exception. They are to ride past the north shore of the Gods Eye and throw themselves against Tywin Lannister, pinning him in place and forcing him to abandon his assault on Harrenhal."
"Mark this well. They are not to linger once the clash is joined. If Tywin breaks off his siege, all cavalry are to disengage immediately and withdraw north to a safe position, there to await my next command. This order is to be executed at once."
The words rang with authority, brooking no doubt or debate. The weight of command sat naturally on Clay's shoulders, every syllable steeped in the bearing of one long accustomed to power.
The messenger straightened, face taut with solemnity. He struck a fist to his breastplate and answered in a voice that carried through the tent.
"Yes, Lord Clay!"
Clay gave a small nod of approval, signaling dismissal.
Not long after the man had departed, a familiar figure arrived in haste. It was Tytos Blackwood, Lord of Raventree Hall, who now commanded all the infantry under Clay's banner. He had fought beside Clay long enough that formality was needless between them. Dispensing with the pomp of noble manners, he spoke bluntly as soon as he entered.
"Lord Clay, I just saw your messengers flying in and out. Has something happened at Harrenhal?"
Clay had no reason to hide the truth from an ally he trusted in command. He gave a short nod.
"Indeed. Reports from the southeast confirm it. Tywin Lannister has emptied his camp and thrown his entire army into a furious assault. He is pressing both the east and north gates. The fighting is fierce, and the defenses are on the verge of breaking."
Lord Tytos instantly drew a sharp breath upon hearing this.
"The whole host? The old lion means to stake everything?"
Clay gave a cold, humorless laugh. His hand closed around a little lion banner stuck in the sand-table. With deliberate force, he wrenched it free and flung it aside.
"If Harrenhal is to be such a lively place, then whether it is friend or foe who makes the noise, I, will be certain to add my share to the spectacle."
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[Chapter End's]
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