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After weighing the matter briefly in his heart, Tywin Lannister decided that the first thing he must do was rescue his unlucky grandson, Joffrey Baratheon.
The castle would certainly have to be taken, but such a task was not something that could be accomplished in a moment or two. If, in the meantime, the king were to be lost, that would be a calamity far greater than failing to breach the walls.
Thus, he spurred forward at once, leading the most disciplined and seasoned of his troops, driving them hard in the direction of Christen's embattled position.
Yet he had not gone far before grim tidings arrived in quick succession, forcing him to draw his horse up short.
The banners of Clay Manderly had already appeared.
A host from the Riverlands had poured into the chaotic northern encampment, driving out the last of the Lannister soldiers who had been clinging to it.
As the man who had personally planned and overseen the construction of that very camp, Tywin understood at a glance what this maneuver meant.
"The boy was truly vicious!"
The old lion cursed inwardly, a flash of anger sharpening in his chest. Outwardly, however, his face remained unreadable, and he sat in silence, as though patiently awaiting the next report.
And sure enough, Clay Manderly did not disappoint him. His second strike was every bit as ruthless as the first.
The sentries came galloping back with news: a Riverlands host of some three thousand men had driven swiftly between the northern and eastern camps, seeking to sever the lines that joined them.
So, he means to encircle me. What brazen courage!
The gray brows of Tywin Lannister twitched faintly. He knew all too well that the forces now pressing into the field were the very same Riverlands troops he had once beaten down so easily, driven into retreat like whipped curs. At most, they had only been reinforced by a small number of men brought by Clay Manderly.
So why now? With numbers no greater than his own, why would these cowardly Riverlanders suddenly dare to encircle Tywin Lannister himself?
The answer was plain. This was all because of that damned Clay Manderly!
It seemed the boy had found confidence after clashing with Jaime, Tywin's own son. Now he fought boldly, without fear, and with a ruthlessness that matched the cold steel of his knights.
Tywin had no doubt that the heavy cavalry which had torn the northern encampment into chaos, smashing through it as if it were kindling, was none other than Manderly's doing.
It was not arrogance when he thought so. Tywin had dealt with Riverlands lords for decades, and he knew their nature. It was not in those timid men to dare provoke him in this way. Only Manderly would have the audacity to strike so hard and so fast.
Then came the final, most damning piece of news… news that made Tywin halt his advance entirely.
Clay Manderly himself was now leading the remainder of his main host, driving it straight toward Tywin's position with terrible force.
As a Warden of the Wast who had walked the Game Of Thrones in the Seven Kingdoms for decades without ever being toppled, Tywin Lannister understood better than anyone what his true foundation was.
It was not his title. It was not the golden lions stamped upon coin or banner. No, it was only one thing: his iron grip over nearly all the military might of the Westerlands.
It was with that power, with the best-equipped host in all of Westeros, thirty thousand strong, that he had earned his reputation, the very storm men remembered as the "Rains of Castamere."
And now, Manderly had brought his full strength against him, while Tywin's own men were scattered, most of them still marching back from Harrenhal. Those who had only just taken that blackened fortress were weary and worn down, their strength blunted by exhaustion.
If he, for the sake of rescuing Joffrey, were to squander the most critical moments for reforming his lines, for bracing his soldiers to meet this fresh assault, then he might as well be baring his own back, inviting Clay Manderly to drive a sword into him.
The Old Lion had no such peculiar tastes, and he would not allow such a humiliation to happen.
Harsh as it sounded, even if Joffrey were truly taken, Tywin did not believe it would mean the end of all things.
There would still be one last chance. If he could force his way into the castle and take Robb Stark alive, then all was not yet lost.
With that trade in his grasp, the balance of the game could be set in motion once more, and the grim business of war would continue on his terms.
Of course, none of this meant Tywin Lannister had any desire to see Clay Manderly face to face again. The thought alone stirred a bitter taste in his mouth.
"Ser Clegane," he commanded, his voice calm but carrying the weight of iron, "take five hundred men and find a way to bring Joffrey and the Queen Mother back safely."
Beside him, towering like a black iron tower, was Ser Gregor Clegane, the Mountain. The brute did not waste words. He gave no reply, no gesture of respect, only jerked his horse around with brutal efficiency and charged off, a squad of riders thundering at his heels toward the place where Joffrey Baratheon was trapped.
Tywin wasted no time. He began issuing orders at once. From the forces already inside the castle, only enough men were left behind to secure the gates. All the rest, along with those still camped outside the walls, were ordered to shift at once, wheeling about to form their lines against the direction from which Clay Manderly was advancing.
When the count was made, Tywin realized grimly that the number of men he could bring into full formation here and now was no more than six thousand.
The losses from the earlier assault on the castle, the chaos stirred up by Christen, and the pressure from Brynden Tully's thrust on the western front had whittled his strength down to this meager force. Against Manderly, he could muster nothing more.
There were still troops in the eastern camp, but they had only just suffered a defeat, their morale cut out from under them, and now a Riverlands detachment of three thousand blocked their path, sent deliberately by Clay to keep them from linking up.
Tywin had given orders at once that they were to break through at any cost, to force their way north and rejoin the main host. But orders alone did not erase the fact that such a maneuver would take time.
And now it was clear that Clay Manderly had no intention of granting him that time. The boy would rather drive his soldiers, weary from their long march, straight into battle than allow Tywin the chance to gather his strength.
The old lion understood this perfectly. He harbored no illusions, and he gave himself no room for wishful thinking.
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"Lord Clay, the Westerlands host has begun drawing up their lines against us," the scout reported upon his return.
Following his own principle of striking with one hand while offering a carrot with the other, Clay had deliberately kept Edmure Tully at his side, appointing him to the role of so-called military advisor. It gave the Riverlord a fragile illusion of participation, as though he truly had a say in the great decisions of the army, and in doing so soothed that sensitive, bruised pride of his.
"The old lion moves quickly!" Edmure Tully muttered, frowning as he spoke.
Clay nodded, though his expression betrayed little surprise. If Tywin Lannister had failed to react at all, that would have been strange. The man was too seasoned, too ruthless, to sit idle while danger closed in around him.
"It's fine," Clay said evenly. "We've already played our cards. Now I want to see how he answers them."
Edmure brightened at once, nodding with such enthusiasm that it nearly broke Clay's composure.
"After all, it's ten thousand against, at most, seven thousand. The advantage is clearly on our side," Edmure declared with earnest conviction.
Clay's gaze turned on him, eyes heavy with a look that was far too complicated to explain in words. That expression alone made Edmure hesitate, as though struck by a sudden realization.
"What is it, Lord Clay? Did I say something wrong?" he asked in confusion.
"Ah, yes, yes… you're absolutely right," Clay replied, because if he didn't agree with him, he wasn't sure he could forgive himself for the cruelty of saying otherwise.
A moment later, he forced away the wandering thoughts from his mind and turned his full focus back to the battlefield ahead.
By his estimate, the old lion could put no more than six thousand men into proper formation to meet him. But these six thousand were Westerlands soldiers, hardened and disciplined, their fighting power unmatched.
As for his own side, yes, he had the numbers. He had embraced the "human wave" doctrine and called up a larger host, and on paper his strength outstripped Tywin's.
But the truth was plain: only his own household troops could truly stand toe-to-toe with the Westerlands. The rest were Riverlands levies, soldiers whose will to fight and strength in battle were both questionable at best.
In his heart, Clay knew the truth. This was not a battle where he commanded overwhelming superiority. The two sides stood, in truth, evenly matched, and the thought weighed heavily on him.
Even as he was turning this grim realization over, the scout who had ridden out earlier came pounding back in frantic haste, his horse lathered with foam, his face alight with urgency. He carried tidings more explosive than any he had brought before.
"Lord Clay, Lord Brynden Tully has returned. They've successfully linked up with Lord Christen."
"Excellent! Take me to them at once."
Clay gave a sharp nod, spurred his horse forward, and was ready to follow the scout on the spot.
"Wait, Lord Clay, I haven't finished!" The scout nearly tripped over his own words in haste. "Lord Christen says… he seems to have captured Joffrey Baratheon, the false king."
Clay immediately froze this.
For a heartbeat, his mind went utterly blank. He was certain he had heard correctly, yet instead of blurting out that foolish, useless question of 'say that again!', he forced himself to skip straight ahead.
"Don't waste another moment. Take me there. Now."
"Yes, my lord!"
They wheeled their horses and galloped toward the right front of the massive host, where the battered remnants of Christen's force were dragging themselves back into camp.
It took some time to cross the distance, but soon Clay could see them clearly, and the sight made his chest tighten. The men who had ridden out burning with fire and confidence now returned as broken shadows of themselves. Their armor was dented, their banners hung in tatters, and blood had crusted on their faces and steel alike. Yet still, by sheer stubbornness, they clung to their saddles, sitting upright, refusing to fall even when every bone in their bodies seemed to beg for collapse.
At their head rode Christen Manderly himself, tall in the saddle, one hand gripping the reins, the other clutching a thick rope.
The rope split in two directions. At one end was tied a tall, golden-haired boy, gagged and wide-eyed with terror, his face pale and drawn tight with panic. At the other end was bound a woman, her clothes soiled, her hair in disarray, her dignity bruised. Yet even through the dirt and disorder, her figure remained graceful, the outline of her form refusing to be swallowed by the humiliation of her capture.
Clay urged his horse forward at once. As soon as Christen saw him, the knight swung down from the saddle without hesitation. But because he still held tightly to both ropes, the sudden movement jerked the captives forward, sending them stumbling, nearly crashing to the ground.
Behind Christen, the tattered soldiers dismounted one after another. They stood silently, their eyes following every movement between their commander and Lord Clay, eyes that spoke of exhaustion, grief, and desperate pride.
Christen straightened himself, voice rising with the strength of a man who knew the worth of what he carried back.
"I, Christen of House Manderly, at your command, led five hundred riders on a strike against the enemy."
"We cut through their northern camp, smashed our way through the heart of their formation, and seized these two of special importance."
"Yet of the five hundred loyal knights who rode with me, fewer than one in eight still breathe. The rest… they gave their lives as true warriors, my lord, and I—"
He had begun bold and fierce, his words ringing with pride, but as he reached the end his voice faltered. The weight of it dragged his tone down until even the falling snow seemed to hesitate, drifting away from him rather than touch his grief.
Clay understood. One glance at the shattered remains of that once-proud company told him everything Christen's words did not.
He put a hand on Christen's shoulder and said, "That's enough. I know what you want to say. But wipe those tears from your eyes. The battlefield is no place for crying."
"Their sacrifice will not be forgotten. I swear it, in the names of the Old Gods and the New."
It wasn't that he did not want to do more, but words like these were the only thing that could bring peace to men like Christen and the survivors at his back.
"Go now. Rest. Take them with you."
"You've already carried out your mission. From here on, the burden lies with me, the commander."
Clay's voice was firm.
And with that, he took Christen's spoils and led them away.
Whatever had to be done, now was not the time.
Tywin Lannister would not grant him another moment of leisure.
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A single glance was enough for Clay to know exactly who stood before him. Joffrey Baratheon and Cersei Lannister, there could be no mistaking them.
Unlike Christen, Clay had seen them once before in Winterfell, and that memory had seared itself deep into his mind. The proud queen in her silks, the petulant boy-king overflowing with arrogance. Of course he remembered. But whether those two, drowning each day in tides of power and pomp, would recall a minor figure like him from that distant northern gathering was doubtful. He suspected they had not the faintest memory of him at all.
He gestured for the guards to drag them back, further into the host. They were still far too close to the front, the place where Christen's company had only just fought its way out. This ground was far from safe.
After all, he had snatched two treasures of immense worth. If the Westerland troops managed to wrest them back now, Clay would not only lose everything, he would look a fool besides.
So he pushed them deeper, into the pounding heart of the advancing army. He had no time to waste on banter with the two captives.
He cast his gaze down at the two captives standing miserably before his horse, spattered with mud, their fine clothes ruined, their bearing stripped away.
Joffrey Baratheon the First, the arrogant boy-king who had once strutted and barked orders from a gilded throne, now clung like a frightened child to the queen dowager Cersei Lannister. His body shook so violently that anyone could see the tremors rippling through him.
When Clay drew to a halt, it was Cersei who lifted her head. Compared to her son, she showed more steel, though not much. Fear still weighed heavily in her eyes, but she did not collapse into disgrace as the boy had.
She did not recognize Clay. How could she? Their only meeting had been more than a year ago in Winterfell, a fleeting encounter that had lasted no longer than ten minutes. For a woman of her station, that moment would long since have faded into irrelevance. Remembering him would have been the stranger thing.
But she certainly recognized the banner fluttering behind him, the golden tridented merman of House Manderly. The Lannisters prided themselves on their knowledge of heraldry, and there was no mistaking that sigil.
What she could not be sure of was who exactly this man was. So she attempted a cautious opening, softening her voice and arranging her expression into what she believed was her most radiant smile, though in truth nerves had left her blind to the streaks of dried mud smeared across her face.
"My lord… my son and I are very cold. Might you grant us the use of a warm tent?"
Clay ignored her entirely. To him, Cersei Lannister held little value. At best she was an accessory, an added prize tied to the real one: Joffrey Baratheon.
His eyes fixed instead on the boy's head.
Or rather, on what rested upon it. The crown gleamed even here, defiantly conspicuous amid the muck and grime, an emblem that refused to blend with filth. It offended him simply by existing, and he disliked the sight of it.
He spoke evenly, "Take the crown off his head. In our army, there is no such king."
He had not expected it, but the moment those words fell, the same boy who had been cowering like a quail sprang up with a shrill, desperate energy, clinging to his crown as if it were his very soul.
"No! No! You… you traitors! You cannot! You cannot!"
The guards glanced at Clay. He answered with a flick of his hand, silent but clear. Continue.
Panic overtook Joffrey. His hands were bound, so shielding his head was clumsy and painful, yet he forced his arms up anyway, pressing the circlet tight to his brow. His face flushed, eyes bloodshot, his mouth twisting into a snarl as he even tried to snap at the guard's hand with his teeth.
"Mother! I am the king! They cannot treat me this way! This is my crown!"
His shrieking tangled with curses, filthy words spilling from the lips of a boy who had known only comfort and indulgence, yet now clutched desperately at the last fragment of power he believed remained to him.
The guards did not falter. One caught hold of his feeble arms, pinning them with ease, while the other reached toward the shining circlet.
Cersei stepped forward then, her voice tightening but still laced with dignity.
"My lord of House Manderly… could you not grant my son and me a shred of honor? I know the North holds honor dear. What you are doing now… even I, a woman, find it unbecoming."
The words were dressed in courtesy, but their meaning was plain enough: what kind of man stoops to bullying a woman and a child?
However, Clay gave no weight to such nonsense. Honor, to him, was nothing more than a game nobles liked to play in times of peace. On the battlefield, the only truth that mattered was who still drew breath when the killing stopped. Even if you had to crawl through the mud and tear out an enemy's throat with your teeth, if you lived and he did not, the victory was yours.
And for the victor, everything belonged to him.
"Save your breath, Cersei Lannister," Clay said, his tone cool, almost amused. "Look at him… he's the same pitiful creature I saw back in Winterfell, not a trace of growth since then."
"You Lannisters, with all your wealth and lineage, and this is what you managed to put on the throne? I honestly cannot begin to understand what you were thinking."
He leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowing on her. "What now? Why do you stare at me like that? Were you planning to let him be a puppet king for life? Don't be ridiculous. None of you will outlive him."
The moment Cersei heard the name Winterfell, she froze. In an instant she understood that the man standing before her had once looked upon both her and Joffrey with his own eyes.
She studied Clay's face again. It had changed so much since that day, no longer marked by the soft lines of youth but honed and hardened by battle, stripped of every trace of boyhood. A name rose to her lips before she could stop herself.
"You… you are Clay Manderly?" she cried out in shock.
Clay did not deny it. He gave a single, calm nod. "I am. Which is why I know exactly what the two of you are. So put aside your airs of king and queen dowager. Remember this well: here, you are nothing more than my captives. And captives have no right to crowns."
"Guards. Take it off him. Now."
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Once Clay had dealt with the two highborn prisoners, he chose another from among the captured, a pale-faced young lordling who trembled but managed to remain on his feet. Clay ordered him to carry word of Joffrey and Cersei's capture directly to Tywin.
Of course, the Old Lion would soon hear regardless. But to sting his pride a little, to needle him with the humiliation of it… that was worth doing.
Yet Tywin Lannister's reaction was swifter than Clay expected.
Gregor Clegane, the Mountain, had already stormed off toward Cressen's position, hoping to snatch Joffrey back, but returned empty-handed. He wasted no time in galloping back to deliver the news to his lord.
The Lord of the Westerlands moved at once. He ordered the Mountain to take his own picked men, along with every force that would not weaken his coming clash with Clay, and drive into Harrenhal itself. Their objective was clear: seize Robb Stark.
And not just seize him. Bring him back alive.
The Mountain, ever the most obedient of hounds, lived up to the sigil of his house. He obeyed without hesitation, gathering his men and crashing straight into Harrenhal, where the northern host was already falling back.
The fall of the northern gate had caught them completely unprepared, tearing open their lines. Harrenhal's defenses became twisted and fragile, the army scattering into an ugly, lopsided shape.
The northern soldiers crumbled in waves, scattering and fleeing directly toward the cluster of five tall towers at the fortress's heart. Yet in the east, a sizeable host still clung stubbornly to the eastern gate, holding ground as if nothing else existed.
All the while, the fate of Robb Stark weighed so heavily on the northern lords that their nerves frayed. They poured their attention into the young wolf's safety, and in doing so, lost their grip on the broader command of the battlefield.
And so it was that the Mountain's heavy cavalry, thundering in pursuit of the northern rout at the gate, rode with ease through broken ranks and reached the base of those five central towers.
Only then, as if roused from a dream, did the lords of the North scramble to gather their men and form a defense.
It could be said that this moment, this single breath in time, was the most perilous the North would face in the entire battle of Harrenhal.
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Meanwhile, at the South of the God's Eye.
The air roared with a deafening boom, each wingbeat of the dragon splitting the sky like a thunderclap. Daenerys pressed low against Drogon's back, her silver hair whipping wild in the wind, her eyes narrowed against the rush of cloud and sun. Ahead, half-veiled by the drifting mists, she caught sight of it at last: a shadow, a small black speck moving across the heavens.
She had been chasing for so long. And now, finally, with Drogon leading the way, she had found Gaelithox.
However, he was still too far. He had not seen her.
"At last, there you are," Daenerys whispered in her heart, a small triumphant cry rising within her chest.
Beneath her stretched the vast shimmering expanse of a great lake, waves glittering like hammered silver. She had never flown this way before, never set eyes on these waters. She could not be certain if this was indeed the famed God's Eye of Westeros, the lake whispered of in songs and legends.
A thought stirred, unwelcome but impossible to push aside. Gaelithox might be flying to seek out Clay.
If that were true, would her sudden appearance bring him fortune… or disaster?
She frowned, unsettled, whispering the question only to herself.
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"Lord Clay, word has come," a breathless voice reported. "A host bearing the hound's banner has pushed into Harrenhal, bringing a Westerland army with them. It seems their aim is His Grace…"
So far, Clay's own side had pressed forward with remarkable ease. Tytos Blackwood and his men had crushed the remnants of Westerland resistance and seized the former northern camp outside the gate. The banners of the West had been torn down, replaced by their own.
But Lord Mallister's front was under far heavier strain.
His three thousand had only just arrived, barely enough time to plant their standards in the earth, when the enemy cavalry struck from the eastern encampment.
On paper, his numbers gave him the advantage. But when it came to the quality of arms and training, the scales balanced far less clearly.
The two forces clashed, and in the chaos, order broke apart into a messy, grinding melee.
And that was precisely what Lord Mallister had most wished to avoid.
Clay's command to him had been clear: hold the line, seal the eastern approach. Yet now, with the battle devolved into a shapeless struggle, the task went unfulfilled.
If fewer than ten thousand men from the east managed to break through and reinforce the main field, then the heart of the battle would be thrown into peril.
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