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Clay's entire force was spread thin across three fronts. Three thousand men were still locked in confused skirmishes to the east and could not break free. Another five thousand were nailed down in the northern encampment, serving as a reserve base and a shield against Tywin Lannister, lest the old lion slip behind and strike at his rear.
That left him with only twelve thousand. Of these, Brynden Tully's two thousand men had just endured a bloody clash, losing more than three hundred in the fighting, and they desperately needed rest before they could be thrown into another engagement. Christen's five hundred heavy cavalry had been nearly annihilated, their strength all but shattered. When all was tallied, Clay had fewer than ten thousand soldiers who could actually take the field at the front line.
Among them were eight thousand infantry and just over a thousand horsemen. Such a force lacked the speed and striking power of a truly mobile army. With that in mind, Clay resolved to meet Tywin Lannister in a straightforward pitched battle, where formation and endurance would matter more than swift maneuvers.
The Old Lion had already arrayed three solid infantry phalanxes on the front line. Clay only needed a single glance to recognize them for what they were: three standard companies of a thousand men apiece.
Tywin clearly understood the composition of Clay's host. He had not chosen to lump his men together into a massive, unwieldy host, nor had he built a multilayered defensive shell, the so-called tortoise formation that was nearly impossible to crack head-on.
Instead, with his men drawn up in conventional phalanxes, Tywin's line lacked the sheer defensive weight of the tortoise shell, but it gained a degree of flexibility and freedom of movement.
"Lord Tywin still has at least two thousand cavalry standing idle," observed Lord Jonos Bracken. "He means to wait until our men are fully engaged with his infantry, then loose his riders against our flanks."
At this point, further bickering would have been meaningless. The Riverlands lords had been dragged into battle by Clay's command, and whether they liked it or not, they now had no choice but to fight in earnest.
"Our two wings have only five hundred light horse each as their guards," said Lord Clement Piper of Pinkmaiden Castle, frowning. "That seems a bit too thin, does it not?"
The two armies were already closing to striking distance. Clay seized the final moments to gather all the commanders together for one last round of orders before the clash.
"We have eight thousand infantry," Lord William Mooton added, "three thousand of them in the vanguard, set out in three blocks. It matches the old lion's formation exactly. But I fear we may not be able to break them quickly."
It was a polite way of putting the matter. Everyone present understood the truth all too well. With Riverlands soldiers facing Westerlanders of equal numbers in brutal close-quarters, only a miracle could tilt the outcome in their favor. On raw skill and discipline, their men could not hope to overcome Tywin's.
But of course, the Riverlands lords had their pride. Everyone knew the truth of the situation, yet no one would dare speak it openly. To admit their men could not stand toe to toe with Westerlanders would be too great a humiliation.
Clay listened to their back-and-forth in silence, his eyes roaming over the battlefield as his thoughts turned steadily.
In truth, in his heart he had already marked those three thousand vanguard infantry as nothing more than fodder, a meal to be devoured by Tywin Lannister's front line.
For infantry locked in melee, killing one another was always a slow, grinding affair.
If the six thousand men in the front clashed now, they could all wash their hands and go take a nap while the battle dragged on. It was already midday, and by the time the fighting finished it would likely be late afternoon. They could eat their suppers, then come back again tomorrow, meeting on the same field at the same hour, unless they were willing to fight through the night.
Tywin, however, could not afford such delays. If he wanted to keep his soldiers from freezing in snowdrifts, then he had no choice but to defeat Clay outright in open battle. Or at the very least, he needed to drive Clay's host back, then link up with the forces encamped to the east to push Tytos Blackwood out once and for all.
Clay, at least in theory, could not afford to drag things out either. Tywin had already dispatched a force through Harrenhal, and their target was Robb Stark.
If the young wolf met the same fate as the old wolf, falling into Tywin Lannister's hands as a captive, then what was the point of fighting at all? For what reason would they spill their blood?
Clay and the Riverlands lords had marched here for the sake of relieving Robb Stark, but if His Grace had already fallen into the enemy's den, then this war was nothing but shadow play. "We prepare to die in battle, yet our king is already a prisoner. What are we even fighting for?"
Tywin Lannister's whole war had been justified in the name of defending Joffrey Baratheon's throne. But once again, the same logic held: if the king himself was already lost, then what in the world were they doing here?
If both sides truly wished to fight, then perhaps the only fair way would be to first exchange their captive kings, one for one. Only after that could they draw swords again.
But should matters reach such a stage, the outcome would be simple. Clay and the Riverlands lords would open the road, let the old lion march westward to his doom, and afterward they would remain behind in Harrenhal to clean up the ruins and rescue whatever northern lords could still be saved from fire and blood.
Unfortunately, neither commander had the faintest intention of doing such a thing. Which meant there was no choice left at all.
Clay set out his eight thousand infantry in a three-three-two formation. It was no accident. He meant for those three thousand men in the foremost rank to act as bait, drawing Tywin Lannister's cavalry into the fight.
When he arranged his formations, he deliberately placed a heavy concentration of shield-bearers and spearmen along both flanks. Their purpose was plain enough: once Tywin's riders charged in, they would find themselves trapped, unable to break out again.
If Tywin's cavalry lost their momentum and were forced into a grinding, stand-up fight against the infantry, then half the battle would already be in Clay's hands.
The Westerlanders were fewer in number overall. Tywin's true strength lay in his horsemen, and while he had more cavalry than Clay, mounted men who could not run free were nothing more than gilded targets. Once penned in among the forest of spears, their proud destriers would be reduced to helpless beasts of burden, fat and trembling marks for slaughter.
Now everything depended on whether the old lion would snap at the bait set before him.
And if Lord Tywin proved cautious enough, shrewd enough to steer clear of the pit Clay had dug across his path, then Clay had other methods prepared, other snares waiting for him.
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"My lord Jon Umber! That demon, the Mountain, has already stormed up into the Kingspyre Tower. Our men are being cut down in droves, and we cannot retake the tower gate!"
Thudding up the stairs, sword still dripping red in his grip, Theon Greyjoy burst into the chamber where the northern lords were clustered in anxious council about their wounded king. His words struck the air like a hammer blow, spreading dread and a heavy silence through the hall.
They had only just dragged Robb Stark back to the Kingspyre Tower, fearing with every step that their sovereign might die on the road. Robb was grievously wounded, and every breath seemed a struggle, but at least he was still alive. The problem was that in the short time they had taken their eyes off the defenses, the north gate had already been lost.
Before they could even take stock of the disaster, Gregor Clegane, the Mountain, had driven his Westerland troops up to the tower's very doors.
Twice the northern guards had tried to rally and retake the threshold. Twice they had been beaten back with unspeakable brutality. The Mountain's blows broke through shields and bodies alike, his greatsword leaving blood and ruin with every swing.
With no way to hold the entrance, the survivors had been forced to fall back, retreating deeper into the tower. They relied on their knowledge of the narrow halls and stairways, turning the interior into a warren of choke points, fighting floor by floor in desperate, suffocating skirmishes like street battles within stone walls.
But everyone knew the truth. It was only a slow death. Sooner or later the Mountain would break through.
There was, however, one faint chance of escape. A narrow stone bridge, long and wind-battered, ran between the Kingspyre Tower and the Widow's Tower. If they could cross it, they might be able to slip down and out through the eastern side.
The reason they had not yet fled was simple, and cruel. Robb Stark could no longer walk on his own. He was too close to death.
Carry him? The thought was absurd. To bear their king on a litter across a swaying bridge, with icy winds howling and enemies closing in, was to invite disaster. Even if, by some miracle, they reached the Widow's Tower, then what? Would they march in a slow, conspicuous column through the open snow with Westerlanders at their heels?
No, the moment the Mountain's men saw a group fleeing with a burden at its center, they would know it was someone important. They would hound them mercilessly.
And when that happened, what choice would the northern lords have? Would they keep carrying King Robb, or abandon him in a drift of snow and turn back with their swords raised? Which life was worth more… their king's or their own?
That was why, after hurried debate, the northern lords had chosen instead to stand their ground. Their order was clear: no matter the cost, retake the gate, and hold until reinforcements from the eastern camp arrived.
But now, looking at the situation, it really didn't seem all that realistic anymore…
Theon Greyjoy had only just rushed down to lend his own hand to the fighting, but the moment he came face-to-face with the Mountain, the clash ended almost instantly. One swing of that monstrous greatsword, heavy as a falling tree, smashed into his guard. Theon managed to catch it on his longsword, but the force tore right through his grip, splitting the flesh of his palm, nearly wrenching the blade from his hands. His tiger's mouth burst open, bleeding, and his whole arm went numb.
The Mountain hadn't come away unscathed. The guards had hurled themselves at him with everything they had, and in that storm of spears and steel they had managed to leave a few deep cuts across his armored bulk. Snarling, Gregor Clegane pulled back for a time, but it was only a pause.
Before long, waves of Westerland soldiers came surging in behind him. With sheer numbers and relentless momentum, they forced the northern defenders back step by step until the fight spilled onto the second floor. The wide hall on the first floor, once the last line of refuge within the tower, was lost completely, swallowed whole beneath the press of the enemy.
Of course, everyone inside understood what this meant. These Westerland troops were holding back because Tywin Lannister had given them orders: take prisoners alive. If not, it would have been the simplest thing in the world to torch the base of the tower. A handful of fires below, a choking flood of smoke rising upward, and those trapped inside would be dead without a blade even touching them.
Jon Umber let out a long, heavy sigh. The reinforcements had still come a step too late.
Not long ago, up on the castle wall, he had seen with his own eyes Christen's surprise attack strike at the rear of the Westerlander host. That alone told him the truth: their main army must already be pressing Tywin Lannister's back lines.
Otherwise, the old lion would have had no reason to act in such frantic haste to capture them alive.
The north gate was already in his grasp, the eastern gate would not be defended either. What remained were only five isolated towers, cut off and dangling. He could choose when and how to strike them down, at his leisure.
In truth, Jon Umber understood the simplest, most practical option for the northern lords still standing here: surrender directly to Tywin Lannister.
They were nobles, meat-eaters, men of high blood. A great house like the Lannisters would almost never butcher peers of their own rank. Capturing them alive would serve Tywin far better than staining the floor with their corpses.
And now that their own forces had already encircled the Westerlander rear, Tywin would be even more eager to seize such bargaining chips. If he could hold a clutch of northern lords, he could negotiate terms with the northern host outside the walls.
Only, no one wanted to be the first to say it aloud.
For one, they all understood perfectly what it meant. The first man to speak the word "surrender" would almost certainly be branded a coward for it later, when the reckoning came. For another, they were no fools. They knew well enough that the army outside, nine times out of ten, was commanded personally by Clay Manderly.
Even before this, none of them had felt entirely comfortable raising their heads high in Clay Manderly's presence. And if now, with his army pressing Tywin into a corner, with the chance of a decisive victory hanging in the balance, they chose this moment to throw down their swords and yield? Then when the dust settled, they could not expect Clay Manderly to treat them with anything but cold contempt.
House Manderly was already powerful, already a force that could not be ignored. If, on top of that, Clay succeeded in saving their lives from the jaws of the Lannisters, perhaps even preserving the honor of King Robb Stark himself, then the balance of power in the North would tilt decisively. For the next few decades, barring some calamity, more than half of the North would have to bow to Clay Manderly's will.
But the lords gathered here were men who, in their own lands, were accustomed to being obeyed without question, men with pride as high as mountain peaks. To bow their heads before the Starks, whose bloodline had ruled the North for thousands of years, was tolerable enough. Yet to humble themselves before the Manderlys, who only two years past had stood shoulder to shoulder with them as equals, was a bitter draught that few could bring themselves to swallow.
So hesitation thickened in the hall. Their thoughts turned in circles, none of them willing to be the first to voice surrender. And with Robb Stark gone, no single hand remained to slam the table and silence the quarrel. The lords, weighed down by pride and fear, erupted instead into loud argument, the hall filling with a clamor of voices, messy and disordered.
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Clay, on the other hand, knew nothing of the turmoil inside the fortress. His farsight could only reach so far; there was still a stretch of distance between his vantage and the tower. The weight of magical bond pressing down on him was growing heavier by the moment. He didn't need anyone to tell him what it meant. Gaelithox was here, looking for him.
That was the real wild card, the piece that could overturn the whole game. But since it had not yet stepped onto the board, Clay could not afford to plan around it. For now, he had to set it aside.
His task at this moment was far simpler: fight the battle directly in front of him, and fight it well.
Word had already reached him of Lord Mellister being stalled on the eastern front. Tywin Lannister had responded faster than he had expected.
Good. That was better!
If every opponent collapsed the instant he charged them, if every battle ended without weight or resistance, then Clay would find no satisfaction in the fight at all.
So be it. Before your reinforcements from the east can reach you, let me give you a battle you'll never forget.
"Orders," Clay called, his voice carrying sharp and clear across the ranks. "Three thousand men of the vanguard, under the command of Lord William Mooton. Advance slowly, and keep a close watch on both flanks."
He gave no further instructions. He had no wish to sit with a finger poised over a map, directing every line of advance in tedious detail. It was enough to remind Lord Mooton to guard against a sudden cavalry thrust from the Westerlands. The rest he left to the man in the field.
The three thousand moved at once to obey. Since this was an offensive formation, the heavy shield-bearers did not take the very front. Instead, two long phalanxes of spearmen spread out along the flanks, while in the center advanced a solid square of sword-and-shield infantry, dense and unyielding.
Three hundred, four hundred, and another three hundred in each block; together they formed the first striking wave of three thousand men.
Behind them marched the second line: five hundred longbowmen, shielded on either side by another five hundred heavy shields and spearmen combined.
This was no vast host with reserves stretching endlessly behind. These three thousand were an independent striking force, designed to act alone. Their bowmen did not linger far to the rear, as in a traditional array. Instead, they kept close, positioned where their arrows could rain down directly in support of the vanguard.
As the advance slowed, the longbowmen halted a short distance behind the thousand infantrymen holding the front. Each archer drew five arrows from his quiver and stabbed them point-first into the earth, ready to be snatched up the instant the battle turned fierce.
Then, with a steady rhythm like the beat of war-drums, they loosed their first storm of arrows.
Not to kill… at least not yet. The enemy was still beyond true killing range. This opening volley was a test, a way to measure the distance, to watch how the shafts fell. It was a signal for the commanders, so that when the moment came, the next orders could unleash the arrows at exactly the right time, with exactly the right precision, to carve the enemy with the greatest possible damage.
Their opponents, the Westerlanders, were clearly no rabble either. Almost at the same instant, the archers in the first of their three thousand-strong phalanxes bent bows and sent their own ranging shafts into the sky. The arrows split the air with a hiss, drew sharp arcs overhead, and thudded into the earth with heavy, muffled cracks.
Lord William Mooton led the first block of a thousand forward, bearing down on the Westerland phalanx in the center of their line.
He had been present at Clay Manderly's war council. He knew something, at least, of what this commander was trying to achieve.
It pained him to think of the cost, of the thousand lives he was about to throw into the jaws of danger, but he steeled his heart and gave the order. The charge would go forward, straight at the banner of the golden lion.
But then, against all expectation, from within the Westerland host came the deep, drawn-out blare of warhorns. The sound rolled low and steady, a signal recognized across all Seven Kingdoms. It was the call to attack.
Lord Mooton faltered, taken aback. He did not understand what Tywin Lannister meant by this sudden advance.
In his mind, had he been Lord Tywin, he would have formed a wall, presenting a stance of grim defense, and waited for the enemy to break themselves upon it. That, at least, was the cautious, sensible course.
But, unexpectedly, from the very beginning, he had guessed wrong about the old lion's intent.
The golden lion banners snapped in the wind, and the three phalanxes in the Westerlands' front line began to move. All of them.
The thousand men he had just sent charging forward, still only halfway across the field, suddenly found themselves staring at an advancing tide from three sides at once.
Panic jolted through Lord Mooton. He snapped out the order without hesitation.
"Loose! Loose now!"
A heartbeat later, a question came shouting back from the longbow formation. Which direction should they fire?
Mooton froze for the briefest moment, then realized what they meant.
The enemy was pressing from three sides.
"Volley into the center! Pass my command along. Tell the soldiers to stop the charge, hold their ground, and begin a slow withdrawal!"
His son, Holland Mooton, heard the command and could not hold back his doubts. In a low voice, he asked, "Father, the the men have only just begun their charge. If we call them back already, won't that waste their momentum? It will bruise their morale for nothing."
William Mooton, of course, understood perfectly well what his son meant. But he had his own reasoning, and when he spoke, his voice was firm.
"Foolish talk. Open your eyes and look for yourself. The old lion has sent out at least a thousand men, perhaps more, pressing us from three sides at once. If I do not pull them back now, the moment our troops clash with theirs, that thousand will be swallowed whole."
Such was the nature of war. It was never as simple as you have five thousand, I have ten thousand, and we line up neatly to march forward and hack away until one side is carved to pieces. Victory was never decided by brute numbers alone.
In truth, the battlefield was more like a game of cards. You held your hand, I held mine. Both sides waited for the right moment to play, trying to strike when the other was weakest. When the dust settled, the rules of war decided who came out on top.
But this time, Mooton, the small-time player at the table, had fumbled his very first card.
He was only a minor lord, and he had underestimated Tywin Lannister's resolve.
The retreat order had barely gone out through the short, sharp cry of the horns, and already the men in mid-charge were thrown into confusion.
That was the curse of war in this age. Information traveled so slowly across a field of battle, never reaching where it was needed in time. Orders, once delayed or muddled, only sowed chaos.
And in that brief window of hesitation, the heavily armed soldiers of the Westerlands had already braced through the rain of arrows and closed in from three directions. They clashed headlong with the Riverlands men at the very front.
The knight leading the vanguard understood at once that there could be no turning back now. If they tried to retreat here, the thousand would instantly break and scatter into rout.
He bellowed with all his strength, voice cutting through the din.
"On my command! Men of the Riverlands, forward! CHARGE!"
And so, those who heard him roared in answer, and the knot of Riverlands soldiers smashed into the oncoming Westerlanders. Steel met steel, men locked together in a brutal press, and the killing began in earnest.
From the center of the host, Clay watched with a deepening frown.
He had not expected the nobles of the Riverlands to prove so inept at handling a field of battle. Truly, they had grown spoiled. He had fought their wars for them for too long, shielding them until they had gained no experience of their own.
William Mooton's first arrangement had not been wrong. But the instant he saw the Westerlands moving in from three sides, he lost his nerve, wavering between choices.
How could anyone order a charge halfway across the field, only to pull the men back again? That was nothing but handing the enemy a chance to treat them like herded sheep, driven whichever way they pleased.
Fortunately, the officer at the very front had not lost his wits. He knew that turning back here was a road straight to death. Better to stand and fight, even if it meant dying on the spot.
In the end, of the thousand men Lord William Mooton had sent to probe the enemy, his horn had managed to recall four hundred. The remaining six hundred were caught fast, pressed on three sides by Westerland units of five hundred each, their situation dire and crumbling.
Clay turned his head slightly, a weary motion, and cast a glance at Edmure Tully, whose face was dark and grim. In a quiet tone he said,
"Lord Edmure, Earl Mooton's command skills are… not exactly impressive, are they."
Even a dullard would have heard the edge in his words, and Edmure Tully was not so dull. He understood perfectly what Clay Manderly meant. As the nominal leader of the Riverlands lords gathered here, his mood soured further still.
"Send word. If he still lives, bring Brynden Tully to me at once. No delay."
Clay had no interest in wasting more words with Edmure.
What mattered now was the other Tully, and the state of the men under his command.
After all, he still had more than a thousand Riverlands cavalry in his hand. Their fighting strength was nothing extraordinary, but they were at least usable.
It did not take long before Brynden Tully arrived, clad in black scale armor that gleamed faintly in the shifting light.
The old knight hesitated to meet Clay's eyes, and he knew full well why. In the earlier assault led by Christen, Clay's command to him had been crystal clear: support the attack, strike hard at the Westerland siege lines, and throw their formation into chaos.
But the old trout had not carried it out. Perhaps he had managed to hide this from others, but there was no hiding it from Clay's gaze.
Now, though, Clay had no time to dwell on old accounts. He cut straight to the heart of the matter and asked, direct and plain, "Ser Brynden, how much longer do your cavalry need before they can fight again?"
"…Lord Clay, what exactly do you mean by this?"
"My meaning is simple. Think carefully before you answer me. And remember this… I'll speak plain, even if it offends. The men bleeding on that field right now, every one of them, are soldiers of your Riverlands. So answer me properly. How long until your horsemen are ready?"
Brynden Tully glanced once at his nephew, who sat stiff and silent as if carved from stone. Then he let out a long, weary sigh and said, helpless,
"Half an hour. Give them half an hour, and they will be here, ready to obey your command."
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The six hundred trapped men, hemmed in by fifteen hundred Westerlanders frontier troops, held for no more than twenty minutes. Then they broke completely. A few followed their commander into surrender, while the rest were cut down where they stood, leaving their corpses beneath Westerland blades.
Thus the Riverlands suffered their first defeat of the day.
Having finished the slaughter, the Westerland troops did not press their advantage. Instead, they pulled back slowly, step by steady step, until they had fallen once more into their original positions.
Of course, they had not come away unscathed. The fighting had been savage, and losses were heavy on both sides.
During that close-quarters melee, neither army had dared to loose arrows. After all, these were not men like Ramsay Bolton, a madman who thought nothing of shooting into his own ranks if it meant harming the enemy.
But now, as the Westerland troops withdrew in good order, the Riverlands soldiers, burning with fury, rained down arrows in a full and unrelenting storm. The sky seemed to darken with the hail of shafts, and the retreating enemy was drenched in their anger.
When all was counted, the Riverlands had lost six hundred lives in that first clash. The Westerlands, for their part, had suffered three hundred dead and wounded.
Clay knew well that William Mooton would already be seething after such a small taste of blood. And so, he decided it was time to end his hands-off stance. Summoning a messenger, he spoke in a tone crisp and commanding:
"Lord Clay orders that William Mooton's entire force advance at once. They are to hold their formation. They must not break ranks, they must not overreach. Their purpose is to draw the Westerland army into attacking."
In truth, those men were nothing more than bait cast into the lion's open maw. Only when the beast bared its hidden fangs at the flanks could the hunter strike, snapping those fangs clean out. And once the lion's teeth were broken, what remained to fear from the beast?
Prey should remember its place. The harder it struggles, the more excited the lion becomes. But cowering and shrinking back? That would never lure the lion into taking the bait.
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When William Mooton, for the second time, led the twenty-four hundred men still under his hand into a full advance, the Westerlands across the field responded immediately.
From among their three great blocks of infantry, the eastern and western formations began to move forward, while the central square set itself into a defensive stance, bracing to receive Mooton's tcharge.
It was a classic encirclement maneuver. Three against one.
But this was no skirmish of a few hundred. Nearly six thousand men were colliding head-on, and such a contest could not be decided in moments.
The Westerland troops pressed from east, west, and south. In the middle, William Mooton, sweating and shouting himself hoarse, drove his soldiers to hammer desperately at the southern front, hoping against hope to pierce through their line.
Clay watched and shook his head slightly. So far, these three thousand Riverlands men had only been enough to make the lion stick out its tongue. The fangs still remained hidden. Not yet enough.
If that was the case, then he would simply have to sweeten the lure.
"Ser Brynden," Clay called, his voice level but sharp with command, "take your cavalry and strike at the Westerland force on the western flank. You know what I want. This time, I will not tolerate anyone disobeying my orders."
The Blackfish was far more obedient now. He bowed his head in acknowledgment, turned without a word, and led his horsemen in a furious charge straight at the side of the Westerland encirclement.
Once again, they aimed for the familiar position: circling to the rear, tearing at the seams, helping William Mooton rip open the skin of this great dumpling the enemy had wrapped around them.
Clay, watching, knew well what must happen next. Tywin Lannister would never simply allow a cavalry force to run rampant, cutting down his men unchecked. Not with only six thousand soldiers at his command.
If three thousand of them were broken in one stroke, the game would be lost before it had even begun.
And so, the old lion's hidden cavalry, kept concealed at the wings, would be forced to move.
That much, Clay was certain of.
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[Chapter End's]
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