Read 20+ Chapter's Ahead in Patreon
Standing before the sand table, Clay realized that ever since he began his southern campaign, all of his efforts had either been about encircling his enemies or moving toward a situation where he could do just that.
At the Twins, he had orchestrated an internal-external pincer strategy. In Maiden's Valley, he had encircled and annihilated two thousand of Jaime Lannister's men. At Riverrun, through a flawless coordination with the Redfork, he once again created a massive encirclement.
One could say that the classic tactic of "surrounding but leaving one side open" was entirely useless against him. Clay had never intended merely to defeat his enemies. His goal was far more ruthless: he wanted to ensure that not a single one could escape.
If only Westeros had tacos in its traditional cuisine, then perhaps Clay would not need to go to such lengths. With his talent, he could simply open a taco restaurant and earn his freedom in golden dragons with ease.
Now laid out before him was yet another grand taco-making opportunity. This time, however, the filling was none other than the main force of Tywin Lannister's army, twenty thousand strong, stationed at Harrenhal.
Lord Tywin was a seasoned commander and would never charge forward recklessly like his unfortunate son. Thus, recreating the victories at Riverrun and Maiden's Valley would prove exceedingly difficult. One wrong move might lead to a devastating counterattack.
Moreover, the logistics supporting Tywin's army were, in some ways, even more secure than those during Jaime Lannister's siege of Riverrun. Trying to starve Tywin out by severing his supply lines would yield little result.
The reason Jaime had been so vulnerable to logistical attacks—even with only four of Clay's personal guards dispatched—was that his entire supply line ran through hostile territory. He had no foothold among the local population.
In other words, he had no support from the local populace. The villages and common folk of the Riverlands served as both informants and hiding places for those striking against Lannister logistics.
Since the Lannisters lacked the cruelty to slaughter every farmer in sight, such vulnerabilities inevitably emerged.
However, Lord Tywin, fighting on familiar ground, faced no such troubles. Although he had pitched his army within Harrenhal, the southern gateway of the Riverlands, the key point was that his supply line ran entirely through the Crownlands—the domains of the king's loyal nobles.
The lords of the Crownlands were famously fickle, swaying like grass in the wind. They pledged their allegiance not based on righteousness, but on whomever sat upon the Iron Throne. For the most part, they cared little whether the one wearing the crown was a true king or not.
At present, the young puppet monarch, King Joffrey, still sat securely upon the throne. No one had breached the Red Keep to oust him, and as such, the lords of the Crownlands declared their loyalty to the stag-crowned Lannister and, by extension, to his grandfather, Lord Tywin.
In this situation, even if Clay's cavalry launched a direct strike behind Tywin's lines and momentarily severed his logistics, it would not solve the fundamental problem. There were simply no suitable strongholds nearby where Clay could establish a lasting presence.
Faced with such circumstances, Clay was forced to revise his strategic goals. Instead of seeking to annihilate the twenty thousand troops in one decisive stroke, he aimed for a more practical outcome: forcing Tywin to retreat. More specifically, he would turn a battle of annihilation into one of rout and collapse.
And to speak frankly, Clay's campaign thus far had already yielded more than enough glory. He had captured the Twins, crushed and destroyed over nine thousand Lannister troops in two battles, and captured a slew of Western lords, from nobles to knights. What more could be asked of him?
At this point, as long as he preserved the current situation, his name would strike hesitation into the hearts of all the lords of the North. Through more than a month of constant warfare, he had established immense authority within the army and gained precious battlefield experience.
Without the Old Wolf, which northern noble could still beat his chest and claim that their house's soldiers could best Clay's forces on the battlefield? If some short-sighted Northern noble ever dared to provoke Clay...
If Clay were to lose, with his forces crushed and his land seized, then the fertile lands around the Twins would likely slip from his grasp, regardless of the fact that Robb Stark had already granted them to him.
But as things stood, anyone who cast greedy eyes on the Twins and the rich lands along the eastern shore would be disheartened. Frustrated and cautious, they could only shift their sights westward, toward the lands that had yet to be claimed, hoping to gain at least a piece of the spoils.
Clay gathered his thoughts and drew his gaze away from the sand table. His eyes settled once more upon Edmure Tully, heir to the Riverlands, who stood at his side in a posture so deferential he could have been mistaken for a guardsman.
"Lord Edmure," Clay began, his voice calm but firm, "since the Lannister force is already in a desperate state of retreat, it is no longer worth our while to pursue them too aggressively. It is not that we cannot stop them, but rather that doing so serves little purpose."
Clay locked eyes with Edmure, staring into those bright blue irises with quiet intensity. His words came slowly, each syllable deliberate.
"There is no one else in this room, so I shall speak plainly. Forgive me if my words come across too harsh."
He paused briefly, his expression turning solemn.
"When you requested to lead the charge, I had initially planned to refuse. In my original strategy, my cavalry would simply block the southern bank of the Tumblestone River at the crossing, trapping the Lannisters and preventing them from retreating to the south."
"Even before the battle began, I had already ordered their supply lines cut. With over two thousand of them left stranded in barren wilderness, hunger alone would have finished them. But then, your father, Lord Hoster Tully, came to see me. He asked that I give you this opportunity, to reclaim the honor of House Tully upon the battlefield."
"Out of respect for the alliance between the North and the Riverlands, I agreed to his request. Yet now, you have abandoned your troops and returned alone to bring me this news. Lord Edmure, what do you expect me to think of this?"
Faced with the fierce gaze of the Northern commander who had slaughtered nearly ten thousand on the battlefield, Edmure Tully flushed bright red. He opened his mouth and moved his lips a few times, but no words came out.
He would never admit, even under threat of death, that his ability to command troops was sorely lacking. Yet no matter how proud a man might be, he must know his own limits. Since the war against the Lannisters began, not once had he led his forces to a true victory.
Now, even when surrounding a defeated army that had lost all supply and support, with superior numbers on his side, he still could not manage to bring them down. Edmure Tully could no longer fabricate a reasonable excuse. There is no pain like comparison; the brighter Clay shone, the more dismal Edmure appeared in contrast.
"I shall remain here to oversee Riverrun personally," Clay continued, his finger tapping on the map spread across the table, pointing toward the southern bank of the Tumblestone River. "Lord Edmure Tully, I will grant you one thousand cavalry, all elite troops. At the same time, I will dispatch Lord Cerwyn to accompany you."
"Since they have already crossed the river, they must now believe they see a glimmer of hope for returning to the Westerlands. What they do not yet know is the situation near Golden Tooth. That is where our advantage lies. I give you one thousand men, and along with them, a piece of advice."
The moment he heard this, Edmure straightened up, listening intently. There were many things he might not accept from Clay Manderly, but when it came to matters of warfare, even his pride could not deny the man's skill.
He was not stupid. Advice given behind closed doors like this was often worth its weight in gold.
"From this moment on, station all your infantry along the route the Lannister remnants will take to flee south. Divide them into several groups. How you split them, I will leave to your judgment. Each time the routed soldiers pass by, launch an attack."
"Do not aim for victory, nor for annihilation, nor even for surrounding them. Simply keep them constantly on edge, denying them any moment of rest. Make them bleed, slowly and steadily."
"Force them to abandon all their wounded, tear them apart little by little."
A dangerous gleam flashed in Clay's eyes as he revealed the final blow of his strategy.
"When they are utterly exhausted, parched with thirst, aching with fatigue, and starving for food, that is when you unleash the one thousand cavalry I have given you. Shatter them in one decisive charge. And the one thousand soldiers under Lord Glover near Golden Tooth—I shall have them redeployed to your command as well."
"Their final resting place shall be beneath the walls of Golden Tooth. That will serve as a fitting end to their long and desperate flight south. After all, I have already allowed them to catch a glimpse of the gates of the Westerlands."
Once again, Clay toyed with his enemies as though they were mere pieces on a game board, without the slightest hesitation, as if he had foreseen every move from the beginning.
Edmure Tully had once inquired with many people about the true nature of this mysterious commander of the Northern cavalry. The answers he received were as varied as the people he asked, yet one thing was always said without fail—Clay Manderly had never lost a battle, and his strategic planning before each engagement had always played a decisive role.
It had been so at the Battle of the Twins, so too in the Battle of the Maidan's Valley, and again during the lifting of the siege of Riverrun. It seemed that whoever faced Clay Manderly might as well be a child still learning to speak.
But Edmure Tully knew full well that men such as the now-vanished Frey family, Ser Jaime Lannister now held in chains, and the numerous noblemen of the Westerlands who had become captives, were anything but easy opponents.
He only needed to look at himself as a reminder of that.
And yet, right before his very eyes, Clay Manderly delivered a vivid lesson to the heir of the Riverlands, showing him what it meant to act with foresight and deliberate planning.
"Your strategy, my lord… it truly resembles that of a wolf pack," Edmure Tully said with difficulty.
It was, indeed, a fitting comparison. Clay's tactics mirrored those of wolves, tearing at the enemy bit by bit, draining them with fear and fatigue, then striking with deadly precision once their strength had been completely spent.
But Clay had no interest in listening to Edmure Tully's hollow compliments. He simply gestured for him to leave. The military orders would be delivered to the cavalry camp shortly.
As Edmure Tully reached the doorway, Clay added one last remark.
"Lord Edmure, you have ten days to win back your honor, both for yourself and for your house. Once that time has passed, I will withdraw all our troops. Do not forget, Lord Tywin is still comfortably seated in Harrenhal. I will need to pay him a visit, will I not?"
---
Southeast of Harrenhal, In The Forest.
Eddard Stark stood in a shallow stream, having just washed his battered and worn-out boots. He did not bother to dry them, instead pulling the soggy footwear back onto his feet.
Around him were only ten of his most loyal and trusted guards, men tasked with protecting the last remnants of his safety.
This man, once the Lord Paramount of the North and Hand of the King to the Seven Kingdoms, who had stood but a single step away from becoming regent after King Robert's death, now bore the appearance of a beggar crawling out of a flea-infested alley.
Everything that had transpired in King's Landing haunted him, returning night after night as the most vivid and terrifying of nightmares, wrapping around him like chains that would never let go.
He truly never imagined that the Lannister woman would dare such a thing, that she would actually place her incestuous child, born of her incest with the Kingslayer, upon the Iron Throne.
Eddard Stark believed he had granted Cersei Lannister enough opportunities. He had offered her a way out, one that would preserve her and her son's name. He told her to take her children and leave Westeros, and he swore never to pursue them.
In his heart, he believed he had acted with utmost mercy and righteousness. Yet to his dismay, Cersei, already twisted and corrupted by power, revealed herself to be nothing short of mad. Even after he had produced the king's written decree, she had the audacity to openly send soldiers against him.
Thankfully, he had at his side three hundred fiercely loyal and formidable Northern warriors, and the City Watch of King's Landing was riddled with discord. It was this fortunate combination that allowed him to carve a path out of the Red Keep and flee from the capital.
His original plan had been to return straight to the North, to call upon his vassals and rally both the Riverlands and the Vale to his cause. With their combined strength, they would march on King's Landing and overthrow the false king.
Then, he would present the crown to the true heir to the Iron Throne, Robert's brother, Stannis Baratheon. Once that was done, Eddard Stark intended to relinquish all power, return to Winterfell, and swear before both the old gods and the new that he would never again set foot in King's Landing.
But fate had not been kind. Cersei's fear and hatred of him had settled deep within her bones. The pursuers she dispatched made it impossible for him to travel north along the Kingsroad and reach Moat Cailin directly.
Left with no other choice, Eddard Stark ordered his remaining men, now fewer than three hundred, to divide and scatter into smaller squads. Each group was to find its own path past the enemy, in the hope that they might one day reunite at Moat Cailin.
But before they could even recover from one crisis, another fell upon them. Though they had successfully evaded their pursuers, Tywin Lannister arrived with twenty thousand soldiers and, with terrifying speed, locked down the entire region surrounding Harrenhal.
Eddard Stark was forced to abandon even the smallest roads. He dared not seek shelter in farmsteads, choosing instead to hide deep within the woods, surviving on hunted game and water drawn from mountain springs.
He had tried, more than once, to circle around the Lannister cordon. Yet each attempt had failed. Their encirclement was both long and tightly drawn, leaving not even the slightest opening.
He had come to understand the truth. Among the scattered squads he had sent out, some must have fallen into Lannister hands. Someone had broken and given up his location, revealing that he remained hidden in this very region.
That was the only explanation for Tywin Lannister's willingness to expend such great effort and manpower to trap him.
"My lord, the encirclement of these Lannisters is growing tighter by the hour."
Jory Cassel, Captain of the Guard and loyal protector of Eddard Stark, handed him a waterskin filled with cool spring water. His expression was grim, and he bared his teeth in frustration.
Four days ago, one of their men had been spotted by a Lannister scouting party while out hunting. He had been struck by an arrow. Though they managed to eliminate the three Lannister soldiers who gave chase, their position had undeniably been exposed.
During these days of ceaseless flight, the wounded man's injury grew steadily worse. At last, when there was no hope left, Eddard Stark granted him release from suffering, and then pressed onward with the rest of his men, heading northwest in search of escape.
The Lannisters had momentarily lost their trail. In response, they had deployed the bulk of their forces to this area, trapping Eddard Stark's group within a dense forest southeast of Harrenhal.
From the confession of a captured scout, Eddard Stark had learned that his good son Robb had already led his forces to the north of Harrenhal, poised for battle. This meant that if he could just break through the enemy lines, find a horse, and ride hard for the Northern camp, he would at last be safe.
Eddard Stark understood clearly that even if death awaited him, he must not allow himself to fall into Lannister hands. He did not yet know that on the western front, Clay had already risen to prominence, achieving great victories and even capturing Jaime Lannister, son of Lord Tywin.
That vital piece of news was known only to the highest circles in the North and the West.
Gazing down at the Valyrian greatsword Ice strapped to his waist, its bloodstained scabbard clashing with the blade's unyielding brilliance, Eddard Stark felt, for the first time in weeks, a glimmer of hope.
He turned to his Captain and issued a quiet command.
"Jory, have the men rest for the night. Let them eat, let them drink. Tomorrow, we break through and head to Robb."
Jory Cassel nodded silently. Deep in his heart, he knew well that the final stretch would likely be the most perilous. Their company was ragged, hungry, and weary to the bone. That they had survived this long already felt like a blessing from the gods.
Fewer than ten remained. How many of them would live to see the North again?
Jory no longer cared about such matters. He had but one goal now: to see his lord safely into the Northern army's embrace. Once that was done, his duty would be fulfilled.
As for the rest, he had no strength left to worry.
**
**
[IMAGE]
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Chapter End's]
🖤 Night_FrOst/ Patreon 🤍
Visit my Patreon for Early Chapter:
https://www.patreon.com/Night_FrOst
Extra Content Already Available