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After waiting for so long, the original plan had been clear: once he and Robb Stark joined forces, with the Kingslayer and a number of Western noble prisoners in hand, they could at the very least force Tywin to retreat from the Riverlands.
Clay had already thought it through. As long as Tywin returned west to deal with the ironborn raids in the Westerlands, he would let him pass unopposed.
Once Eddard Stark was brought back safely, Clay no longer intended to follow the Northern army in their bid to conquer the realm.
Eddard Stark was determined to support Stannis's claim to the throne. That was none of Clay's concern, nor did he have the power to interfere.
He was well aware of Eddard Stark's stubborn stance on this matter, and for that reason alone, he had never even considered trying to dissuade him.
But supporting Stannis was, without a doubt, a terrible miscalculation. Among the Seven Kingdoms, there were now three kings vying for the throne, and Eddard chose to back the weakest of them all. Renly held a force of one hundred thousand strongmen. Joffrey had the entire city of King's Landing behind him, along with the unwavering support of Lord Tywin Lannister.
And what of Stannis? According to the latest information Clay had received, the man remained holed up on Dragonstone, utterly immobile. In other words, he had not yet gone to Storm's End to allow Melisandre to assassinate Renly using her shadow magic.
That in itself was intriguing. Clay could not fathom what was stopping Stannis from making that move. It certainly wasn't some nonsense about family bonds. In a game like this, family sentiment was a liability, nothing more than a dead weight.
To be more accurate, Stannis should now be called the King of Dragonstone and perhaps a quarter of the Narrow Sea. That was the full extent of his control. He could claim no more than that.
And now everything had unraveled. Plans had been laid, but reality had shifted faster than he could act. Before Clay even had time to move his pieces, Eddard Stark had fallen at the very final moment of his escape, just as he was about to break through the Lannister encirclement.
He had nearly gotten away, only to be captured and dragged back again. Clay genuinely had no idea how to describe such a turn of events.
Unlucky. Incredibly, miserably unlucky…
With that one incident, the Kingslayer and the other valuable Western prisoners in his hands had suddenly lost their luster. Previously, he had intended to use these precious bargaining chips to strike a heavy blow against Tywin, demanding land, gold, and whatever else he pleased. That had been the baseline of his expectations.
But now? If he wanted to exchange them for Eddard Stark, he would have to hand them all over. Every last one. These prisoners were worth a fortune. Just thinking about it made Clay's heart ache as though it were bleeding.
"Mother!"
Robb Stark had no time to spare for the stunned and silent Northern lords. His full attention was on his mother, who had just fainted.
And so, the eyes of everyone else in the tent turned toward the second most powerful military commander of the army after Robb Stark — Lord Clay Manderly.
"Lord Clay, what do you think we should do? Should we launch an immediate assault and rescue Lord Eddard? Our troops are already prepared and standing by!"
Jon Umber's familiar booming voice resounded once more. He, too, understood very well what it meant for Eddard Stark to fall into enemy hands. Theoretically, Tywin might be able to grit his teeth and sacrifice his beloved son. But could Robb truly abandon his father?
"Lord Karstark, where exactly did the battle take place? Give me a precise location. My cavalry is positioned farther south. Perhaps they can catch up."
Clay furrowed his brow and stared at the map, directing his question toward Lord Karstark, whose armor was stained with fresh blood.
When Karstark pointed out the location on the map, Clay could only sigh.
It was too far. There was no way they could make it in time.
"Well, Lord Clay? Can we send our troops in pursuit?"
Everyone's eyes were fixed on Clay. Yet behind their gaze, each held their own thoughts and calculations.
Clay shook his head, gently tapping the table with his knuckles. His voice was calm but laced with helplessness.
"It is already too late. From that position, it will take them at most half a day to return to the Lannister main camp. For me to return to my cavalry encampment from here would take roughly the same amount of time. Which means, by the time I even begin to move, they'll already be back at their camp."
"Then what should we do? I cannot simply abandon my father. I raised my banners and marched south for the sole purpose of bringing him back."
After ordering that the unconscious Lady Catelyn be taken away to rest, Robb Stark turned on his father's bannermen with eyes red from suppressed fury. Fortunately, he had not lost all reason. Despite his youth, he still possessed enough sense not to recklessly command a full assault.
"First, we need to decide whether we are going to negotiate or go to war. These are two very different courses of action, and they require entirely separate preparations."
Roose Bolton's quiet and unsettling voice once again drew the attention of everyone in the tent. Since Clay had withdrawn, Bolton's influence had grown considerably. Aside from Robb himself, it was Bolton's opinion that now carried the most weight in their councils.
At this point, the Lord of the Dreadfort had sworn an almost fanatical loyalty to House Stark, driven precisely by Clay's brilliant victories over the Lannisters in the Riverlands.
His mind was still sharp, and the question he raised went straight to the heart of the current crisis. The meaning was obvious. If they chose to fight, then there was nothing more to discuss. Clay would return to his army that very night, and preparations for an assault at dawn would begin immediately.
If they chose to negotiate, then their army would still march, but only to exert pressure. After that, everything would hinge on diplomacy. Both sides held roughly equal bargaining chips. A negotiation was possible. There was room to maneuver.
But Roose Bolton could only pose the question. The final decision still rested with Robb Stark. After all, it was his father who had been captured.
"Can we truly trade the Kingslayer and the Western lords for my father's return?"
Robb Stark's body trembled. No matter how mature he might appear on the surface, at the end of the day, he was still just a boy in his early teens. Faced with the grim reality of his father falling into enemy hands, uncertain whether he lived or died, he was clearly overwhelmed and unprepared.
"My lord, we are not the only ones with something to gain. Tywin Lannister wants something from us as well. Forgive me for speaking so bluntly and cutting to the heart of the matter, but even if your father were to perish, the North would still have you to carry on the Stark name. But if Tywin loses the Kingslayer, who will inherit Casterly Rock? The Imp?"
Roose Bolton gave a composed reply to Robb's question. It offered the boy a small measure of reassurance, yet it was still not enough for him to come to terms with the idea of standing by while his father languished in captivity.
"Very well, then let it be as such. We negotiate first, and if that fails, we fight. But there is one concern. If my cavalry appears too soon, approaching the Lannister stronghold openly, we will lose the element of surprise, and the Lannisters will have time to prepare."
Clay had to make the situation clear. His cavalry could not remain idle for long. Robb Stark had, at best, a force of ten thousand under his command, and after the previous major battle, they had stuck to a defensive strategy.
Now, to have him march with ten thousand men to the gates of Tywin's twenty-thousand-strong host—it was absurd. If Clay were in Tywin's place, he would not waste time talking. He would simply devour the entire northern force in one crushing blow.
Clay's cavalry had to appear at the right moment, striking Tywin's camp from the flanks with enough force to make the old lion cautious and keep him from harboring any dangerous thoughts.
However, such a plan would sacrifice the advantage of surprise. If war did break out, it would no longer be a swift and sudden blow but a brutal and direct clash of steel and blood. There was no need to guess—when that moment came, the losses would be devastating.
Even so, there was no other choice. Matters had progressed to this point. For the North to show no reaction at all would be unthinkable. Besides, when one holds your son and you hold their father, and yet neither side speaks, that would truly be madness.
Seeing Robb Stark hesitate for a brief moment before finally nodding in agreement, Clay wasted no time with pleasantries. He turned and immediately led his men toward the stables. He would ride through the night, returning to the cavalry camp to prepare for the next day's action.
They might be heading to a negotiation, but their foundation must be war. Without a firm stance, without thorough preparations, then when the moment came, Tywin Lannister's lion's jaws would snap shut and tear the Northern lords to pieces.
…
Clay spurred his horse onward, galloping through the night with his men at his side. Before the first light of dawn touched the horizon, he had already returned to the heart of his cavalry camp. Lord Glover, who had remained behind to oversee the camp, rushed over in astonishment.
By his calculations, Clay had barely exchanged a few words with Lord Robb before returning. Had they not planned to meet and carefully discuss the next stage of their offensive?
Even if something had come up, there was no need to be in such a rush. Clay had spent nearly the entire day on horseback. What on earth had happened?
"My lord, what is this all about?"
Lord Glover asked in confusion. He had been fast asleep when the guards suddenly roused him, informing him that Lord Clay had returned through the night for unknown reasons.
"Lord Glover, send the order. Begin preparations immediately. At first light, the entire force must be ready to move. We march for the Lannister camp at dawn."
What? They were going to battle already? Clay had gone to discuss the next move, but surely it should not be this hasty. Could they really have come to a conclusion in such a short time?
Seeing the confusion on the man's face, Clay understood what he was thinking. He lowered his voice and explained quietly.
"Lord Eddard Stark has fallen into the hands of the Lannisters. We must prepare for war. War, my lord, is the foundation upon which we negotiate. Do you understand now?"
…
Within the western encampment, Tywin Lannister found himself wondering if he ought to visit the Great Sept in King's Landing and offer a heartfelt prayer.
There was simply no other way to explain the sheer absurdity of his fortune. He was caught between two Northern armies, and not only that—his son and a host of his bannermen had fallen into enemy hands.
The news that the Ironborn had razed Lannisport had reached him as well. It could be said that the West was only one step away from a disgraceful surrender.
But when Tywin Lannister laid eyes upon the face of the unconscious prisoner, he realized the dire situation facing the West had, somehow, turned a corner.
"Eddard Stark must be kept alive. At the very least, until we have concluded negotiations with his wolf pup and handed him over to the North, he must not die."
The Lord of Casterly Rock issued a strict command to the half-trained field medics accompanying his army. Whether Eddard Stark lived or died might mean little to them, but Tywin would not allow the man to perish in a Lannister camp.
If, when the time for negotiation came, he presented nothing but Eddard Stark's corpse, then the North would never rest until every Lannister lay buried beneath the snow.
At this point, the West desperately needed a pause in hostilities, a moment to lick its wounds and gather strength.
First, on the battlefield at Riverrun, his son had been ambushed by a young Northern commander named Clay Manderly, losing more than ten thousand elite troops in one blow and becoming the enemy's captive.
After that, Stannis and Renly—those ever-ambitious brothers—each crowned themselves in defiance of the Iron Throne. In truth, across all the Seven Kingdoms, aside from the Iron Throne and the Westerlands, not a single great house acknowledged Joffrey's claim as legitimate.
Faced with such an unfavorable situation, how could a seasoned and calculating strategist like Tywin ever consider throwing himself into a life-and-death struggle with the direwolves of the North?
In truth, within the mind of Lord Tywin Lannister, the North was the last faction he wished to make an enemy of. If one were to set aside all other complications and interference, and examine the matter calmly and thoroughly, it would become clear that the North and the Westerlands had no irreconcilable conflict at all.
As long as Eddard Stark would relinquish his stubborn support for Stannis Baratheon's claim to the throne, peace between the Westerlands and the North could be achieved immediately. They could sheathe their blades and clasp hands as allies.
After all, there was no crown resting on the head of any Stark. The North was a remote and vast land, far removed from the reach of the southern crown, and they had little concern for the politics of the southern realms. Furthermore, after the pirates of the Iron Islands chose to raid Lannisport, the North had even less reason to divert its attention elsewhere.
Even if Lord Tywin, a man known for his cunning and meticulous strategies, were to triumph over the armies of the North through a series of schemes and military campaigns, what then? The northerners would simply retreat beyond the Neck, shut the gates of Moat Cailin, and from there, the Lannister host could do nothing but stare up at those towering walls in frustration and resignation.
The Andals had tried for thousands of years and had never succeeded in breaking through Moat Cailin head-on. Tywin Lannister was no fool. He harbored no delusion that he could accomplish what countless others had failed to do.
As long as the North did not proclaim a king of its own, they held the upper hand in both offense and defense. If Eddard Stark, upon his return, chose not to pursue matters with Joffrey or the spiked Iron Throne beneath him, Lord Tywin had already made up his mind to let the North be.
Because if conflict with both the North and the Riverlands continued, then, upon spreading open a map, one would find a truly dreadful truth: the position of House Lannister was precarious to the point of absurdity.
Their enemies were to the north. Their enemies were to the east. Their enemies were to the south. Their enemies were to the west. They were surrounded on every side.
Unless they sought their own destruction, they had to begin breaking apart this encirclement, fragmenting their foes one by one. Naturally, necessary acts of corruption and persuasion would be indispensable tools in this strategy.
Thus, the Lord of Casterly Rock was very much looking forward to this meeting, which, while not yet formally arranged, was bound to take place and solidify into something real.
After all, he held the father of the young wolf in his hands, while the young wolf held down his own battered and dirt-covered son. If he were to pretend not to see this and simply continue the fight, would that not be utter nonsense?
Tywin was certain that the armies of the North would arrive in a display of solemn might, with every sign of preparing for a final battle to reclaim their liege lord. But in truth, after their last confrontation, the northerners had come to realize that the strength of the Westerlands was no less than their own.
If war could be avoided, then it should be. This was a principle widely accepted in the North, a region where the population was sparse and every life was precious. For such a land, conserving manpower was a necessity shared by high and low alike. And so, they would surely choose to negotiate.
At the same time, if possible, Tywin also desired to lay eyes on this Clay Manderly, a man he had never heard of before. He had met his grandfather, Lord Wyman, the Lord of White Harbor, once—a northern lord of some modest cunning, nothing more.
Yet this grandson of his had displayed a terrifying strength on the battlefield, one that left Tywin deeply impressed.
He knew all too well what his own son was capable of as a commander. It was precisely because of that understanding that he had entrusted him with more than ten thousand men and given him the task of defeating the Riverland forces and laying siege to Riverrun.
Now, that host of ten thousand was gone, virtually annihilated by the cavalry under the command of Clay Manderly.
According to reports, during the battle where over ten thousand of his own men were slain, the northerners suffered barely any losses at all. That fact alone had piqued Lord Tywin's interest beyond measure.
Setting aside political allegiances, and speaking purely from a military perspective, this boy, Clay Manderly possessed a level of battlefield command and offensive leadership that Tywin could not help but respect.
He had personally reviewed the battlefield at Riverrun. Though he could not determine the exact maneuvers Clay Manderly had employed, judging by the outcome alone, even Tywin himself could not have done better.
That thought only deepened his anticipation for the upcoming meeting.
"Make sure that Eddard Stark survives until we have finished our talks with the Northerners. Do you understand me?"
He repeated the instruction once more before departing. However, he did not hear the weary sigh that escaped the healer's lips behind him.
"I shall do everything I can, my lord. But with wounds this grave, if he lasts through the night, it will be by the mercy of the Seven…"
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[Chapter End's]
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