Read 20+ Chapter's Ahead in Patreon
Exactly how grievously Eddard Stark had been injured was something the North had never truly ascertained. From beginning to end, none of them had been able to approach their own liege lord. The closest they had come was catching a distant glimpse of him not long ago.
After comparing the accounts of several soldiers who had witnessed the scene, one thing could be confirmed: when Lord Eddard was taken away by the Lannisters, he had clearly been unconscious and gravely wounded. The most direct evidence was the horse that bore him—its side had been soaked entirely in blood.
Thus, the Northern army now pressing toward the Lannister encampment had two objectives: to negotiate for the safe return of their liege lord and, if that proved impossible, to be prepared for the grim reality that he might already have perished within the enemy camp.
If it truly came to that, then the fields before Harrenhal would soon be drenched in the blood of both sides.
If Eddard Stark had indeed died at the hands of the Westerlands, how could such a blood feud be left unavenged? Even if Tywin Lannister had no desire for battle, it would be impossible to avoid war. Only a decisive clash could pave the way for whatever might come next.
At dawn the following day, Clay's host of nearly seven thousand cavalry marched eastward with thunderous momentum toward the main camp of the Lannister army. Each banner fluttered proudly in the wind.
They no longer attempted to conceal their movement. At this point, secrecy was futile. Far better to march openly, in full battle array, and let the old lion see for himself what kind of army it was that had crushed Jaime Lannister's forces.
Under Clay's command, the entire army assumed attack formation. The river lands surrounding Harrenhal were flat and expansive—terrain perfectly suited for the thunderous charge of cavalry.
Clay concentrated more than twelve hundred heavy cavalry at the very front. They were arrayed in four attacking echelons, forming a wall-like charge formation.
If negotiations were to break down or the situation spiraled beyond control, then with a single command, whether from Clay himself or his appointed commander, the heavy cavalry would drive their horses to full speed and charge like moving fortresses, smashing the enemy ranks beneath their hooves.
"Lord Clay, do you want us to send men to strike their rear this time?" asked Lord Glover as he rode up to the commander at the heart of the formation, where orders were being issued. "The old lion's tail is looking mighty vulnerable right now. If we send our cavalry in, we could easily cut off their supply lines."
Clearly, the thought had excited him. Last time, during the Battle of Riverrun, his detachment of a thousand men had not participated in the main assault but had performed brilliantly during the aftermath. They severed the Lannisters' supply line and hunted down retreating soldiers. More Lannister troops had fallen before Lord Glover's horsemen than before those of any other noble house.
In this era, the morale of armies was fragile, prone to violent swings. Should the enemy realize their provisions had been seized and they had no more food, then it would be as if their entire morale bar had been instantly emptied.
From a strategic standpoint, such maneuvers were among the most cost-effective methods of warfare. A surprise raid to cut off supplies had proven successful time and again. After all, few commanders were willing to dedicate a significant portion of their forces to guarding supply routes.
So this time, Lord Glover wished to use the same strategy. He asked Clay for another thousand riders so he could move swiftly along the southern shores of the Gods Eye, then strike eastward toward the Kingsroad near Sow's Horn, cutting off Tywin's army from King's Landing.
If the capital did not respond, and he dared to push forward boldly enough, he might even ride all the way to the gates of King's Landing itself to take in the view. An assault on the city would be impossible, of course—horses were not tanks, and they could do nothing against the towering city walls.
But the question remained: would the thousands of Goldcloaks within King's Landing dare to come out and pursue him? Certainly not. Most likely, Queen Cersei would command them to man the walls with full force, leaving only herself and her son behind in the city.
Moreover, such a feat would shake the Seven Kingdoms to their core. From Winterfell, the Northern army had marched south, vanquishing every foe in their path, and now their vanguard stood before the gates of the capital itself.
This would deal a tremendous shock through every corner of the realm. The boy who sat upon the Iron Throne, that brat who did nothing but scream about being king, might even wet himself in fear and immediately issue a so-called royal decree, summoning his dear grandfather Tywin and the entirety of his army back to the capital.
If that happened, the situation in the Westerlands would completely collapse. With Tywin trapped in the city, he and his host would become a target for every enemy in the realm.
Clay knew well that Lord Glover's suggestion was sound—at least, from a purely military standpoint. If the matter were as straightforward as strategy on parchment, he would not have needed Glover's advice at all. He would have dispatched him long ago.
But the problem was, the situation at hand was far more complicated than mere tactics. Things were no longer in their hands to decide as they pleased.
The crux of everything now lay in one single question: Was Eddard Stark dead or alive? If the old Wolf Lord had already passed into the embrace of the Old Gods, then matters would be simple. They would no longer need to hesitate or calculate. No more weighing of consequences. It would simply be a matter of raising their swords and striking with full force.
However, if Lord Stark still lived—if he were still being held within the Westerlands' army camp—then cutting off Tywin's supply lines would be tantamount to forcing his hand. What would that imply? That Clay intended to drive Tywin into a corner, leaving him no choice but to execute Eddard Stark? Was that truly his goal?If so, then he was indeed a loyal servant of the North, so loyal that he was willing to sacrifice the very head of House Stark for the sake of war.
If Clay had truly sent someone to carry out such an order, then regardless of whether Eddard Stark lived or died, and regardless of how Lord Tywin might respond, Clay's reputation among the Northern nobility would be irreparably damaged. He would no longer be seen as a wise commander, but rather as a traitor to his own liege.
Lord Glover was not someone who could see the whole board. As a warrior or even as a battlefield commander, the plan made sense. But from the perspective of a true leader, someone who had to consider the consequences of every move, this was clearly a mistake, a reckless decision with the potential for devastating consequences.
"My lord, this time, our first and foremost goal is to bring Lord Eddard back," Clay said solemnly. "This is not a battle like the one at Riverrun, where annihilation was the objective."
He shook his head and sighed deeply, a trace of regret flickering in his eyes. But reality left no room for sentiment. He continued speaking.
"Last time, we had every advantage on our side. That was how we were able to use just five thousand men to crush a force of twelve thousand Lannisters. This time, however, Lord Tywin has over twenty thousand men concentrated in one place. What exactly are we supposed to do?"
"More importantly," he went on, his tone growing heavier, "Lord Eddard is in their hands. We cannot act rashly. This is no longer a matter that can be resolved through a simple charge on the battlefield. Our march forward must be based on readiness for battle, but whether we truly fight or not will depend entirely on the circumstances we find once we arrive. For now, patience is the better course."
Clay raised a hand and lightly patted the breastplate of Lord Glover's armor, the dull thud echoing softly. It was a signal that the matter was settled and Glover could return to his position. Clay had already assigned each of the nobles who returned with him to command a portion of the cavalry.
Seven thousand men, with no mature or centralized command structure. In such a scenario, dividing the responsibilities among the trusted noble commanders was more efficient than trying to keep all authority in his own hands.
Clay had no fear that this approach would dilute his power. His reputation, forged in the flames of the Riverlands campaign, far outshone the hollow titles carried by many of these lords. Their names might carry weight in the halls of their own keeps, but on the battlefield, it was his voice that commanded respect.
…
Two Northern armies advanced from the northwest, steadily drawing closer to the Lannister host. Along the way, their scout forces clashed in bloody skirmishes. As the two sides were still officially at war, these encounters left no room for hesitation. Meeting on the road meant drawing blades without question. There was nothing inappropriate about it.
Eventually, Clay, after eliminating dozens of Lannister scouts who had attempted to approach their forces, led his seven thousand cavalrymen toward the Lannister camp north of Harrenhal. The sight that met them was striking—a sprawling, seemingly endless sea of tents and banners stretching over the undulating land.
"Old Gods above… there are truly so many of them…" came the voice of Lord Howland, filled with awe and no small amount of dread.
In the North, they had never seen an army of this scale. Even during this southern campaign, their total forces had barely numbered twenty thousand, and that was before they split into two host.
Now, standing on slightly higher ground and gazing down at the vast encampment, Howland felt an oppressive weight settle in his chest.
This was no scattered trio of small camps divided by rivers like those at Riverrun. This was a true army—well-positioned, fortified, and bristling with steel.
If they defended properly, even if Lord Clay brought all his strength to bear, they might still fail to break through such a formidable position.
Clay had no intention of heading to Robb's infantry camp. There was no need. First, they had to observe how the Lannisters reacted. With seventeen thousand men arrayed in battle formation outside their camp, they were not likely to remain idle.
He quickly took stock of the situation. A direct assault on the front lines was not impossible. The Lannisters' defenses were clearly weaker on the flanks than at the center. But such a move would come with great risk. Breaking through the first line of defence might be achievable, but whether they could continue past that… was another matter entirely.
"My lord, look—riders!" Lord Howland suddenly pointed toward the camp's western gate.
From there, a small group of Lannister cavalry emerged, clad in shining armor and carrying banners emblazoned with the roaring lion of House Lannister. They moved at a measured pace, heading toward the forested area where Clay's forces had positioned themselves.
They were messengers. There were fewer than twenty of them, and though their formation was orderly and their appearance sharp, they were like ants before Clay's seven thousand riders—utterly insignificant!
"Let them through," Clay ordered his front lines. "Let us hear what Lord Tywin wishes to say."
In Westeros, the custom of not harming emissaries between armies was not strictly upheld. If a commander found the messenger disagreeable, he might very well execute him. Some more eccentric lords even devised crueler amusements for them.
But Clay saw no reason for such theatrics. In his mind, no matter how things unfolded, Robb Stark would eventually have to sit down with Tywin to negotiate. A hostage was meant to be exchanged, after all. If not, then what was the point of keeping one? It would only waste food.
The North had marched south, and many farmlands were left untended in their absence. Fields that once brimmed with crops now lay abandoned, and ripe grain remained unharvested, left to rot beneath the open sky. The long summer had finally come to an end, and a brief autumn would soon follow.
Without enough grain stored away, and with the Riverlands reduced to scorched earth, there was no guarantee that the North would have enough food to survive the winter. When the bitter cold arrived, it would not only be the chill that threatened them, but the relentless hunger that followed in its wake.
Before such a natural disaster as snow and storm, all clever schemes became meaningless. The cold, along with the enemies hidden within it, would kill without mercy. If all this suffering had indeed been orchestrated by that god of cold lurking in the Land of Always Winter, then Clay would need to remain all the more vigilant.
Lord Tywin had already dispatched messengers to both of the Northern armies advancing toward him. Strictly speaking, he did not need to act so urgently. After all, no matter how one viewed the situation, Eddard Stark's standing in the realm was far higher than that of his own son, Jaime Lannister.
However, the issue was that earlier that very morning, the physician responsible for Eddard Stark's care came to report that although the bleeding had finally been stopped, a new danger had emerged. Eddard had developed a high fever and had since lapsed into a coma.
Now, with Eddard Stark still lying unconscious and unresponsive, he had become a burning coal in Tywin's hand. The longer he held onto him, the more it burned. If the man were to die under Tywin's custody, that would be a disaster of immense proportions.
Thus, negotiations had to happen swiftly. As long as the North's demands were not too excessive, Tywin was eager to resolve this matter, return his son, and rid himself of Eddard Stark altogether. Dead or alive, it mattered not. He wanted the man taken away and no longer his concern. This was exactly what Tywin was thinking.
In the heart of the great Northern host, Clay received the Lannister envoy. He had assumed the man would be some minor noble from the Westerlands, but upon hearing the name he gave, Clay discovered he was more than that.
"I am Kevan Lannister, brother to Lord Tywin. I have come to request an audience with your commander, Lord Clay Manderly. I bring greetings from my elder brother."
Tch. So this is what a Lannister greeting looks like? Could I refuse such a greeting if I wanted to?
Clay grumbled to himself inwardly. He was no Robb Stark, the kind of young lord who would find profound meaning in such well-known turns of phrase and try to match them with witty retorts.
Still, if memory served, this middle-aged man before him was likely the second most powerful figure in the Lannister host. That could only mean that Tywin Lannister himself had gone to the other Northern camp to see Robb Stark in person?
But Lord Tywin would never be so foolish!
Clay quickly saw through the ploy. This was likely a deliberate little maneuver on Tywin's part, meant to plant suspicion or confusion in Robb Stark's heart.
No need to guess. Clay already knew the person sent to meet Robb Stark was surely some inconspicuous underling. Such scheming, truly…
Clay said nothing of what he had realized. Since the envoy was already here, there was no harm in listening. Even if Robb Stark were foolish enough to have doubts in his heart, he would not act on them now. His mind was full of worry for his father. He would not waste thought on petty games.
"I am Clay Manderly. Lannister, state your purpose."
It was a question asked despite already knowing the answer, but in dealings like these, one could never afford to show weakness. The North was currently on the offensive, and it was only proper to carry themselves with the dignity of that position.
"Your liege lord, Eddard Stark, is in our custody. You, in turn, hold the son of my lord, along with several others of ours. I will speak plainly, as I do not care for beating around the bush. I have come to negotiate terms of peace, to discuss a truce."
All eyes turned toward Clay and Kevan. In truth, everyone already understood the situation. Neither side truly wanted to keep fighting, and neither had the strength left to push further. They could not fight, yet they could not avoid the matter either.
Now, everything depended on what each side truly intended. But whatever those intentions might be, it was clear that negotiations must begin.
Clay fell silent for a moment, deep in thought, then spoke.
"First, I must know. What is Lord Eddard's condition?"
As one of the Lannister high command, Kevan was of course aware that Eddard Stark's health was in a precarious state. That was precisely why he had come here personally. Yet his expression betrayed nothing, and he responded with calm composure.
"If Lord Clay has doubts, you may come to our camp and see for yourself."
Nonsense. If I walk into your camp and manage to walk out again, that would mean Tywin Lannister had somehow lost his mind.
Clay let out a cold laugh.
"Do not waste my time with such empty words. If I set foot in your camp, I will not walk back out again. Do not try to convince me otherwise with talk of Lannister honor. As far as I am concerned, the Lannisters have no such thing. You back a false king and wage war without cause. You bring shame upon all the noble houses of the Seven Kingdoms."
Kevan showed no sign of offense at Clay's sharp accusations. His face, thick as a fortress wall, remained unbothered. He smiled faintly and replied with quiet certainty.
"King Joffrey is the eldest son of King Robert. He is the sole rightful heir to the Iron Throne. This truth has already been confirmed by the High Septon and declared before all, proving His Majesty's legitimacy in the eyes of the Seven."
These bloated, self-important lapdogs of the Seven, there's no place you don't crawl into. Just wait. One day, I will sweep you away with a single stroke.
Clay waved his hand dismissively. This was a pointless debate, one that would never reach a conclusion.
"I follow the orders of Lord Robb. My personal recommendation is this: let Lord Tywin and yourself meet with me and Lord Robb at a neutral point between our two armies. Far from the camps. Just the four of us."
"Surely, that is a reasonable suggestion, is it not?"
Kevan smiled.
**
**
[IMAGE]
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Chapter End's]
🖤 Night_FrOst/ Patreon 🤍
Visit my Patreon for Early Chapter:
https://www.patreon.com/Night_FrOst
Extra Content Already Available