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The weather had turned bitterly cold. After more than ten years, the Long Sumr had finally co to an end, and now this brief autumn seed to be nearing its close far too quickly.
From the mont Clay set off north toward the Wall, crossing beyond the boundaries of the realm to eliminate the threat of the wildlings, the temperature had started dropping fast.
The Riverlands, which had not seen snow in more than a decade, were the first to greet the chill winds sweeping down from the North.
And this snowfall was no fleeting flurry. Before Clay even reached the Twins, the sky had already begun to let fall a light dusting of snowflakes. Now, as he stood on the verge of launching an assault on the army camp beneath the walls of Stone Hedge, the snow still hadn't stopped.
So of the young lads under his command had hardly ever seen snow before. Maybe a few of them had caught glimpses of it in their early childhood, but the mory had long since faded. So when they now looked up to see flakes dancing through the sky and blanketing the world in white, they stared in awe, as though beholding sothing rare and otherworldly.
But as their commander, Clay couldn't give them ti to stand and marvel at the beauty of late autumn. Speed was everything in warfare.
Their previous ambush hadn't managed to wipe out the enemy completely. A few had managed to slip away — understandable, really. Human instinct for flight, especially in certain individuals, often surpassed the will of their pursuers.
If any of those fugitives made it back to the main camp at Stone Hedge, it would take only a single day for them to convince the garrison there to make adjustnts — and that was exactly what Clay couldn't afford to let happen.
True, they had lost their warhorses, and these pseudo-infantryn, untrained in the art of positional warfare, were laughably weak. But even so, Clay saw no reason to let more of his own n die just because of delays.
To the people of the Vale, cavalry were treasured — and to Clay Manderly, they were even more so.
Daenerys, after all, no longer had the Dothraki at her side, and the Dornish warhorses weren't about to co flying in from the far south.
Which ant that, here in the North, Clay had only four or five thousand cavalryn at his disposal. Not enough — nowhere near enough.
That was why he had to kill for the horses. With steeds under him, he could form the backbone of a massive cavalry force. Without them, what… was he supposed to send his cavalry into battle riding donkeys?
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Christen moved swiftly. His assault had co with such incredible speed that the horses in the center didn't even have ti to spook. With help from a few Riverland riders who knew horse behavior inside and out, the entire herd, more than four thousand warhorses, was quickly gathered and brought under control.
Two hundred of Christen's cavalry would escort them eastward along the empty Riverroad. Their destination was Lord Harroway's Town, where the horses would be handed over to Ser Marlon Manderly. He had already arranged the next phase of the path, ensuring the herd would be safely transported to the Twins.
Clay had left behind two thousand fresh recruits stationed at the Twins, and it was these green boys who would be training with this batch of horses. The goal was to forge a new cavalry unit as quickly as possible. Even if they couldn't match the combat prowess of battle-hardened veterans, as long as they had the guts to charge headlong into an enemy line, they'd already be good enough.
With the warhorse column now split off from the main force, Clay had reached the mont he'd been waiting for — his turn to shine.
He was eager to end this campaign against the n of the Vale. Once he had thoroughly crushed their resistance, once they were forced to bow their heads and admit defeat, Clay would reassess the situation. And if things played out the way he hoped, then maybe — he wouldn't have to launch any large-scale offensives afterward.
Because his army needed ti. Ti to re-equip, ti to prepare for the cold that was only growing more bitter with each passing day.
After a sumr that had stretched on endlessly, most of the soldiers had never even thought about winter clothing, let alone prepared any. Take the two thousand Riverland cavalryn who had ridden north with Clay, for example… each man wore nothing more than a thin, dry sumr tunic beneath his armor.
Over that, they threw on their breastplates and cloaks, the latter bearing the colors and sigils of their respective houses. And that was it. That was all they had to protect them from the snow and wind.
And in weather like this, when the snow had already begun to fall and the wind howled through the trees, galloping at full speed across the open terrain was a bitter, biting ordeal. Clay knew exactly how cold it was out there.
Not long ago, they'd already suffered their first non-combat casualty due to the cold. One of the young n in the host couldn't handle the sudden drop in temperature. He ca down with a terrible chill.
There was no way to treat him properly. They were on horseback, always moving, never still. And a bad cold like that had no real cure—it could only be endured, weathered through with the strength of the body.
But the gods hadn't spared that poor Riverlands boy. After several days of burning fever, on a grim morning, the comrade who'd been looking after him quietly ca to Clay and told him the news — he was gone, taken into the arms of the gods.
It was brutal. He died not on the battlefield, but because he didn't have enough clothes. Taken by sothing as petty as a cold—it felt shaful, aningless. But that was the hard truth of war.
An army doesn't just fight its enemies. It has to battle the forces of nature as well. The ones who live through it all, they're the real elites, because the ones who can't hold on long enough, the ones who break or fall behind, eventually beco nothing more than bones left in the snow.
They had been fighting for a long ti now. The entire North, the whole of the Riverlands, was worn down and in desperate need of rest. Winter was coming, and they needed to be ready.
And that preparation wasn't just about rearming the army with warr gear. Grain had to be stockpiled, policy changes had to be enforced across territories, and countless internal asures needed to be put in motion. All of this required ti… ti they didn't really have.
The war would go on, of course. But once this particular battle was over, it would likely mark the beginning of a much-needed intermission. A pause before the next storm.
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"Lord Clay," the scout reported, "we've scouted out the situation at the enemy's northern camp. Their numbers aren't large. Just from a direct visual count, it looks like around two hundred n. At most, maybe four hundred are stationed there. And from what we could tell, the news of the attack and their defeat has already reached them. They're panicking."
The scout's report ca as no surprise to Clay. Just as he'd expected, the word had gotten out.
There was no helping it. The two camps were simply too close to each other. As long as those defeated soldiers weren't hopelessly lost or too badly wounded, they could easily crawl all the way back to Stone Hedge if they had to… and most of them had horses. No matter how fast Clay chased them, he was always going to be a little too late.
Still, it wasn't a serious problem. Opportunities, after all, were always there for those who knew how to seize them. This ti would be no different.
The scout continued his report:
"While we were watching, the soldiers in the enemy's northern camp were doing their best to dig shallow trenches along the northeast periter. Based on what I observed, I believe they're trying to set up obstacles to slow down our cavalry charge."
"But honestly, milord, their work was sloppy… really crude. They clearly lacked the right tools, and their efficiency was abysmal. During my watch, they managed to dig just one trench, barely as deep as half a forearm, and only a short section at that."
"With our skill and foresight, as long as we spot them in ti, we can steer the cavalry to leap over the trench or take a route around it. Either way, it won't be a problem. A ditch like that is basically useless."
"Also, the enemy's western camp doesn't seem to be sending reinforcents to support the northern one. They're digging trenches too—more n than in the north, obviously—but their efficiency isn't worth praising either."
Clay waved his hand, signaling that the scout could take his leave.
These Riverland scouts, after fighting alongside him for so long, had grown surprisingly capable. The intelligence they brought back was sharp and always focused on the details that truly mattered.
But even now, they still didn't quite compare to his cavalryn from White Harbor. His own n—n who had trained under him, fought with him, bled for him—they were simply more dependable. There was a difference, and Clay could feel it.
Still, sothing about the situation caught his attention. Why hadn't the western camp made any move to support the northern one?
If they had already received word of where Clay's forces were positioned, it should have been obvious that the northern camp would be his first target.
After all, no halfway competent commander would ever make the mistake of leaving their rear exposed. Only a fool would do sothing that reckless.
And Yohn Royce? He'd walked right into that trap, stuck on the wrong kind of logic, so tangled up in his own thinking that Clay had run circles around him. Even now, the man still hadn't figured out where Clay really was.
But what truly baffled Clay was this: who in the Vale ca up with the brilliant idea to abandon the northern camp like that? Who made that call?
Sure, the dumber his enemies were, the easier his work beca, and he wasn't complaining about that. But from a commander's perspective, he genuinely couldn't make sense of it.
It was just… absurd.
So what exactly was the situation now?
The Vale forces outside the walls of Stone Hedge had barely two thousand defenders left, if even that many. And thanks to Clay, they no longer had their horses. They were stranded, reduced to little more than foot soldiers.
And if he really did manage to take the northern camp with barely any resistance, what would that an?
All you had to do was look at the map…
To the west, you had Edmure Tully's massive army—twenty thousand strong. To the north, Clay's cavalry waited, ready to pounce.
And without horses, those trapped inside Stone Hedge weren't going anywhere. They couldn't run, even if they wanted to.
So what did the western camp do? They sent out a thousand n—just like the northern camp—and had them start digging trenches.
Were they digging their own graves?
That was the part Clay truly couldn't understand. This wasn't just absurd… it was insanely absurd. They weren't simply making poor decisions. It was as if they were actively trying to die.
Even if you were going to throw lives away, this wasn't how you did it. Clay actually paused to ask himself, Wait... is this so kind of trap?
And so, poor Lord Royce Coldwater finally beca the unfortunate soul on the receiving end of Clay's sudden Axii Sign.
But when that dimwitted, dazed lord finally gave his answer, Clay fell silent.
Because the man hadn't lied to him.
Had Clay been in their position, he would have done the exact sa thing; concentrate every available soldier in the northern camp. As for the western camp? It wasn't worth saving anymore.
That camp was already surrounded—sealed up like a dumpling, with nowhere to run. And now, as the fresh filling inside that juicy little dumpling, the only real chance they had was to fight with everything they had and charge southward.
That was the only shot they had at salvaging any pride — eting up with Yohn Royce, who was barreling down in full force, desperate to reclaim his honor.
There was no helping it. In this world, there were always more fools than smart n. Clay didn't know what kind of shady dealings or personal grudges were festering between the two camps.
But since they'd already laid everything out for him so nicely, Clay felt it would be rude not to return the favor.
They'd invited him to the slaughter… how could he not draw his sword?
Nothing more to say.
"My cavalry — Charge!"
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[Chapter End's]
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