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There's always a reason behind a person's actions. The Vale joined the war this ti not out of loyalty or duty, but because they saw an opportunity — a chance to profit from the chaos. Their guiding principle was simple: make a fortune while the world burns. With Littlefinger skillfully fanning the flas and steering the winds in just the right direction, their invasion plan took full shape and beca inevitable.
But the problem was, not every noble house in the Vale wanted to go to war. In fact, deep divisions ran through their ranks — fierce, unresolved, and worsening by the day.
War, after all, is nothing more than the continuation of politics by other ans. And politics? Politics is the art of squeezing one group of people dry to satisfy the ambitions and appetites of another.
In the end, it all cos down to money. Everyone wants to make a profit — they just happen to choose different thods.
In the eastern part of the Vale, led by the House Grafton of Gulltown, there had always been a clear stance: let the lords of the Seven Kingdoms fight their bloody battles to their hearts' content. As for us in the Vale, we just want to mind our own business and trade in peace. All that killing and dying? It's really not our thing.
And the only reason House Grafton could afford to hold such a view was because they had the perfect backing — one of the largest ports in all of the Seven Kingdoms. Gulltown, their domain, was also among the most densely populated cities in the entire realm.
Just by collecting comrcial taxes from the ships passing in and out of their harbor, the Graftons were already feasting well, their coffers overflowing and their mouths greasy with gold. With such a steady and abundant stream of wealth, why on earth would they feel any urgency to drag their soldiers through the Bloody Gate and risk everything in so faraway battlefield?
What could they possibly gain that they didn't already have?
Though the Peninsula of Five Fingers was ho to many noble families, when it ca to reaping the true benefits of trade, almost no one but House Grafton ever saw a coin. Even the Royces of Runestone, who lived practically next door, got nothing out of it.
So with this underlying imbalance, these lords of the Vale — giants in politics but dwarfs in economics — began pushing hard for the Vale to enter the war. They knew full well that only by taking part in the fighting could they hope to get a slice of the profits.
After all, it's always quicker to take what others have than to build sothing of your own — a truth that every noble, no matter how noble, understands at heart.
The only thing that held them back before was Lysa Tully. She had always been a firm advocate for peace… or perhaps it would be more accurate to say she preferred to stick her head in the sand. As far as she was concerned, anything happening beyond the Bloody Gate wasn't her problem. This? Not her concern. That? She wouldn't lift a finger.
Yohn Royce and the other war-hungry nobles lobbied hard, again and again, trying to stoke the flas and rally support for war — but no matter what they said or did, they simply couldn't get past Lysa Tully.
Then she died in the Eyrie!
And with her gone, all restraint vanished. The floodgates burst open, and the nobles were free to let loose the dogs of war. Paired with the cunning performance of Lord Roose Bolton, everything fell into place. The Vale now turned its blades toward their forr allies from the last war.
And yet, even with the war well underway, the rift within the Vale did not heal. If anything, it only grew deeper and more tangled as ti went on.
The families who had co seeking profit were growing increasingly bitter. They muttered curses under their breath, thinking, Damn it, we are being dragged into this ss by you warmongering bastards. Their own armies were no longer under their control, and to make matters worse, whenever a battle broke out, it was always their soldiers who were sent to the front lines first.
And when it ca ti to divide the spoils of war, those sa war-hawks suddenly acted as if they had gone deaf and blind. They split the gains however they pleased, each one looking out only for themselves and treating everyone else like an afterthought.
It hadn't just happened once or twice, either. This kind of thing kept repeating — again and again — until the pent-up anger of the rchant lords finally reached its boiling point. Especially for House Grafton and a few other prominent families in the Vale, they had had enough. They were seething.
On the other hand, Yohn Royce and his fellow hardliners weren't exactly feeling any kinder. In their view, the peace-minded lords had barely contributed to the war effort. They had sent n, yes, but their troops dragged their feet and showed no enthusiasm for battle, especially when it ca ti to charge the enemy lines. To them, these lords were all talk and no action — freeloaders hiding behind the banners of the Vale.
And so, the bitterness deepened on both sides. Words beca colder, tempers shorter. What started as political friction gradually evolved into outright hostility — the kind that left no room for compromise.
The current state of the North and West camps was the perfect reflection of this festering conflict.
The North Camp was mostly made up of Yohn Royce's personal forces; his loyal n, pulled directly from his own lands. When he led his army northward in pursuit of Clay, he had all but emptied the entire encampnt to do it.
The West Camp, anwhile, had been filled with troops from Snakewood and Gulltown — the armies of House Lynderly and House Grafton. Both were known advocates of peace within the Vale, and both had long-standing ties to Lord Petyr Baelish.
Royce, wanting to keep them out of his way — or perhaps punish them — had deliberately stationed them in the most dangerous sector, far to the west. In previous battles, he had repeatedly ordered them to storm fortified positions, forcing Snakewood and Gulltown to suffer heavy casualties without gaining much in return.
So the mont Yohn Royce left with his army, Jon Lynderly of Snakewood wasted no ti.
He struck back!
The internal tensions didn't just simr quietly. They exploded… flaring up over everything from access to clean water to distribution of rations. Every little issue beca a battlefield. At one point, the argunts escalated so far that the n actually began drawing swords on each other.
Had Clay arrived even a little later, he might have found them already fighting among themselves.
When word reached the North Camp that Clay's army was on the march, the acting commander — personally appointed by Yohn Royce to hold the line in his absence — imdiately issued a formal order for reinforcents from the West Camp. He demanded that they send troops to support the northern defenses.
However, the West Camp's response couldn't have been more blunt. If it had to be summarized in a single phrase, it would've been this:
Go soak your head. Dream on!
Where was this sense of unity back when the spoils were being divided? Why was it always us at the front lines whenever you needed a castle taken?
If it weren't for the ridiculous pressure from Yohn Royce, do you really think we'd still be entertaining your nonsense?
And now, you want us to move our forces into your camp? So that we can play the role of cannon fodder, standing right in the path of Clay Manderly's assault? What do you take us for — fools? Do you really think we're that easy to push around?
So when Clay swept aside the cavalry stationed near the warhorse farm and marched his army straight to the gates of Stone Hedge, what he saw waiting for him was sothing so utterly bizarre, so mind-bogglingly absurd, that he found himself completely at a loss.
He just stood there, staring, unable to understand what in the world the Vale lords were thinking.
Still, even after issuing the command to attack, Clay remained cautious. His gaze stayed fixed on the West Camp, watching carefully for any sudden movent. In his hand, he held back a two-hundred-man reserve force, ready to move at a mont's notice in case the West Camp got any ideas and decided to stir up trouble.
But as the main assault force — one thousand strong — broke into three tight formations and launched a pincer strike against the North Camp from three separate directions, the West Camp didn't even twitch. Not a single movent.
At that point, Clay was almost certain of it: once again, he'd sohow anticipated the wrong move in soone else's nonexistent ga of strategy. It felt like he was playing ntal chess against the air itself… another day of back-and-forth with absolutely no one.
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The battle went incredibly smoothly. Clay hadn't given the North Camp defenders any more ti to dig trenches or strengthen their defenses. The two flanking cavalry formations rode wide and swept around the enemy positions, while the central line charged straight in, and only three unlucky riders were knocked down by obstacles.
These so-called infantryn from the Vale — barely trained, undisciplined footn — had spent hours trying to set up so crude defenses, but in the end, it was all for show. If anything, their digging efforts offered a bit of psychological comfort… not much else. It was better than nothing, maybe, but only just.
Once the cavalry broke through, the Vale soldiers lasted barely ten minutes. Then it all collapsed. They started fleeing, scattering like frightened deer, screaming all kinds of nas — so familiar, others downright strange — their cries mixed with curses and insults that unintentionally revealed more about their private preferences than their bravery.
Clay's cavalry had no interest in humoring them.
That glorious, satisfying victory in their previous fight had lit a fire in the Riverlands troops — a fire that had long been smothered by repeated defeats. But now, they had their confidence back.
So we can win battles after all, huh?
But then, how co we could never win before? And why is it that, the mont we started following Lord Clay, victory suddenly beca possible?
Most of them had never received any proper education, but their grasp of basic comparative logic was surprisingly sharp.
And so, once again, poor Lord Edmure Tully found himself the target of collective disdain. The man they once hailed as the War Hero of the Riverlands now seed to deserve that title… in na only.
There was no blood-drenched slaughter this ti. In fact, less than a quarter of the enemy force was killed before the rest, surrounded and hopeless, dropped their weapons and surrendered.
No one wanted to throw their life away, especially when they didn't even have a horse to escape on.
They couldn't run. They couldn't fight. What else could they do?
The first man, face pale with terror, threw down his longsword and dropped to his knees in the mud… and just like that, it set off a chain reaction. By the ti Clay rode up to the front line on horseback, a whole crowd was kneeling before him.
This… this was what a cold weapons battlefield was supposed to look like. In most cases, once one side suffered over twenty percent losses, the rest would collapse. The entire fighting force would fall apart.
The reason Clay hadn't seen this happen in his earlier battles was because those had all been grueling at grinder sieges — wars of attrition that slowly drained the enemy to the last drop. Under those situations, the usual battlefield principles simply didn't apply.
But when it ca to battles fought with roughly equal numbers, where the goal was to break the enemy outright and scatter them — then those sa principles held true ti and again, never failing.
That was the norm for armies of this age. After all, no one wanted to die. The mont a man saw the comrade beside him lose a limb, or take a spear through the gut and vomit blood all over his own face, sheer terror would seize him. And anyone who claid they weren't afraid in that mont… well, that man was either lying or mad.
"Lord Clay, we caught this one trying to steal our horse and make a run for it. Looks like he's a noble… soone called him 'Ser Royce,' that's what the lads overheard."
Two burly Riverlands soldiers shoved a young man with brown hair into a mud pit churned up by the hooves of warhorses. His fine cloak and polished boots were already soaked and caked with gri.
Defeated nobles were automatically knocked down a peg. If this one had once been a knight, well, that no longer mattered. The Riverlands soldiers weren't about to treat him with courtesy or respect… not now, not after everything.
"Despicable Riverlanders! You attacked my army by surprise! That was no honorable battle!" the young noble from the Vale shouted, his voice full of rage and wounded pride. "Untie this instant, and face in single combat — if you dare!"
The words spilled out of him like he was reciting a code of chivalry from so forgotten age… and for a mont, Clay felt as if he were listening to an echo from a world long gone.
It wasn't the first ti he'd heard nonsense like this. But it had been a long while since anyone had spoken such idiocy with this much passion.
Without changing expression, Clay drew his riding crop. His voice stayed calm and steady, as if he were discussing the weather.
"They called you Ser Royce. So tell … are you the son of Yohn Royce?"
"You'll get nothing from ! I—"
The whip cracked through the air with a sharp snap, like a bolt of thunder cutting through silence — then struck across the young man's noble face with brutal precision.
A bright red welt blood instantly on his cheek, vivid and angry against his pale skin.
Clay had held back. If he'd used his full strength, that single strike could've left the young knight permanently disfigured.
To his mild surprise, the boy didn't scream. He clutched his face and hissed through gritted teeth, sucking in cold breaths, but not a single humiliating wail ca out of him. No begging. No sobbing. Just pain, swallowed down.
Stronger than that Royce Coldwater from before, Clay noted.
He waited a few monts, letting the sting settle in, letting the silence stretch. Then he spoke again, his voice completely flat.
"Tell your na. I'm not a patient man, Valen."
"You can die here, or you can live. That choice is yours. But listen carefully… there won't be a second chance."
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[Chapter End's]
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