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Reinforcents are always a step too late. That has been the unchanging truth throughout history.
Joffrey Baratheon, together with his mother, the Queen Dowager Cersei Lannister, only barely managed to escape from the northern encampnt, which by now had already fallen into chaos.
Barely three minutes after they fled their tent, Christen's horse set its hooves upon the collapsed wooden beams of that very pavilion.
Once they had crushed the thin line of resistance at the gate, Christen's cavalry swept inside as though riding into empty ground.
To be precise, it was not rely as if. The truth was that the northern camp of the Westerlands army had already beco little more than a deserted shell. It was indeed a land with no one to oppose them, not just a place that seed so.
The horsen had no ti to waste kindling flas. The n of the Westerlands were far more seasoned than the Vale levies had been, and every tent was pitched with generous space between it and its neighbors. Snow lay heavy upon the canvas roofs, smothering any chance of fire catching.
So, instead of dismounting to set torches that would do little good, it was quicker and more satisfying simply to trample the tents beneath iron hooves, crushing them into ruin.
From afar, this was the sight that t the eyes of Ser Brynden Tully, who had only just arrived with his n. To him, it seed as though smoke and dust were surging skyward from the northern camp of the Westerlands, though what was happening inside remained a mystery.
They had no ans of contacting Christen's troops. There were no ssengers to tell them where their allies fought. They had no notion of what their comrades were doing, or even whether what they saw was friend or foe.
So Brynden Tully cast a glance back at the three thousand cavalry trailing behind him. After a mont of hesitation, he gave the order for them to halt where they stood.
One must at least see clearly before committing to battle. If a commander does not even know whether those ahead are friend or foe, charging in recklessly would would only be hurling his n to their deaths.
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Christen's horsen had known from the very beginning what their task was in this battle. Because of that, even after they plunged into the camp and their formation inevitably dissolved into chaos, not a single rider faltered. Disorder ant little so long as each man rembered the purpose for which he rode.
After long and bitter fighting, the four hundred riders who had followed him into the northern camp of the Westerlands were scattered in every direction. Yet when Christen at last burst out through the camp's southern gate, survivors began to rally to him again, first in ones, then in twos. By the ti he drew rein to take stock, the numbers had returned, and once more he found roughly four hundred n gathered at his back.
In other words, from the mont they first set out toward the Westerlands' encampnt until this very mont, after three brutal hours of continuous fighting, they had already paid the price of a nearly hundred lives.
This was the Westerlands' ho ground. As Christen cast his gaze across the vast sprawl of tents, he did not believe that the few horsen still trapped inside could hope to make it out alive.
But every man who had chosen to ride with him had done so with the sa unspoken resolve: they were prepared to never return.
Cavalry was never ant for defense. Its essence lay always in attack, attack, and attack again. That was their creed, the iron spirit that kept them moving forward.
Christen lifted a hand and snapped off a small throwing axe that had lodged itself in the plates of his shoulder armor, tossing it carelessly to the ground. A faint trace of blood clung to its edge.
That weapon had been hurled at him by an old cripple, a grizzled veteran missing a leg. While Christen had been urging his steed to trample tents and chase down wounded soldiers who staggered from the wreckage, that broken man had sohow produced a sharp little axe from gods knew where. Without hesitation, he had hurled it straight for Christen's head.
The weapon flew with a vicious whistle, the sound of air ripping as though torn apart. Christen's sharpened senses, honed by countless battles and his witcher's instincts, caught the deadly approach a heartbeat before it struck. His body moved on reflex, twisting aside just in ti.
But even so, the the protective sign he bore, a Quen ward, flared and shattered beneath the impact, already strained to its final limit. The axe tore through what remained of the spell's shield, bit into the steel of his shoulder plate, and drove just deep enough to break skin.
The cut was shallow, no more than a sting, but it was enough to jolt him. After all, this was no siege bolt fired from a heavy crossbow. The axe's force, though sharp, had spent itself in smashing through the magical ward and iron plating. By the ti it reached flesh, its strength was nearly gone.
Startled, Christen had no chance to wrench the weapon free in the press of battle. His instincts took command. He spurred his horse forward, closing the distance in a rush, and with a single stroke of his longsword, he cut open the throat of the old man who had dared strike at him.
From that mont until he finally broke through the southern gate, he carried the axe still lodged in his armor, a jagged reminder of how narrow the line of survival could be.
At last, with room to breathe, he drew a sharp hiss between his teeth and wrenched the weapon free. Glancing at the deep gash it had carved across his shoulder plate, he gave a small shake of his head.
He had grown careless. Two resounding victories, swift and decisive, had left him light-headed, hovering on the edge of arrogance.
By the ti the other riders had, of their own accord, reford their line behind him, Christen drew in a long, steady breath, forcing his mind back into focus as he weighed his next attack move.
Fear did not trouble him. If he had been the sort of man to shrink from fear, he would not still be here, leading a charge, pressing the attack in the heart of the Westerlands' army.
From an obscure cadet branch of House Manderly, dismissed as of little consequence, he had risen in one leap to beco the man entrusted to ride in Lord Clay's na, commanding five hundred cavalry, tearing through the enemy's host, unstoppable until now. For Christen, that alone was enough.
Even if he were to fall here, slain in the press of battle, he knew his family would be well rewarded by Lord Clay. Rich gifts would co to them, and at the very least a knighthood would be granted to his house as inheritance.
So he had already shed fear. Death ant little now!
"My lord," a scout rider called out, galloping up to deliver his report. "We are very close to Harrenhal now. The problem is, on our left flank, Tywin Lannister's golden lion banners have appeared, and with him ride at least a thousand cavalry."
"Our n and horses are spent. We struck too hard, too fast, and there has been little chance to rest."
The ssenger delivered the news, and Christen answered with a firm nod.
It was plain truth. His n were not made of iron but of flesh and blood. Their unstoppable montum had indeed carved a bloody path and left behind a lopsided tally of the slain, yet the toll upon them was real. Fatigue pressed heavily, and cracks were beginning to show despite their valor.
Now, two paths stood before them.
The first was to ride straight at the Old Lion himself, Tywin Lannister, and hurl their strength against his household guard, the finest soldiers the Westerlands could muster. To clash head-on with the strongest and see whose might would truly prevail.
The second was to seize the advantage of ignorance, to turn aside from Tywin and launch a sudden strike upon the siege host at Harrenhal, still unsuspecting and unprepared.
Tywin Lannister remained so distance away. He did not know the state of the battlefield here as clearly as Christen did, nor could he begin to guess what choice Christen would make next.
That ant Christen could completely ignore the host approaching from the flank, use the ti bought by this distance, and hurl himself instead against the Westerlands' siege army pressing at Harrenhal's northern gate.
The enemy's entire formation was turned toward the fortress to the south. Their backsides, in effect, were exposed to him. Whether he had the ability to drive his horse straight into their belly and strike true would depend entirely on his skill and daring.
Christen furrowed his brow, deep in thought.
In truth, both choices carried reward and risk in equal asure.
The first path was tempting. Rarely did one find the Old Lion with only a thousand n guarding him. If fortune favored them, if they could sohow replicate their two previous victories and press their charge with equal ferocity, the prize would be imnse.
They did not even need to seize Tywin himself. Felling the golden lion banner that marked his command, then spreading shouts across the field — "Tywin Lannister is dead!" — could be enough to send shockwaves through the Westerlands' entire host. Panic might ripple through their ranks, and collapse could follow.
But such a plan was gambling with fate, and the odds were not in his favor.
The reason he had been able to lead his n in cutting through enemy lines before was simple: they held the advantage of heavy cavalry, their full plate giving them the edge.
This ti, against the Old Lion's personal guard, that advantage would vanish.
He could not be certain of victory. Even if, by so stroke of luck, they managed to win, the butcher's bill would be horrific. Out of his n, perhaps one in ten might ride away alive.
And the second option? That was sheer madness in its own right.
He had barely four hundred riders left at his command. The Westerlands siege host beneath Harrenhal's walls numbered no fewer than eight or nine thousand, perhaps even ten.
If they charged in and failed to break free, it would be all too easy for the enemy to bury them alive, crushed beneath a mountain of bodies, smothered by sheer weight of numbers.
If they wanted to force the siege host to abandon their assault on Harrenhal, then they would have to strike hard enough to make them bleed, to hurt them so deeply that they could not ignore the blow.
In other words, they could not simply dash in, take a swing, and flee. They would have to stake their very lives, use their flesh and blood to draw the fire of the enemy, to hold it until the enemy's rage was locked firmly on them.
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"Lord Clay, in another three hours our host will reach the outer approaches of Harrenhal. Ser Brynden Tully's host has already arrived ahead of us, but he does not seem to have pressed an attack."
It was Lord Tytos Blackwood who rode up beside Clay, delivering the latest report on the state of the battlefield.
Harrenhal was in chaos, the fighting there fierce and unrelenting. The closest force was Edmure Tully's host of more than ten thousand. Yet when their vanguard reached the walls, instead of joining the assault, they stood idle to one side, loitering as though the struggle had nothing to do with them. The sight made Clay's temper flare hot.
As for his own strength, he had barely five thousand foot and horse left in his direct command. After such a long march, they too were only now about to arrive.
And then there was the last contingent: the host of ten thousand n led by Lord Karstark, made up of House Manderly and the other great houses of the North.
But they had received word the latest. By now, they had only just begun their march toward Harrenhal. By the ti they reached the battlefield, Clay and Edmure Tully's main force would already have been fully engaged.
However, leaving them idling in Lord Harroway's Town was pointless. All they did there was eat through precious stores of grain without lifting a sword.
Since that was the case, it would be better to throw their lives into the at grinder at Harrenhal, to let them shed blood where it counted.
"Lord Blackwood…" Clay said suddenly, not responding to his worries about Brynden Tully's hesitation, "tell honestly. You n of the Riverlands… how do you truly see Robb Stark, the king you now follow?"
The question caught Tytos Blackwood off guard. For a heartbeat, his expression shifted, his wariness flaring at once.
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[Chapter End's]
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