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Clay Manderly, with only one of his personal guards, Christen who had stayed behind, charged forward the moment the vanguard trapped the Lannister forces at the mouth of the valley.
The key to this battle was speed. One had to strike swiftly, catch the enemy off guard, and break through their lines before they could recover from the shock and reorganize their formation or attempt a breakout.
The Lannister troops were elite, and Clay intended to treat them as such. And as for himself, he was here to defeat elites with elite force.
In this entire army, there was no one of higher status than him. When the attack plan had first been drawn up, many nobles had tried to stop him from taking to the battlefield.
They offered excuse after excuse, claiming that dueling and killing in a private bout was not the same as leading troops in a proper war. They said the night raid on the Twins could not be compared to the chaos of a full-scale battle.
In short, in their view, Clay was still a youth barely into his late teens. His body and strength had not yet reached their peak. Moreover, he was the Lord Commander of this host, the architect behind the entire series of battle plans.
If something were to happen to him on the field, who would lead the army in the battles that followed?
At first, Clay had to admit their arguments made sense. Although he was itching for action, when the Battle of Maiden's Valley began, he remained at the command post on the hillside as planned.
After all, one more sword on the battlefield would not change the tide, and one less would not be missed.
But when his gaze fell upon the cluster of gold and crimson at the very front of the Lannister formation, he knew at once that he could not sit still.
Northern cavalrymen who rushed into the valley were falling one after another in front of this group of roughly a hundred Lannister riders. These knights were not only expert horsemen and skilled swordsmen, but their armor, their cloaks fluttering behind them, and even the way they carried themselves were all far superior to the rest of their kin.
Damn it, this was what true elites looked like.
There is a limit to any man's bravery. When more than a dozen Northern riders were cut down in quick succession by these Lannister knights, the ones coming up from behind no longer chose to engage head-on. Instead, they veered aside and targeted other Lannisters cavalrymen further in the rear.
Their intent was to isolate this difficult-to-swallow chunk of the Lannister host, cut them off from the others. If they could not break them for now, then they would surround them and deal with them later.
However, they had underestimated the resolve of these Lannister elites who stood at the forefront of the Northern army's charge. When they saw that no one was directly engaging them anymore, and heard a single shout from one of their own, they regrouped and charged toward the northern exit of Maiden's Valley.
Because of the valley's narrow terrain, neither side's horses could gain much speed. As a result, over a hundred Lannister knights and the Northern army became locked in a fierce and bloody melee at the valley mouth.
That one clash, regardless of who prevailed, would for a time prevent hundreds of troops outside the gorge from entering the fray. This unexpected twist added an element of uncertainty to the course of the battle.
It was as though a lamb about to be slaughtered had started kicking wildly, trying to scramble away from the cleaver poised above its neck.
That would not do. Clay would not allow such uncertainty to exist!
Realizing the threat, he turned to the three hundred elite troops behind him. These were men he had carefully selected from the Northern host, trained and kept as a powerful strike force, meant to shatter enemy lines where resistance proved stubborn.
Now was the time for them to prove their worth.
"Soldiers of the North, do you see those Lannisters down below the hill? They still think they can resist. They believe their dainty little swords can stop our charge. Tell me, are we going to allow that?"
Seated upon his steed, Clay raised his voice to rally his reserves troops.
The answer came in a deafening roar of fury.
"No!!!"
With a ringing shing, Clay drew his sword and gave the order.
"Then come with me. Cut down every last one of those Lannister bastards from the Westerlands."
"Northern host, charge!"
Clay kicked at his horse's flanks. The warhorse beneath him neighed, rearing back before galloping down the hillside with increasing speed, carrying its master straight into battle.
"Quickly, follow your commander!"
Lord Howland, also among the reserves, cried out in alarm. That reckless boy—how could he act like this? Without a word of warning, he had taken the entire reserve force and led a charge straight into the fray. They were called reserves for a reason. Shouldn't their actions at least match their title?
Nevertheless, the three hundred men behind Clay did not hesitate. They followed him down the slope at once and launched an attack on the immovable boulder near the exit of Maiden's Valley that was blocking the Northern host from entering quickly.
The thunder of horses' hooves shook the ground like a storm. Clay's charge had clearly caught the Lannisters' attention. From his vantage point, Clay could see that around thirty to forty of them broke off from their opponents, turning their horses to face him.
But to charge upward from their position was impossible. They would never be able to gain momentum going uphill. So instead, they aligned their horses in a tight row, weapons held at the ready, preparing to receive the full force of Clay's charge head-on.
The Maiden's Valley was not a large place to begin with. From Clay's command position to the central basin of the valley, it was a distance that a warhorse could cover in just two minutes at full charge.
As he neared the line of Lannister cavalry arranged in a horizontal formation, Clay immediately understood their plan. They were intending to rely on the superior quality of their equipment to withstand the impact of his assault. The Lannister soldiers, over a hundred of them, had bunched together into a tight formation, clearly hoping to blunt the effect of his cavalry's charge.
Wishful thinking!
A cold and scornful smile tugged at the corner of Clay's lips. He urged his horse to an even greater speed and at the same time formed a spell sign with his palm. A shimmering magical shield enveloped him, the Quen Barrier forming around his body.
Casting a shield before a fight was the most basic of preparations, was it not?
"Christen, ready yourself, Aard!"
He shouted to his companion beside him. Christen understood his meaning without need for more words. These Lannisters really believed that standing in formation like tin cans could stop them? How naïve.
As they closed in, both Clay and Christen could clearly see the tense, strained expressions on the faces of the Lannister soldiers.
Clay heard someone within the Lannister ranks shouting loudly, trying to steady the line.
"Hold the line!"
But Clay had only one answer for that. He raised his left hand...
Two thunderous bursts echoed across the battlefield, shaking the air with deafening force. The ten Lannister soldiers nearest to the blast were sent flying instantly, while their warhorses stumbled and fell into disarray.
Clay charged into the breach like a hot blade slicing through soft butter. His advance was smooth and unstoppable.
There was no need for further words. Two overlapping Aard spell signs, cast nearly point-blank, had created such a devastating effect. The defensive formation that the Lannisters had painstakingly assembled collapsed as easily as paper drenched in rain.
His massive hand-and-a-half sword swung with the deadly precision of a striking serpent, tearing through the exposed throat of a Lannister cavalryman who had passed too close. Though the man wore full armor, the vulnerable spot between his helmet and chestplate was fatally exposed.
Whether there was armor or no armor, it made no difference. A single sword was all it took.
Clay, a seasoned warrior who had mastered the abilities of a witcher, was able to manage his magic with exceptional efficiency. A cast of Quen, followed swiftly by Aard, and he still had enough magical energy left for another cast within a short time.
Perhaps it was fortune that smiled upon him. Just as he was about to break through the Lannister formation entirely, the Quen shield around him finally shattered beneath an enemy strike, disintegrating into golden motes that floated briefly in the air before vanishing.
The Lannister soldier who had struck him was visibly stunned. Though his sword was still gripped tightly in his hand and he could not rub his eyes, he blinked hard in disbelief, as if unsure of what he had just witnessed.
He had clearly seen his blade connect solidly with the charging young Northerner. Yet, why did the enemy appear completely unscathed?
But there was no time for him to think further. A sharp pain suddenly bloomed in his throat as one of the Northern cavalrymen riding behind Clay expertly slit it with a clean, swift stroke.
Clay rammed his horse forward, slamming into another Lannister cavalryman and knocking him from the saddle. The path ahead abruptly cleared. His warhorse, carrying him forward like a thunderbolt, pierced cleanly through the Lannister flank's defensive line.
Behind him, more Northern cavalry surged through the breach that he and Christen had opened. They swept into the Lannister formation, cutting the tightly packed enemy force cleanly in two.
Clay Manderly had led his cavalry and shattered the enemy's formation.
On the eastern hillside, where the land sloped gently, Christen sat astride his blood-smeared horse, standing guard at Clay's side, his body covered in gore. Clay could hear the sound of his labored breathing.
"You all right?" Clay asked, his eyes scanning over his personal guards. With the Quen shields in place, unless someone had particularly bad luck, they should have come through unscathed—or at worst, only slightly injured.
"I'm fine, just… just a bit nervous," the young guard replied. As he looked at his master, who looked as if he had just climbed from a pool of blood himself, his heart swelled with admiration.
Just moments earlier, when they had charged toward the Lannister formation and seen how solid and orderly the enemy ranks stood, Christen could not help but feel a flicker of hesitation. He had briefly entertained the thought of veering off to circle around the sides.
But his lord had not hesitated in the slightest. Without a second thought, Clay had unleashed the Aard spell right into the Lannister line, blasting open their defense. To speak honestly, in such a moment, Christen himself would never have thought of that.
Clay, unaware of what his guard was thinking, had his attention fixed elsewhere. His gaze had fallen upon a man within the Lannister forces, one who was being protected by a small group of red-cloaked cavalry.
If his eyes were not deceiving him, that man was none other than the Kingslayer.
Clay had seen Jaime Lannister before, back in Winterfell. At that time, however, he had been merely a minor Northern noble heir, far too insignificant to have any meaningful contact with the highborn eldest son of Lord Tywin.
In this Lannister cavalry entrapment plan, the goal of Clay's ambush was not necessarily to capture Jaime Lannister himself, as he could not be certain the Kingslayer would charge in recklessly again like he had at the Whispering Wood. The main objective of the ambush was to destroy the Lannister cavalry entirely and strip them of their mobility. As for Jaime Lannister, without his cavalry, how could he possibly return to the Westerlands?
But now, to Clay's surprise, fate had brought Jaime Lannister to this obscure place—the unremarkable Maiden's Valley—and he had managed to trap the man here.
Clay narrowed his eyes as he watched for a while. He soon realized that Jaime's combat prowess was nothing to scoff at. His swordsmanship was indeed as formidable as the rumors suggested. The longsword in his hand danced with flair and precision, and any Northern cavalryman who attempted to engage him quickly found their weaknesses exposed and was brought down with a single, well-placed thrust.
Tch. A tricky opponent, is he?
A thought sparked in Clay's mind. Perhaps he ought to test the waters himself.
By now, the battlefield no longer required his command. After he had personally led the charge that pierced through the Lannister formation blocking the northern mouth of the valley, the remnants of the Lannister troops—now fewer than a hundred—were powerless to resist the Northern army's momentum.
They had already begun retreating in disarray. Meanwhile, the two thousand Lannister soldiers at the center had been compressed into a chaotic mass. At that moment, over three thousand Northern troops, positioned on either side of the valley, seized the opportunity and launched their charge from higher ground.
In Clay's eyes, these two thousand Lannister soldiers had completely lost any semblance of formation. They were no longer fighting as a cohesive unit, but merely struggling individually to survive. The inevitable consequence of this would be their piecemeal destruction by the advancing Northern army.
At the southern mouth of the valley, the banners of House Glover were already visible in the distance, which meant that the final link of the encirclement had been completed.
It could now be said with certainty that these two thousand Lannister soldiers had fallen into a desperate trap, utterly without hope of escape or rescue.
Thus, Clay now had the freedom to act as he pleased. He could personally seek out and confront the infamous Kingslayer, Jaime Lannister.
In the original Battle of Whispering Wood, that fellow had realized the situation was hopeless and had charged at Robb Stark with reckless abandon. As a result, the two sons of Lord Karstark had died while trying to protect Robb, which eventually led to House Karstark's withdrawal from the cause.
But now, Robb was not even present on this battlefield, and Clay had no noble-born companions serving as his personal guard. He was completely unrestrained.
"Christen, do you see that man wearing the helmet with the golden lion crest? The one being guarded by those Lannister soldiers?"
Clay pointed toward the Kingslayer at the foot of the hill, sharing his target's location with Christen.
After scanning the field for a moment, Christen finally spotted the man his young lord had indicated and gave a nod.
"I see him, young lord."
"That's the Kingslayer, Lord Tywin's prized son. Well? Do you have the courage to charge at him with me and drag him from his horse? Just imagine it. Doesn't that sound glorious?"
Christen hesitated for less than a second before nodding vigorously, the blood in his body already surging with excitement. For a minor branch member of House Manderly to have the chance to face the Kingslayer in open combat—it was enough to make one's heart race.
Besides, even if they could not defeat him, it did not matter. Quen, Aard, or Igni—any one of them could shift the tide of battle if needed.
Still, if a duel was possible, it was best to fight with swords alone. To use magic in such a moment would feel like cheating, and where would the thrill be in that?
Without another word, they moved. By now, a good number of Northern cavalrymen who had just broken through the enemy lines had already gathered around the two of them. Seeing their commander waiting astride his horse, they naturally formed up behind him.
As they paused to let their horses recover their strength, Lord Horwood looked at the two bloodstained youths before him and could not help but marvel and sigh inwardly. The young men of today truly had fire in them. On their very first time on the battlefield, they had dared to charge into the heart of an enemy army.
He had just witnessed Clay and Christen unleash the Aard Sign, but the motion of casting a sign was far too subtle amid the chaos of war. Besides, magic was still regarded as myth among ordinary folk, so no one gave it further thought.
"Lord Clay, we await your command," Lord Horwood said solemnly. The cavalrymen behind him, having caught up one after another, had instinctively reformed into a charge formation behind their commander.
They were the sharpest blades on the battlefield. With a single charge, they could slice through the firmest defenses the Lannisters could muster.
Now, they waited in silence for the one who would lead them forward, their commander Lord Clay Manderly, to select their next target.
"Let us go. It is time we paid the Kingslayer a visit."
The warhorses surged forward once more. With Clay at the front, his cavalry thundered toward the position of the Kingslayer, Jaime Lannister.
The moment had come for commander to face commander. The thought alone sent a thrill through Clay's mind. To steady himself, he cast another Quen Sign over his body.
Ah, now that felt much better.
Let's go.
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[Chapter End's]
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