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The Maiden's Valley had at last fallen into silence. The bloodshed and slaughter that had raged moments ago had now come to an end.
As far as the eye could see, not a single crimson-clad figure remained standing on the battlefield. Only the pitiful whimpers of dying warhorses, their legs shattered, echoed faintly across the field.
Jaime Lannister had been captured and bound, forced to his knees. His once-glorious golden hair, once as radiant as sunlight itself, was now matted with blood and mud, sullied and grotesque.
After finishing his duel with the Kingslayer, Clay did not involve himself in the aftermath. He had no taste for bloodlust. For him, killing was a necessity, not a pleasure. Enough blood had been spilled today. The rest could be left in the hands of his loyal subordinates.
He rode his horse up a nearby slope where the banners of every noble house of the North flew high in triumph. The lords of the North, their spirits alight with victory, were eagerly conversing, still basking in the thrill of their great success.
When they noticed the man who had orchestrated this victory—who had personally captured the Kingslayer, Jaime Lannister, in single combat—approaching them step by step, they all fell silent and turned to watch Clay's face with solemn attention.
At that moment, none of them could see Clay Manderly as a child any longer. The corpses of two thousand Lannister cavalrymen were enough to earn him the unwavering respect of every Northern lord present.
From this day forward, there would no longer be a single dissenting voice within the Western host. Clay had already proven his worth through strength alone.
Follow me, and we will win every battle!
"Gentlemen, I trust none of you were injured? We still have two more major battles ahead of us. I will be counting on each and every one of you."
These words carried the calm confidence of a seasoned commander, as if he were casually inquiring about his own deployment. Yet no one found them out of place. On the contrary, every lord smiled and struck his chest with pride.
"We're fine, Lord Clay. Those Lannisters were no match for us."
"Indeed, my lord. This battle was a masterpiece. We completely wiped out two thousand of their soldiers. I just had a look at the bodies. Every one of them was wearing fine armor, and those swords are no less impressive."
"My lord, if we clean up those armors a bit, strip off the ugly lion crests and any Lannister emblems, and stamp them with our own, then they'll be as good as ours."
The lords, drunk on victory, were visibly ecstatic. Good armor was difficult to damage, and with two thousand corpses, that meant roughly two thousand sets of equipment.
Everyone knew that Lord Tywin's shit was practically made of gold—the Lannisters were that wealthy. Their soldiers' gear was among the finest in the Seven Kingdoms, rivaled perhaps only by the extravagant nobility of the Reach.
In comparison, the North did not have particularly advanced ironworking. Most noble houses lacked coin, with the exception of the bustling trade city of White Harbor, which thrived through prosperous commerce. The rest often relied on bartering goods instead of using currency.
As a result, most of the troops who had marched south were clad in light chainmail, designed more for ease of wear than for true protection.
This armor, though easy to move in, offered little real defense. While Northern cavalrymen were renowned for their courage, even the bravest among them struggled when confronted by the fully armored and well-equipped Lannister heavy cavalry.
Even if they managed to defeat such a force, their own casualties would be severe. After all, courage alone could not make up for poor equipment.
As he listened to the northern lords noisily exchanging words, their excitement nearly turned the scene into a contest over the spoils of war. Clay immediately understood that all their talk was directed at him. It was clear that they had set their eyes on the two thousand finely crafted suits of armor left behind by the fallen Lannister soldiers, though none of them dared to make a direct request.
Fully aware of their intentions, Clay had no desire to provoke conflict over such matters. This was a critical moment, one that demanded unity above all else. Sacrificing a portion of the spoils in exchange for harmony within the army was a price he was more than willing to pay.
"Alright, alright, my lords, may I have your attention for a moment?" Clay called out with a cheerful tone and a smile. His words had an unexpectedly strong effect. At once, the noisy chatter ceased, and all eyes turned toward their commander, faces full of eager anticipation.
"On the battlefield, we are soldiers. Let us not indulge in empty formalities or veiled intentions. I will speak plainly. These pieces of equipment, these spoils, shall be shared among everyone present. The number of soldiers each house contributed to the army will determine the share it receives. The more men you provided, the more equipment you shall receive. Is that clear?"
Clay had no intention of using battlefield merit as the standard for distribution. In this battle, everyone had charged downhill together, coming from different directions. Trying to judge who had the greatest contribution would only bring unnecessary trouble. One man might claim his house struck first, while another might argue his men held the line. Debating such things would only lead to discord.
Therefore, a distribution based on headcount was the most equitable and efficient method. It might dampen some of the more aggressive desires for personal gain, but it was a solution that all parties could accept.
The northern lords exchanged glances, a trace of awkwardness flashing across their faces. They had not expected Clay to be so forthright, directly exposing their unspoken thoughts. Still, they appreciated his candidness. There is something refreshing about a man who speaks his mind without pretense.
"Very well. Since Lord Clay has spoken so clearly, we have no objections. Let the equipment remain here for now. We can discuss the specifics later."
It was Lord Glover who first voiced his support for Clay's proposal. The others followed suit, voicing their agreement without protest.
"Then it is settled," Clay said with a satisfied nod. "Christen, ride to Raventree Hall at once. Find the castellan and have him send out every available hand. I want all two thousand sets of armor stripped and collected. In return, I will give him twenty suits from my personal share as a gesture of thanks."
As the heir of House Manderly, one of the wealthiest houses in the North, Clay had no shortage of fully armored knights under his command. To him, these spoils of war were valuable, but not rare. They held little significance for someone with his resources.
"Understood, my lord. I will leave immediately," Christen responded at once. He mounted his horse and galloped northward without hesitation. Though darkness was beginning to fall, it posed little hindrance to a witcher.
"My lord, what are your next orders?" asked Lord Severn, his expression serious. The sun had dipped below the horizon, and the weariness of battle hung heavy in the air. After such a long and grueling fight, the entire host was drained of strength.
Clay understood his meaning and agreed with the unspoken concern behind the question. Soldiers who had just come through the fires of battle needed time to rest and recover. Forcing a night march now would serve no purpose. Without rest, the army's morale and cohesion would suffer.
Clay dared to take his time only because he was certain that no Lannister troops had escaped the valley. Every invader had been left behind at the bottom of Maiden's Valley. If even a small group or individual had managed to flee, he would have had to act immediately and launch an assault on the Lannister camp at Riverrun, racing against time.
"Order the entire army to make camp along the southern edge of Maiden's Valley. Let everyone rest well tonight. My lords, spread the word. Tell the soldiers to conserve their strength, because tomorrow, I will lead them to defeat the Lannister nest at Riverrun."
His bold declaration sparked a wave of cheers. The sound began at the command tent and rippled outward like a tide, sweeping through the encampment. The soldiers, too, reveled in their hard-won victory. They had triumphed over the seemingly invincible Lannister forces led by the Kingslayer himself. This was not just a victory. It was a moment of glory.
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Nightfall came to the southern camp outside Maiden's Valley.
Inside the central command tent, the lords had gathered after washing away the blood and grime of battle. They were now seated before Clay, ready to discuss the strategy for tomorrow's offensive.
With the greatest threat already eliminated, the annihilation of the two thousand Lannister cavalry meant Clay's forces now held a decisive advantage in mobility over the ten thousand Lannister infantry still garrisoned in Riverrun.
The first round of this deadly game had ended, and Clay had emerged victorious. Now, the second round was about to begin. With the initiative firmly in his grasp, it was his move to make.
Spread across the top of a wooden chest lay a military map, depicting the terrain surrounding Riverrun. Though useful, the map's quality left much to be desired.
This was far from the first time that Clay had found himself grumbling inwardly about the dreadful cartographic skills of the present day. Every time he laid eyes on one of these miserable excuse-for-a-map renderings, so vague and abstract that no two people could interpret them the same way, he found himself filled with complaints he had nowhere to voice.
A single dot represented an entire city. A few crude, green strokes were meant to suggest a forest. And those winding, pitch-black lines, what else could they be but rivers?
Aside from giving a rough sense of distance, there was very little the map could be relied upon to convey. In short, it was entirely unsatisfactory.
Yet there was no alternative. This was all they had. Although Clay desperately desired a finely detailed and accurately marked topographic map, he knew well that it was pointless to place blame on the army's draftsman. After all, the poor fellow might have had no professional training in mapping whatsoever.
"Lords and gentlemen," Clay began, his tone solemn and deliberate, devoid of the levity he had displayed during the earlier conversation, "before we march to battle tomorrow, I would like to hear your thoughts and suggestions one final time. If there is anything that must be said, let it be said tonight. Once we are on the battlefield, there can only be one voice within this army."
His words, though calmly spoken, carried a weight that brought an immediate shift in the atmosphere. The playful camaraderie from earlier had entirely faded. Now, there was only the heavy silence of men preparing to face death.
"Tomorrow," Clay continued, "we will not be facing two thousand men, but a full ten thousand. And this time, the terrain will not lend us any advantage. Everyone, it will be a head-on battle from now on."
As their commander, it was his responsibility to remind them of the reality they were facing, whether they acknowledged it or not. He knew well the dangers of arrogance and overconfidence following a great victory. Just because they had slaughtered two thousand Lannister cavalry and captured the Kingslayer alive did not mean the war was won. In truth, the Lannisters still had nearly forty thousand soldiers scattered across the Riverlands.
"Lord Clay, we follow your lead. Whatever plan you choose, we will carry it out to the letter."
Someone among the lords voiced this support, yet many others remained silent, their eyes fixed upon the map, particularly where the Tumblestone River and Red Fork converged. Their brows were furrowed in contemplation.
They could not overlook the fact that this was an army of ten thousand. The Tumblestone and Red Fork Rivers now divided them from the northern camp, but it also meant they themselves were similarly cut off.
The rivers around Riverrun ran fast and wild. Horses could never swim across safely. That meant an assault on the northern camp alone would not suffice. Even if they succeeded in annihilating the three thousand stationed there, the remaining five thousand would simply escape, slipping through their fingers like sand.
They were already aware that the majority of the Lannister cavalry had gathered at the northern camp. That suggested the numbers there had fallen to roughly three thousand, making it the weakest of the three enemy camps.
And this, precisely, was the reason Clay had summoned them to this meeting. The new intelligence had led him to reconsider the original plan. Though the ultimate objective remained the same—to annihilate all ten thousand Lannister troops—he needed to adapt his strategy to the reality before them.
"My lords," Clay said at last, "I have a proposal. I intend to abandon the northern camp entirely. Instead, I will lead the main force around the Tumblestone River, and strike directly at the southwestern and southeastern camps on the southern bank."
The suggestion took many of the Northern lords by surprise. To ignore such an obvious and tempting target as the northern camp, and instead go out of their way to provoke the southwestern and southeastern camps? It was baffling.
After all, once the northern camp discovered that their allies to the south were under attack, what was to stop them from simply packing up and fleeing? If they realized they could not make it in time to reinforce the others, would they not retreat altogether?
It was a harsh but realistic question. Not every man had the courage to ford a river to save his allies, especially when taken by surprise and with his own safety uncertain.
When disaster strikes, men tend to flee in all directions. That was human instinct. No one could deny it, and it remained the most likely outcome if they miscalculated.
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[Chapter End's]
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