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When Clay returned to Mummer's Ford, he was met by Lord Tytos Blackwood, who promptly reported all that had transpired over the past few days.
Back then, a detachment of five hundred men had been stationed across the river with the critical task of luring the enemy into a trap. As it turned out, they had carried out their mission quite effectively.
Clay had fought a brutal and bloody battle to the west, and naturally, he hadn't been able to wipe out every single enemy on the field. There were always a few survivors who were either fortunate enough or fast enough to slip away amidst the chaos and escape.
But no matter how they escaped, no matter when or how they fled, there was only one direction they could possibly run: toward Mummer's Ford.
It was the nearest crossing over the Red Fork.
Only by reaching the southern bank could they hope to evade Clay Manderly's relentless pursuit. If they remained on the northern side of the river, then sooner or later, death would catch up with them. There was no other fate waiting.
Unfortunately for them, just as they thought they had finally made it across the Red Fork, that they had survived the bloodshed and shaken off death's shadow, they ran straight into the trap Lord Tytos Blackwood had prepared.
What happened next, Clay didn't particularly care.
By this point, the two thousand knights of the Vale under Lyonel Corbray's command had been utterly annihilated.
Of Clay's own forces, nine thousand still remained, and he led them on toward the main camp at Stone Hedge.
But when they arrived at the stronghold, they discovered that Edmure Tully and the rest of the army were no longer there.
Only a thousand men had been left behind to guard the castle and the camp. The rest had already marched south with Edmure.
As for the reason for this sudden departure? It was presented with firm conviction.
To drive out the men of the Vale. To reclaim lost lands.
And Clay couldn't exactly argue against that.
"Lord Clay… should we perhaps… send someone to check on Lord Edmure?"
In the great hall of Stone Hedge, Lord Tytos Blackwood seemed uneasy, shifting in his seat like a man with thorns under him.
With the shining example of Robb Stark's glorious campaigns still fresh in his mind, the thought of Edmure Tully now marching south alone with an army filled him with deep, unsettling anxiety.
To be fair, given how things currently stood, there really wasn't any power left in the surrounding lands capable of decisively crushing the ten thousand men under Edmure Tully's command.
Even so, the Lord of Raventree Hall couldn't quite relax.
What if the old lion, Tywin Lannister, suddenly had a change of heart, abandoned his rivalry with Robb Stark, and decided to march straight this way instead? What if, out of nowhere, he came charging down on them with fire and steel?
It wasn't entirely impossible, was it?
Even if the chances of that actually happening were vanishingly small, just the thought alone was enough to gnaw at the back of his mind.
Clay, meanwhile, was entirely focused on the roasted fish Stone Hedge's cooks had prepared especially for him. He didn't even look up, simply cast a side glance at Lord Tytos Blackwood before turning his attention back to his meal, not offering a single word in reply.
Send someone to check on Edmure Tully? Who exactly would they send?
Apart from the two of them, who else was even remotely qualified to take on that task?
What kind of capitalist nonsense was this?
Clay had been fighting this war for what felt like an eternity, marching, killing, enduring day after day of blood and toil. Was it really so outrageous for him to finally sit down and enjoy a proper meal?
Couldn't a man just finish a plate of food in peace without someone pestering him with more trouble? Was that so much to ask?
When Yohn Royce chose to avoid Clay's army and head south to retrieve his people, Clay had already seen the writing on the wall. He knew then and there that the man was planning to run.
No one understood it better than Clay. He knew exactly what Yohn Royce would do next.
After all, the move that was now tightening around the Vale men's throats had been his own design. He had set that trap himself.
How could he not know how effective it would be?
They were on the brink of starvation. In a situation like that, what did Yohn Royce have left to throw at Edmure Tully? With what army could he possibly keep fighting?
He might as well wash up, get some rest, and if he had any sense left, start preparing to flee while he still could.
As for Clay's own forces… after that last hard-fought battle, they needed time to recover.
No army could keep fighting forever. Even the strongest soldiers needed to breathe.
Even if you had a tank, rolling across terrain like this for a few hundred miles would leave it stalled and broken… so what chance did ordinary men have?
The wounded needed treatment, the soldiers needed rest, and the weather was growing colder by the day.
Clay would have to start gathering supplies — blankets, furs, cloaks, anything that could keep the cold at bay. He needed to prepare his army for winter, to make sure they were ready before the real chill set in.
Winter was coming. Every lord in Westeros knew that.
Of course, the seasons in this land had always been as erratic and unpredictable as a boy in the throes of adolescence: restless, moody, and impossible to control.
But now, with the long summer that had stretched on for more than a decade finally coming to its end, everyone knew one thing for certain: autumn would not last, and winter would come swiftly.
In times of peace, the Seven Kingdoms would have calmly and methodically prepared for the cold to come.
The grain would be stored, the cloaks sewn, and every village and holdfast would've followed the rhythms learned from countless winters before. Westerosi had faced harsh winters for generations, and in doing so, had forged a wealth of knowledge and strategies to survive.
But now?
Now the entire realm was a boiling pot of war and chaos. From the North to the Reach, from the Vale to Dorne, there was not a single place untouched by strife.
Lords and kings were all focused on battles and borders, obsessed with the front lines and the shifting tides of war.
The farmers who should have been tilling fields and storing food were being dragged from their villages, handed spears, and tossed into muddy lines to fill the ranks.
Who still had the time or mind to worry about winter's arrival?
"Just forge more weapons," the lords would say. "Hurry up and get more soldiers ready for me." That was all that mattered to them now.
But the cold now creeping across Westeros was far worse than anything Clay remembered.
The reports from Winterfell painted a grim picture. The Night's Watch had once again sent a call for aid, and the snow beyond the Wall had grown so heavy that no man dared venture even a single step past the ancient barrier.
Even the wildlings, who once came south in scattered groups seeking warmth and food, had vanished. Not one had shown their face… not a single whisper or footprint in the snow.
Where had they all gone?
Beyond the Wall, the world had turned to white. The air was so thick with falling snow that nothing could be seen clearly past thirty paces. Just a pale, frozen blur.
Lord Commander Jeor Mormont of the Night's Watch could feel it in his bones… something was wrong. Deeply, terribly wrong.
But the Watch had lost all means of scouting what lay ahead.
They could do nothing but huddle together in the cold, cloaked in black and buried in silence, straining their eyes toward the northern darkness and praying that nothing monstrous came crawling out of it.
The Wall could block some of the cold, but not all of it.
The rest, the wind, the frost, the biting chill, was already pouring over it, sweeping south with frightening speed.
The letter from Winterfell had been clear. The blizzard there was so fierce now, the great castle itself was on the verge of being swallowed by snow.
Long Lake had frozen completely. A sheet of ice from shore to shore.
Harvesting grain in the North had all but ceased. At these temperatures, anyone who dared step into the fields now risked having their life reaped by the wind instead of their crops.
And that meant Clay could no longer count on any more support from the North.
They were barely keeping themselves alive, let alone in any condition to send help south.
If the northern nobles could at least ensure that fewer of their own people starved to death this winter, that alone would be enough to call them merciful.
Even though Long Lake had already frozen solid, Clay wasn't particularly worried about his own White Harbor being affected.
After all, freezing a freshwater lake was one thing and freezing a sea was something else entirely.
The temperature it would take to do that… was another matter altogether.
Besides, White Harbor sat further south, where the chill wasn't nearly as harsh.
But later on… well, that might be a different story altogether.
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"Is this really all there is?"
Standing inside the armory of Stone Hedge, Clay furrowed his brows as he stared at the rows of winter cloaks. Just two storage rooms' worth, and both already looked sparse. He turned and asked Harry Rivers, who stood beside him, silent and stiff, hardly daring to breathe.
Clay simply couldn't believe it. Was this truly all Edmure Tully could scrape together, even after exhausting the resources of House Tully and rallying support from the surrounding noble houses?
Every regional lord of the Seven Kingdoms, aside from the perpetually penniless Starks, was practically swimming in wealth.
And this? This pathetic little stash wasn't even one-fifth of what the Riverlands should be capable of mustering. It didn't reflect the strength or depth of a land as rich and sprawling as this… not even close.
Back before Clay had set off for the front, House Tully had already begun coordinating the collection of winter supplies. Coats, cloaks, furs, anything usable, were to be gathered from the storerooms of every noble house across the Riverlands and sent to the army holding the line.
Clay had expected that, even if they couldn't fully meet the needs of his twenty-thousand-strong army right away, they would at least come close. Eighty or ninety percent, if not more.
But now, standing in this armory, staring at the pitiful piles of gear in front of him, he realized the truth was far below his expectations.
This wouldn't do. Not even close.
In the battle that had crushed two of the Cobray brothers, Clay had already felt it. His soldiers' combat effectiveness had been visibly dropping in the cold, and he could sense it clearly as a commander.
When the temperature plummeted, a person's limbs and muscles stiffened. The body began burning through energy just to stay warm, leaving less for strength, for speed, for survival.
And if a man couldn't sleep, couldn't recover, couldn't even summon the strength to swing a sword properly, what use was he in battle?
Clay had seen all of it unfold with his own eyes during the last engagement. The fatigue, the trembling hands, the sluggish reactions — these were real, and they were costing lives.
It was a visible and tangible drop in fighting strength, and Clay had no way to fix it while they were still on the move.
So when they finally paused here at Stone Hedge, his first priority during this short rest was not strategy, not supplies, and not diplomacy. It was solving this exact problem.
But the scene before him made it painfully clear: what they had here was nowhere near enough!
Behind him, Harry Rivers instinctively shrank back a little, pulling his neck in as if he could make himself invisible.
He had been stationed at Stone Hedge this whole time, so of course he knew exactly how much winter gear House Tully had actually delivered.
To be fair, it wasn't nothing. Just for Clay's army alone, they'd sent enough to properly equip at least half his men without issue.
But why was there so little left in the armory now?
Well… that was far beyond anything a lowborn bastard from Stone Hedge could dare to comment on.
"What's the matter? You too scared to talk?"
Clay glanced at him, the corners of his mouth twitching with the faintest trace of a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. There was something mocking in it, something that made Harry feel exposed, like a rabbit under the gaze of a hawk.
The bastard of Stone Hedge was still young, and with just one look from Clay, whatever thoughts he was trying to keep hidden were already written plain across his face.
"M-My lord Clay, I… I…"
Eyes still on the gloomy storeroom, Clay slowly turned away, no longer pressing the boy any further.
He already understood what was going on here.
If there had truly been nothing to begin with, Harry Rivers would have said so without hesitation. There'd be no need for all this stammering and hesitation.
Which meant there was something. Quite a lot, in fact.
And if now there was only a scrap left, then… well, the only one who could answer for that was Lord Edmure Tully himself. The same Edmure Tully who was currently engaged in an "intense struggle" with Yohn Royce, conveniently far away from Stone Hedge.
There really was no one else this could fall on.
"Let me guess," Clay said suddenly, reaching out and resting a hand on Harry Rivers' shoulder, "Lord Edmure took most of the winter gear with him, and before he left, he told you not to say too much. Am I right?"
The touch was sudden, unexpected, and Harry jumped like he'd been struck by lightning. He was already feeling nervous, and this made it a hundred times worse.
"Ah—Lord Clay—what is it?" he blurted out, not even registering what had just been said to him.
Then, a heartbeat later, Clay's words caught up to him.
And in that instant, whatever trace of color had been left in his face drained away completely.
"No… that's not… I mean… Lord Clay, I…"
He was flailing, stumbling over half-formed sentences, trying to deny it but unable to string anything coherent together.
Clay sighed inwardly.
It wasn't because he was angry. Not really.
He just felt… disappointed.
Edmure Tully really was pathetic! Was this little power struggle supposed to mean something? Was this how he wanted to prove a point?
What was the point, really?
Clay had the full strength of White Harbor behind him, not to mention the resources of the once-flourishing Twins. If he wanted to solve the army's supply problems, he absolutely could. It might take some time, but it could be done.
Edmure's petty move, deliberately taking the bulk of the winter clothing and leaving behind this excuse of a supply, was nothing more than a childish attempt to spite him.
Ever since the Riverland high lords and Clay himself had stripped him of command, this was probably one of the few ways Edmure had left to remind people he still mattered.
Clay understood that. But he didn't have the patience to play pretend.
Not now!
Especially not with the next battle looming ahead.
Once this fight was over, no matter how it ended, even if the old lion did not die on the field, Clay would make sure to peel a layer off him one way or another.
It was about time.
He was tired too.
Time to bring the army back home and let them rest. Regroup. Recover.
And after that, maybe head south to Dorne.
There, he could finally sit down and talk with Prince Doran, who had been quietly amassing troops and preparing for something big, and with Daenerys, about what came next.
By now, just counting the time lost moving from one battle to another, the campaign had already stretched out for close to half a year.
Once this next fight was done, and a few other matters were settled…
Then by the year 301 in the Aegon calendar, his Gaelithox would finally be matured and fully ready to unleash devastation across the battlefield.
And when that day came…
It would be his turn.
His turn to show them what real dragon-shock truly meant!
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[Chapter End's]
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