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At night, while strolling just outside his tent, Clay spotted Robb Stark striding through the camp. Trailing behind him was Theon Greyjoy, his face twisted in a sour grimace of resentment and reluctance.
Clay was quite satisfied with the sight. At the very least, this time, the Ironborn's raiding blades would not be aimed at the western coast of the North. Although his home, White Harbor, had little to fear from such attacks, it was still good news for the other Northern lords. Now, as they waged war against the Lannisters, they could focus on the enemy ahead without fear of their homes being sacked in their absence.
Once again, Clay found himself silently criticizing the strange logic that seemed to run through the minds of Robb and his mother, Catelyn. With that thought, he returned to his own tent. As the grandson of Lord Wyman, the influential master of White Harbor, Clay's tent was notably more luxurious than those of many other noblemen.
Inside the tent, aside from himself, there was Ser Marlon, his breath heavy with the scent of wine but his eyes still clear and sharp. The old knight was leaning against a wooden crate, his gaze sweeping slowly back and forth over a map that Clay had tacked to the wooden board on the wall.
Upon seeing Clay return, Ser Marlon asked in a low voice, "Boy, are you feeling more at ease now?"
Clay pulled over a wooden crate, setting it down beside the knight. He sat down and leaned back slightly before giving a small nod.
"Yes. As long as we hold the only son of Balon Greyjoy in our grasp, those pirates from the Iron Islands will not dare raise their blades against us."
The old knight nodded slowly. Though he didn't say much in reply, it was clear from his expression that he agreed completely with Clay's judgment.
His eyes lingered on Clay for a moment, as if reassessing the young man. He hadn't expected that Clay would truly be able to influence the decisions of the Stark family, the rulers of the North. That in itself was a remarkable sign.
Robb was now facing the same problem that often plagued middle-aged and older noblemen: the heavy mantle of leadership. Ser Marlon had worried that Clay, as a young heir, might face similar struggles. Yet it was clear Clay had already forged a strong bond with Robb Stark, the youthful lord of the North. With such loyalty, those concerns faded into the background.
"What did you all discuss this afternoon?"
As Clay's advisor, Ser Marlon was eager to know what had taken place during the strategy meeting earlier that day. He didn't have any sources of his own within the high command.
Clay shook his head, exhaling softly.
"It didn't go well. We argued the whole afternoon, but still came to no conclusion."
He went on to tell Ser Marlon everything that had occurred in the meeting. Clay wasn't worried about leaking any secrets. Before long, these matters would be known by everyone — there was no need to rely on whispers.
After listening in silence, Ser Marlon's brows knit together in a deep frown. The lightness from earlier had vanished from his face.
Indeed, it was a troubling situation. Finding a proper strategy to break through their predicament would not be easy.
But Clay, with his broader perspective and clear understanding of the bigger picture, had already begun devising his own plan.
Should Eddard Stark be rescued? Of course. As long as he still lived, he must be saved. If he had already passed into the embrace of the Old Gods, it would have been a much simpler matter.
Should the Northern army go to the Riverlands and offer aid on the battlefield? That too was necessary. Without the Riverlands, the North would have no foothold in the southern realm. They would be isolated, without allies or staging grounds.
Moreover, the North was vast yet sparsely populated. Though others might not grasp the weight of this truth, Clay understood it very well —Winter is Coming.
Without the steady flow of grain from the south, it would be impossible for the North alone to store enough food for the harsh winter. Worse still, many noble houses were choosing to send their men south to fight rather than harvest the summer grain.
From this angle, dividing their forces was essential.
Originally, Clay had thought of splitting the army into three parts. The first two would follow the original plan. As for himself, he would lead the Witcher guards along with a small unit of elite cavalry and swiftly strike southward.
He intended to bypass Tywin Lannister's front lines and reach the area near Harrenhal. While searching for an opportunity to retrieve Eddard Stark, he would also take advantage of the Witchers' powerful individual strength to raid and destroy the Lannister army's supply stores.
At this juncture, House Tyrell was likely clashing fiercely alongside Renly Baratheon and there was no chance they would send grain to support Lord Tywin, who was their temporary enemy.
Clay believed that forcing the enemy to retreat did not always require defeating them in open battle. If enough trouble was stirred behind their lines, the results would be the same.
But now, Clay had changed his mind.
After personally witnessing the influence Roose Bolton held among the Northern nobility, Clay resolved to prevent him from ever commanding an army on his own.
The Starks still commanded authority over the Boltons, with the former as liege lords and the latter as their sworn bannermen.
By keeping Robb surrounded by his nobles and placing him directly against Tywin Lannister on the battlefield, Clay saw a straightforward scenario — one where there would be little chance for Robb to make foolish decisions.
Clay now planned to use his strategic preparations at the Twins as a bargaining chip to fight for Robb's original position in the campaign.
But unlike Robb Stark or Catelyn Tully, Clay had no intention of agreeing to a marriage alliance with the Freys of the Twins.
Even so, he still needed to pass through that place. Which meant that some less-than-honorable methods would have to be put to use.
He would begin by having a private word with Lady Catelyn, whose sense of honor wasn't so overwhelming. After all, aside from himself, she was the one person Robb was most likely to listen to.
Clay recalled the pale and clammy face of Aenys Frey. That man was probably already flustered by the sudden outbreak of war.
The army stationed at the Twins had withdrawn into the castle, and Aenys Frey had no control over military matters. Though he held some scholarly responsibilities and could approach Lord Walder Frey whenever needed, he was powerless without external support.
If he were to move against Lord Walder, he would also have to move against his older brother, Stevron Frey. And once that was done, none of Stevron's sons could be left alive either.
Supposing the Seven themselves stood on his side and Aenys truly succeeded in eliminating the others, what then? In a castle packed with soldiers, how could he possibly take control of several thousand troops?
Whatever Aenys could do, others could also do. Without armed forces of his own, he would soon find himself assassinated by some other Frey who had managed to grab partial command of the troops.
So in this situation, Aenys Frey would not act rashly. Besides, Clay hadn't kept any of his promises to him. He had not sent any Frey youths to White Harbor before news of the war reached them.
Lord Walder Frey, ever shrewd and calculating, had immediately gathered his troops and stationed them inside the Twins. Once the gates were shut, no one could leave.
Now that Aenys was holed up and pretending to be the obedient son, Clay would have to give him a little push. Stoke his ambition and strengthen his resolve.
If necessary, Clay would feed him an even bigger promise — even one as outrageous as granting him a crown. It didn't matter. Clay had never intended to fulfill any of them.
Once he seized the Twins and the army secured its hold, what could Aenys Frey do? Clay could deal with him however he pleased.
Perhaps he would show mercy. For the sake of both the Old Gods and the Seven, he might allow Aenys to die from an unexpected illness. Then he could raise a more pliable Frey youth to power. The thought alone sparked a flicker of admiration in Clay for his own cunning.
"Ser Marlon, don't overthink it. Perhaps tomorrow, during the meeting, the Northern lords will come up with a better plan."
With a small smile, Clay walked over to his makeshift bed, pieced together from large wooden crates. This was the army, not his home in White Harbor. Everything had to be kept simple.
Though the surface was hard and uncomfortable, Clay soon guided himself into the meditative state practiced by Witchers. Who said one had to strike a specific pose in order to meditate properly?
---
On the second day after Clay reached the main camp, early in the morning, all the prominent Northern nobles convened once more in the same meeting tent as the previous day.
After a full afternoon of heated debate, the noble lords had at least agreed on one thing: they could not afford further delays. A concrete strategy had to be decided upon today. If they continued wasting time, they might find the war moving beyond their control.
This time, Clay noticed Theon Greyjoy seated inside the tent. Robb had arranged his seat right next to Clay's.
As soon as Clay entered, Theon snorted coldly and turned his head away, refusing to look at him. Clay narrowed his eyes slightly but said nothing. Though the two had once drawn swords on each other, this was the army. Personal grudges had to be set aside.
No one else in the tent, aside from Robb, knew what had happened between them in the Wolfswood. While some noticed Theon's attitude, they didn't think too much of it.
The meeting commenced. As before, Jon Umber's thunderous voice broke the silence. Standing with his bear-like bulk, his towering frame dominated the tent. His bellow was loud enough to shake the canvas roof.
"If you ask me, it's still the same as I said yesterday. We march right now, straight at Lord Tywin, hit him in the dark of night, and drive our dagger straight into his groin!"
He was animated and vulgar in his speech, paying no mind to the presence of Catelyn and one or two other noblewomen who had taken up arms to lead their own soldiers.
His words immediately sparked a storm of murmurs and mutterings throughout the tent. Truth be told, every man there had entertained the same idea at some point. The notion of charging into battle with Tywin Lannister's army had an undeniable appeal.
The saying that a Northman can take on ten Southerners was, of course, an exaggeration, but it reflected their deep-rooted confidence.
Northerners had always believed themselves to be stronger, hardier, more enduring. They were not afraid, not even slightly, to confront Tywin Lannister's well-equipped southern host.
The issue, however, was that anyone with a shred of clarity knew matters were far more complex than they appeared.
"Enough, Umber. Sit down and find a bottle to shut that mouth of yours."
Roose Bolton's voice, calm and icy, carried undeniable authority as he cut in. He turned to Robb, seated at the head of the table, and spoke in a quiet yet resolute tone.
"Lord Robb, we all understand the situation. Your uncle, Lord Edmure Tully, is struggling to hold back the enemy under the command of the Kingslayer. He may not last much longer. It is time for you to make a decision. Do we go to his aid or do we not?"
The moment these words were spoken, the tent fell into silence. This was the true question at the heart of their discussion. If they chose to abandon the Riverlands, then there was no need for further debate. They could simply march south and confront Tywin Lannister.
"Robb…" Catelyn reached for her son's hand, her voice gentle yet full of sorrow. That was her home, and her father and brother were still there, holding on in the face of an overwhelming threat.
Robb patted her hand gently, as if to reassure her. Then, after a moment of thoughtful silence, he rose from his seat and spoke with steady determination.
"The Riverlands must be saved. That is our duty. Therefore, I have decided that we will divide our forces at the Twins."
He stood and picked up two small wooden direwolf carvings, placing them on the map spread across the table.
"One group will consist of our infantry. They will march south along the Kingsroad to block Tywin's advance. The other group, composed of all our cavalry, will cross at the Twins and ride swiftly to join the fight in the Riverlands."
Then one of the northern lords, Lord Galbart Glover, raised a vital concern.
"My lady, will Lord Frey of the Twins open his gates for us? He is, after all, your father's bannerman."
It was an important question. Dividing the army might be a clever tactic, but it would only work if they had the support of the Twins.
Lady Catelyn shook her head slowly.
"We should not count on 'the Late Lord Frey' to let us pass easily. If he still saw himself as a true bannerman of the Riverlands, he would already be on the road to Riverrun."
Then Clay, another of the northern commanders, spoke up with a hint of sarcasm.
"Lord Walder Frey and his family have been collecting tolls at the Green Fork for hundreds of years. Why would they let us through without demanding a price?"
Turning to face the other lords, his voice grew more solemn.
"My lords, you may not be aware, but just over a month ago, before the war began, I returned from the Twins. From what I observed, House Frey remains under Lord Walder's absolute control."
Another voice joined in, strong and firm. It was Lord Rickard Karstark of Karhold, a powerfully built man with a stern face and a thick white beard.
"We have four times their number. If they refuse us passage, we will take the castle by force."
"Lord Karstark, you are not wrong. We do outnumber them four to one. No matter how strong the walls of the Twins, we could eventually bring them down. But you are overlooking one crucial issue—time."
Clay had expected this reaction. Many of the lords had grown used to battles from the last rebellion, when strategy had been far more straightforward.
"I spent almost two weeks inside that castle. I may not have fought in battle, but I can say with certainty that Lord Walder has stationed four thousand men behind those walls. If we arrive without preparation and try to take the castle by force, we will not succeed quickly."
He picked up the lion-headed token representing the Lannister forces from the area of Harrenhal and placed it next to the Twins on the map.
"Unless Lord Tywin is a fool, he will seize this opportunity. If he coordinates with Lord Walder, they will trap us and slaughter our entire force of ten thousand before the gates of the Twins."
Clay looked at each of them, his tone grim.
"So, my lords, if we are to take the Twins, we must find another way. Relying on brute force and sacrificing lives is not an option."
A voice from across the table cut in, sharp and mocking.
"You sound very confident. What are you really saying? That if we take the Twins, you expect to be given command of that army?"
It was Jon Umber, who never missed a chance to needle his rivals. Yet to his surprise, Clay smiled, as if the insult had played directly into his hands.
"Perhaps. Why not make a wager, Lord Umber? If I manage to take the Twins, how about you follow my lead?"
The grin on his face was broad and carefree. This was just the opportunity he had been waiting for.
"You speak boldly, boy of House Manderly," Lord RickardKarstark said. "But I will admit, I share your view of the Twins. I too have been there. If you truly can take that castle, then I will gladly place the three hundred horsemen under my command at your disposal."
Rickard clearly did not believe Clay could accomplish such a feat. The Freys had fortified the Twins for generations. It would take a miracle to breach it in time. But since Clay had made the challenge, he would meet it in kind and raise the stakes.
"Lord Robb, you have heard our words. Do you approve of this?"
Clay had not overlooked the need to seek approval from the Lord Commander of the northern host. Robb Stark, though burning with a desire to lead every man himself, thought of his father's uncertain fate near Harrenhal in the south and recognized the importance of remaining with the main infantry.
"Very well. Then let it be as we have said. I will lead the foot soldiers south to confront Lord Tywin. Clay, and the rest of you, whichever one among you takes the Twins first, shall be granted command of the cavalry."
His voice rang with a clarity beyond his years, firm and full of youthful strength.
"We Northerners care little for empty titles. We earn our place with deeds on the battlefield. Am I right, my lords?"
A chorus of agreement echoed through the tent. This was the Northern way, after all. Straightforward, sincere, and fiercely loyal.
In another time, on another path, the Young Wolf would go on to lead them from victory to victory. With the exception of a few dissenters, the Northern lords placed their full faith in him.
Now, if Clay could seize the Twins, he would become the commander of the cavalry.
And when he thought of Aenys Frey, a broad smile spread across his face, filled with unspoken thoughts and quiet confidence.
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[Chapter End's]
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