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On this point, the old man was right. Strictly speaking though, not entirely. Clay did need to put on the appearance of coming to Robb Stark's rescue — that much was true. He also needed to take some concrete actions to that end. But as for what results those actions would actually bring… well, that was another matter entirely.
Clay understood this situation perfectly. The strength of House Manderly, as things stood now, was still far too weak. If they threw themselves in with the two or three thousand men who had gone south with Robb Stark, they were bound to be finished — even though most of those troops came from the Twins.
But even so, for House Manderly, that number of men still represented a considerable portion of their overall power. It was no small loss. At the very least, one thing was certain — if those two or three thousand men were still alive and well, Clay wouldn't have had to convert his cavalry into infantry just to leave a garrison behind in the castle.
Cavalry only carried real deterrent force when they were in motion. Once they dismounted, they might not even be as effective as ordinary foot soldiers.
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Clay's raven hadn't even reached Riverrun yet, but it seemed theirs had already flown this way.
Taking the freshly arrived letter from the old man's hands, Clay's fingers trembled slightly as he unfolded it. He was curious to see exactly what Edmure Tully had to say to him this time.
◇◆────────────────◆◇
Lord Clay Manderly,
Upon learning that you set off south after His Grace Robb Stark, I presume you have now reached Twins.
You must have heard the news by now — His Grace has suffered a devastating defeat. At present, twenty thousand strong from the Riverlands have assembled at Riverrun, prepared to march at any moment to rescue His Grace. But on the very day I write you this letter, cavalry from the Vale launched successive attacks on my Stone Hedge, Acorn Hall, and Stone Mill.
Though the garrison forces managed to repel them, the villages and farmland beyond have all been set ablaze, with grievous losses suffered.
Therefore, I invite Lord Clay Manderly to come to Riverrun and discuss the current war situation together. I sincerely hope you will not decline or delay. Upon reading this letter, please make haste to Riverrun.
◇◆────────────────◆◇
At the bottom was Edmure Tully's signature, accompanied by the leaping trout sigil of House Tully.
After reading the letter, the old man and his grandson exchanged a quiet glance, then carefully unfolded the map and traced the route of the Vale cavalry's attacks with measured attention.
"The Vale folk… what exactly are they playing at? Charging straight toward the eastern gate of Riverrun with cavalry? Do they plan to bite through the city walls with horse hooves?" The old man stroked his chin, still unable to make sense of the logic behind the Vale cavalry's choice of targets. Cavalry weren't battering rams — they were no tanks. They were next to useless against stone walls. If they truly intended to besiege a city, they would have no choice but to dismount and fight on foot like ordinary infantry.
But seriously, what kind of army would be so extravagant as to send their cavalry off to act as foot soldiers to assault a city? Warhorses and trained riders were supposed to be precious as gold. Even if the Vale was wealthy and bold, they only had what… ten, maybe fifteen thousand cavalry at most? If they squandered them them away like this, they'd be gone for good. What on earth were those people thinking?
Clay found it just as puzzling. Littlefinger had never even set foot on a battlefield. If this entire war was being directed by him alone, it might still make some sense. But the trouble was, the Vale wasn't completely lacking in capable commanders. Bronze Yohn was still there — Yohn Royce had seen battle before too.
"There are two possibilities," Clay said quietly. "First, Edmure Tully is exaggerating the severity of things. The Vale cavalry may have only raided the villages surrounding those three castles without actually launching an assault on the strongholds themselves."
"The second possibility… they really did send men to throw themselves at the walls. But the goal isn't to take those three castles — it's to put pressure on Riverrun, to force Edmure Tully to mobilize his troops."
"Edmure Tully holds no real authority. If he holds significant forces in his hands yet fails to protect his vassals' lands, that would deal a serious blow to his reputation."
Clay was more inclined to believe the second explanation, largely because his opponent happened to be a man who excelled at scheming… or rather, only believed in scheming. That man had to be well aware of the situation across the Riverlands, which was precisely why he was playing this game.
"Hmm… but if that's the case, what do they want with you? I find it hard to believe Edmure Tully would be kind enough to invite you over just to hand you the army he worked so hard to gather."
On that question, Clay couldn't give a firm answer right now. After all, he wasn't in Riverrun, and he had no way of knowing what things were really like over there.
"My guess is, either Edmure Tully wants me to come over and shoulder the blame. He doesn't want to send out his troops, but he has no excuse. If I go there and say I oppose marching the army out, then all the responsibility falls on me."
"Or… the old nobles of the Riverlands have started pressuring Edmure Tully. After all, I've been to Riverrun before. Those people know perfectly well what Edmure Tully's military ability is like. Maybe they're calling me over to act as a military advisor."
"Or it could be both," Clay added after a pause. "Right now, it's hard to say for sure what Riverrun's intentions really are. I'll have to go there myself to find out."
The old man nodded slowly. At the moment, their side was clearly on the back foot. After all, with the Vale cavalry and Tywin's forces combined, nearly forty thousand troops were pressing down on the southern front. Anyone who claimed there wasn't much pressure… well, they were just bluffing.
"Grandfather, send a raven to Winterfell. Have Bran Stark, in his capacity as Prince of Winterfell, issue another call to the major houses of the North. Tell them to send over whatever soldiers they have left to me. What little we have in our hands now… is definitely not enough."
Both Clay and the old man were well aware that when North marched south this time, every house had all deliberately left some troops behind at home. No one would be foolish enough to throw in everything they had — to empty their coffers entirely for the sake of their liege lord.
That had always been the tradition. No noble would ever throw all the strength from their own lands onto the battlefield. Because if things went south and they lost everything… how were they supposed to keep living their own quiet little lives afterward?
But now, the situation was completely different. The lords of each house… well, either they had already died in the chaos of battle, or they were trapped alongside Robb Stark at Harrenhal, layer upon layer, surrounded on all sides.
At a time like this, still hiding men away… that didn't look too good, did it? And besides, what if those lords actually made it back home alive? How were they supposed to explain it to them then?
Clay figured, if they really squeezed, there was no problem pulling together another ten thousand men. But the quality of those soldiers… well, that was bound to be questionable. As for their equipment… it was probably the kind that looked ready to fall apart if you stared at it too hard.
But that didn't matter. What Clay wanted was numbers. Besides, those so-called green soldiers, or downright useless ones — if they survived even one battle, they'd turn into veterans. Their ability to fight and survive would definitely skyrocket.
As for how to make sure more of them actually lived through their first fight… well, that was Clay Manderly's headache to deal with.
"Alright, I'll send word to Winterfell right away."
"Oh… by the way, Grandfather," Clay added, "send a letter to Uncle as well. Tell him to immediately distribute the wildling women I brought back. For every woman he hands out, I expect a soldier in return."
"And the rest of the male prisoners — tell them this. If they want to live, they can fight for me. The ones who survive… I'll give them land, let them settle down and live properly. If they refuse… well, then they can just wait for death."
"Clay… what do you mean by this? Using wildlings? Can that even work?"
"It's fine. Grandfather, just write exactly what I told you. Uncle knows what I mean." A faint, almost careless smile touched Clay's lips. "Besides, I killed their king beyond the Wall. They've already knelt to me once as prisoners. They won't kneel a second time just to stay alive."
"Besides… if those men lingering in White Harbor, they definitely won't be able to blend in anytime soon. They're a source of instability. I don't have time to deal with them properly right now, so it's better to send them to the front lines."
"I'm not counting on them for their fighting skills. If five of them can tear one enemy apart… I'll call it a win."
His words sounded light and casual, but the old man understood perfectly well what he was planning — this was about sending thousands of wildling men to the frontlines as cannon fodder. Clay never intended for them to come back alive.
Perhaps sensing what his grandfather was thinking, Clay spoke softly.
"Using their lives… to buy those women a chance to start over. I think that's perfectly fair. After all… everything in this world comes with a price. I'm not being merciful for their sake."
That… was the fate of the defeated. No one would waste time feeling sorry for them.
"Grandfather, that's settled then. On your end, start transferring some of White Harbor's troops over to me. As for the villages around Twins… just leave them be. Let the Vale folk loot them all they want."
"I'll set off for Riverrun first. If Edmure Tully's planning to make things difficult for me, turning tail and running… well, that's not my style."
Clay spoke with quiet determination.
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