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As for the fate of the five to six thousand Lannister remnants who had been trapped within the encirclement, Clay, now making his way toward the eastern gates of Riverrun, no longer wished to dwell on it.
The desperate resistance of a cornered beast might evoke some sense of tragic heroism, but in the end, no matter how bravely one fought, being drenched in blood could not alter the final outcome. Death awaited them all.
The Lannister soldiers, unwilling to surrender to the river, launched their final counterattack. Yet before the ironclad cavalry of the North, their resistance was no more than a fleeting shadow. These men, stripped of equipment, scattered in disarray, and robbed of courage, could not even stir up a breeze with their last charge, let alone shift the tide. Their resistance dispersed faster than a wisp of smoke.
The remainder, roughly one to two thousand men, dropped to their knees and surrendered, pleading for mercy from the Northmen. Clay saw the hesitation in the eyes of his soldiers. To face the Lannister forces head-on in battle, they had never once wavered. But to slaughter these unarmed, kneeling captives—men who had already cast down their blades and bent the knee—these simple sons of the North, bound by their faith and conscience, instinctively recoiled from such a task.
Although they did not wish to defy Clay's command, not when he was the commander who had led them to victory time and again, Clay did not force them. Since these upright Northmen were unwilling to do the deed, he simply ordered them to form a perimeter and keep the prisoners from escaping.
That alone would suffice!
He then led his troops onward toward Riverrun. As for what would become of the captured Lannister soldiers, Clay intended to leave that decision to the lord of the land.
If they were to survive, it would be by the "mercy" of the Riverlands' own lord. Clay saw no need to stain his hands with needless bloodshed. Therefore, for these captives, the only thing left to do was to offer their prayers to the Seven, and hope that the gods would hear them.
Just then, new reports arrived. The Lannister forces on the northern riverbank, while attempting to cross the river, had been ambushed by Riverrun's defenders. They left behind five to six hundred corpses before fleeing in panic. The troops of Riverrun had pursued them, but could not keep up.
Thus, the results of this battle were as follows:
In the northern encampment, three thousand Lannister troops had been stationed. Of these, five hundred had died, and the remaining twenty-five hundred fled westward in disorder.
In the southeastern camp, four thousand men had stood in formation. Three thousand two hundred fell on the battlefield, and nearly three hundred more escaped to the southwest.
In the southwestern camp, another three thousand Lannister troops had been deployed. Clay's men had counted two thousand heads from the fallen, while more than three hundred fled toward the direction of the Golden Tooth.
Additionally, over two hundred had thrown themselves into the rushing waters of the Red Fork. Whether they survived or drowned was beyond Clay's ability to determine.
All told, Clay had directly slain more than five thousand seven hundred Lannister soldiers upon the battlefield. Another thousand or so had managed to escape. Over a thousand were taken prisoner. As for the remaining two thousand or so troops stationed in the northern encampment across the Tumblestone River, they were trapped on the far side, unable to flee south.
His own casualty report had just been submitted. Much like the battle in the Maidan's Valley, the ratio of losses was staggering in its disparity.
Clay's cavalry had lost two hundred and forty-two men in total. Over a hundred more were wounded, though minor injuries were not counted in the tally.
The loss was not crippling, but it still stung.
The Lannisters' final, desperate assault had caused some trouble, no matter how doomed it had been.
But looking at the battle as a whole, the outcome Clay faced now was not merely favorable, nor even excellent. It was nothing short of magnificent.
The thousand cavalrymen he had stationed near the Golden Tooth were likely growing impatient by now. Those broken Lannister survivors, having just escaped with their lives and thinking they were finally safe, would soon encounter this well-rested force lying in ambush. One could easily imagine what their fate would be.
How many of them would live to tell the tale? That would depend entirely on whether Lord Glover chose to be merciful. Yet, judging by Clay's understanding of that stalwart lord, he was confident the results would be more than satisfactory.
As these thoughts passed through Clay's mind, his warhorse let out a loud snort and came to a halt. Clay's gaze returned to the present, and he lifted his eyes.
The welcoming party from Riverrun was now right before him.
There stood Edmure Tully, the unfortunate heir of Riverrun. He had been rescued by Lord Cerwyn from the southwestern camp and promptly escorted back to the castle at breakneck speed. Once it was confirmed that he was unharmed and had not lost any important limbs or possessions, he was swiftly cleaned up and dressed appropriately. Now, leading all the noblemen of the Riverlands, he rode forth from the gates to greet the commander who had led five thousand fierce Northmen to a decisive victory — the man known as Clay Manderly.
Thus, in truth, this was the very first time Clay and Edmure Tully had met face to face. An encounter that, in its surreal nature, bordered on the fantastical.
This heir to Riverrun bore the Tully family's signature reddish-brown hair. Seated atop his horse, his figure appeared somewhat plump. Though the reddish-brown beard covering his jaw lent him a touch of fierceness, everyone knew full well that he had only recently been released from captivity.
It was only recently that Edmure Tully had learned—through the words of the two Northern lords who had escorted him back to Riverrun—that the battle which secured his freedom had been orchestrated and led by a young Northern noble named Clay Manderly.
Although Edmure himself was the heir to a Great House, while Clay was merely the successor to a lesser lord from House Manderly, and although Edmure was much older than Clay, in the presence of this bloodstained Northern commander, whose every movement exuded deadly might, Edmure found himself utterly unable to summon even a trace of pride or arrogance.
After all, it was only through Clay's thunderous assault that he had been freed from his cage.
The title of heir to the Riverlands might command respect among the lesser vassals of the region, but before Clay, it was evident—without a single word needing to be spoken—that such status bore no true weight.
"Lord Clay Manderly, on behalf of House Tully of Riverrun, I thank you for your timely aid. Your valor and heroism shall surely be sung throughout the lands of Westeros."
Edmure Tully spoke with utmost courtesy. Though the Northerners were unlikely to turn their blades against the Riverlands, outside the castle walls, the very army that had just crushed ten thousand Lannister soldiers now lay camped.
The Riverlands' own forces would not dare provoke them. To speak plainly, while the Tullys were related to the Starks through marriage, what ties did they truly have to the Manderlys?
Clay looked upon Edmure's rather restrained expression and, recalling that the man had only just left his cell, did not make things difficult for him. He simply gave a nod.
"As a sworn vassal of Lord Stark, it is my duty to strike down the Lannisters. The hospitality of Riverrun is famed throughout the realm. I am confident I shall enjoy a most pleasant afternoon."
As the heir of the Riverlands, Edmure Tully immediately caught the deeper meaning in Clay's words.
I serve Lord Stark. It is my responsibility to defeat the Lannisters. Rescuing you was incidental. Do not mistake it for anything more.
This was a declaration aimed at preserving the independence of his army. Since Robb Stark was not present, if the two houses were to act as allies, then Lord Hoster Tully had the authority to order his son, Edmure Tully, to assume command of Clay's forces.
Yet with this one sentence, Clay had closed off that path entirely.
I am not that close to you. The command of this army lies with me, Clay Manderly. Do not even think about touching it.
Though he felt a sense of helplessness, Edmure Tully could only concede. His own temperament was rather gentle, not one to press too hard, so he said nothing more. Instead, he turned his horse slightly to the side and opened the path into the castle.
"Lord Clay, please follow me inside. My father awaits you in the main keep. He is most eager to meet the hero who shattered a Lannister host of ten thousand in a single battle."
Inside the solar, Clay came face to face with the elderly man who bore the titles of Lord of Riverrun, Head of House Tully, and Lord Paramount of the Trident.
He was terribly old. Behind the semblance of strength he managed to maintain, there was only endless frailty. A man like him should have been resting in bed, surrounded by children and grandchildren, living out his final years in peace.
But as the lord of Riverrun, and with his son having suffered repeated defeats, captured and disgraced, he had no choice but to force himself to rise, dress in his finest garments of authority, and present himself here to uphold the last vestige of dignity for the Tullys.
"Your Grace."
Clay gave a formal bow. No matter what, the man's status was above his own, and their two houses were, for now, the closest of allies. Even if he had pride in his heart, this was not the moment to display it.
What met his greeting was a fit of coughing. The duke's labored breathing rasped in Clay's ears like a bellows riddled with holes, heavy and broken.
The signs of life were slowly slipping away from the old man before them, a truth plain to see for anyone with eyes.
"On behalf of the warriors of Riverrun, I offer Lord Clay our deepest thanks."
As the elderly Lord Hoster Tully struggled for breath and could not form words for a long time, a tall nobleman standing beside him stepped forward to take over the conversation.
His voice immediately drew Cray's attention. The man continued with steady composure.
"I am Tytos Blackwood. By the lord's command, I am temporarily entrusted with the command of Riverrun's forces."
Upon hearing this, Clay instantly realized who the man was.
This nobleman, Lord Tytos Blackwood, was none other than the lord of Raventree Hall, where Clay had once stationed his troops prior to the Battle of the Maiden's Valley.
In many respects, the man's appearance was rather unremarkable. His nose was long and hooked, sharp like an eagle's beak. Ash-black hair flowed down past his shoulders, and a beard streaked with gray and white bristled from his jaw like stiff steel bristles.
Cray's eyes were drawn to the man's cloak, which was unusually striking. If his eyes did not deceive him, the luxurious-looking garment appeared to be crafted entirely from raven feathers.
It was quite fitting, Clay mused, considering both the sigil of House Blackwood and the name of Raventree Hall.
"My lord," Clay said, his tone firm but composed, "the war is far from over. As for the Lannister prisoners currently held outside the castle, I will leave the handling of them to your discretion. However, I have only one condition. None of them must be allowed to return to the Westerlands. Any soldier who has set foot on a battlefield holds immeasurable value."
Lord Blackwood gave a crisp and concise reply: "Agreed. That is a perfectly reasonable request."
The first consensus was quickly reached, and for Clay, it was an auspicious beginning. He continued without pause.
"On the northern bank of the Tumblestone, there are still over two thousand scattered Lannister troops fleeing in disarray. I will state my principle again. I cannot permit a single one of them to return to their homeland in the west."
At this moment, one of the Riverlands nobles present suddenly interjected with a hint of discontent.
"Then perhaps you should send your soldiers to Golden Tooth, instead of lecturing us here."
"Silence!"
Edmure Tully and Titus Blackwood spoke in unison, both voices sharp as blades, and turned to glare fiercely at the one who had dared to speak out.
Was this a joke? At this point, the enigmatic Cray Manderly, whom they barely knew, was the true master of the field. So long as he was still acknowledging their alliance, things were stable. But if he chose to turn indifferent, then with just a word from his mouth accusing that foolish noble of harboring fleeing Lannister soldiers, Clay could lead his troops to sack their castle.
Would anyone dare to resist? Jaime Lannister had led twelve thousand troops to crush their force of twenty thousand, yet this Lord Clay, with only five thousand men, had slain over seven thousand on the battlefield alone.
Given that math, how many tens of thousands of Riverlands soldiers would it take to truly challenge Clay Manderly and his hardened northern host?
Cray, for his part, could not even be bothered to acknowledge the outburst of that petty noble.
He simply shook his head with calm indifference, then spoke again.
"Before the battle even began, I had already dispatched Lord Glover of Deepwood Motte, commanding one thousand men, to lie in an ambush near Golden Tooth. Therefore, the remnants fleeing from the two southern camps are unlikely to make it back to the Westerlands."
He paused slightly before continuing, voice still steady but now laced with weight.
"The real concern lies with the two thousand or so Lannister soldiers who remain together as an organized force. They will fight to the death to return home. With only Lord Glover's thousand men in their path, I fear he may not be able to stop them alone…"
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[Chapter End's]
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