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In the end, Melisandre still left, under Clay's firm insistence.
Clay had never enjoyed dealing with women like her. Those so-called priests were all the same — riddlers who spoke in half-truths, always reluctant to lay their cards on the table. And Clay simply didn't have the patience to play guessing games with them.
He agreed to Melisandre's demand that he would no longer collaborate with the forces of the Old Gods, but as for how exactly he planned to carry that out… only he knew the answer to that.
Once the bothersome envoy of R'hllor had finally departed from the Wall, Clay poured all his energy into dealing with the aftermath of the battle beyond the Wall.
And truth be told, the results of that battle were immense. After their frontal assault shattered Mance Rayder's main host, Clay's cavalry pursued the fleeing wildlings for nearly a full day, relentlessly hunting them down and breaking apart every wildling tribe with over a thousand people.
They even sent several hundred riders west toward the glacial canyon, in pursuit of the wildlings who had escaped that way. Unfortunately, because of the treacherous terrain, they lost track of their targets.
But that hardly mattered. Once all the fighting was over, a detailed report was delivered straight to Clay's desk.
"Hm… nearly thirty thousand women of proper marriageable age brought back… not bad at all… seems the wildling population skews very young."
Clay studied the report carefully. When his eyes landed on the number of female captives, even he couldn't help but be surprised. That figure had far exceeded his expectations.
Tens of thousands of wildlings had launched a two-pronged assault, aiming for Eastwatch-by-the-Sea and the Shadow Tower. But their plans crumbled when Clay's cavalry struck from behind, and both wildling forces collapsed in a single, decisive engagement. His rough northern men, for all their crude ways, had performed admirably when it came to taking prisoners.
Yet when Clay flipped to the tally of male captives, his lips twitched ever so slightly. The number was far, far lower than that of the women. Clay couldn't help but suspect that his original orders had been utterly pointless — these men had probably planned to do exactly that from the start.
"Lord Clay, we've basically finished interrogating all those small wildling chieftains. The House Bolton men handled themselves well — didn't take much to break those stubborn fools. They ended up kneeling faster than anyone."
The burly form of Lord Glover was sprawled in a chair opposite Clay, looking completely at ease as he gazed up at the ceiling of Clay's tent. In one hand, he casually turned a bottle of rare Night's Watch spirits, the label worn and faded, pilfered straight from Lord Commander Mormont's private stash.
Clay paid no mind to Lord Glover's shameless behavior. The battle was over, and letting the men relax a little was only natural. This was not some regiment from his own world, governed by strict codes and polished discipline. For armies in this age, the mere fact that his men had refrained from pillaging after a victory was already proof enough of how tightly he held the reins.
"Mm… once those chieftains are done with their questioning, if they've got no real value, slit their throats. Burn the bodies after. Do you understood?"
"Burn them…? Why not just dig a pit and bury them all? Would save a lot of trouble."
It was clear that Lord Glover knew nothing of the real situation lurking in the North. In truth, the real reason Clay had come this far north was known only to Robb Stark and Lord Commander Mormont.
The matter of the Others — the White Walkers — to most people of the North, it remained nothing but old tales and campfire legends. Apart from the few occasions when the men of the Night's Watch had guided them at the beginning of the campaign, they had been strictly separated from Clay's forces, following the direct orders of both Clay and Lord Commander Mormont.
The reason for that was simple enough. They needed to keep the existence of the Others hidden for just a little while longer. After all, once this battle was over, Clay still had to lead his cavalry south.
Not long ago, they had received word that Robb Stark had already marched south with the main infantry force, bound for Moat Cailin. Once they linked up with the army from White Harbor, they would garrison at the Twins and wait for Clay and his cavalry to arrive.
In his letter, Robb Stark had also mentioned that he had sent Lord Bolton and Lord Cerwyn to the Eyrie. They carried with them a handwritten letter from his mother, urging Lysa Tully to send troops and help them avenge Lord Eddard Stark's death.
After all, Eddard Stark had once been fostered by the late Lord of Arryn, and in many ways, the Starks were deeply tied to the Vale. Robb believed this was the best opportunity to persuade the Vale of Arryn to join their cause.
This whole plan, Robb Stark hadn't discussed with Clay beforehand. Though the letter maintained a polite, consultative tone as usual, in truth, it was nothing but a notice.
Clay could easily imagine what was going through Robb Stark's mind. In all likelihood, the boy already saw himself as king, and no doubt there were plenty of people whispering in his ear, feeding him the nonsense that a king doesn't need anyone's approval to make decisions.
Truth be told, Clay had seen this coming for a long time. He understood better than anyone how power could change a person. What caught him off guard wasn't the transformation itself — but how quickly it had arrived.
Looking at it purely from Robb Stark's perspective, Clay had to admit, the young wolf's strategy wasn't entirely wrong. Reaching out to the Vale, in broad strokes, was the correct move. But the real problem lay in who he had chosen to send.
The Vale might appear to be ruled by Lysa Tully, governing on behalf of young Robert Arryn under some laughable pretense of a regency, but Clay knew perfectly well where the true power in the Vale lay.
And now, sending good Lord Bolton straight into the arms of that sly, grinning fox down in the Eyrie? Well… good job, Robb Stark. Truly impressive. You never cease to surprise me.
Clay's first instinct after reading that letter was to send a rider south immediately, find Robb Stark, and force him to revoke that foolish order. But as soon as he rose to his feet, he hesitated… then sat back down again.
He couldn't stop Robb Stark from doing this. He didn't have the grounds to interfere.
What could he even say?
Tell him the situation in the Vale wasn't as simple as he imagined? That Lysa Tully, lost in her lovesick fantasies, had already been thoroughly sidelined? That there was no chance in the world she would agree to his request?
Or should he point out that the people he'd chosen for the task were entirely inappropriate? Never mind Lord Cerwyn for now, but Roose Bolton? That man was nothing but trouble. The only reason House Bolton had been lying low all this time was because House Stark's power had grown too overwhelming for them to act otherwise.
Did Robb truly believe Roose Bolton, a man who had never fully respected even his father — the late Eddard Stark, who had already gone to meet the old gods — would submit to him, a green boy barely grown? That would be the real surprise.
Clay understood perfectly well that if not for the fact that he himself commanded the entire cavalry force of the North and that his dazzling victories on the battlefield had crushed any hopes Roose Bolton harbored of rebellion, the man would've made his move long ago.
And as for Clay's final reason… well, that was purely selfish. If he continued to help House Stark with all his strength, then in this war, the North would almost certainly become an invincible force.
And if that happened, when the day finally came for Clay to make his own move, the resistance he would face would be far too great. After all, a leader who guided his people to the pinnacle of power would always command their loyalty, even if many of those achievements were never truly his own.
The invisible crown was already resting firmly on Robb Stark's head, and that left Clay with no way of turning back for now. The Manderly-Targaryen dynasty would never tolerate a divided North and Riverlands appearing on the map of the Seven Kingdoms.
Setting those thoughts aside, Clay's gaze returned to the summary report laid out on the desk before him. By all accounts, Clay Manderly and the five thousand men under his command had already completed their mission at the Wall.
According to the original agreement, what he ought to do now was simple. He was to lead his cavalry south without delay, ride down the King's Road, and link up with King Robb Stark and the main infantry force.
But the funny thing was, not a single one of his subordinates, not even Lord Glover, had mentioned that plan. Because before they could even think about leaving… there was still one far more pressing matter they needed to settle.
The division of spoils.
The armies of the North had always followed this tradition. Once the spoils were taken, they were almost never handed over to the Great lord, whether it was Eddard Stark in the past or Robb Stark now, for centralized distribution.
Their belief was simple and direct. Whatever you managed to seize on the battlefield, that was yours. It had nothing to do with anyone else, least of all those who had not lifted a finger to earn it.
And that, more than anything, explained why Clay commanded such enormous prestige within the army. Sure, he'd only led them to a few victories so far, but the key was… he always won. And the spoils they took? Always the finest.
And this time? Their spoils were bigger than ever. Tens of thousands of captives, the vast majority of them women — the kind of spoils that made every northern lord's heart itch with anticipation. How could they not be impatient?
Granted, for various reasons, most of the wildling women were not exactly pleasing to the eye. But there were bound to be some pretty ones among them, were there not? Who could say one of them would not end up in their hands? The wives back home complaining if they brought another woman back? What a joke. This was a reward from Lord Clay Manderly himself. Spoils of war, plain and simple.
"All your eyes are glued to those women, huh? Come on then, tell me, how many do you each want? Give me a number, let's see just how greedy you lot really are."
Clay shot a half-smiling glance at the somewhat sheepish Lord Glover. This man hadn't come here today just to hand him that report. The real reason was written all over his face, as plain as day:
Lord, the brothers have been drooling over this for a while now. How do you plan to split it? You've got to give us an answer…
The northern cavalry who had followed Clay all the way here trusted him completely when it came to dividing the spoils. Clay had never been stingy about such things. As the heir of White Harbor, he had no interest in these odds and ends.
Giving Lord Glover a sideways glance as the man chuckled awkwardly, Clay teased,
"You sure you lot can handle them if I hand the women over right now? Forget whether their hips can hold up. You plan to go at them this soon? Not worried one of those fiery wildling women might just bite your manhood clean off?"
The sudden stiffness in the Lord of Deepwood Motte's expression caught Clay's eye. A faint grin tugged at his lips as he added, "As far as I know, those spoils of war I captured don't come with replacement parts. If you lose something down there… well, I've got nothing new to give you."
Thinking back to when he had gone to inspect the captives himself, remembering those women's eyes burning with hatred as they stared at his fine, luxurious clothes, Lord Glover couldn't help but feel a chill creep down his spine.
Even as a nobleman, his household back home was run with strict discipline.
But now, suddenly, there was this rare opportunity to… indulge a little. And as one of the great lords, of course he would get first pick. With tens of thousands of captives, surely there had to be at least one good-looking one, right? His heart was itching just thinking about it. After all… with Clay Manderly backing them, there was nothing to fear.
"Very well then, Lord Clay. We shall let them be… for the time being. There are, after all, matters of far greater importance that demand our attention. However, my lord… once they've all been brought to heel, well…"
Clay chuckled, cutting him off with a dismissive wave. "Get lost already. You lot won't miss out, don't worry. When the time comes, I'll have them delivered straight to your door. How's that sound? I'll even pick out the sturdiest one for you, make sure she cures that back pain of yours."
—//—\\—
The wildling captives weren't exactly cooperative. Some of them had even attacked the soldiers bringing them food. One soldier was dragged into their midst, and if the others nearby hadn't reacted quickly enough, that poor soul would've lost his life right then and there.
Clay's way of handling the situation was simple and straightforward. His soldiers? All good men, whether they were the ones getting beaten or the ones rushing to save their comrades. As for the wildlings' belongings they'd seized? The soldiers could go ahead and pick what they wanted — just… don't get too greedy. Take whatever you like, within reason.
And as for those unruly little groups among the captives? That was even simpler.
Don't want to eat? Fine. With a single order from Clay, the food supplies were cut off entirely.
You want to eat? Then hand over the ones who attacked. Once they were handed over, Clay would arm the rest of the captives with sticks—not much more than rotten wooden clubs, really. Then, right in front of all the other wildlings, they would beat those troublemakers to death themselves.
And if even a single one survived? Well, then they could all forget about eating.
It wasn't that Clay was cruel by nature, nor that he was some deranged sadist. But in chaotic times, harsh measures were the only way to restore order quickly. And more importantly, those tens of thousands of wildling women were one of the most critical bargaining chips he had for buying the loyalty of the northern cavalry.
Sure, those men all technically belonged to their own noble houses, but if they received enough favors, given the Northmen's simple and straightforward nature, they would inevitably start feeling grateful to Clay deep down.
Clay never expected them to openly stand by him when the day came that he stood against the North. After all, their wives and children would still be living on the lands of those great houses.
All he asked was that they didn't oppose him. That they stayed quietly in their homes when the time came. If that happened, all of Clay's efforts would not have been in vain.
"Lord Commander Mormont, the situation at the Wall isn't complicated anymore. The wildlings won't dare come near for at least half a year. So… I won't be lingering here much longer. The South still needs me."
In the Commander's tower, Clay stood by the window, his gaze fixed on the snowflakes drifting down outside. His back was turned to Jeor Mormont, who sat by the hearth, and his voice was calm as he spoke.
This time, they had wiped out Mance Rayder and crushed the so-called one hundred thousand-strong wildling army. The pain of that defeat had been seared into the wildlings' hearts.
Not long ago, Jon Snow had led a patrol beyond the Wall, and within a hundred miles… not a single trace of a wildling was seen.
You could only say — the effect was remarkable.
The pressure on the Wall's defenses had suddenly eased. Reinforcements from the various noble houses, drawn from emptied dungeons, were steadily arriving, giving the battered Night's Watch a much-needed injection of fresh blood.
At the very least, they could now resume normal patrols in the Haunted Forest, and even spare enough men to start chopping down the trees that had crept dangerously close to the Wall.
Previously, with the Night's Watch woefully understaffed and the wildlings constantly on the move, the Haunted Forest had already encroached significantly toward the Wall. This was a serious threat to its defenses.
According to the records of the Night's Watch, back when the order was at its strongest, you could barely make out the distant outline of the Haunted Forest's treeline from atop the Wall.
But now? The treetops had nearly reached the base of the Wall itself.
And now that their manpower was replenished, the age-old truth had returned with a vengeance.
If you want to be safe (and rich)… start chopping trees…
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[Chapter End's]
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