An Unfinished Call for Help

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"Lord Clay, that's right. These are indeed the bodies of our Northern cavalry… judging by the torn fragments of their cloaks, they should be from House Karstark."

They were on the Kingsroad, near the central stretch of the Mountains of the Moon, and what had brought the Manderly cavalry, under Clay's command, to a halt were five fallen corpses lying by the roadside — both men and horses alike.

The forward scouts recognized them at a glance. The shattered armor on the soldiers' bodies was unmistakably Northern chainmail, the most common style worn by troops from the North. Their deaths here instantly set off alarm bells in the minds of the scouts, men seasoned in war with sharp instincts for danger.

Without the slightest hesitation, they divided their forces. A small detachment continued south to investigate, checking whether an enemy ambush might be lying in wait ahead, while the rest of the scouts immediately turned back to report to their commander, Clay Manderly.

The moment Clay heard the report, a heavy sense of unease settled over him. Cavalrymen dying — that was nothing unusual. The entire realm of the Seven Kingdoms was ablaze with war, and the death of five soldiers on its own was hardly enough to cause alarm.

But the problem… was where they had died.

This was the eastern stretch of the Riverlands, still a considerable distance from Harrenhal and the battlefront where the armies were to face off. There was no reason for the cavalry to be ambushed and slaughtered in this place.

For some reason, the image of Arya Stark, who had gone missing and remained unfound to this day, flashed across Clay's mind, and with it, a suffocating wave of unease wrapped around him, tightening like an iron chain.

"Orders! All cavalry, deploy immediately! Break formation — leave the Kingsroad and advance slowly across the plains. Also, send out more scouts. I want to know every detail within fifty miles of our position."

This time, Clay was leading only Manderly cavalry, men entirely loyal to his house. Their discipline and willingness to carry out his orders far exceeded that of the broader Northern cavalry under his command.

The moment the orders were issued, the long marching column came to a halt. Amidst the shouts of officers and the low, steady blare of horns, the Manderly cavalry swiftly reorganized into a tight formation — a solid square with heavy cavalry stationed at the front, ready to deliver the first and fiercest blow in any engagement.

And so, Clay led his men forward, advancing cautiously. Word had already spread among the troops of what had happened. Every soldier was alert now, each of them preparing themselves mentally for the fight that might erupt at any moment.

They were all veterans, men who had seen battle before. No one panicked. They believed — no, they knew — they could defeat any enemy who dared to stand in their way.

Roughly three miles farther down the road, Clay finally saw the corpses of the Northern soldiers that the scouts had discovered.

Frowning, Clay dismounted from his horse. In an instant, a line of heavy cavalry closed in around him, forming an unyielding wall of steel, their armored bodies shielding him from any possible attack that might come from the surrounding wilderness.

His long-dormant witcher's senses, honed for tracking and danger, stirred to life with full intensity. Squatting beside one of the corpses, Clay carefully examined every detail on the dead man's body, his sharp eyes tracing over every clue.

"Blood… sprayed toward the northern side of the road," he thought to himself. "Someone cut open his carotid artery."

"The smell is still very strong. Judging by that… he's been dead no more than two days."

"Looking at the direction he fell… and where his horse collapsed… when he died, he should've been riding north."

Piece by piece, those faint and hidden details filtered into Clay's mind, feeding his rapid analysis as he tried to reconstruct exactly what had happened here two days ago.

"He was shot off his horse with an arrow, fell to the ground… tried to get back on his feet and run… but the cavalry chasing behind caught up to him and slit his throat."

"Mhm… yes… that's the Karstark sigil, the blazing sun of Winter. But he isn't a scout. I don't recall assigning any Karstark men to my scouts… he must have been chased all the way here."

"Hm… what's this? A bloodstained letter?"

From beneath the fallen man's inner tunic, Clay pulled out a letter, its surface marred with dark, half-dried bloodstains.

He couldn't quite understand why the attackers hadn't taken the letter. Judging by the hoofprints and tracks left at the scene, there were only the footprints of this Northern soldier here — no one else's.

Which meant… the attackers had killed him and simply left. The attackers' only purpose was to kill. They hadn't even bothered to search the body. The man's most valuable possessions — his armor, his weapons — all remained untouched.

Unfolding the bloodied parchment, Clay frowned as he read through its contents carefully. Once he reached the end, he froze, crouching in place with a blank, almost dazed expression on his face, not saying a single word for a long while.

"Clay… what's wrong? What is that?"

It was Ser Maron who spoke, the old knight who had accompanied him on this march. He had just ridden up from the rear of the formation, only to be greeted by this strange, tense scene.

The old knight swung down from his saddle and strode over to Clay's side. His grey-white brows furrowed into a deep knot as he lowered his voice and asked the question.

Clay let out a long, heavy sigh, his expression weary as he handed the piece of parchment to Ser Maron. His voice, quiet and uncertain, carried a weight of unease that was hard to put into words.

"We… might be in serious trouble."

Ser Maron carefully unfolded the letter. The handwriting scrawled across the parchment was crude and chaotic, each stroke trembling as though written by a man whose hands refused to stay steady. It was painfully obvious — whoever had penned this letter had been in a state of sheer, overwhelming fear at the time.

The letter was not long, only a few short lines, yet the moment Ser Maron read its contents, the color drained from his weathered face, a man who had seen the cruelty of countless battlefields reduced to a pallid expression of shock.

༺✧─────────────✧༻

Tell Clay… the Vale has rebelled. I was ambushed and most of my army was scattered. I managed to lead the remnants in a breakout and have taken shelter at Harrenhal. We are now… completely surrounded by Tywin Lannister's forces.

All the ravens at Harrenhal have been shot down. Tell Clay to hold the Twins at all costs. No matter what happens, do not allow the traitors to seize Moat Cailin.

That is an order! Do not come to save me… I am already encircled.

༺✧─────────────✧༻

At the bottom of the letter was a symbol Ser Maron recognized instantly — the familiar direwolf's head. It was Robb Stark's personal sigil.

Now, at last, Ser Maron understood why Clay had said they were in serious trouble. But this… this wasn't just trouble. This was a thunderbolt from a clear sky!

As if struck by a sudden realization, the old knight immediately began searching through the other corpses scattered on the ground. Sure enough, hidden among their bloodstained tunics, he found more letters — identical in appearance, each bearing the same desperate words.

This was… saturation messaging. It didn't matter how many of them died along the way. As long as even one of them managed to deliver the message to the Twins, it would be considered a success.

And yet…

Now, everything was clear. The truth settled over them like a suffocating fog, impossible to ignore. Robb Stark, driven by his burning desire for vengeance, had barely lingered at the Twins. Instead, he had marched his army straight down the Kingsroad toward King's Landing.

But that proud young Wolf King… had failed to realize that high above him, circling in silence, was a hunting falcon. A falcon he had once called an… ally. A falcon he had once called… family. And now, that same falcon was beginning its deadly dive straight toward him.

And so, somewhere along the way, Robb Stark's completely unprepared army had been ambushed by the knights of the Vale, renowned as the finest cavalry force in all of the Seven Kingdoms. Caught off guard, chaos erupted within the ranks, and the army collapsed.

Afterwards, Robb Stark had managed to rally the remnants of his shattered forces, leading them in a desperate retreat south. They eventually reached Harrenhal, the southern gate of the Riverlands. Using the towering walls of that ancient fortress, he had managed to momentarily hold off his pursuers. But what he had not expected was… for Tywin Lannister to abandon King's Landing and turn his army around, completely surrounding Harrenhal.

"Clay… is it… all over?"

Ser Maron's voice cracked as he spoke, trembling with disbelief. In his eyes, this disaster was nothing short of catastrophic. With this single defeat, the North had lost the bulk of its fighting strength, and for a land as sparsely populated as the North, that was practically a death sentence.

What responded to him was Clay's voice, so cold it sounded like he was chewing on ice.

"I don't know… all we have is this one letter. There's too little information. Robb Stark's infantry has definitely collapsed. They were caught off guard, outplayed, and heavy cavalry against foot soldiers? It'd be a damn miracle if they hadn't been wiped out."

"What I want to know now is where the battlefield was. The cavalry I sent ahead… they might have been caught in it too and defeated. But they are cavalry. Some of them should have gotten away. So now, where the hell are they?"

Clay cast a glance at Ser Maron, whose hands were still trembling, his whole body frozen on the spot. But Clay never expected him to answer that question. In truth, no one following behind him could give him the answer.

"Orders. The whole army moves out. We are heading north. Back to the Twins."

"Yes. We go back first. The Twins cannot be lost. King Robb, he…"

"He what? What the hell does he know about commanding an army? If I don't save him… if I let him get completely trapped in that giant graveyard called Harrenhal and killed by Tywin… then when that happens, the sky over the North will really collapse."

Clay suddenly cursed under his breath, but that wasn't enough to ease his frustration. His fury continued to pour out as he vented every ounce of suppressed anger at the man he was supposed to respect without question — King Robb Stark.

"Bloody fool with his pig-headed commands! His head's stuffed full of that damn hero nonsense. He really thinks he can pin Tywin down at Harrenhal? He's dreaming! We had such a good hand, such a perfect situation… and that idiot tossed it straight into the flames!"

The soldiers nearby exchanged glances, each one staring blankly at the others, unsure what to make of their young lord's sudden outburst. But from the sound of it… it seemed like he was cursing King Robb.

Their eyes met again. And in that shared, silent look, every man understood the unspoken message. Today… they hadn't heard a thing. That's right. Not a single word.

At that moment, Ser Maron, who had finally recovered from his initial shock, realized that his earlier panic had been misplaced. Pushing aside his lingering shame, he spoke quickly,

"Clay… with the few men we have… there's no way we can break through the Vale knights or the old lion's forces to rescue Robb Stark."

"I know that," Clay snapped, his voice cold as ever. "That's exactly why we are heading back to the Twins. We cross the river. We ride for Riverrun. Over there… our other God of War, Lord Edmure Tully, has been gathering men for months."

His tone carried an edge as sharp as ice shards as he swung himself onto his horse.

"The Tullys and the Starks… their fates are tied together. If the Starks fall… do you really think the Tullys can stay standing? Right now… they are our only hope."

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