Three Possible Plans

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Lord Wyman never expected that the grandson he had only just sent off would return once again after a mere eight days.

And when he finally understood what had actually happened, all the questions he had been meaning to ask were swallowed back down his throat. It was simple… this matter was far too grave. It was serious enough that the entire Manderly family had to set aside everything else and focus all their energy and strength on dealing with it.

Because if the contents of that letter turned out to be true, it would mean that the sky over the North… was truly about to collapse.

And this wasn't just about losing a Robb Stark. There were still a few other Starks left in this world with two legs. Worst case scenario, they could always legitimise that bastard boy, it wouldn't be impossible.

But everyone knew that Robb Stark alone could never have rallied such a massive army. So when he marched south, the lords of the great houses of the North marched with him.

Nearly all of them were titled nobles with established names and bloodlines. People like Clay, who commanded his own army and by sheer coincidence had managed to avoid the devastating blow that came from the Vale, were the rare exceptions to the rule.

Therefore, losing one Robb Stark wasn't the end of the world. But if those men were all wiped out too… that would be the collapse of the entire operating structure of the North. Not to mention, some families only had a single male heir. If those were lost, their bloodlines would be at risk of dying out entirely.

Once again, Clay found himself seated across from his old man in the study of Water Tower, the place he felt he had only just left not long ago. But this time, the two of them didn't down tankard after tankard of wine like they had before.

In the face of a crisis like this, they had to keep a clear head. Alcohol might help one relax, but drinking now would only cloud their judgement — and that was the last thing they could afford.

"Grandfather, I've already ordered the scouts to head south. We need to get to the bottom of this as quickly as possible. Something this huge happens, and yet there's not a whisper reaching the Twins… that's not good news."

The old man gave a slow nod, understanding exactly what Clay meant. Either this whole thing was a complete hoax, a farcical deception — but that seemed very unlikely. After all, the corpses were lying there in plain sight.

And… if this wasn't some elaborate trick, if it was all true, and yet even now no word had reached the Twins, then there was only one explanation left.

This had been a complete and utter defeat… perhaps even a massacre. Otherwise, if it had been a fighting retreat, there was no way not a single soldier would've made it back alive.

"Mm. We need to get the full picture. Once we take that first step, there's no pulling back. Whether we attack or defend, we have to come up with a flawless plan. If the entire main force has been wiped out in one battle… then right now, our Twins has already become the front line."

Clay rested his chin on one hand, while the other reached up, rubbing his temple with clear frustration. He wasn't grieving, nor was he afraid. If he had to describe his feelings accurately, it was more like the irritated annoyance of someone whose carefully laid plans had just been disrupted.

All along, he had been reminding himself that the North couldn't fall apart too quickly. The Manderly family still needed the shelter of this great tree to continue growing, to build their strength, so that when their war inevitably arrived, they could face it with ease.

But now… with the Vale's sudden entry into the war, and the Lannisters' almost miraculous decision to abandon King's Landing — as if it had all been meticulously planned from the start — the Vale's cavalry army seamlessly replaced them, encircling Robb Stark's forces at Harrenhal without giving them the slightest chance to escape.

It was only because he had casually mentioned Edmure Tully's idiotic, brain-numbing manoeuvre at the time that Robb Stark had sent word ahead in time. Otherwise, the completely undefended Harrenhal would have fallen long ago, and Robb's army wouldn't even have had a place to take shelter.

"To be honest, I've never really seen the Vale as much of a threat. The Bloody Gate might be a natural fortress, but once I tamed Gaelithox, it practically stopped existing in my eyes. So… I guess I did overlook those people a little."

Clay admitted this to himself with surprising calm. He had, indeed, underestimated the Vale. But the key point was that in this whole mess between the lions and the wolves, Littlefinger's role… was actually quite minimal.

Even though Clay wasn't physically in the Vale right now, he was still certain this whole thing was the handiwork of his dear Lord Petyr Baelish. It was simple logic — who else could pull this off? Lysa Tully? Expecting her to mastermind something like this? That would be a joke.

And based on that, Clay could pretty much confirm with confidence that Arya Stark… was nine times out of ten still hiding out at the Eyrie. As for her role… it was really no different from that of Sansa Stark.

Thanks to Eddard Stark's tireless efforts, the Stark family was still thriving at this moment in time, with plenty of surviving members. They hadn't yet begun to dwindle in number. But they still had one fatal flaw — a crucial, irreplaceable weakness.

When it came to capable, adult men who could actually take charge… there were only two left. And one of them was a bastard.

So, it was exactly like this. The moment something happened to Robb Stark, and with Jon Snow trapped at the Wall, bound by his Night's Watch vows and unable to move an inch… the rest of the Stark family… those few little wolves who hadn't even grown their fangs yet… would be left entirely at the mercy of others.

"Clay, have you really thought this through? If our army down south is completely gone… what are you planning to do next?"

The old man, deep down, still couldn't help but feel heartache over the nearly three thousand infantrymen their family had sent into this war. White Harbor contributed a thousand, and the Twins had sent two thousand. That was the core of their living strength, their foundation.

Fortunately, when Clay had returned to White Harbor earlier, he had pulled all of their family's cavalry forces out from the Northern cavalry group, separating them entirely. That was the only reason those precious cavalrymen hadn't ended up like the other poor souls caught in the disaster down south.

"I've got two ideas… but the specifics depend on what news we get from the south."

Clay raised a finger and tapped lightly on a somewhat worn, rough map of the Riverlands, his voice calm and steady as he explained:

"First option, I'm considering heading to Riverrun. The Tully family has around twenty thousand men gathered there from across the Riverlands. Although I'm not entirely confident in their fighting ability… at least they're usable."

"But there's a problem with this plan. As long as those twenty thousand men stay put at Riverrun, the situation in the Riverlands won't completely fall apart. But if I go there and can't get command of the troops, and that so-called 'God of War' Edmure Tully is still the one leading them… then I'd lean towards fortifying Riverrun immediately."

Lord Wyman frowned, catching the faint, mocking tone in his grandson's voice when he mentioned the so-called 'Gad of War' of the Riverlands. The old man didn't know much about the current head of House Tully, so he asked Clay with a puzzled look:

"Is Hoster Tully's son really that useless? He's the rightful heir to a noble house, isn't he? No matter how bad he is, he can't be that hopeless… right?"

Clay let out a helpless sigh, clearly exasperated as he replied:

"Grandfather, you have to trust my judgment on this. That guy's nothing more than a hot-blooded fool on the battlefield. He's suited to leading charges at the front… but as for commanding an army or making proper decisions in a war? He's completely hopeless."

"…Alright then, if you're that certain, what's your second plan?"

"The second option… that's based on the assumption that the Tully family's twenty thousand men are just as useless. Whether they get routed or just hole up in Riverrun and refuse to come out, the outcome is basically the same."

Clay's eyes narrowed slightly, his tone turning colder as he continued:

"Grandfather, haven't you noticed? Right now, the Lannister army has completely surrounded Robb Stark. Those two idiot stag kings are still holed up in King's Landing… but the Vale's cavalry, the ones who ambushed Robb… where did they disappear to? That question alone could cost us everything."

"Robb Stark might be a fool, but I'll admit there's one thing he made a point. We absolutely can't launch an attack further south along the Kingsroad. In open plains like that, unless we know exactly where the Vale cavalry are hiding, we'd have to live every moment worrying we'll end up repeating Robb's disaster."

"So, the second option is to hold the line. We fortify the Twins and Riverrun… and at the same time, send messengers to Seaguard and the nearby castles, ordering them to hold their ground and slow the enemy's advance northward."

Clay had already made things crystal clear during his last trip back. He knew exactly how much strength the Manderly family still had at its core. As long as the fleet at Bite remained intact, House Manderly could keep sending reinforcements to the Twins, steadily increasing the number of defenders.

With that, plus the soldiers already stationed here, Clay was confident that under the current circumstances — where their forces hadn't yet suffered any serious damage — he could gather four or five thousand men to defend the Twins.

And with the terrain on their side… even twenty thousand attackers wouldn't be enough. They'd be forced to grind their teeth against the castle walls, unless they somehow managed to cross the river early and completely encircle the Twins from both directions.

The old man nodded, his thoughts aligning with Clay's. At a time like this, holding steady, avoiding recklessness, and protecting their own was the most important thing.

Just then, Clay's voice rang out again.

"Actually, Grandfather… there's one final plan. Would you like to hear it?"

"Tch… just say it already. Don't go teasing an old man like me with that nonsense."

Clay smiled, the expression on his face carrying a faint, unreadable look. He reached out, pointing to the right side of the map, towards the distant edge where the Eyrie was marked, and spoke softly:

"If the opportunity presents itself… I'd like to take a trip to Dorne. And when I come back… I'll burn the Eyrie to the ground. Wipe out every last person involved in this scheme, root and branch, so there's nothing left to threaten us."

"But… that would completely turn the Vale against us, and it would also expose our trump cards. Unless it's absolutely necessary, I don't want to use that move. What Queen Visenya did back then… in today's world, we can't afford to play that card lightly."

"After all, I'd like to give Gaelithox… and Daenerys' three little ones… a bit more time to grow."

"This battlefield… won't be ending anytime soon."

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