On the west bank of the Red Fork, the Westerlands camp, afternoon.
As the sun began to sink toward the horizon, a group of riders came galloping in from the south.
They wore black-and-red surcoats embroidered with a golden three-headed dragon on a black field—the emblem of the Targaryen royal house now ruling King's Landing.
Their leader was a young knight in his early twenties. His features were sharp, his lips thin, and there was no warmth whatsoever in his gray eyes.
He rode a black Andal destrier drenched in sweat, clear evidence that he had traveled a great distance.
Lord Lefford stood at the entrance of the camp, watching as the riders drew closer and closer.
Messengers from the Iron Throne.
At a time like this.
The riders reined in their horses before the camp gate.
The young man at their head swung down from the saddle in one smooth motion.
He swept a glance across the camp—the dispirited Westerlands soldiers, the corpses piled in corners that had not yet been buried.
The corner of his mouth twitched slightly, but the expression vanished as quickly as it had appeared, replaced once more by cold indifference.
"Lord Lefford?" the young man asked after noticing the sigil on Lefford's armor.
Lord Lefford, who had come out to receive them, nodded.
"I am."
The young man pulled a parchment scroll from inside his cloak and unfurled it before them. The wax seal remained intact.
It bore the Targaryen sigil—the three-headed dragon.
"The Regent has issued a command," the young man announced, raising his voice.
"Let the lords of the Westerlands hear and obey."
Lefford lowered his head slightly and bowed.
The other Westerlands lords around him followed suit. Some moved quickly, some slowly. Some bowed with anger in their eyes, others with resignation.
Ser Adrian Tarbeck, commander of Jason's household guard, was the last to lower his head.
The young man opened the scroll and read aloud: "In the name of Aemond Targaryen, Regent of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Protector of all the Seven Kingdoms."
"To the commanders of the Westerlands."
"You are hereby ordered to march north immediately and reach Harrenhal within ten days."
"You shall not delay."
"You shall not linger."
"You shall not withdraw without authorization."
"Any who disobey shall be judged guilty of treason."
His voice echoed across the empty riverbank.
Every word struck like a hammer against the hearts of those present.
Lefford raised his head and looked at the young man, at the Rosby sigil displayed upon his armor.
After a long silence, he finally spoke.
"Ser Rosby."
"Lord Jason Lannister has just fallen in battle."
"We have just suffered a defeat. The army's morale is low."
"We need time to recover."
"We need to return to the Westerlands and replenish our forces."
"If we continue north now, it will be nothing short of marching to our deaths."
The young man's expression did not change in the slightest.
"The Regent's command is perfectly clear."
"You must arrive at Harrenhal within ten days."
Lefford met his gaze directly.
"Did you hear what I said?"
"Lord Jason is dead."
"Our liege lord is dead. We need to go home."
"Your liege lord is King Aegon II," the young man interrupted.
"Your first loyalty is owed to the Iron Throne."
"Jason Lannister was your lord, but he was also a vassal of the Iron Throne."
"And now the Iron Throne requires you to continue north."
Beside them, Adrian, commander of the household guard, flushed red with fury and shouted: "We lost so many men!"
"Our lord is dead!"
"And you're still ordering us north?"
The young man turned to look at him.
A trace of coldness flashed through his gray eyes.
"Ser Tarbeck, mind your language."
"Mind my ass!" Adrian stepped forward, one hand gripping the hilt of his sword.
"You people sitting safely inside the Red Keep—do you have any idea what we've been through?"
"Do you know how red the waters of the Red Fork were yesterday?"
"Do you know—"
"Adrian!" Lefford barked.
Adrian stopped in his tracks, breathing heavily as his chest rose and fell.
The young man seated on horseback looked at him without moving.
"You may either fulfill your duties as vassals and obey House Targaryen," he said, enunciating each word.
"Or be guilty of treason."
The camp fell so silent that the sound of wind rustling the banners could be heard.
The Westerlands soldiers stood in the distance watching the scene unfold. Some gripped their sword hilts. Some clenched their fists. Others lowered their heads, their thoughts unknowable.
They had just lost their lord.
They had just lost more than a thousand brothers.
And now they were being ordered to continue marching north.
But the word treason carried too much weight.
So much weight that no one dared answer it.
Lord Crakehall stepped forward and tugged lightly at Adrian's arm.
"Enough," he said quietly.
"Ser Rosby is right. We are vassals of the Iron Throne."
"To defy the Regent's command is treason."
Adrian turned and glared at him.
"You're saying that too?"
Lord Crakehall let out a sigh.
"That isn't what I'm saying. I'm saying we have no choice."
Adrian ground his teeth together and remained silent for a long time.
Then he released his grip on his sword and turned away, kicking over a nearby water bucket.
Lefford looked at the young man and replied helplessly, "Ser, please give us a little time."
"We need to discuss this among ourselves."
The young man nodded and rode away.
The Westerlands commanders gathered together, keeping their voices low.
"We can't go," Adrian said first. "This is leading the last of Lannister's elite troops straight to their deaths."
"And refusing means treason," Crakehall replied, shaking his head.
"Are you willing to bear that charge?"
"Treason?" Adrian sneered. "We just lost that many men for the Iron Throne, and now they're calling us traitors?"
Lefford said nothing.
He crouched on the ground and used a stick to draw a map in the sand.
Harrenhal.
Their current position.
The forests, rivers, and hills that lay between them.
Ten days.
Five thousand weary Westerlands soldiers whose morale had already been battered.
And enemy terrain.
Lefford thought for a long while before finally looking at the others and speaking quietly.
"We still have more than five thousand men."
"If we're cautious and avoid taking unnecessary risks, we should be able to reach Harrenhal."
Lord Reyne glanced at him.
"You sure about that?"
Lefford did not answer immediately.
Of course he wasn't sure.
"We move," he finally said, his voice hoarse.
"One step at a time."
The gathered lords exchanged looks.
In the end, they all nodded.
...
East of Acorn Hall — Forest Road — Day One.
The army continued its march north.
This time, they were more cautious than ever before.
Scouts were sent five miles ahead, while watchers kept an eye on every direction.
The infantry marched in dense formations, shields locked together into a wall, long spears jutting outward like the quills of a hedgehog.
The heavy cavalry was divided into two wings to protect the baggage train.
The baggage train occupied the center of the column. Wagon after wagon rolled along, loaded with food, arrows, tents, and the wounded.
Adrian marched at the very front, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword, his eyes constantly scanning the surroundings.
Lord Lefford rode in the middle of the column, his nephew Joffrey beside him.
The boy still carried traces of youth on his face, but the brightness that once belonged to young men was gone from his eyes.
At the Battle of the Red Fork, he had watched his friends die.
He had personally cut down two Northmen.
He had nearly died there himself.
He would never forget that feeling.
The feeling of a blade cutting into flesh.
The feeling of blood splattering across his face.
The feeling of coming within a hair's breadth of death.
The first day passed without incident.
The scouts found no sign of the enemy.
The forest remained eerily quiet.
Only the wind rustling through the treetops.
Only the calls of birds.
Only the sounds of their own footsteps and horses' hooves.
It was too quiet.
Quiet enough to make a man's skin crawl.
Lefford rode on horseback, constantly checking his map, studying the surrounding woods and the distant hills.
He knew the Northmen were nearby.
Like wolves, they were hiding in the shadows, waiting for them to expose a weakness.