The Riverlands, west of Acorn Hall, a forest road — the next day.
By the evening of the second day, something went wrong.
One scout failed to return on time.
Adrian waited half an hour, then sent two more scouts to look for him.
Another half hour passed before they returned, bringing back a corpse.
It was the first scout.
An arrow had struck him in the throat. His eyes were still open, unwilling to close even in death.
His horse was gone. His weapons were gone. Even his leather armor had been stripped away.
Adrian, commander of the household guard, stared at the dead man's face.
He knew him.
His name was Tom. He had come from Tarbeck Hall and had served under Adrian for several years.
He was always smiling, always drinking, always boasting. He used to say that once the war was over, he would go home and marry a wife.
Now he was dead.
His throat had been slit, and his eyes remained open.
Adrian closed his own eyes and took a deep breath.
"Keep moving."
The army marched on.
But the atmosphere had changed.
Everyone watched the woods.
Every gust of wind made them tense.
Every falling leaf made their hearts jump.
The trees were no longer just trees. Archers could be hiding behind them. Axemen could be hiding behind them.
Death itself could be hiding behind them.
They had not traveled far before an arrow flew out of the forest.
It struck a soldier walking near the edge of the column in the thigh.
The man screamed and collapsed to the ground. Blood poured from the wound, staining his trousers red.
Other soldiers rushed over and raised their shields.
But there was nothing in the woods.
Only wind.
Only trees.
Only the rustling of leaves.
Then another arrow came.
This one struck a soldier in the shoulder.
Another scream.
Another burst of panic.
And again, nothing.
By the end of the day, they had been shot at dozens of times.
Six men were dead.
Nine were wounded.
The arrows came from different directions.
Sometimes from the left.
Sometimes from the right.
Sometimes from ahead.
Sometimes from behind.
They never knew where the next arrow would come from.
When camp was made that evening, fear was written across every soldier's face.
No one dared wander off alone.
No one dared stray too far from camp.
Some soldiers even refused to gather firewood, preferring to freeze.
Just a short while ago, a wood-gathering party of more than ten men had been turned into pincushions by arrows fired from deep within the forest.
Adrian sat beside the campfire, his face dark.
He had examined the arrows.
There was no doubt whose work this was.
House Blackwood.
The methods of the Raven Teeth.
They had also sent ravens toward Harrenhal and King's Landing...
But every raven that had taken flight seemed to have been shot down.
It appeared that the Northern and Riverlands armies had begun hunting the entire Westerlands host.
He hated this kind of war.
The treacherous Riverlanders and the shameless Northmen.
A pack of men with no sense of knightly honor...
He looked at the frightened soldiers nearby.
He looked at the wounded men still groaning in pain.
For the first time, he felt a deep sense of helplessness.
Lefford walked over, sat beside him, and handed him a piece of bread.
Adrian accepted it, took a bite, chewed, and found he could barely swallow.
"They're like ghosts."
"You never know where they are."
"You never know when they'll come."
Lefford said nothing and simply listened.
"We're out in the open while they're hidden in the dark," Adrian continued.
"They attack whenever they want."
"They fight however they want."
"All we can do is take the blows."
"All we can do is wait to die."
Lefford looked at him.
"Do you regret it?"
Adrian remained silent for a long time before shaking his head.
"No."
He paused.
"I just don't want to die like this."
"To be killed by people like them..."
"There's no honor in a death like that."
Lefford said nothing.
That night, the sentries died.
Not to arrows.
To knives.
Four sentries in total.
Two on the eastern side of the camp.
Two on the western side.
They had been stationed less than fifty paces apart.
Every one of them had their throat cut.
None had managed to make a sound before dying.
The killer had used the same method every time.
A single slash across the throat.
Clean.
Efficient.
The camp exploded into chaos.
Some soldiers shouted hysterically.
Others ran around in panic.
Some hid inside their tents and refused to come out.
Adrian led a search party for an entire hour.
They found nothing.
The forest was pitch-black.
You couldn't see your own hand in front of your face.
The Raven Teeth, familiar with every inch of the terrain, moved like ghosts.
Appearing without warning.
Vanishing without a trace.
By dawn, dark circles hung beneath many soldiers' eyes.
Their faces were filled with exhaustion and fear.
"They're nearby," someone said.
"They're watching us."
"Like hunters watching prey."
"Are we going to die here?"
Lord Lefford stood in the center of the camp, looking at the terrified soldiers.
His heart felt cold.
This was a hunt.
They were in no hurry.
They felt no pressure.
Slowly.
Patiently.
They peeled the skin from their prey.
They pulled the bones from their prey.
Little by little.
Until the prey finally collapsed.
Then came the fourth day.
The fifth day.
The sixth day.
Every day, arrows came flying out of the woods.
Every day, someone fell.
Sometimes a soldier.
Sometimes a groom.
Sometimes a wagon driver.
Sometimes during the day.
Sometimes in the middle of the night.
Sometimes while eating.
Sometimes while sleeping.
They never knew where the next arrow would come from.
They never knew who it would strike.
Under the constant harassment, day and night, some men were already beginning to break.
During the march, one young soldier suddenly threw down his weapon, dropped to his knees, and burst into tears.
"I don't want to die!"
"I don't want to die!"
"I want to go home!"
His comrades looked at him.
No one laughed.
Because every one of them was thinking the exact same thing.
"How much farther do we have to go?"
Even Lord Crakehall, who had remained steady throughout the march, sounded uneasy as he asked Lord Lefford beside him.
Over the past few days, the Westerlands army had suffered only a little more than a hundred casualties.
But this relentless harassment, day after day and night after night, had thrown the entire host into growing panic.
Lefford, mounted on his black horse, unfolded a map.
"Two days."
"One more day of marching and we'll reach the Gods Eye."
"Beyond the Gods Eye lies Harrenhal."
Adrian nodded.
"One day."
He raised his head and looked at the soldiers.
Every one of them looked strained. Dark circles ringed their eyes, and some could barely stay on their feet.
"One day."
He repeated it loudly, as much to encourage the men around him as to remind himself.
...
Eastern Shore of the Gods Eye — Northern Camp — Dusk.
Cregan Stark stood beside the Gods Eye, watching the sun sink below the horizon.
The lake was calm.
The evening clouds reflected across its surface, painting it in brilliant shades of red.
The distant mountains stood out clearly against the sky, like a painting.
The wind swept across the water, carrying a hint of coolness and the calls of birds from the distant forests.
"My lord," Rylly Karstark rode over on horseback. "The Westerlands army is almost at the Gods Eye."
Cregan nodded without speaking.
Rylly hesitated before asking, "My lord, when do we strike?"
Cregan stared at the lake for a long time.
"When they reach the shore," he said.
"Let them see the water."
"Let them think hope is right in front of them."
"And then..."
He did not finish the sentence.
Rylly understood.
"My lord, those Westerlanders are already at their limit."
"They've lost many men. Their morale is low. They can't eat properly, can't sleep properly. Some of them can barely walk straight."
"We don't even need an ambush anymore. We could beat them in a frontal battle."
Cregan shook his head.
"If we fight head-on, they'll resist desperately."
"We'll lose many men too."
"I don't want too many Northmen to die."
He looked calmly at Rylly.
"War isn't only about killing people."
"Sometimes letting an enemy collapse on his own is more useful than slaughtering him."
Rylly thought for a moment before nodding.
Cregan turned back toward the lake.
"Pass the order."
"They'll reach the eastern shore of the Gods Eye tonight."
"Leave one path open. Seal off all the others."
Rylly grinned and nodded.
Then Cregan suddenly asked, "What about Harrenhal's forces? Still just those militias?"
Rylly thumped a fist against his chest and replied confidently, "My lord, don't worry. Our scouts have been watching Harrenhal constantly."
"House Strong only has those thousand or so militia and a few household troops."
"They won't affect us at all."
"And the Prince Regent?" Cregan asked.
Rylly answered immediately.
"He returned to King's Landing several days ago."
"They say Princess Helaena is about to give birth."
"Our agents in King's Landing personally saw the Prince Regent return to the Red Keep."
At last, Cregan relaxed.
He nodded and said, "Then tonight..."
"We finish this war against the Westerlands army."
Rylly eagerly accepted the order and rode off.
Cregan had been worried that Aemond might be stationed at Harrenhal and interfere with the battle.
No one understood better than he did the impact a Targaryen dragon could have on a war.
...
Eastern Shore of the Gods Eye — Deep Night.
The moon shone brightly, casting silver light across the lake.
At last, the Westerlands army emerged from the forest of death.
And they saw it.
The Gods Eye.
A vast expanse of water stretching to the horizon, glittering beneath the moonlight.
Along the shore lay open ground.
No trees.
No bushes.
Only grass and stone.
"We made it!" some soldiers cried out, their voices trembling with emotion.
"We're almost there!"
Cheers erupted throughout the army.
Some men even dropped to their knees and kissed the ground.
Adrian sat atop his horse and gazed at the lake, letting out a long breath.
They had endured.
Those ghost-like Riverlanders.
Those bastards hiding in the shadows and firing arrows.
Once they crossed the Gods Eye, Harrenhal would be within reach.
At Harrenhal there would be reinforcements.
Supplies.
Safety.
Lord Lefford did not celebrate.
Instead, tension tightened in his chest.
Mounted on horseback, he stared at the lake and felt a growing certainty.
The decisive battle was coming.
"Form ranks."
Lord Lefford suddenly spoke.
His voice was not loud, but it carried clearly.
"Form ranks. Prepare for battle."
Adrian turned toward him.
"What?"
"Form ranks," Lefford repeated.
"There's an ambush."
Before the words had fully left his mouth, countless torches suddenly flared to life atop the northern hills.
Like stars scattered across the earth, they stretched from one end of the ridgeline to the other, illuminating half the sky.
Beneath those torches stood dark masses of men.
Dense ranks of spears.
Arrowheads gleaming coldly in the firelight.
"The North!" someone shouted.
"The Northmen!"
"The Riverlands!" another cried.
"The Riverlanders are here too!"
Torches ignited on the southern shore.
More torches appeared to the east.
To the west lay the lake.
Enemies surrounded them on three sides.
Only the road they had come from remained open.
Lefford said nothing.
He had known all along.
From the moment the enemy began pursuing them, he had known.
But there had been no point in saying it.
The Northmen had never intended to defeat them in battle.
They intended to trap them to death.
The flat ground beside the Gods Eye was the perfect killing ground.
Hills to the north.
Ridges to the south.
Forest to the east.
Lake to the west.
Seal off two directions and everyone inside became fish in a barrel.
No retreat.
No supplies.
No reinforcements.
Only death.
Lefford also understood something else.
The enemy had deliberately left the eastern route open.
But if they ordered a retreat now, given the condition of the Westerlands army, it would almost certainly turn into a rout.
"Form ranks!"
Adrian drew his sword and roared.
"Form ranks!"
"Shield wall!"
"Spears forward!"
"Prepare for battle!"
The Westerlands soldiers desperately rushed to assemble their formations.
But it was already too late.
The Northmen did not charge.
They simply stood atop the hills and ridges, holding their torches and watching.
The Westerlands lords sat mounted on horseback, staring at the sea of fire covering the landscape.
Their hearts turned cold.
At that moment, Lefford could not understand why the Prince Regent had insisted on ordering them farther north.
Was he really going to stand by and watch them march to their deaths?
Or was it possible... ?