Morning at Harrenhal was bitterly cold.
Mist drifted in from the nearby Gods Eye, creeping across the floor of the great hall like a blanket of icy breath.
Torches burned along the walls. The lords of the Westerlands sat on either side of a long table.
Every one of them bore wounds. Some had an arm suspended in a sling, some had bandages wrapped around their faces, and others still carried dark bruises around their eyes.
They had barely escaped with their lives at the Gods Eye. Half of the five thousand men who had marched there were dead, and even the surviving nobles were covered in injuries.
The seat at the head of the table stood empty.
Beside it, Alyn Waters, Aemond's squire, stood nervously with both hands holding Blackfyre, House Targaryen's ancestral sword.
Footsteps echoed from behind.
Aemond emerged.
He had changed out of his armor. A dark red robe hung over black leather clothing, and his silver hair rested across his shoulders. His face was completely expressionless.
The Prince Regent's purple eyes swept across both sides of the table. Everywhere his gaze passed, heads lowered.
He walked to the head of the table but did not sit immediately. One hand rested on Blackfyre's hilt as he looked toward the man seated at the very end of the table.
The man to be judged today...
Lord Reyne.
The man wearing a crimson surcoat embroidered with a golden lion sat in the corner, head lowered, trembling from head to toe.
His face was covered in bruises, and one corner of his mouth was split open.
The injuries had come only a short while ago, when furious Westerlands lords had beaten him.
Aemond finally sat down and looked at him calmly.
The hall fell silent.
"My lords," Aemond began.
"Everyone here knows what happened last night."
No one spoke.
"At the Battle of the Gods Eye, the men of the Westerlands fought with blood and steel. Lord Tarbeck fell in battle. Lord Crakehall fell in battle. Lord Westerling was gravely wounded."
"More than five thousand men entered the battle. Over half became casualties."
"Had you not fought to the last and held out until reinforcements arrived, the outcome would have been unimaginable."
Aemond paused and turned his gaze toward Reyne.
"But there were some who nearly made all of that meaningless."
Lord Reyne shuddered and lowered his head even further.
Lord Lefford rose to his feet. His chair scraped harshly against the floor.
"Reyne!"
"You coward! You traitor!"
Reyne raised his head. His lips trembled as he tried to speak.
"When we were surrounded at the lakeshore, enemies on every side!" Lefford roared as he strode around the table, grabbed Reyne by the collar, and yanked him out of his chair.
"Our countrymen fought to the death. Adrian charged at the front. Crakehall held the breach. We were filling the gaps with our lives!"
"What the fuck were you doing?!"
"I..."
"You ran!" Lefford spat into his face. "You took a thousand men and ran!"
"You abandoned us. You abandoned your own countrymen."
"Do you know how many people you nearly got killed?! Five thousand men! The nobles and elite troops of the Westerlands!"
"They almost died because of you!"
He shoved Reyne violently.
Reyne crashed into a chair and fell to the floor.
Lefford still tried to advance, but several others grabbed him.
"Let me go!" His eyes were bloodshot.
"I'm going to kill this coward!"
"Lefford!" another lord shouted while restraining him. "Calm down!"
"Calm down?!" Lefford spun around.
"How many Westerlands knights died last night?!"
"How many nobles?! How many soldiers?!"
The hall fell silent for a moment.
Then more people began standing up.
"My cousin died."
"My uncle died."
"My father..."
"My son..."
Every person spoke a name.
Every name belonged to someone who would never return.
The men who had survived all had red-rimmed eyes. Some clenched their fists. Some gritted their teeth. Others fought back tears.
Lord Reyne lay collapsed on the floor, not daring to lift his head.
Lefford walked over and looked down at him.
"Reyne, do you know what you did wrong?"
Reyne slowly raised his head. His lips trembled. There was resentment in his eyes, but also guilt.
"Lefford... I only..."
"I only wanted to preserve a spark..."
"If all of us had died there, what would have become of the Westerlands?"
"Preserve our strength?" Lefford's voice rose sharply.
"What exactly did you preserve?!"
"You took a thousand men and fled while the other four thousand were trapped at the lakeshore, nearly slaughtered to the last!"
"If the Prince Regent hadn't arrived, all of our corpses would be floating in the Gods Eye right now!"
"So what exactly did you preserve?!"
Lord Reyne's shoulders shook violently as he answered in a cautious voice.
"I'm sorry... I'm sorry... I didn't know... I thought..."
"The fuck you did!" Lord Swyft of Cornfield stepped forward, his face still wrapped in bandages.
"If you hadn't been kissing Lord Jason's ass, he wouldn't have acted so recklessly!"
"The attack at the Red Fork wouldn't have been so rash! The lord wouldn't have died!"
Lord Reyne suddenly raised his head. His face was covered in both tears and blood.
"You! It was you! You were the one who encouraged him!"
"You said the Northmen were no threat! You're the one who got the lord killed!"
"What did you say?!" Lord Swyft drew his sword.
"Enough!" Lord Lefford roared, stepping between them. "Both of you, shut up!"
Lefford turned and looked toward the Prince Regent.
Aemond sat there motionless, his expression unchanged. One hand rested on Blackfyre's hilt.
Lefford took a deep breath and bowed deeply.
"Prince Regent, we ask that you render judgment."
All the lords and nobles of the Westerlands turned their eyes toward the Prince Regent.
Aemond looked at Reyne.
"Reyne."
Reyne raised his head, tears streaming down his face.
"Prince Regent... I know I was wrong... but I did it for the good of the Westerlands... I only wanted to preserve some of our strength..."
"If we had all died there, the Westerlands would have been finished..."
"I never expected you to come... I truly didn't... I thought we had already lost... I only wanted to leave the Westerlands a way out..."
"I beg you... I beg you, for the sake of my family's generations of loyalty to the Iron Throne... spare me this once..."
His voice grew quieter and weaker with every word.
Aemond watched him in silence for a moment.
"You say you did it for the Westerlands?"
"Yes! For the Westerlands!"
"Then what about the other nobles?" Aemond's voice turned cold. "Didn't they want to live?"
"Didn't they want to preserve their strength?"
Lord Reyne froze.
"Didn't Ser Adrian Tarbeck want to live? Didn't Lord Crakehall want to live? Didn't Lord Westerling want to live?"
"And those two thousand three hundred soldiers of the Westerlands who died beside the Gods Eye—didn't they want to live?"
Reyne's lips trembled, but no words came out.
"They wanted to live too."
Aemond rose to his feet, walked around the table, and approached Reyne one step at a time.
"But they didn't run. They stood at the lakeshore facing an enemy three times their number, and they did not run."
"They used their shields to stop the Northmen's axes. They drove their spears through the chests of the Rivermen. They used their own bodies to plug the gaps."
"They wanted to live too, but they did not run."
Aemond stopped in front of Reyne and looked down at him.
His silver hair hung loose, gleaming coldly in the torchlight.
There was not a trace of warmth in those violet eyes.
"So you thought you were the only clever man there?"
"You thought you had made the right choice?"
"You were wrong."
"You nearly destroyed the Westerlands."
"If all these lords and knights had died in that battle, half their houses would have been destroyed because of you..."
"And their families would have hated you for the rest of their lives."
After saying that, Aemond said nothing more. He turned around, returned to the head of the table, sat back down, and looked at Reyne.
"Reyne, do you have anything else to say?"
Reyne's eyes were filled with guilt, but he still opened his mouth.
"Prince Regent... I am willing to accept punishment..."
"I am willing..."
"Very good," Aemond said with satisfaction.
He stood, lifted Blackfyre, and pointed its tip directly at Lord Reyne.
"In the name of Aemond Targaryen, Prince Regent of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Protector of all the Seven Kingdoms."
"And in the name of your liege lord, King Aegon II."
Aemond's voice suddenly turned ice-cold.
"I hereby strip you of your title and your lands."
"House Reyne is reduced to commoners from this day forward."
"Castamere and all lands sworn to it are hereby confiscated by the Crown."