The western bank of the Red Fork, the Westerlands. Afternoon.
As the sun began to set, a group of riders came from the south. They wore black and red surcoats with three golden dragons embroidered on their breasts—the sigil of the royal House Targaryen in King's Landing today. At their head rode a young knight, in his early twenties, with a cold face, thin lips, and a pair of grey eyes devoid of warmth. He rode a black Andal destrier, covered in sweat—clearly he had traveled a long way.
Lafford Reyne stood at the entrance of the camp, watching the riders approach. An envoy from the Iron Throne—at this stage, just what they needed.
The riders reined in at the camp gate. The young man at the front dismounted, his movements precise. He glanced at the camp—at the dejected Westerlands soldiers, at the corpses piled in the corners that had not yet been buried. The corners of his lips twitched slightly, but soon returned to indifference.
"Lord Lafford?" The young man looked at the sigil on Lafford's armor and asked.
Lord Lafford, who had come out to greet him, nodded. "That is I."
The young man drew a roll of parchment from his chest and unfolded it before them. The wax seal remained intact—the Targaryen sigil, the three-headed dragon.
"The Regent has issued a decree," the young man said immediately, his voice rising slightly. "The lords of the Westerlands are to obey the command."
Lafford bowed slightly, then knelt. The other Westerlands bannermen followed suit—some quickly, some slowly, some angry, some helpless. Jason's guard captain, Ser Adrian Tarbeck, was the last to bow his head.
The young man unfolded the parchment and read aloud to all:
"In the name of Aemond Targaryen, Regent of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Protector of the Seven Kingdoms. The commanders of the Westerlands are to obey this command: immediately lead your troops north, arriving at Harrenhal within ten days, without delay, without hesitation, and without retreat without permission. Offenders will be punished for treason."
His voice echoed across the empty river beach, as if striking every heart.
Lafford raised his head, looked at the young man, looked at the sigil of House Crosby, was silent for a long time, and finally spoke slowly.
"Ser Crosby. Lord Jason Lannister has just been killed in battle. We have just suffered a defeat; morale is somewhat low. We need time to rest and recover, and we need to retreat west to replenish our troops. If we continue north now, we will undoubtedly be annihilated."
The young man's expression did not change; he said coldly, "The Regent's intention is clear: you are to arrive at Harrenhal within ten days."
Lafford looked into his eyes. "Did you hear me? The lord is dead. Our liege lord is dead. We need to go back."
"Your lord is Aegon the Second," the young man interrupted. "The object of your primary loyalty is the Iron Throne. Jason Lannister was your lord, but he was also a vassal of the Iron Throne. Now the Iron Throne needs you to continue moving north."
Beside him, the guard commander, Adrian, his face flushed, cursed angrily. "We have lost so many men! Our lord is dead! And you want us to go north?"
The young man looked at him; a coldness flickered in his grey eyes.
"Ser Tarbeck, choose your words carefully."
"Watch my words?" Adrian stepped forward and placed his hand on his sword hilt. "You lot sit in the Red Fort—do you know what we've been through? Do you know how red the water of the Red Fork was yesterday? Do you know..."
"Adrian!" Lafford shouted.
Adrian stopped, breathing heavily, his chest heaving.
The young man on his horse looked at him motionlessly.
"Either perform your duty as vassals to the Targaryens," he said, word by word, "or it is treason."
The camp was so quiet that the wind could be heard stirring the banners. The Westerlands soldiers stood in the distance, watching this scene—some gripping their sword hilts, some clenching their fists, some lowering their heads, not knowing what to think. They had just lost their lord, lost thousands of brothers, and now were ordered to continue north.
But the word "treason" was too heavy. So heavy that no one dared lift it.
Lord Crake stepped forward, pulled Adrian aside, and whispered, "Let it go. This Ser Crosby is right. We are vassals of the Iron Throne. Disobeying the Regent's command is treason."
Adrian turned his head and glared at him. "You say that too?"
Lord Crake sighed. "I don't say that. I mean, we have no choice."
Adrian gritted his teeth and was silent for a long time. Then he released his sword hilt, turned, and walked away, kicking a bucket beside him.
Lafford looked at the young man and answered helplessly. "Ser, please give us some time. We need to discuss this."
The young man nodded and rode away.
The Westerlands commanders gathered together, their voices low and hushed.
"I cannot go," Adrian said first. "This is leading the Lannister elite to a dead end."
"If we don't go, it's treason," Crake shook his head. "Are you willing to be charged with treason?"
"Treason?" Adrian sneered. "We just killed so many men for the Iron Throne, and they still call us traitors?"
Lafford was silent. He crouched on the ground and drew a map in the sand with a branch: the location of Harrenhal, where they were now, separated by forests, rivers, and hills. Within ten days, with over five thousand demoralized Westerlands soldiers, marching through terrain familiar to the enemy.
Lafford thought for a long time, then looked quietly at the crowd and said slowly, "We still have over five thousand men. If we are careful and don't rush headlong, we can reach Harrenhal."
Beside him, Lord Reyne looked at him. "Are you sure?"
Lafford did not answer immediately. He was certainly not sure.
"We'll go," he said in a hoarse voice. "Step by step, and watch step by step."
Many bannermen exchanged glances and finally nodded.
---
East of Acorn Hall, the forest road. Day one.
The army continued north. This time, they were more cautious than ever. Scouts were sent out five miles ahead, with men watching every direction. The infantry formed tight ranks, shields locked together as a wall, spears pointing outward like a hedgehog's spines. The heavy cavalry was split into two flanks to protect the baggage train. The baggage train was held in the center, the wagons loaded with grain, arrows, tents, and the wounded.
Adrian walked at the front, his hand on his sword hilt, his eyes constantly scanning around.
Lord Lafford walked in the middle of the column, followed by his nephew Joffrey. Joffrey's face was still boyish, but his eyes no longer held the brightness of youth. In the battle at the Red Fork, he had watched his friend die, killed two northerners with his own hands, and nearly died there himself. He would not forget that feeling—the feeling of a blade cutting through flesh, the feeling of blood splattering on his face, the feeling of nearly dying.
The first day passed safely. The scouts found no enemies. The forest was quiet; only the sound of wind whistling through the treetops could be heard, only birdsong, only their own footsteps and the sound of horses' hooves. It was so quiet, so still, that it sent chills down people's spines.
Lafford rode his horse, constantly looking at the map, at the surrounding forest, at the distant hills. He knew the northerners were near. They were like wolves hiding in the shadows, waiting for them to show a weakness.