The Riverlands, west of Acorn Hall, the forest road. Day two.
The next evening, something happened. A scout did not return on time. Adrian waited half an hour and sent two more scouts to find him. Half an hour later, they returned, carrying a body. It was the body of the first scout. He had been shot in the throat; his eyes were still open; he was dead. His horse was gone, his weapons gone, his leather armor gone.
Adrian, the guard commander, looked at this face. He knew this man. His name was Tom. He was from their Tarbeck Hall and had been with him for several years. He always smiled, loved to drink, loved to boast, and said he would return after the war to marry his fiancée. Now he was dead. His throat had been cut; his eyes were still open, and he could not close them.
Adrian closed his eyes and drew a deep breath.
"Continue."
The army continued to march. But the atmosphere had changed. Everyone watched the forest; every gust of wind made them nervous, every falling leaf frightened them. Those trees were no longer just trees—behind them could be archers, axemen, and death.
After a short walk, an arrow was loosed from the forest. It struck a soldier walking at the edge of the column in the thigh. The soldier screamed and collapsed to the ground; blood gushed from the wound, staining his trousers red. Other soldiers rushed toward him, raising their shields, but there was nothing in the forest. Only the wind, only the trees, only rustling.
Then another arrow. This time it struck a soldier in the shoulder. Another scream, another panic—and nothing.
By the end of the day, they had been shot at dozens of times; six men were killed and nine wounded. These archers came from different sides—sometimes from the left, sometimes from the right, sometimes from the front, sometimes from the rear. They never knew which side the next arrow would come from.
When they made camp that evening, the soldiers' faces were full of fear. None of them dared to act alone or go far from the camp. Some soldiers did not even want to gather firewood, preferring to freeze.
Just now, a team of more than a dozen men had gone for firewood but were shot to hedgehogs by hidden arrows deep in the forest.
Adrian sat by the fire, his face ashen. He had seen these arrows; it was clearly the work of House Blackwood of the Riverlands—the Raven's Teeth. They also had ravens like Harrenhal, King's Landing... But those ravens that had just flown into the sky seemed to have been shot down.
It seemed that the armies of the North and the Riverlands had begun to hunt the entire Westerlands army. He hated this kind of war—the despicable Riverlanders and the shameless northerners, those dishonorable bastards...
He looked at the frightened soldiers beside him, at the wounded still moaning, and for the first time felt a deep sense of helplessness.
Lafford approached him, sat down, and offered a piece of bread. Adrian took it, bit into it, chewed, and could not swallow.
"They are like ghosts. You never know where they are, you never know when they will come."
Lafford was silent, listening quietly.
"We are in the light; they are in the dark," Adrian continued. "They can fight when they want, and how they want. We can only be beaten, we can only wait to die."
Lafford looked at him. "Do you regret it?"
Adrian was silent for a long time, then shook his head. "No regrets." He paused. "I just don't want to die like this. Killed by these vile men is not a glorious way to die..."
Lafford was silent.
---
That night, a guard died.
He was not shot by an arrow; he was cut with a knife. Four guards—two in the east and two in the west—were less than fifty paces apart. Their throats were slit, and they died without even a scream. The killer used the same technique—neatly cutting the throat with a knife.
The camp erupted. Some soldiers shouted, some ran around, some hid in their tents and dared not come out.
Adrian searched for an hour among the men but found nothing. The forest was pitch black—one could not see five fingers before them—and those Raven's Teeth, familiar with the terrain, were like ghosts, coming and going without a trace.
At dawn, some soldiers had dark circles under their eyes, and their faces were full of exhaustion and fear.
"They are near," some said. "They are watching us like they watch their prey." "Will we die here?"
Lord Lafford stood in the center of the camp, looking at the frightened soldiers, his heart cold.
They are hunting. They are not in a hurry, not panicking; slowly, bit by bit, they are skinning their prey and breaking its bones until the prey completely collapses.
---
The fourth, fifth, and sixth days followed.
Arrows flew every day. Every day, someone fell. Sometimes soldiers, sometimes grooms, sometimes civilian drivers. Sometimes day, sometimes night, sometimes while eating, sometimes while sleeping. They never knew where the next arrow would come from or whom it would hit.
After days and nights of relentless harassment, some men began to break down.
During the march, a young soldier suddenly threw down his weapon, knelt, and wept. "I don't want to die yet! I don't want to die! I'm going home!"
His comrades looked at him, and no one laughed. Because everyone was thinking the same thing.
"How much farther?" Even Lord Crake, usually calm on the march, was somewhat anxious and pulled Lord Lafford aside.
In these days, although the Westerlands army had killed and wounded hundreds of men, this kind of harassment, day and night, had caused panic throughout the army.
Lord Lafford unfolded his map. "Two days. One more day's march, and we will reach Gods Eye Lake. Past Gods Eye Lake is Harrenhal."
Adrian nodded. "One day." He looked at the soldiers. Everyone looked tense, with dark circles under their eyes; some could barely stand. "One day," he repeated loudly, as if to encourage the many soldiers around him.
---
On the eastern shore of Gods Eye Lake, the northern camp. Sunset.
Cregan Stark stood by the lake, watching the sunset. The lake was calm, reflecting the sunset, bright red. The distant mountains were clearly outlined, like a painting. The wind blew across the lake, bringing a faint coolness and the sound of birdsong from the distant forest.
"My lord," Riley Karstark rode up, "the Westerlands army is nearly at Gods Eye Lake."
Cregan nodded and was silent.
Riley hesitated for a moment, then asked, "My lord, when will we act?"
Cregan looked at the lake and was silent for a long time.
"Wait until they reach the lake," he said. "Let them see the lake, let them feel that hope is right before them. And then..."
He did not finish. Riley understood.
"My lord, these Westerners can't hold on much longer. They have lost many men, their morale is very low, they can't eat or sleep properly, and they walk unsteadily. We don't even need an ambush—we could defeat them head-on."
Cregan shook his head. "Fighting head-on, they would resist desperately, and many of our men would die. I don't want too many northerners to die."
Cregan looked at Riley; his eyes were calm.
"War is not just about killing people. Sometimes it's more effective to let them collapse on their own than to kill them all."
Riley thought for a moment and nodded.
Cregan turned and looked at the lake.
"Give the order," he said. "Tonight, they will enter the eastern shore of Gods Eye Lake. Leave a path of escape, and seal the rest."
Riley smiled and nodded.
Suddenly Cregan asked him, "What about the forces at Harrenhal—those militia?"
Riley patted his chest and assured him. "My lord, don't worry; our spies are always watching Harrenhal. Strong only has a few thousand militia and a handful of family soldiers—they won't affect us."
"Where is the Regent?" Cregan asked.
Riley answered immediately. "He returned to King's Landing a few days ago. Word is that Princess Helaena is about to give birth. Our spies in King's Landing saw with their own eyes that the Regent returned to the Red Keep..."
Cregan finally felt relieved, nodded, and said, "Then tonight we will have our decisive battle with the Westerlands army."
Riley agreed enthusiastically and rode off.
Cregan had been worried that Aemond might be stationed at Harrenhal and affect the course of the war. He knew the impact of the Targaryen dragons on the battlefield...
---
The eastern shore of Gods Eye Lake. Late at night.
The moon was bright, casting silver light on the lake.
The Westerlands army finally emerged from the forest of death. They saw the lake. Gods Eye Lake—a vast, endless lake, glistening in the moonlight. The lakeshore was open plain; there were no trees, no bushes, only grass and stones.
"We're here!" some soldiers shouted; their voices cracked. "We're almost there!"
The soldiers applauded. Some knelt and kissed the ground.
Adrian rode his horse, looked at the lake, and drew a deep breath. These days. They had made it. Those ghostly Riverlanders, those mongrels who hid in the dark and shot arrows—once they passed Gods Eye Lake, there was Harrenhal. When they arrived at Harrenhal, there would be reinforcements and supplies.
Lord Lafford did not rejoice. He looked nervously at the scene. He rode his horse, looking at the lake, and a feeling rose in his heart. Perhaps the moment of the decisive battle had come.
"Form up," Lord Lafford suddenly spoke; his voice was not loud but clear. "Form ranks. Prepare for battle."
Adrian turned his head to look at him. "What?"
"Form up," Lafford repeated. "There is an ambush."
Before the words were finished, countless torches suddenly lit up on the hills of the northern shore. The torches were densely packed, like stars, stretching from one end of the hill to the other, lighting up half the sky. Beneath the torches lay black figures—dense spears and arrows, gleaming coldly.
"The North!" someone shouted. "The northerners!" "The Riverlands!" another shouted. "The Riverlanders are there too!"
Torches were also lit on the southern shore. On the eastern shore, torches were also lit. On the western shore was the lake. Enemies on three sides. Only the path they had come from was not ambushed...
Lafford was silent. He had known. He had known since they were pursued. But he could not say it. Because saying it was useless.
The northerners did not want to defeat them; they wanted to trap them. The plain by Gods Eye Lake was perfect for encirclement. It was bounded by hills to the north, hills to the south, forest to the east, and the lake to the west. Once both directions were sealed, the men inside would become turtles in a jar. No retreat, no supplies, no reinforcements. They could only wait to die.
Lord Lafford also knew that the enemy seemed not to have sealed the east, but if they dared to order a retreat now, the current state of the Westerlands army would soon turn into a rout.
"Steady!" Immediately, Adrian drew his sword and roared. "Form ranks! Shield wall! Long spears! Prepare for battle!"
The Westerlands soldiers began to form ranks desperately, but it was too late. The northerners did not rush down. They simply stood on the hills, holding their torches, watching them.
Many Westerlands bannermen rode their horses, looking at the torches covering the mountains, and their hearts were cold.
At this moment, Lafford was very puzzled: why had the Regent ordered them to continue north? Was it all to watch them die?
Or...