The morning at Harrenhal was bitterly cold.
Mist rose from nearby Gods Eye Lake, pressing against the floor of Harrenhal's hall, icy and chilling. At this moment, torches blazed in the hall, and the lords of the Westerlands sat on either side of the long table. All bore wounds on their faces—some had bandaged arms, some had bandaged heads, and some had bruised eye sockets. They had barely escaped from Gods Eye Lake; half of the five thousand men had died, and the surviving nobles were covered in wounds.
The head of the long table was empty.
Beside the high seat stood Aemond's squire, Alyn Waters, nervously holding the Targaryen ancestral sword—Blackfyre—in both hands.
Footsteps sounded from behind.
Aemond entered.
He had changed out of his armor; his black leather tunic was covered by a dark crimson robe, his silver hair fell over his shoulders, and his face was expressionless. The Prince Regent's violet eyes swept across both sides of the long table, and wherever his gaze passed, all lowered their heads.
He approached the high seat but did not sit, placing his hand on the hilt of Blackfyre, looking at the man at the far end of the long table.
The one to be judged today...
Lord Reyne.
The man in the red robe with the golden lion sat in the far corner, head bowed, his whole body trembling. His face was covered in bruises, and a crack had appeared at the corner of his mouth—he had just been beaten by the angry lords of the Westerlands.
Aemond sat down and looked at him calmly.
The atmosphere in the hall was eerily silent.
"Everyone," Aemond said. "You all know what happened last night."
No one spoke.
"In the battle at Gods Eye Lake, the Westerlands soldiers fought fiercely. Lord Tarbeck was killed, Lord Crake was killed, and Lord Westerling was seriously wounded. Of over five thousand men, more than half were killed or wounded. If you had not fought desperately and held on until reinforcements arrived, the situation would have been unthinkable."
Aemond paused; his gaze fell on Reyne.
"But some people nearly brought it all to an end."
Reyne's body trembled; he lowered his head.
Lord Lafford stood; his chair scraped across the floor with a sharp sound.
"Reyne! You coward! Traitor!"
Reyne looked up; his lips trembled, as if wanting to say something.
"We were surrounded by the lake, trapped by the enemy!" Lafford stood, walked around the table, grabbed Reyne by the collar, and lifted him from his chair. "Our comrades fought desperately. Adrian charged forward, Crake filled the gaps—we risked our lives to hold the line! What the hell did you do?!"
"I..."
"You fled with a thousand men!" Lafford spat in Reyne's face. "You abandoned us, abandoned your countrymen. Do you know how many lives you nearly cost? Five thousand men! The nobles of the Westerlands, their elite troops! You nearly killed me, damn you!"
He shoved Reyne hard. Reyne crashed into a chair and fell to the floor. Lafford wanted to go after him, but others held him back.
"Let me go!" His eyes were bloodshot. "I'll kill that coward!"
"Lafford!" a noble beside him held him back. "Calm down!"
"Calm down for what?!" Lafford turned his head. "How many western knights died last night?! How many nobles died?! How many soldiers died?!"
Hearing this, silence fell over the hall for a moment. Then more people stood up.
"My cousin is dead too." "My uncle is dead too." "My father..." "My son..."
Each spoke a name, and each name was a person. Those who survived had red eyes—some clenched their fists, some gritted their teeth, and some had tears in their eyes.
Lord Reyne collapsed on the ground, not daring to raise his head.
Lafford walked to him and looked down at him.
"Reyne, do you know what you did wrong?"
Reyne looked up; his lips trembled; his eyes were full of reluctance and guilt.
"Lafford... I just... I just wanted to preserve some strength... If we all died there, what would become of the Westerlands?"
"Preserve strength?" Lafford's voice rose. "What did you preserve?! You fled with a thousand men, and the remaining four thousand were surrounded by the lake—nearly all of them died! If the Regent had not come, the bodies floating in Gods Eye Lake would have been all of us! What did you preserve?!"
Lord Reyne's shoulders shook violently; he answered cautiously. "I'm sorry... I'm sorry... I didn't know... I thought..."
"What did you think!" Lord Crake of Cornfield stepped forward; his face was still bandaged. "If you hadn't flattered Duke Jason, he wouldn't have been so reckless! The Red Fork wouldn't have been so reckless! The duke wouldn't have died either!"
Reyne suddenly looked up; his face was stained with tears and blood. "You! It was you! You encouraged the duke! You said the northerners couldn't stand one charge! You killed the duke!"
"What did you say?!" Lord Crake drew his sword.
"Enough!" Lord Lafford shouted, stepping between them. "Everyone, shut up!"
Lafford turned and looked at the Regent.
Aemond sat motionless; his expression did not change; his hand rested on the hilt of Blackfyre.
Lafford drew a deep breath and bowed to Aemond.
"Regent, I beg you to pass judgment."
All the lords and nobles of the Westerlands turned their attention to the Regent.
Aemond looked at Reyne.
"Reyne."
Reyne looked up; tears streamed down his face.
"Regent... I know I was wrong... But I did it for the Westerlands too... I just wanted to preserve some troops... If we all died there, the Westerlands would be destroyed... I didn't expect you to come... I really didn't expect it... I thought we were doomed to lose... I just wanted to leave a path for the Westerlands... Please... Please, for the sake of my family's generations of loyalty to the Iron Throne... Spare me this time..."
His voice grew softer and weaker.
Aemond looked at him and was silent for a moment.
"You said you did it for the Westerlands?"
"Yes! It was all for the Westerlands!"
"What about the other nobles?" Aemond's voice grew cold. "Don't they want to live? Don't they want to preserve their strength?"
Lord Reyne was stunned.
"Ser Adrian Tarbeck didn't want to live? Lord Crake didn't want to live? Lord Westerling didn't want to live? Those 2,300 Westerlands soldiers who died at Gods Eye Lake—didn't they want to live?"
Reyne's lips trembled; he could not speak.
"They wanted to live too," Aemond stood, walked around the table, and stepped toward Reyne. "But they did not flee. They stood by the lake, facing an enemy three times their number, and did not flee. They blocked the northerners' axes with their shields, pierced the Riverlanders' chests with their spears, and used their own bodies to block the gaps. They wanted to live too, but they did not flee."
Aemond reached Reyne, looking down at him. His silver hair fell down, gleaming coldly in the firelight. There was no warmth in his violet eyes.
"Do you think you are the only clever one? Do you think you made the best choice? You are wrong. You nearly destroyed the Westerlands. If all those lords and knights had died in battle, half of their families would have been wiped out by you... And their families would have hated you for the rest of your life."
Having said this, Aemond said no more, turned, and returned to his high seat, sitting back in the chair, and looked at Reyne.
"Reyne, do you have anything more to say?"
Reyne's eyes were full of guilt, but he still opened his mouth. "Regent... I am willing to accept punishment... I agree..."
"Very well," Aemond said with satisfaction.
He stood, raised Blackfyre, and pointed the tip directly at Lord Reyne.
"I am Aemond Targaryen, Regent of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Protector of the Seven Kingdoms. In the name of your liege lord, Aegon the Second."
Aemond's voice suddenly turned cold.
"I hereby strip you of your title and lands. House Reyne is now reduced to commoners. Castamere and its territories are to be fully seized by the Crown."