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Clay had already guessed that the Old Lion might lose his temper, for he had deliberately suppressed the news from Riverrun about the Lannister host gathering at Golden Tooth.
Riverrun still had a portion of its garrison left behind, and more importantly, the Red Fork and the Tumblestone formed twin rivers that flowed ceaselessly, serving as natural moats no army could easily cross. Even if the Young Lion were released from Golden Tooth and marched straight against them, Riverrun would not fall in a matter of days.
Since that was the case, such news, though it could not possibly change the outcome, might still shake the confidence of the men in the army. It was best kept within Clay's own heart. He would swallow it alone, without allowing it to spread through the ranks. The fewer who knew, the steadier the camp would remain.
After all, in these turbulent years of unending war, there were very few who could keep their minds clear.
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"Come on, Drogon. We shouldn't be far from Gaelithox now."
Above the Bitterbridge, Daenerys guided Drogon through the skies. As they descended, she discovered a heap of charred, pulverized sheep bones scattered across the ground, blackened remnants that crackled faintly in the wind.
There was no doubt who had done this. At such a critical time, only one creature could be responsible: Clay's unruly dragon, Gaelithox.
After burning Starpike Keep at the border where the Reach touched Dorne, the beast had not continued northwest as one might expect. Instead, it had veered away, turning directly north and flying straight on.
Gaelithox had no idea that had it pressed half a day farther northwest, it would have come upon the heart of the Reach itself, the great castle of Highgarden, seat of its lords and the jewel of the south.
The "Queen of Thorns," Olenna, along with that perfumed and accursed eunuch, had been spared by nothing more than fortune.
Daenerys, riding Drogon, had set out from Sunspear. Yet by the time she departed, she was already more than four days behind Gaelithox.
It was fortunate the dragon had not flown without pause. To Gaelithox, this flight seemed more like a leisurely outing: soaring, hunting, feasting, with no sign that the small wound upon its wing troubled it in the least.
The healing of dragons was swift, for they were not ordinary creatures of flesh and blood, but living beings woven together by magic.
From this point onward, however, Gaelithox no longer swooped down upon every human castle it happened to see in search of food.
After all, Westeros was vast. Whenever the dragon spotted something edible, a single burst of fire roasted it on the spot, and with a few loud crunches it could devour the prey before moving on. There was no need to gorge itself to bursting. What mattered was to eat little by little, again and again, a terrifying kind of sustainable feeding that allowed it to roam without pause.
When Daenerys once more appeared at Starpike upon the back of Drogon, the sight of another dragon's shadow spreading across the sky was enough to unhinge the nerves of the survivors. Drogon was smaller by far than Gaelithox, yet the majesty of a dragon was unmistakable, and the unlucky few who had survived the earlier devastation now quaked with a dread that bordered on madness.
First it had been a massive blue-and-gold beast that swooped from nowhere and reduced the lord's proud castle to ashes. The ruins had scarcely cooled, not a single soul left alive within, and just as the people began to think the horror was past, here came a second dragon, black and red, circling above their heads.
Smaller, yes. But still a dragon. And that was enough!
Daenerys watched the common folks shriek and scatter, fleeing in blind panic, and sighed inwardly. She had wanted to descend, to ask them questions, but the sight of their terror made it clear there was no point.
To her, who lived each day with dragons, there was nothing monstrous in the creatures that ruled the sky. Each had its own nature, its own habits, and she could feel their thoughts, the strange rhythm of their minds.
But to the farmers of the Reach, a dragon was neither companion nor wonder. It was a herald of death, a beast whose shadow meant doom. To remain even a heartbeat longer beneath such a creature was nothing less than tying one's own head to one's belt and gambling with fate.
Thus, for them, the only wisdom was to run as swiftly as possible, spending neither word nor breath, their survival born of instinct sharpened by years of hunger and hardship.
Daenerys could do nothing. All she could rely on was Drogon's keen sense of smell, urging him to pick up whatever faint traces remained of Gaelithox, the dragon that had tormented him day after day in his youth.
Fortunately, Drogon managed to find the trail, and with steady beats of his wings, he bore Daenerys northward in pursuit.
However, this flight carried consequences of its own. The lords of the Reach saw the sudden appearance of a second dragon and drew their own fearful conclusions. Whispers spread that this was no mere wandering beast but proof that the Dornish, and the Targaryens behind them, had at last lost patience and were preparing for war.
The effect was swift. Castles near the Dornish border, such as Horn Hill, Red Lake, Ashford, High Tower, and several others, saw their lords rushing to spirit their wives and children away from the safety of their keeps.
And the common folk were not blind. Walls could not keep out rumor, and once word spread that the lords had fled with their families, the people of the towns soon followed their example. In the days that came after, the streets emptied, not in orderly fashion but in a panicked rush, as though the very stones of their homes could no longer be trusted to keep them safe.
Out in the countryside, the peasants had never witnessed such turmoil. Their rough cottages, flimsy dwellings whose roofs let in the wind, were suddenly seized upon by families fleeing from the towns. These newcomers brought with them coin and jewels the villagers could never have dreamed of earning in a lifetime. The peasants looked on in disbelief as their homes were bought outright, not through bargaining or haggling, but with silver and gold tossed down as if it were no more than pebbles.
Even the poorest huts, those despised for their drafts and holes, became suddenly desirable. And not for single lodgers, but for entire households arriving at once, trailing children, servants, carts, and trunks overflowing with belongings, overwhelming the villages with the weight of their flight.
The peasants could only shake their heads, muttering that truly, they had lived long enough to see every strange thing the world had to offer.
Daenerys left the blackened ruins of Starpike behind and pressed steadily north toward the castle of Appleton. She urged Drogon to remain alert for any trace Gaelithox might have left behind, lest they lose the trail.
As expected, the path was plain to see. Along the way, Drogon uncovered the scattered remains of many animals, bones gnawed and splintered, abandoned after Gaelithox had eaten his fill.
Daenerys noticed at once how Drogon bristled each time they came upon such remains. His resentment deepened with every pile of bones they passed, the irritation almost tangible in the way his great body shuddered and the low growls that rumbled from his throat.
The reason was not difficult to guess.
"To find you, I've flown all this way," his thoughts seemed to say, "when I could have stayed in Sunspear, eating well, drinking deep, living in ease. Instead I've been driven north, and I'm weary. And you? You roam at leisure, feasting as you please. Is this a hunt, or some merry outing?"
Drogon had never forgotten how Gaelithox had bullied him again and again, and now this pursuit only deepened his bitterness.
Were it not for Daenerys, who as his rider poured her own will into him, soothing and directing his thoughts, Drogon would not have spared so much as a sniff at the scraps Gaelithox left behind.
They passed over Appleton, and still Drogon beat his wings tirelessly, driving himself onward. Unlike Gaelithox, whose flight north seemed almost leisurely despite its purpose, Drogon gave everything he had. Yet for all his effort, his wings were smaller, his strength less, and in sheer speed and stamina he could not match his rival.
By the time they reached the Bitterbridge, Drogon's senses told them Gaelithox's scent was stronger, heavier in the air. Yet Daenerys's eyes, scanning the horizon, found no trace of the dragon itself.
What gnawed at her most was not her poor sense of direction, though she had none, but the fact that she had never set foot in these lands before. She did not even know where she truly was. To find someone to ask was impossible; the common folks fled at the mere shadow of wings.
Helpless, she had no choice but to press northward. As long as she could find Clay, all would be well. Clay was a native of Westeros, a man who knew every river, every keep, every winding road. With him by her side, she would never be left stranded, uncertain even of how to find her way back.
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Clay, meanwhile, upon realizing that Harrenhal had fallen into full-scale battle, understood at once that the rhythm of this campaign had slipped beyond his grasp from the very beginning.
The Old Lion's sudden decision to hurl his full strength against Harrenhal was nothing less than a classic revival of the strategy of striking a fixed point in order to lure the enemy's reinforcements into a trap.
It was no secret ploy, but an open conspiracy laid bare for all to see. A baited trap. Everyone knew it, yet it worked, because it struck at the very thing the enemy could not afford to abandon. Whether Clay approved or not didn't matter. He could not stand idly by while Tywin Lannister battered down Harrenhal's gates and then roasted the northern lords whole in one great cauldron.
So be it… if Tywin Lannister was the first to play his card, then Clay would simply play along, and turn the move against him.
You want to fish, do you?
You're hoping I'll feed you men by the hundreds, by the thousands, letting them march straight into your jaws one bite at a time?
As if it could ever be so easy.
If you cast your line into the water, you should not be surprised when a shark answers the hook.
In response, Clay ordered Edmure Tully to march his entire force without delay, driving straight toward the battlefield at Harrenhal. Beyond that, he summoned Galan Manderly and sent him riding hard to Lord Harroway's Town. There he was to deliver a message to Lord Karstark, commanding him to lead his ten thousand men south at once and join the fight at Harrenhal.
So, Tywin wished to lure reinforcements into his net? Very well. Clay would not send a few thousand, but thirty thousand men crashing down upon him. Let the Old Lion try to swallow that whole. And if he found himself unable to digest it, then he could choke on his own ambition.
The armies rumbled forward. Across the flatlands of eastern Riverlands, with Harrenhal at the center, the fields and roads were alive with movement. Scouts galloped back and forth, messengers carried orders through dust and wind, while columns of soldiers marched, steel glinting under the sun, all driving relentlessly toward their appointed fields of battle.
Edmure Tully, once he had received Clay's commands and pressed the messenger for the details of Harrenhal's plight, could only grit his teeth. Whatever he felt in his heart, whether resentment or reluctance, he still gathered his fourteen thousand men and pushed them forward, forcing the pace, driving hard toward Harrenhal.
Clay understood. Edmure understood. Tywin Lannister understood. Every noble and every soldier on both sides understood. This battle was no mere clash of armies… it was the final reckoning, the decisive struggle that would determine, once and for all, the fate of the Riverlands battlefield.
If Clay were to lose, then in theory both the North and the Riverlands would be spent. Their last reserves of strength exhausted, their final breath of war potential extinguished, they would be left with no choice but to submit to whatever fate awaited them.
But if Tywin Lannister were the one broken instead, then his road home would be cut off. He would never live to see the Westerlands again. Unless he surrendered outright, there would be no escape. Clay Manderly's cavalry would hound him mercilessly, driving him until the gods gave him no refuge and the earth offered no hiding place.
So be it. The die was cast. Now let the armies clash, and let the world bear witness to who would emerge as the final victor.
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Meanwhile at Winterfell…
"My lady, I believe you may wish to read this letter."
Maester Luwin, as always, was wrapped in his pale grey robes, the links of his chain glinting faintly against the fabric.
But this time, he had not found the lady of the castle in young Master Bran's chambers.
Only a month ago, within the godswood of Winterfell, something strange had occurred. The great heart tree that towered there, the largest weirwood in all the North, had suddenly begun shedding its crimson leaves in great cascades. From the carved face in its trunk, the eyes, the nostrils, even the mouth, there had begun to seep thick drops of sap, red as blood.
Such a sight had never been witnessed in the North. Not even during the last Long Winter had the heart tree's branches withered.
And now, what had once been a solemn visage carved by the Children of the Forest, a sacred symbol revered for thousands of years, had twisted into something dreadful, uncanny, almost grotesque.
To the people of the North who still kept faith with the Old Gods, this was an omen of ill fortune. The news spread quickly through Winterfell, until at last it was carried into the hands of Catelyn Tully.
From that day forward, none among the Old Gods' faithful dared to go near the weirwood that had once stood at the very center of their devotion.
The only one who could approach without her heart breaking was Catelyn herself, daughter of House Tully, raised in the faith of the Seven.
And so she forced herself, teeth clenched, to walk into that grove. It was a place she had not set foot in since her husband, Eddard Stark, had gone to his death.
In these past weeks she had returned daily, each time standing beneath the bleeding face of the weirwood, gazing up, burdened with grief and yet compelled to watch. It was there, beneath its branches, that she laid her sorrow, her longing, her unspoken words to the man she had lost.
The leaves that had once burned red like fire and blotted out the sun now fell one after another, shaken loose by the fine flurries of snow that whispered through the air.
Catelyn did not know why, but the longer she watched, the more she felt the tree was fading before her eyes. Aging, withering, as though something unseen was slowly drawing its strength away.
It was a thought she told herself was absurd, yet in her heart, that first instinct remained. Women's intuition, irrational but undeniable.
Reports had come from across the North of other heart trees, their vitality draining in the same strange way. Each message, each rumor, pressed down upon her with growing certainty.
Something had happened. Something vast, something terrible.
Something was stirring in the world…
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[Chapter End's]
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