The dying sun cast its farewell glow across the western fields, painting all the world in shades of gold and amber. Upon the nearby stream, patches of light danced and shimmered with the current, drifting downstream like fallen coins from some celestial purse—a sight both simple and eternal, beautiful beyond the power of words to capture.
The messenger from Goldengrove leaned heavily against the gnarled trunk of an apple tree, his eyes drinking in the splendor of this red-touched evening. Here, he decided, he would rest. Here, perhaps, he would die.
Blood seeped steadily from his wounds, darkening the earth beneath him.
He could walk no further, nor did he wish to try. It grieved him that Lady Bethany's plea for aid would never reach its destination, but grief was a luxury he could ill afford now.
What would become of Goldengrove?
In his heart, he already knew. He had seen the signs with his own eyes that terrible day when everything changed.
Without warning or herald, a vast host had appeared south of the Mander, their column stretching beyond the horizon like some great serpent of steel and silk. Hundreds of golden rose banners snapped in the wind above their heads—the arms of Highgarden, liege lords of Goldengrove for three centuries past.
Yet no ravens had flown ahead to announce their coming. No courteous messages had been sent to prepare their vassals for this unexpected visit.
Goldengrove had watched and waited.
Beneath those rose-emblazoned banners, thousands of foot soldiers had assembled along the eastern bank of the Mander, their ranks stretching north and south as far as the eye could see. From their midst emerged cavalry in perfect formation, breaking away from the main body to thunder across grass and grain field toward Goldengrove's ancient walls.
Even a child could have read the malice in their approach.
Goldengrove had reacted as swiftly as desperate circumstances allowed. Guards rode forth to parley with the approaching host while nervous hands gathered what few defenders remained within the castle walls, preparing for whatever storm might break upon them.
Yet all such preparations were but mummer's show against the reality of what approached.
If this army truly came as enemy rather than friend, then whether Goldengrove stood ready for siege or threw wide its gates in welcome would matter not one whit.
To any foe with conquest in mind, Goldengrove was ripe fruit waiting to be plucked.
The defenders could only pray that the host from the south came as friends bearing aid, that the golden roses they flew were true banners rather than false colors worn by enemies.
The gods answered half their prayer.
The golden roses proved genuine enough. The knight who led the vanguard cavalry bore a face familiar to all who knew the great houses of the Reach: Ser Willas Tyrell, heir to Highgarden itself.
How his lame leg had been healed to allow him such easy mastery of his destrier remained a mystery, but that face could not be mistaken. Surely the heir of Highgarden would offer no harm to loyal vassals of his house.
That hope died quickly.
The delegation sent to treat with Willas was seized the moment they came within reach! One knight broke free of his captors and ran desperately for the gates, only to take a crossbow bolt between the shoulders and fall face-first into the churned mud.
Horns blared from Goldengrove's walls as the great gates swung shut and the drawbridge rose with rattling chains. From the maester's tower came a cloud of ravens bearing urgent messages in all directions—some demanding explanations for this inexplicable betrayal, others pleading for immediate aid, still others offering surrender if mercy might be found.
At Lady Bethany Redwyne's command, the messenger had taken horse and ridden hard through the west gate in those final moments before it too was sealed.
The lord must know what transpired here. He must bring his men back to lift this siege before Goldengrove fell to treachery.
The messenger had understood the desperate importance of his mission.
He spared neither himself nor his mount, driving the beast at a killing pace that left Highgarden's pursuit far behind. Before the castle vanished from sight entirely, he had turned for one final look.
Golden rose banners surrounded Goldengrove completely, their numbers growing moment by moment as fresh companies arrived from the south. The infantry formed concentric rings around the ancient seat like layers upon a wedding cake, each ring drawn tighter than the last until not even a mouse could slip between their ranks.
Goldengrove could not hold alone. This much was certain.
Whatever game Highgarden played, Lord Mathis must learn of it with all speed. The message must reach him within four days at the very latest—sooner if at all possible.
The plan had seemed sound enough. One day's hard riding would bring him to Coldmoat, seat of House Webber, where he might change horses and continue west without delay. If fortune smiled, Lord Mathis would have word of the crisis within two days.
Fortune, however, proved a fickle mistress.
Scarce an hour into his westward flight, the messenger spied crimson-helmed riders in a peach orchard beside the road. Lannister men, their red cloaks bright as blood against the green.
They had seen him too.
What followed was a chase that would have made a fine song, had any lived to sing it. The messenger rode as though all the demons of the seven hells snapped at his horse's heels, while behind him thundered the lions' men. Through twisting paths he led them, left and right and left again, deeper into wild country where only goat tracks threaded between the trees.
At last he plunged into thick forest, trusting to fortune and his mount's sure feet to navigate the maze of trunk and branch, root and hole that could break horse and rider both.
When next he saw open sky, he found himself alone on a sun-washed meadow, gasping like a landed fish while his lathered horse trembled beneath him.
Silence stretched in all directions. His pursuers were lost somewhere in the green maze behind.
But so was he.
After a night spent beneath the stars, he stumbled upon a town that seemed prosperous enough. Yet when he sought directions and news, the answers chilled his blood more surely than winter wind.
Old Oak had fallen, they told him. King Renly was dead or fled. Lannister soldiers held every road and town from here to Lannisport.
Even as he absorbed this crushing news, he smelled danger thick as morning mist. Already he was reaching for his reins, preparing to flee this trap—
But the town's garrison had heard of the stranger asking dangerous questions.
This time luck abandoned him entirely.
Though he spurred his mount to desperate speed, crossbow bolts hummed through the air behind him like angry wasps. One took his horse in the rump, sending the beast into bucking frenzy. Another punched through his own back, the iron point scraping bone as it lodged deep in his flesh.
He had escaped, but barely. And escape meant nothing when every step brought fresh agony, when blood painted a trail that any fool could follow.
His wounded horse threw him before they had gone a league. From there he traveled afoot, each step slower than the last as his strength ebbed with his blood.
The crossbow bolt in his back had missed lung and heart by the grace of the gods, but it bled him steadily dry. Another bolt had pierced his left forearm, making every movement torture while threatening the poison that came with festering wounds.
Alone in the wilderness with no healer's skill, he could do little save cut away the protruding shafts and pray for miracles that would not come.
Now he leaned against rough bark, feeling his vision blur and sharpen by turns. The stream sang its ancient song, seeming to call him toward sleep that might last forever. Wind stirred the apple boughs above, bringing scents of ripening fruit and sweet grass that made his empty belly clench with hunger he no longer had strength to satisfy.
In better days he would have climbed for those apples, stuffed his cheeks until juice ran down his chin. Now he could barely lift his hand to touch the letter still tucked against his breast.
He had never read its contents, but such things mattered little now.
Settling deeper against the tree's embrace, he tilted his head skyward and let his eyes drink in the glory of the evening. Clouds blazed like forge-fire overhead, painting the heavens in shades of gold and crimson that would have made the greatest artists weep with envy.
There—what was that?
A streak of red cut across the painted sky, brighter than any star and straighter than any arrow's flight. From northwest to southeast it blazed, trailing fire in its wake like blood upon silk.
Was it real, or merely the fever-dream of a dying man?
He blinked hard, but still the crimson star burned its path across the heavens.
A comet, perhaps. Or something else entirely—some sign from gods who had remained silent through all his prayers.
His arm fell limp to his side as the last of his strength drained away. Only his eyes moved now, tracking that celestial fire as it wrote its message across the darkening sky.
Time passed—moments or hours, he could no longer tell.
A butterfly settled on his bloodstained palm, its wings bright as jewels in the dying light. Again and again its delicate tongue touched the red wetness there, as though tasting the salt of his life as it ebbed away.
Above them both, the red comet burned on through the gathering dark.