The Westerlands, East of the Golden Tooth, Acorn Village.
It was deep into the night.
Acorn Village sat nestled within the rolling hills east of the Golden Tooth, a mere thirty miles from the Riverlands border.
It was a modest settlement of about thirty households that had lived there for generations, surviving by growing wheat and raising sheep.
Several ancient oak trees, said to be centuries old, stood as silent sentinels at the village entrance, giving the hamlet its name.
A bone-chilling winter wind howled down from the north.
Every household had shuttered its doors and windows tight, save for the gristmill at the center of the village, where a dim, amber light flickered against the dark.
As the largest building in the village, the mill was used for grinding flour by day and served as a communal dining hall by night.
Inside, a bonfire crackled heartily. A large iron pot hung over the flames, bubbling and steaming with thick porridge.
Dozens of villagers huddled around the hearth, clutching wooden bowls and eating the warm gruel as they chatted.
"I heard the Lord Paramount took two real lions with him on the march," a middle-aged man said, chewing thoughtfully on his food.
"Lions?" a youth nearby asked, his eyes lighting up.
"Is that true?"
"Of course it's true," the man said, wiping his mouth.
"I saw it with my own eyes. Two massive lions, locked in iron cages, following the army."
"Lions..." a white-haired elder mused.
"We haven't seen lions in the West for many years. When I was young, they still roamed the mountains, but they became rare later on."
"Grandpa, what is a lion?" a seven-year-old boy asked, pulling on the elder's sleeve.
The elder grinned, revealing a few missing teeth, and held up his hands like claws.
"A lion, lad, is like a cat as big as a house. It can carry you off in a single bite. They specialize in eating children who don't listen at night."
The boy shrieked and buried his face in his mother's lap, drawing a warm round of laughter from the crowd.
The sound echoed in the mill, dispelling the bitter winter chill.
"Tell me, just how big are those Targaryen dragons?" a young man asked curiously.
"I've seen one! I've seen one!" A man in his forties stood up excitedly, his face flushed by the firelight.
"I went to King's Landing in my youth and saw them with my own eyes!"
The crowd turned toward him, eyes wide with curiosity. The man gestured grandly.
"The largest one, Vhagar, when she spreads her wings, she blots out the sun!
You can't even see the sky. When she roars, the ground of the entire city trembles!"
The children listened spellbound.
"What does it eat?" a little girl asked timidly.
"Cows! Sheep! It can eat ten cows in a single meal!" the man declared.
"And the fire it breathes? It can melt solid stone!"
"Whoa..." the children gasped in unison.
The elder shook his head and laughed.
"Enough, enough. If you keep going, these kids won't be able to sleep."
The man sat down with a chuckle and resumed eating. The fire popped and crackled, and the porridge continued to steam.
Outside, the north wind howled, but the mill remained warm, filled with the scent of woodsmoke and human connection.
Then, the Village Head cleared his throat and stood up, his gentle smile fading.
"Everyone, quiet down. I have something important to say."
The villagers fell silent. The Head was a man in his seventies, his hair snow-white and his face deeply wrinkled, but his posture remained straight.
He had governed Acorn Village for forty years, and the villagers respected him deeply.
"A messenger from the Golden Tooth arrived today," the Head said grimly.
"Word is that our Westerlands are at war with the rebels from the North. The lords have ordered every village to be careful, to organize our young men for night watches, and to be on strict guard against Riverlands stragglers."
The villagers looked at one another. Some were openly dismissive.
"Head, you're taking this too seriously. We have the Lannisters. Lord Jason himself led the army out; what trouble could those Riverlands mud-foots possibly cause?"
"Exactly," someone echoed.
"Our knights can scatter them with a single charge."
The Head frowned.
"Don't talk like that. War is no small matter. It's never wrong to be careful. Starting tomorrow, every household must provide one man for the night watch, "
Before he could finish the sentence, the heavy mill doors slammed open.
A gust of freezing wind rushed in, making the bonfire flicker wildly and casting dancing shadows across the walls.
A dozen men stood at the threshold. They wore chainmail beneath dark, travel-stained cloaks, their hands resting on drawn swords and heavy spears.
Their leader was a young man in his early twenties with close-cropped brown hair.
His face was flushed red from the biting cold, but his eyes were startlingly bright and predatory.
He scanned the terrified villagers and grinned.
"Oho, having dinner, are we?"
The mill fell into a deathly silence. The villagers froze, bowls clutched in their hands, mouths hanging open, but no one dared move.
The dress of these men, their weapons, and the unmistakable, suffocating aura of slaughter they carried were terrifying.
The young man ignored the crowd and walked straight to a child sitting by the hearth. The boy shrank into his mother's arms, holding his breath.
The young man reached out, scooped a handful of porridge from the child's bowl, and tasted it.
"Mmh," he nodded in mock approval.
"You lot eat quite well."
His accent was strange, completely different from the soft Western tongue, carrying the harsh, gravelly cadence of the North.
An old woman suddenly stood and pointed a trembling finger at him. "Who are you? What do you want?"
Before the words fully left her mouth, a burly man beside the youth struck her across the face with a mailed fist.
The old woman cried out and fell backward, knocking over a wooden bucket.
"Grandma!" several children wailed.
The villagers grew restless, but looking at the glinting steel surrounding them, no one dared to act.
The Village Head stood up on trembling legs, trying to help the old woman while stammering, "Lords... My Lords, stay your anger... if you need anything, we can provide it..."
The young man looked at him and smiled.
"You're a sensible one."
He paused, letting the silence stretch before speaking slowly.
"My name is Riley."
"Riley Karstark."
The Head's face turned completely white. He was a man of experience, and hearing that harsh Northern accent combined with that fearsome house name sealed their doom.
Riley Karstark drew the longsword from his waist, walked directly to the Head, and pointed the lethal tip right at the old man's eye, sneering.
"Listen well. All your food, hand it over. Understand?"
The Head's legs went weak, and he nearly collapsed. He nodded frantically.
"U-understand..."
An hour later.
The villagers of Acorn Village stood shivering in the freezing wind.
Before them, the Northern cavalry had piled sacks of wheat and dried meat into a small mountain.
This was the grain every household had painstakingly stored to survive the long winter; now, it was all here in the dirt.
The Northmen stood around the stolen harvest, satisfied smiles on their hardened faces.
"My Lord," an underling walked up to Riley Karstark and lowered his voice.
"This haul is enough to feed our thousands for four months."
Riley nodded, his cold gaze falling on the villagers. They were still weeping. Riley felt a twinge of sharp irritation.
Why did these cowardly southerners deserve to live on such fertile land?
He watched them huddled together, some sobbing silently, others clutching their children tightly, as if their frail bodies could shield them from these grim Northmen.
The Village Head collapsed to his knees and crawled through the snow to Riley, kowtowing desperately.
"My Lord! My Lord! I beg of you! The long winter is coming! Could you... Could you at least leave us half? With half, we can grit our teeth and survive!"
The Head looked up, tears streaming down his wrinkled face.
"My Lord, there are infants among us, young children! Without grain, they will surely starve!"
Riley looked down at him, remaining silent for a long time. The Northern soldiers around him also watched in grim silence; they all had families of their own back home. Then Riley sighed, knelt, and met the Head's tearful eyes.
"It truly isn't easy, is it, old man?"
A desperate flicker of hope sparked in the Head's eyes.
Riley continued softly, "Rest easy. I've considered everything. You won't have to worry about the winter anymore."
The Head was stunned, and then a look of sheer ecstasy broke across his face.
"Really? Truly?"
"Truly." Riley stood up and casually brushed the dust from his knees.
"Next year, and the year after, you'll never have to worry about surviving a winter again. We are going to liberate you from your misery."
The Head's smile froze instantly. He didn't quite understand what Riley meant, but the chilling tone left no room for comfort.
Riley didn't look at him again. Instead, he turned to his subordinate.
"How is it? Is it ready?"
The subordinate gave a faint, cruel smile.
"If we pack them in tight, we can fit over a hundred people in the pit."
Riley nodded and looked back at the terrified Head.
"Alright, does anyone else have a question?"
The Head opened his mouth, but no words came out.
"No one?" Riley asked the shivering crowd.
"Then, brothers, do it."
With that, the Northern cavalrymen raised their longswords and heavy war-axes. Screams, wails, and desperate pleas for mercy shattered the night sky.
But soon, the village fell entirely silent.
Riley stood at the village entrance, his face completely devoid of expression, watching the bloody corpses being unceremoniously piled into the shallow pits they had dug.
A subordinate walked to his side and whispered, "My Lord, it's all handled."
Riley nodded, staring blankly at the mass graves, and murmured to himself, "If you want to blame someone, blame the Iron Throne."
He turned and vaulted smoothly onto his horse.
"Move out. Next village."
That night, fourteen Westerlands villages near the Riverlands border met the same fate.
The order from Lord Cregan Stark was chillingly explicit: Massacre the villages, seize the grain, and leave no witnesses alive.
Most of the seized grain would be sent back to the North to feed their own starving people, while any valuables were confiscated for the army's war chests.
Lord Cregan had told his commanders plainly: this is war.
War means people die. Northmen will die too. If they didn't secure this grain, hundreds of thousands would slowly starve to death in the harsh Northern winter.
Compared to that, what did a few thousand Western commoners matter?
Furthermore, Cregan had another, darker objective.
He wanted to infuriate the Lord of the West, Jason Lannister, who was currently marching his pristine army toward the Golden Tooth.
How would that proud lion react when he heard his helpless subjects were being systematically slaughtered?
He would undoubtedly fly into a blind rage.
And a man in a rage loses his reason.
That was exactly what Cregan Stark wanted.
Under the cover of darkness, the Northern cavalry galloped away, leaving behind nothing but burning villages and bloody mounds of civilian corpses.
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