The Riverlands, one of the most fertile regions of Westeros, owes its prosperity to the Trident. Yet its position places it at a crossroads, where wars are frequent and blood often runs like rivers.
Sherrer Village had once been an ordinary, quiet hamlet in the Riverlands. Tonight, it had become a blood-soaked hell.
"Bring out your finest wine, innkeeper!"
A group of armored men burst into the tavern beside Sherrer Village. The innkeeper was a bald, heavyset man in a brewer's apron, named Joss.
In the dead of night, Joss quickly sensed something was wrong. These knights rode tall, powerful horses, laughing and shouting, each armed with longswords, axes, and more. Yet none bore insignia, nor did they carry any house banners. Joss thought it over and knew that no nearby Lord commanded such forces.
"Bring out your best wine," one knight shouted loudly, not even mentioning payment, as more of them crowded in to eat and drink.
"Yes, my lord. The ale I brew here is the finest in the Neck," Joss replied.
Joss studied the frightening group, suspicion creeping in that they were bandits. His gaze settled on their leader, a towering, broad-shouldered knight who looked especially intimidating.
"What kind of swill is this? You call this good ale?" one knight sneered, starting trouble. The others followed suit, dumping the remaining ale onto the floor until the tavern became a muddy mess.
"My lords, how can you do this?" Joss protested, forcing himself to stand his ground.
"This ale doesn't suit our taste. You might as well go brew it in hell."
One knight raised a crossbow and aimed at Joss, but his drunken hands wavered. Joss didn't hesitate. Forgetting his losses, he bolted through the tavern's side door. Beyond it lay open fields. The darkness of night gave him a slim chance to escape, and his familiarity with the land saved his life.
When he glanced back, he saw his tavern already ablaze, the structure collapsing into ruin within the flames. The fire burned crimson against the night, like a demon's grin. Laughing, the knights mounted their horses and spread out, looting and destroying the nearby homes.
The bandit knights moved as one. Sherrer Village was being purged in blood.
They burned. They killed. They slaughtered livestock. They murdered infants. They violated girls no older than six or seven.
These men seemed less like humans and more like demons crawling out of hell.
Joss was shaking uncontrollably, his legs barely able to hold him. The cries, the wails, the screams all rang clearly in his ears, but he didn't dare look back. The village manor, built of stone, stood ahead. Pushing himself to the limit, he managed to reach it and slip inside.
More and more villagers, their homes destroyed, fled in panic into the manor. The great bell of the village tolled without cease, but no one came to save them.
Not everyone was so fortunate.
Joss saw with his own eyes the blacksmith's young apprentice fall behind, unable to reach the manor in time. The boy was still young. The bandit knights chased him for sport, prodding him with spears. He ran and ran, screaming in agony, until his strength finally gave out. Then the largest of the knights rode up and killed him with a single thrust.
Other women and children who couldn't run fast enough met the same fate. The sharp, whistling bolts of crossbows cut through the air, claiming lives one after another.
Joss's face turned deathly pale.
"Father, what sin have we committed?"
Beside him, the blacksmith wept as well. The boy had been so close to surviving. All he'd needed was a little more luck.
"My land… those damned bandits," the farmer said, wiping away his tears. "They came up from the south in the middle of the night, burned my fields and my house, and killed anyone who got close. They're not even proper bandits. They slaughtered my dairy cows and just left the carcasses there for flies and crows."
The bandit knights thundered up to the edge of the manor, but a stone manor was far harder to breach than any wooden hall.
Joss and the smith caught sight of the burly leader again. He was built like an ox, his voice booming like splitting rock. There were many of them, at least a hundred by Joss's reckoning.
"These aren't ordinary bandits," an old man muttered, his eyes sharp. Those weren't plow horses, but warhorses. And every one of the raiders wore armor, armed with fine steel longspear, swords, and battle axes.
The bandit knights piled up wood and prepared to set it alight, intending to smoke out those hiding inside the stone manor.
The tall leader snorted in irritation. "Forget it. There might be better pickings upstream. Let's head to Mummer's Ford."
At his command, the bandits withdrew in a rush, leaving behind only the shaken survivors.
...
King's Landing, the Tower of the Hand.
It was not until the next day that Eddard finally met the king. But the moment he arrived, he saw another figure as well, that arrogant woman standing at the king's side.
Eddard had already heard that the Kingslayer had fled King's Landing overnight with his men. No one knew where he had gone.
The king was dressed in full regalia today. He wore a velvet coat embroidered with a crowned stag in gold thread across the chest, the sigil of House Baratheon, along with a black-and-gold checkered cloak. A bottle of wine hung loosely in his hand, his face flushed from drink. Behind him stood the Queen, glittering with jewels, Cersei wearing a jeweled crown.
"You were lucky. If you'd fallen from that horse, your leg would've been broken. As it is, it's just a scrape, nothing serious," the king said. "Want a drink? Fine wine from the Arbor."
"No," Eddard said, shaking his head.
"Hmph. I only wish your leg had been broken," Cersei said coldly.
"Woman, hold your tongue."
"I assume you know what Catelyn has done?" Robert asked with a frown.
"I do, Your Grace. My lady did no wrong. This was my decision," Eddard said quietly. Though it had been Catelyn's idea, he would bear the responsibility.
"I am not pleased, Eddard," the king said, his tone heavy with displeasure. The matter had unfolded among his own kin by marriage, and against his will.
"What right do you have to lay hands on my family?" the Queen demanded. "Who do you think you are?"
"I am the Hand of the King, acting under your husband's command, upholding peace and justice in the king's name," Eddard replied bluntly.
"You were."
"Silence!" the king roared. "Eddard, you claim to act in my name to keep the peace. But is this your way of doing it? Three men are dead."
"Lord Eddard did well. His sword struck Tregar in the head."
"First, a public abduction on the Kingsroad. Then drunken killing in King's Landing," the king said. "Eddard, I will not allow it."
"Catelyn had every reason to seize the Dwarf. Besides, he is unharmed."
"This ends here. You and Jaime will reconcile. Catelyn and the Imp will do the same. You will all put this behind you."
"Jaime 'teaching me a lesson' meant killing my captain right in front of me, and you expect me to pretend nothing happened?" Eddard said, staring hard at the king.
"This dispute was not my brother's doing. You were the one, drunk, coming out of a brothel with your bastard and your men, and you attacked Jaime."
"That is not the truth. Jon can testify to it," Eddard shot back.
"Enough. Everyone knows that child is your bastard," the Queen said with a cold snort. "Truly impressive, Lord Eddard, taking your own son to such a place."
"A brothel? I went there to see His Grace's daughter," Eddard snapped.
"Her name is Barra. She looks very much like your first daughter. Though I suppose all the children you've fathered outside your marriage look much the same."
The Queen's expression froze at once, her face turning pale and cold.
Eddard held himself back. He wanted to speak the truth, but he did not. He thought of those poor children, the infants of the Targaryen dynasty, and did not dare imagine what might befall the Queen's own children. A king in such fury was like a maddened bull.
The king's face flushed even deeper red. "Barra… That girl deserves to die. She hasn't the slightest bit of sense."
"She isn't even fifteen, yet she's forced to sell her body. How could she possibly have any sense?" Eddard could not stop himself from saying it. Perhaps the king did not want to know. That poor girl still loved him.
The atmosphere grew more and more strained. These were not words meant for the Queen's ears.
Eddard looked at the king and continued to press his case. He still wanted to seize the Kingslayer.
"Enough. They killed one of yours, you killed two of theirs. Let it end here," the king said with a sigh.
...
South of Pentos, the khalasar led by Khal Drogo rolled south like a gathering storm.
They had plundered great quantities of supplies and grain from Qohor and Pentos, and now drove straight toward Myr, preparing for a decisive clash that would settle their fate.
East of Myr, Gendry lifted a finely crafted Myr lens as he rode to the top of a low hill.
The lens sharpened his sight until it was like that of a hawk. He could clearly make out the outriders at the very front. The Dothraki were tall, their skin a reddish brown. Their long beards hung low, threaded with interlocking silver rings. Their jet-black hair gleamed with oil, braided into countless plaits, with silver bells tied among them.
"It seems Khal Drogo hasn't gone completely mad. At least he had the sense to gather supplies in Pentos," Gendry said to Ser Jorah.
"Prince, from the look of it, Khal Drogo has brought his entire khalasar. He means to contest our rule over Essos," Jorah said. He wore finely made steel armor, and over it a dark green cloak embroidered with a black bear standing upright.
"There are a great many of them," Anguy said, peering into the distance. A master archer's eyesight was always sharp, and he could make out the movement of the Dothraki even from afar.
"The war begins now," Gendry said. "Once the Dothraki have marched another half day, we will prepare to strike with a night raid."
"As you command," Anguy replied.