Chapter 23

The wind from the north blew his white robe, making it flap loudly; he could feel the chill on his face.

His heart was even colder. In a short time, he lost his son, his father, his brother, and perhaps also his sister or wife. 'She and Lán Sài ěr, Àosīméng Kǎitè Bùlái Kè, and even Yuè Tóng...' Tí Lì Áng's words floated in the air and in his heart, cutting him like a knife.

He could not control the court as his father did, nor was he suited to rule. He also could not lead troops in battle as his father did, ruthless and merciless for victory; nor could he maneuver and strategize as his father did, plotting in four directions, winning battles from afar.

His father was like a mountain; when he was around, Zhān Mǔ felt as if he had nothing to fear. But now he is dead, shot by Tí Lì Áng in the privy—truly not the way a great man should die. Yet he really did die, and he passed the burden onto his son's shoulders, so heavy that Zhān Mǔ could barely catch his breath, and it also frightened him.

All Lán Ní Sītè are lions; they should not be afraid, but how much of the lion's fame is propped up by him alone? How much can I prop up?

I shouldn't have to shoulder this burden. I had the chance to be beheaded by the young wolf lord with one stroke, as payment for Eddard Stark's beheading; or I could be run through by Rickard's sword, just as I ran through his two sons.

Look at Tài Wēn Gōng Jué and Ruì Kǎ Dé Bó Jué—father was always strong, while mother was far weaker. Tài Wēn Dàrén refused to exchange his son for Shān Shā Sǐ Tǎ Kè, even when the young wolf lord threatened to offer his son's head.

'He is the captain of the Royal Guard, not my son.' This was Tài Wēn Gōng Jué, the Hand of the King, adding a brief sentence after the long letter from the Direwolf, then sending the original letter back. Kāi Tè Lín had once handed him the reply to mock him and his relationship with his father, and also to mock Tài Wēn Gōng Jué's coldness.

Upon seeing the letter, he laughed heartily, beside himself with joy, almost tearing up—this was one of the few moments of pleasure after donning the white robe, perhaps even one of the few honorable things he could do for Lán Ní Sītè.

Yes, Tài Wēn Dàrén never accepts threats; if the young wolf lord decisively cut off his son's head, it would prove this man is truly iron-hearted, and also truly the Hand of the King of the Seven Kingdoms.

Tài Wēn Dàrén's toughness overcame the lady's softness, and indeed he received repayment. Kāi Tè Lín, merely for the lives of her two daughters, rashly let him go.

Does she think that as a hostage I no longer have any exchange value? This is the repayment for toughness; she thought I could sway Tài Wēn Gōng Jué, getting him to release someone for the sake of his honor.

Tài Wēn Gōng Jué indeed put a price on his honor: 'Take off the white robe, and I'll release that girl right away.' Damn, Tài Wēn Gōng Jué didn't know I wore the white robe for a girl too? Afterwards, Tài Wēn Gōng Jué gave the girl to Tí Lì Áng.

I have already stolen my brother's wife; I cannot steal another of his. He consoles himself this way for failing to keep his promise.

He always lives in these cramped circumstances, as if his father had never faced such a dilemma.

He always knows what to do, just as Tí Lì Áng does. He truly wishes he had their wisdom.

In any case, Tài Wēn Dàrén is dead. Who could replace him?

Kǎi Féng Uncle?

He recalled the last time they met. Seeing him was like seeing a stranger; he maintained icy courtesy and contempt. After the funeral ended, he felt as if he had completed all his life's tasks, cast off all burdens, and returned to Xī Jìng. He knows my background.

He refused Sè Xī's invitation as Hand of the King. Sè Xī actually thought he was colluding with Tí Lì ěr, and even refused to give him the title of Defender of the West.

What's wrong with her shiny little head? Didn't Lán Sài ěr serve her well? This makes him feel estranged.

This wasn't the first time. He remembered as a child watching lions below Kǎi Yán Chéng. To show she was braver than her brother, she reached out toward the lion that Tài Wēn Gōng Jué had brought back, roughly stroking its mane. Strangely, the lion didn't swallow her tender little hand; instead, it good-naturedly licked it. She laughed loudly and urged him to provoke.

She indeed had a rare mixture of foolishness and pride. Zhān Mǔ thought he wouldn't be foolish enough to touch a lion—if that lion weren't Sè Xī's—he had never touched a live lion, even though the people of Xī Jìng call them lions, but that's merely an illusion, like the rumor that Tài Wēn Gōng Jué would pull out gold—he didn't want to recall the stench of feces in the privy and the corpse smell in the cathedral—although he had never done the obvious foolish thing of touching a lion, he still lost a hand.

Before leaving Jūn Lín, he had people forge a golden right hand, fingers half-closed; if a wine cup fit, he could easily raise it to drink, but gripping a shield is the true purpose of the golden hand. Besides, he discovered that slapping someone with the golden hand is more forceful, easily knocking out a few teeth and swelling the face; if he had a sister with such a moody temper, his whole army would likely end up with broken teeth and swollen mouths.

The whole army. Does a force of a thousand count as an army?

In Jūn Lín he took the forces belonging to Xī Jìng, and also combined with some surrendering Stormlands soldiers, but this was only over a thousand; adding these troops would be useless for a siege. Fortunately, Bēn Liú Chéng is not short of men, and adding the Fú Léi makes it even more numerous.

The walls of Bēn Liú Chéng he had seen even at the war's outset; it was not a city that could be taken by manpower alone. He truly hoped that before others arrived, Dá Féng would already have seized the castle, which would both speed peace in the south and prevent him from breaking another oath he had sworn to the she-wolf.

He remembered every oath he had sworn; if the gods aren't foolish, they should know that a man cannot avoid breaking oaths—if not this one, then that one; some oaths are light, some heavy; some have great impact, some small—you always have to pick one.

If it cannot be done, don't blame me for placing my oath to the Iron Throne foremost.

The cold wind continued to howl; he glanced at Yīlín Pài Ēn, who looked even more wan—comical hair, pale dry wrinkled skin, sunken eyes, like a living corpse. Perhaps he had already died when the Mad King cut out his tongue.

Zhān Mǔ let out a long sigh; even this living corpse is stronger than him—he can easily beat the handless cripple into full-body pain, unable to stand. If someone pried open the cripple's leather armor, they'd see purple bruises all over his body. Thinking positively, each bruise is proof of progress; thinking negatively… he doesn't want to go there.

The last time he felt this powerless was still in Lín Dōng Chéng, though back then it was accompanied by sincere shame. At that time his right hand wasn't yet gold; he used that right hand to earn merit in the campaign against the Royal Guard Brotherhood, and was knighted by the Dawn Sword God. Even such a hand couldn't beat that fifteen- or sixteen-year-old mongrel.

Sè Xī finally got something right; I shouldn't have matched skills with her—if not wanting to kill a child—for which no target is more fitting than a mongrel daughter—to give the Stupid Pig King and the Lord of Lín Dōng Chéng a splash of color, I wouldn't fight a girl or a mongrel, even to avenge a loss in a tournament or to vent for my sister. After defeat, Sè Xī gave him a sour look, saying the sword should be hers, while he ought to be responsible for nursing. She perhaps never drew a sword, but her pose holding a wine jug or cup surpasses any woman in the world.

He often thought of that she-wolf. Her sword strikes were swift and tricky, her body extremely fast, her strength sufficient; each time she had a unique attack that hindered his movements, and even under his proud swordplay she often escaped in ways he couldn't comprehend. She had the talent of a swordsman; at a younger age she defeated Ser Meryn in a foot battle, which should have warned me, but the arrogant lion simply thought the old knight was too old to be useful.

I shouldn't have looked down on the old captain.

In short, he is indeed a formidable swordsman, earning his respect; he even suggested after the joust that Xiǎo Qiáo marry her, but all he got was another slap: 'Has your head gone to shit?' she mocked.

Compared to mockery, Tí Lì Áng was far more lenient about his defeat: 'If it were me, I'd suspect I'd grown too arrogant back then, lax in training.' After that he intensified training, to increase speed he repeatedly practiced basic sword techniques, raising his draw speed, while sparring with multiple opponents to boost agility and reaction. Now all of this is useless—the Brave Companions took his right hand.

Thinking of this, the stump sent a faint ache, but not as deep into the marrow as before. He let his golden hand hang, placing it on the horse's back; the horse snorted, as if dissatisfied—the attendants had prepared two horses for this expedition, the one under his hips named Guāng Huī, the other awaiting favor called Róng Yào; he happily accepted these names, and if the attendants lacked a bit of imagination, it would be hard to endure the harsh combat.

He lightly patted Guāng Huī with his left hand. If it's dissatisfied, let it be—just don't throw a tantrum like my older sister.

Guāng Huī is a young, sturdy white mare that matches his white cloak; his attendants chose her, saying 'she's obedient enough,' and the short attendant Lú told him the reason for the choice. But he understood that the attendants actually meant, the spirited warhorse he loves starts too fast, unsuitable for a one-handed cripple.

Anyway, this expedition probably won't involve a field battle; fine, let's keep our verbal courtesy like this, just as Yīlín Pèi Ēn does.

Leaving the Crownlands, the scenery quickly changed; the wilderness became desolate, the once vibrant orchards and manors now devoid of inhabitants—what one saw was either abandoned farmland or ruined houses, the scars left by fire, here bearing the brunt of the war's destruction.

This too counts toward his father's achievements.

From the start, Tài Wēn Dàrén considered the Riverlands an enemy of the Iron Throne; thus, when the war barely flared, he burned, killed, and plundered their lands—this indeed stockpiled supplies and struck the enemy, but it also pushed the Riverlands wholly into opposition.

If I had married Lái Shā Tú Lì, would Tài Wēn Gōng Jué still have acted so decisively? Fate is hard to suppose.

That night his sister stripped him of his clothes, severing this fate line; consequently, Tài Wēn Gōng Jué lost the heir he had high hopes for, and House Tully lost a Lán Ní Sītè son-in-law. Thinking of Lái Shā afterward, he felt pity for Littlefinger—encountering such a mad woman, no matter how clever you are, you can't endure it.

That day they set up camp in a village's ruins; he ordered the soldiers to dig trenches, preparing for enemy raids, as if deep in enemy territory. After the great defeat in the Whispering Wood, he would not let this tragedy recur. The soldiers objected to this order; Tài Wēn might have cut out the tongues of those who spoke against it, but he decided to ignore it.

The commander's tent was set up in the main stronghold of the ruins; they pulled down a wall that looked ready to collapse and pitched tents on the spot. The four walls of the courtyard were mostly intact, largely overgrown with withered vines, leaving broken black-and-yellow branches; much of the visible decay is thanks to them. The other camps of the army were arranged around this deserted estate.

After driving the soldiers and cooks out of the courtyard, he left Yīlín Pèi Ēn to train outside the commander's tent. They exchanged hundreds of blows; he felt good, thinking perhaps soon he'd adapt to the combat rhythm. Perhaps noticing his satisfaction, Yīlín Pèi Ēn sped up, quickly brushed aside his sword, and struck his back hard twice. Zhān Mǔ watched him reveal an ugly yet smug grin.

Damn, there's still plenty of time; someday I'll beat you senseless, you tongueless executioner.

He had just picked up his sword when a clamor came from outside. Without his permission, no one could enter while he was practicing. He thrust his training sword deep into the ground and walked toward the courtyard gate to see who dared disturb him.

He walked out in his training garb, a knight bearing the crest of Hā Fó Jiā Zú shouting that he had important intel to report. They had only left Hā Fó Chéng a day ago; if there were important intel he should report to Jūn Lín, and if the news came from Jūn Lín, that would be even more suspicious.

The knight didn't waste words, handing him a small piece of parchment with a gray-blue seal attached—this was the sigil of Fú Léi.

Black wings, black news. They must have just received word from Yuán Hé Chéng.

'On the night of the fifth of this month, holding the Direwolf and the banners of the northern lords, an army of unknown strength marched straight from the north bank of the Lù Chā Hé to assault Yuán Hé Chéng; before the letter arrived they had already mustered troops, and the enemy had additionally deployed two catapults. Hurry, hurry, hurry.' He read it silently once, then read it aloud, letting the nearby officers know the content.

Five days, five days—by now it's been four days… four days can hold too many stories.

'Why is it only arriving now?'

'Jūn Lín didn't send a raven, but a rider; that rider broke his leg, was brought into town by cart, our maester set his bone, and only then did he remember there was a letter to send. Forgive the castle lord—he checked the letter first to confirm the urgency, and only then did he let me send it.'

'Any other letters?'

'In my duty, this is the only letter.'

On the north bank of the Green Fork, are they the Vale's cavalry? Are they finally going to move out? Has Xiaozhitou failed to hold the Eyrie? Or has the Vale's leadership shifted to Stone City? The Earl of Stone City has always been in cahoots with Eddard Stark.

"Damn it. The kraken is also useless, it got taken over at Crab Bay?" Zhuangzhu Li Lekelehe also walked over from the camp, hearing the content.

"The road south past the Neck isn't only the one through Crab Bay. The swamp demons know other routes; everyone knows they are friends of the Starks." Adam also thought they were truly the Northern army.

They didn't suspect they were people of the Vale. The long night is long, enemies everywhere.

"Twin Rivers City has never fallen," perhaps, their history is too short, "I hope our Frey friends can hold out." The word "friends" made him feel awkward, "Send a raven to King's Landing to ask if they have any further news."

They dispersed right at the courtyard gate.

He returned to the main tent, signaling Yilin Pein to continue training. This time he was worse; his instinct kept making him react wrongly, getting hit repeatedly—not just his back, but also his thighs, arms, and chest, everywhere hurting. If he were holding a real sword, he wouldn't know how many times he would have died.

When he felt that continuing would only mean more beatings, he called a halt. The news from Harvard City still made him uneasy; he couldn't figure out why. If the Eyrie's forces moved out, after exiting the Bloody Gate the easiest place to cross the river would be the upstream crossing point at Saltworks Town. After crossing, half a day's ride would allow a direct strike on Harrenhal. Thinking of that, he felt a chill. If the Vale's cavalry were to launch a full sortie, they could ravage the entire realm; with the Iron Throne's current strength, they could not be stopped. He hoped Xiaozhitou could still steady the Eyrie for the Iron Throne and keep the restless Vale nobles in check. He decided to expand the scouting range of his cavalry tomorrow.

On the second day, the first ray of morning light shot onto the ground; he crawled out of his tent, his whole body in pain, pulling on his undergarment with one hand. His armor had attendants to help, but he didn't want anyone to see the signs of his defeat.

After breaking camp, they continued along the King's Road toward Harrenhal. On the way he received a message brought back by a raven from King's Landing:

"King's Landing hasn't received any other news from Twin Rivers City; we've sent out ravens to inquire, but none have returned, which is really strange. Moreover, Xiaozhitou has invited the Justice Alliance into the Eyrie to discuss the guardianship of young Robert Arryn." Setting aside the maester's boring pleasantries, the preceding long passage probably amounts to just those few sentences; does the maester really have to fill the parchment? Damn it, what is the Justice Alliance? Robert Arryn is certainly being raised by his mother; even Tywin Lannister couldn't take him away… He skipped over the boring, nutritionally empty words and continued: "Lady Lysa Arryn was murdered by a singer."

Singer? Since she and Robert Arryn secretly returned to the Eyrie, they've already sealed the Bloody Gate, letting no strangers in—where would some damn singer come from? Xiaozhitou loves running brothels because he loves money, but I've never heard of him loving lewd music singers. It serves the Tullys right to be mocked by the singer.

But this letter is also useful. At least, the attack on Twin Rivers City wasn't by the Vale's troops. Damn it, the maester of Twin Rivers City ought to have the nickname 'Latecomer'.

He wanted to speed up the march, but he also couldn't completely abandon the infantry following him all the way. He didn't want things to look bad, and besides, his army numbered only a thousand, while the men under Sir Creighton of Herlenburg had always been unruly; perhaps a royal command could subdue them, but only a whip could make them obey.

In the afternoon, Marblan hurried down from the front of the formation to report to him. "Put friends beside you, enemies before you—who taught that?" Adam was his friend, but he was in charge of the cavalry of this army, overseeing scouts, and couldn't often stay by his side.

"My lord, our scouts are down by two again. Those who set out yesterday still haven't returned, and they were headed for Herlenburg. It's crazy—now the wolves and bandits are so brazen they'd dare rob the King's Highway?" Adam was tall and thin, his dark copper hair gleaming in the sunlight. He had never seen the Forest Brotherhood, "To be frank, James, we really need to increase scouting; I just feel something's off."

James shared the same thought—if it were bandits or some fallen knights, that would actually be good, just costing a bit more energy, manpower, and rope; but if something were amiss ahead, that would be terrible. As he pondered, high wolf howls came from all around. The beasts were very close to the army.

"Paby," he said, trying to keep his voice calm, "send ravens to the capital urging them to relay any news from ahead, especially from Twin River City, Frey, Davon, and Herlenburg." Damn, we're acting like deaf people in our own land.

The attendant acknowledged with a sound and withdrew.

"Sir," he said to Adam, "we must get to Herlenburg as soon as possible, there to coordinate and learn the true situation of the Riverlands before proceeding. Frankly, I should be receiving news from Davon by now, but the front is eerily quiet."

He hoped it was just an illusion, like how he often thought his right hand was still there, only to discover it was a missing limb when he reached out.

"If we just pick up the pace a little, we can reach Herlenburg today. The King's Highway is rutted, unsuitable for wagons, but at least it doesn't hinder hooves." Adam was about to continue when another attendant stepped forward and interrupted him.

"Sir, we've encountered a cavalry from Herlenburg ahead; he says he has important news to report."

He sent another attendant to summon the commanders Red Roland and Stout Pig, etc.; if it's good news, they should hear it as soon as possible, if it's bad, let's not waste time waiting—let's discuss it right here.

"Sir, we've received word from the capital saying you're heading north." That Herlenburg soldier began thus. He had sharp teeth and cheeks, disordered sandy hair, and gave off a fierce aura, reminiscent of the Mountain's men.

"Is that so? Anything else we don't know?" James disliked him, just as he disliked the Mountain, "Out with whatever message you're carrying."

"Twin River City has been seized by the She-Wolf. We hear she hanged the Freys, young and old, on the bridge, placed the old Lord Ward's head on the castle walls, had Ward's daughters gnaw his corpse, then drove them out of the castle." He finally gave some useful news.

"Good, good," he thought, feeling amused by his anger. Twin River City fell, women eating their fathers' or grandfathers' flesh. Hopefully Lansel's wife hasn't been gnawing on the old count's meat—better to wrestle a weasel than one that's eaten human flesh.

"Damn it, when did this happen?" Stout Pig shouted angrily.

"After that last attacked dispatch was sent, that should be when Twin River City fell." Damn it, even in an emergency we could have sent more ravens. Damn the Freys!

"Sir, after the she-wolf ambushed Twin River City, she sneaked across the Stone River and treacherously attacked the western army led by Sir Davon; we hear, we hear, that Davon and the other baron knights were all captured. The Riverlands forces that had been besieging Fordtown then scattered in disarray. We learned of the front's situation only after receiving some of the western army's fugitives at Herlenburg." He listened to the report with a grim expression, wanting to cut the annoying fellow down with a single stroke, but he oddly felt his left hand might not land a neck blow.

Damn it, Davon, are you as stupid as your father?

Who's in charge of Herlenburg now?

"Well," he hesitated a long time, "I don't know either. After Sir Creighton left, he appointed Boliver as castellan, but Boliver was killed by hunting dogs when he went out of the castle. After that, we've just been governing ourselves."

James really wanted to laugh to the heavens—Herlenburg is the northern gate of the capital, the Magic Mountain is dead, Boliver is dead, yet Cersei and her petty court haven't appointed a new castellan; this is truly absurd. On this return to the capital, we must absolutely recall his uncle, come what may, even let the Tyrells handle it if needed. What on earth is in that beautiful head of hers?

What a huge mess.

He thought of the she-wolf again. All this is because of her—how dare she head south while Bolton returns north? Damn Bolton, with his thousands of troops actually fearing to defend a mere hundred-man hold at Calin Bay, he insists on returning by sea in autumn and still hasn't attacked Winterfell—what is he waiting for?

Tiber damn it, why not urge him to fight sooner? Does he want to spend winter in the north?

"The urgent thing is to garrison Herlenburg at once." Adam let out a long sigh, "I really don't like that castle—strange and twisty; we should get Littlefinger back posthaste to take charge, he may be small in stature but big in heart."

"He's not short of money either; sorting out Herlenburg shouldn't be a problem." Stout Pig also chimed in.

"He's supposed to keep Lady Lysa in check for us, and frankly he's done an excellent job so far." They should know the eastern realms never joined the War of the Five Kings, which has already greatly eased the Iron Throne.

"He uses Littlefinger to suppress the widows for us, and we use our lives to guard Herlenburg for Littlefinger." Red Roland also joined the discussion, this tone made James dislike her.

When the hell have you ever guarded Herlenburg?

In the afternoon, a knight riding hard from the capital brought more intelligence. The archivist indeed, as requested, forwarded copies of the riverland messages to him, placing the letters in a wooden box sealed with the archivist's wax.

He opened the box to find it stuffed with a full dozen parchment sheets, which looked even less useful than before.

He opened the box with one hand, but his golden hand knocked it over, scattering the papers everywhere; the attendant hurried to gather them up.

He casually read a few of the letters—nothing more than a riverland lord saying harmful beasts had appeared in his domain, urgently needing to be expelled, or that a horrendous criminal gang had been discovered. The letter from the Earl of Stonefence was the most outrageous, claiming he needed to return to his lands to reap the harvest! Ha, his castle had been burned by Sir Creighton, and he couldn't imagine the Magic Mountain leaving him anything worth harvesting.

The Riverlands must have gone wrong.

Among the many dull letters, he kept searching, seeming not to have any from Twin River City. He flipped through copy after copy of the parchment, finally finding the one the archivist had specially marked. This sheet had been folded by the archivist, but the letter came from Fordtown, making his heart quicken a bit.

The letter bore the archivist's seal and endorsement, clearly a reminder to read it carefully. The first three lines are the sender's original text, followed by the archivist's postscript; the opening line reads:

"Along with this letter I present the head of the Iron Throne's loyal servant, Marquis Ward Frey, to celebrate the renewed glory of the Seven Gods; may the archivist inform the capital's ministers and lords, and relay to the capital's archbishop and all cardinals everywhere: the marquis's flesh and blood have been feasted upon by his descendants, his sinful lineage all given over to the gallows, may this appease the gods' wrath and settle the resentment of the seven kingdoms' gentlemen and commoners; if any omission or error, I will surely make amends."

James felt his teeth grind. "Loyal servant of the Iron Throne," he imagined Cersei seeing these words and flying into a rage, hurling insults, even thought Duke Tywin would leap from his coffin upon seeing it. He continued reading.

"On the way south I heard with shock that the western warden and the Duke of Casterly Rock and his son had died in an illicit affair, so I send my condolences with this letter." He felt as if he'd been slapped hard again.

"Furthermore, on the eighth of this month, in the battle against the Young Wolf's camp, we captured the newly appointed western warden Davon Lannister and countless other lords and knights; the letter proposes that this lord seek the return of the former king's remains and bequeath the icy sword. Also, those who survived from the north who followed the late father into the capital, regardless of status, are willing to exchange captive lords and knights; those who died are likewise willing to seek the return of remains in exchange. If all these requests are granted, we would be deeply grateful." The body of the letter ends here; he looked at the signature: "From Winterfell, Mey Stark."

The courteous language carried a deep mockery. He tasted the flavor of crushing defeat once more.

After a long silence, he began to read the archivist's note appended after the letter; he had even spliced on a piece of parchment, which read:

"Sir James, regarding the head of Marquis Frey mentioned by Lady Mey, I have examined it; those who know it agree the skull is genuine. The skull was brought by a raven carrying a wooden box, personally witnessed by the tower servant of the Academy. The letter was conveyed normally by raven; after I took receipt, the raven flew away."

The raven that delivered the box?

"So I suspect that in Lady Mey's forces there may be someone with the gift of shapeshifting; such people often appear among those who worship the old gods, though rare, they do occur often enough that history has recorded many instances. Though shapeshifting is not widely accepted, it remains an ancient human ability; I hope Sir James will be on his guard."

James seemed to hear the archivist in his ear, old and emphatic, droning on endlessly—no wonder his commentary is longer than the she-wolf's. Though the text is lengthy, there's no doubt it's valuable, for instance regarding shapeshifters.

He thought of the direwolf named Grey Wind. But what they needed to guard against here was probably that large crow that had made the Grand Scholar slip.

The Grand Scholar had served through many dynasties; though old, he was still somewhat useful, and he knew why Cersei disliked him so much—she liked handsome young men who flattered her, her Master of Ships, the Catelyn Black brothers, Lancel…

"「Queen Regent Cersei thinks this is the old man's nonsense, but the gods can bear witness—how could I lie about this? 」 He began to recount his grievances, and Jaime read on, suppressing his impatience, 「I speak these words not to doubt the Queen Regent's wisdom, nor to seek justice from Your Lordship, but in fact I have devoted all my loyalty to King Tommen and to Queen Regent Cersei…」 Jaime, impatient, skipped over: 「The Queen Regent believes there is a traitor sympathetic to Ser Meryn within King's Landing, so she ordered the newly appointed spymaster, Seybert, to investigate—but after Seybert received the order, he searched the whole city… Nearly everyone in King's Landing felt endangered…」"

Seybert had saved Jaime, but Jaime felt no fondness for him; seeing this, he only felt disgusted and wanted to hit and curse someone.

This stupid@ woman.

His ghost hand again began to ache faintly.

There was still a long stretch of text ahead; he glanced at it.

"「Ser Davos commands the whole army; according to regulation, he should send a letter every seven days, but after receiving a letter at the start of this month, there has been no further word (the Citadel had received several empty ravens), so I believe his words under capture are true. 」 He skipped over some dull text and continued reading, 「Robb Stark's head was sent to King's Landing by the Freys; it is said that the former king Joffrey I kept it in the storeroom, though I am not entirely sure. As for his corpse, I heard the Freys sewed a direwolf's head onto it and displayed it along the King's Road; perhaps finally it was reclaimed by Ser Lantao Tully of Queenscrown—I don't know how he handled it. I have written to inquire for details; if there is any news… 」"

Displayed along the way, good, good, damn it, hoping the she-wolf doesn't know these details. Damn it, even Tyrion knows to return the traitor duke's remains, yet the Freys dare to insult a king's corpse.

Jaime felt his whole body trembling.

He continued reading onward.

"「After receiving Ser Meryn's letter, I only presented it for discussion at the Small Council, and disclosed it to no one else. Yet the letter's content still became known to all the officials, who all sighed and inquired. I fear it was Ser Meryn himself who had someone spread this in King's Landing, but Queen Regent Cersei believes someone in the Small Council leaked it. Ser Jaime, my loyalty to the Iron Throne…」 Jaime skipped over again: 「After learning of this, the High Septon decided to bless the victims of the Red Wedding, and believed that Lord Walder Frey's death was the wrath of the gods; they will investigate the Red Wedding to determine whether the gods' wrath has been completely appeased. Ser, this is outright treason. The High Sparrow… they control the Sons of the Warrior and the gatherings of the poor, and have reforged the Stars… which had been abolished for hundreds of years… and thus the Church has exempted the Iron Throne's debts… we cannot stop him…」"

Jaime felt his whole body beginning to ache.

Damn it, how stupid can you be?

He thought of returning to King's Landing right now to stop her nonsense, anyway the siege of Riverrun is already hopeless.

He tore up the Grand Scholar's endorsement, passed the letter to Adam, and then circulated it among the officers.

They, like him, remained silent for a long time; probably everyone knew the task of retaking Riverrun could not be accomplished. What's worse, a large number of Westerlands lords and noble knights had been imprisoned in Riverrun, and likely the whole winter Riverrun could survive by selling ransoms for these captives.

「Ser, the urgent priority is to garrison Harrenhal, gather the routed troops, and there it will also be convenient to negotiate with Riverrun over prisoners. 」 Adam's proposal was sound, but Jaime was uncertain.

She has ravens; our every move can be seen clearly by her. The enemy is in the dark, we are in the light.

「Harrenhal's walls are high and its moats deep; defending it poses no problem. Moreover, given the current strength of the North's Starks, how many men could they muster to march south? Even if we met them, it would merely be another battle. 」 Adam still held passion, 「Furthermore, as long as we hold out, they can only retreat northward—know that the Starks face just as many problems in the North as we do; we must urge Bolton to march on Winterfell. 」"

The Starks' problems are no fewer than ours? Damn it, the Starks used to have an extra foolish daughter Sansa compared to us, now they have one less stupid woman Cersei, oh, they also lack a cripple; I heard that the boy he pushed off the wall has stood up—how good, how good, damn you.

「Continue onward. 」 He didn't know how to give the order. Harrenhal filled him with utter loathing; he would rather dwell constantly in the open wilderness than stay in that shithole of Harrenhal. Now it's fine—we must guard a cursed city and wait for the enemy to leave on their own.

「Send ravens to King's Landing, ordering them to immediately command Caven……」 Acting as Warden of the West is no better than being Chancellor, 「Forget it. I trust they know what to do. 」"

They continued north along the King's Road; he had ordered the archers to shoot down any ravens or hawks along the way. He kept watch on the sky; indeed a few birds were circling high up, flying too high for any arrow to hit them. He felt a wave of sorrow.

The lion and direwolf fought. They all say the lion won, but now the Westerlands have nearly exhausted their strength; Tywin Lannister has almost lost all his useful sons, his brothers left only a single heir, and he is growing old.

Winter has arrived; how many more major defeats can they endure? Just for that iron chair? He has seen the Mad King Aerys being tortured by that iron chair.

Adam rode back from the vanguard to the middle camp again, forcing himself to stay spirited.

This time Adam had no smile, he put on ten thousand measures of calm and solemnity, 「Ser, you did well. The thirty returning scouts have spotted the enemy for us. 」 He sighed, 「The direwolf banner has already been planted on Harrenhal, and moreover, about fifteen hundred cavalry are charging straight toward us. 」"

A sourness welled up in his heart. Jaime wanted to burst out laughing. Dying on the battlefield—nothing could be better.

「Sound the horn, cavalry charge, form battle lines! 」 He bellowed, 「Ser Kennelos, you hear that—release all the ravens, you write the content! 」"

He changed mounts, rode his steed Honor toward the battle lines, and organized a tight defense.

Iron hooves shook the earth, and he drew his sword with his left hand.