The Flood Descended by the Seven Gods

Brynden Tully rode across the scorched earth of the West Riverlands.

His warhorse snorted uneasily, its hooves striking the cracked ground and kicking up clouds of dust.

This had once been fertile land.

Now, ruin stretched as far as the eye could see.

Brynden Tully still remembered the last time he had come here.

Endless green fields had spread before him, mill wheels had turned day and night, farmers had sung loudly in the fields, and children had chased one another along the riverbanks.

Now, all of it was gone.

As far as he could see, there was nothing but bare, scorched earth.

The lords of the West Riverlands had paid lip service while defying him in secret. They had scoffed at decrees calling for leniency toward the common folk, tax exemptions, land distribution, and the preservation of old laws.

They cared only for their own authority, dignity, bloodlines, and lands. They treated the commoners like livestock, and that was why Patrick Morrison's flames had only burned hotter.

To crush Patrick Morrison, he had issued what he considered the stupidest and bloodiest order—an order he had never imagined would come from his own mouth.

Kill any living person who dared appear in this region. Burn the villages. Fill in the wells. Create a no-man's-land to hunt down Patrick Morrison.

Brynden Tully closed his eyes. He could hear the wails of the Riverlands people who had been hanged.

But he had no other choice.

He had to sever Patrick Morrison's connection to this land and its common people as quickly and ruthlessly as possible.

He had succeeded. Patrick Morrison's area of activity had steadily shrunk.

But he had also turned this land into hell.

A burst of urgent hoofbeats came from behind him, interrupting his thoughts.

A messenger galloped up, covered