The Germination of the Riverlands' People

East of Harrenhal, in the muddy wilderness.

The rain was still falling, as if it meant to soak the entire Riverlands into rot.

Bronze Yohn Royce sat astride his warhorse, yet the bronze armor carved with ancient runes offered him not the slightest sense of safety.

Instead, after days of relentless rain, it had become a heavy prison.

He removed an iron gauntlet and wiped the rain from his face, his gaze dark as he stared at House Darry's stronghold ahead—Farmer's Keep.

This was already the third castle he had attacked.

There were no flowers, no honor, none of the unspoken courtesies customary among the nobles of Westeros.

There was only endless bloody fighting and resistance.

Right now, he truly wanted nothing more than—

To chop that idiot Morton Waynwood, who bragged about his so-called "legendary feat" of conquering the Riverlands with a hundred riders as though it were the crowning achievement of his life, into eighteen pieces.

"Those damned Riverlanders!!"

Bronze Yohn Royce's eldest son, Andar Royce, rode up beside him and spoke furiously.

"This isn't war at all, Father!"

He looked utterly bedraggled. Several arrows were still lodged in his armor, and his cloak had been torn apart.

Ever since entering the East Riverlands, they had been caught in a kind of war they had never experienced before.

There were no formal challenges between nobles before battle, no knightly charges and duels, and certainly no dignified surrenders or ransoms.

Every castle, every village, every town they had passed had resisted like mad.

Those rabble were not commanded by nobles, not even by knights.

They were led by farmers, blacksmiths, hunters—commoners whose names they could not even be bothered to remember.

"Just now, Ser Lindley led three hundred men to attack a small town by the river and lost