Whip of the Seven

The Westerlands' right wing.

The air reeked of blood.

Stafford Lannister's face was white as a sheet.

His helmet was gone, and his thinning hair clung to his scalp, soaked with cold sweat.

"It's over...

...all over."

He stared at the mass of Riverlands soldiers closing in from both sides, his legs trembling uncontrollably.

The last assault had severed his connection to Tyrion Lannister completely.

Now they were an island in a vast sea, liable to be swallowed at any moment by the surging Riverlands tide.

Fear of death gripped his heart.

"My horse! Where's my horse?"

Stafford Lannister suddenly shrieked, his voice warped by sheer panic.

"Bring me my horse! We have to break out! We have to get out of this damned place!"

Several guards hurriedly led over his warhorse.

Stafford Lannister scrambled into the saddle. Before he had even found the stirrups, he raised his whip toward the horse's rump.

"Move! All of you, move! Ride through!"

Just then, a hand seized his reins.

It was not a broad hand; it even looked young. Yet its strength was astonishing, wrenching the warhorse up onto its hind legs.

"Father! You can't leave!"

Still shaken, Stafford Lannister steadied himself and turned.

The one stopping him was his sixteen-year-old son, Daven Lannister.

Blood smeared the boy's face, and his blond hair was a mess, but his eyes shone fiercely.

"Have you gone mad, Daven?"

Stafford Lannister roared in exasperation and raised his whip to strike.

"Look around you! We're surrounded!"

"That fool Tyrion has doomed us! If we don't run, we'll die!"

Daven Lannister neither flinched nor let go. He gripped the reins as the whip cracked across his shoulder.

"Father! Look properly!"

The boy pointed to the soldiers of the Westerlands still fighting for their lives, his voice firm.