Seventeen, Heaven's Mandate Made Manifest; Across the Seven Kingdoms, None Could Rival Him

On the open plains, the evening wind could not disperse the heavy stench of blood and rot.

The entire battlefield had been dyed a dark red.

The bodies of the Westerlands men had been cleared away and piled across the plain.

Severed limbs, shattered organs, twisted faces—layer upon layer, they formed a true mountain of corpses. Countless flies buzzed over the heaps, while carrion crows circled overhead, filling the air with an irritating racket.

Riverlands soldiers were pouring lamp oil and tar over the piles of bodies.

The pungent smell mingled with the scent of blood, permeating the air and making it hard to breathe.

The Riverlands soldiers were assembling, ready to march to the next battlefield.

After a day of bloody fighting, their armor was damaged, their clothes ragged, and their bodies smeared with dried blood and black mud.

Weariness showed on every face.

Many could barely remain standing by leaning on their spears.

Yet there was little fatigue in their eyes. Instead, they burned with excitement.

One Riverlands soldier began humming an out-of-tune tune.

It was a song that had swiftly spread through the army after their victory. It possessed the vitality of wildfire, and before long, every soldier had learned it.

When that soldier began to hum, a few joined in, then dozens, until finally thousands upon thousands of throats sang together.

"Seventeen years old, Heaven granted him the Riverlands."

"Leading armies to war, undefeated in every battle."

A young soldier, his face still boyish, struck his shield hard with his scabbard and roared along.

Then one soldier after another began beating the shields in their hands.

"He cast aside power and never bent the knee."

"Heroic and high-spirited, he reclaimed King's Landing."

"He will sweep aside the realms and subdue all enemies."

"Then beautiful Westeros Continent