The Battle of Harford City, the Arryn Bowl

Beneath Harford City, the banners of the Vale army stood like a forest.

Yohn Royce sat astride his horse at the front of the formation.

He wore that famed suit of bronze runic armor, silently gazing at the silent castle ahead.

A brave Vale knight served as envoy, holding high the banner of peace negotiations.

He rode alone toward the gates, entered the city by hoist, and read the Vale army's ultimatum to the defenders.

He gave the rebels within the city one final chance.

Surrender, or destruction.

Their response was not words.

The trebuchet atop the walls suddenly swung, letting out a heavy creak.

A black dot shrieked through the sky, tumbling through the air before crashing heavily into the ranks of the Vale army.

It was not a stone.

It was the envoy's head.

A noble-born Vale lord.

Now, that head rolled twice through the mud, its lifeless gray eyes wide open.

It stared straight at the Vale army, as if recounting the terror and disbelief it had felt before death.

It was a resolute answer. They had never considered surrender, nor had they ever considered negotiation.

A deathly silence blanketed the entire Vale army.

Then came the sharp, resounding clamor of swords being drawn.

Hundreds upon thousands of longswords left their sheaths, and fury brewed in the air.

The Vale knights' breathing grew heavy, while their warhorses pawed uneasily at the ground.

"These honorless savages! These lowborn bastards!"

"They killed the envoy! Have they no decency?!"

"They profane sacred law! Are they Wildlings?!"

"Those Riverlands bastards!"

No matter how cruel a war was, who would execute an envoy and humiliate him so cruelly?

The enraged curses of the Vale lords and knights came one after another.

Yohn Royce's face was livid.

He stared at the mud-caked head,