The twelve thousand Westerlands infantry led by Addam Marbrand advanced through the Crownlands with extraordinary ease.
Harford stood empty.
So did the surrounding castles, large and small.
They seized stronghold after stronghold, encountering scarcely any meaningful resistance.
The soldiers' cheers rose louder and louder, their morale soaring.
But as Addam rode on, his brow furrowed ever deeper. The doubts in his heart snowballed.
It was too easy.
Unnaturally easy.
Aegon Targaryen's army had stormed King's Landing and destroyed Stannis. Its fighting strength was plain for all to see.
There was no way it would leave such a vast stretch of the Crownlands undefended.
This effortless advance felt less like a march than being led by the nose. Something deadly was surely lurking behind it.
He tightened his grip on the sword hilt at his waist, his palm damp with sweat.
But orders were orders, and the plan had been fixed. He could only suppress his unease and urge his troops onward along the Kingsroad toward their next target... Rosby.
Rosby's walls rose high, casting broad shadows in the afternoon sunlight.
Its gates were shut, not a soul visible on the battlements. The entire town was as silent as a vast stone tomb.
Addam reined in outside the walls.
He stared at the closed gates, his nerves stretched to breaking point.
It was too quiet, quiet enough to make his skin crawl.
He raised a hand, about to send scouts forward to investigate and learn what lay inside before deciding his next move...
A frantic, stumbling commotion came from behind him to one side.
Addam whipped his head around.
A fleeing soldier, drenched in blood, his armor shattered and his original clothing almost unrecognizable, struggled out of the fields and collapsed straight before his horse, raising a cloud of dust.
Blood