In the Lannister camp, the order to withdraw and disband had not yet been carried out when a stern new decree revoked it entirely.
Soldiers who had been packing their belongings, ready to return to their lands with their lords, stopped what they were doing. The last trace of relief at the respite from war vanished from their faces, replaced by bewilderment and deeper unease.
The atmosphere in the camp suddenly tightened like a bowstring drawn taut.
Inside the command tent, a deathly silence still reigned.
Tywin Lannister sat at the head of the table, his back as straight as a statue.
He gripped the broken hilt of Bright-Roar so tightly that the roaring lion carved into it left deep marks in his palm. But that slight pain was nothing beside the sight of the unopened wooden box on the table.
His gaze rested on the box, as though he could see through its wooden walls to the cold head within.
There were no tears in his eyes, none of the grief one might expect from a father who had lost his son. There was only a frozen, almost tangible fury, burning silently in the depths of his green eyes.
Slowly, he raised his eyes and swept his gaze over the vassals and knights standing in terrified silence before him.
Every gaze was lowered. No one dared meet his eyes.
"The order to disband is revoked." Tywin's voice was quiet, but it struck every heart like a block of cold iron, carrying an unquestionable finality. "Everyone will remain here and await orders."
He turned to the pale-faced maester standing beside him. "Send ravens. Every vassal in the Westerlands, regardless of rank or the size of his lands, must call up every man capable of fighting from the day he receives