The wheels rolled over the ground outside Ashemark, kicking up dry dust.
Tommen Baratheon huddled in a corner of the carriage, his small face pressed against its cold wall.
A Westerlands bannerman had provided this carriage after he entered the region.
Through a gap in the carriage window, he saw endless tents blanketing the fields like grayish-yellow mushrooms, stretching as far as the eye could see.
Banners bearing golden lions on crimson snapped in the wind. To him, the roaring lion sigils offered no comfort now, only a heavy, suffocating pressure.
He recalled what had happened not long ago, like a chaotic nightmare.
Uncle Tyrion had sent him to Stokeworth ahead of time, saying they could not put all their eggs in one basket.
He had gone without really understanding.
Then bad news struck, one blow after another: King's Landing had fallen, there was no word of his mother, and Uncle Tyrion had vanished too.
Trapped in the castle, he was frightened even by the sound of the wind outside.
Later, Uncle Jaime arrived with a great army.
The thunder of hooves shook the air. Thinking he had been saved, he secretly climbed onto the battlements to look, only for Bronn to pull him down.
The sounds of fighting outside the castle were deafening and went on for a long time.
Then blood-covered soldiers came running back in tears, saying it was over. His uncle's army was gone, and his uncle... was gone too.
Terrified, he hid in the deepest cellar of the castle, covering his ears, afraid even to cry aloud.
After who knew how long, Bronn found him and said one side of the castle was unguarded. They could escape.
He was pulled along with a dozen battered guards, fleeing into the darkness and chaos.
Strangely, no one