Outside Ashemark, where the plains met the hills, military tents stretched as far as the eye could see.
Countless banners snapped in the wind.
The most numerous, and the most conspicuous, bore the roaring lion... of House Lannister.
The air smelled of leather, steel, horse dung, sweat, and an indefinable fear.
Nearly all the strength of the Westerlands had gathered here.
More than a hundred thousand soldiers stood armed and armored, their blades and spearheads gleaming whenever sunlight broke through the lead-gray clouds.
Yet a closer look revealed that this army was far from uniformly elite.
Within the ranks, many soldiers wore matching armor and carried standard-issue weapons, yet their faces showed fear, bewilderment, even numbness.
Not long ago, they might have been hunters in the hills, merchants in the markets, innkeepers, or farmers in the fields.
Lord Tywin's compulsory conscription order had plowed through every corner of the Westerlands like an iron plow.
The villages had been all but stripped of able-bodied men. Even gray-haired, stooped old men had been driven into the ranks to labor at hauling provisions and baggage.
Fear spread like an invisible plague through the seemingly disciplined formations.
They did not know why they had to fight.
They knew only that their lords' commands could not be defied.
They knew only that their conscription might mean a little less tax for their families.
Or merely a chance to stay alive.
The Central Command Tent.
Its atmosphere was utterly unlike the noise and unease outside.
Solemn. Cold.
Tywin Lannister sat behind a massive oak desk.
He had just put down the letter in his hand.
It had come from the Twins, sent by Walder Frey.
Its contents were detailed to the point of cruelty.
How Robb Stark had once held the advantage in the Riverlands, how