"My lord, Earl Lefford of the Golden Tooth has sent a third plea for reinforcements."
A commander clad in Westerlands armor stood in the center of the command tent, clutching an opened letter, his voice heavy with anxiety he could not suppress.
"The Targaryen Three Main Legions have completed their encirclement of the Golden Tooth."
"Earl Lefford says that with its current garrison, the Golden Tooth will not withstand the next assault."
A low murmur stirred through the tent.
Several Westerlands nobles exchanged uneasy glances. Some tightened their grips on their sword hilts; others bowed their heads in silence.
The commander paused. "There is also news from the west coast. The Targaryen fleet has repeatedly raided the Coastal Hinterlands in recent days. Port towns and coastal castles have been captured and burned."
"The Targaryen fleet has also been sighted off Lannisport and Fair Isle. They may be its next targets."
One piece of bad news followed another.
They were under attack from three sides, the enemy pressing closer at every turn.
An invisible net was slowly drawing tight, and they were the prey caught inside.
An oppressive silence settled over the tent.
No one spoke, but the same anxiety was written on every face. Their ancestral castles and their families were all on that land, which the flames of war were steadily consuming.
Just then, the tent flap was flung open.
A maester hurried inside, clutching a letter, his face betraying a measure of panic.
He strode up to Tywin and bowed. "My lord, a raven from Silverhall."
Every eye turned toward the letter.
Tywin accepted it without expression, broke the wax seal, and drew out the parchment.
His gaze swept over the writing. His expression did not change, but the throbbing vein on his forehead betrayed his feelings.
After