The tributaries of the Trident spread throughout the Riverlands, nourishing the land for thousands of years.
In times of peace, wheat fields here could rise past a horse's belly, apples weighed down the branches in the orchards, rushing rivers turned waterwheels, and cooking smoke curled above the villages on either bank.
Its wealth rivaled even that of the Reach to the south.
But the Riverlands had never been a peaceful place.
Whether it was a king in the south or a lord in the north, whenever war broke out, this land was the first to be trampled beneath their horses' hooves.
Just as it was now, the land was burning.
There was a village on the banks of the lower Green Fork, already close to the Vale of Arryn.
During the War of the Five Kings, it had escaped the Lannister pillaging of the Riverlands; when the Targaryen host faced off against the northern army in the Riverlands, it had remained untouched as well.
But today, the village had finally failed to escape.
The wooden beams of its houses were set ablaze and collapsed with a crackle, filling the air with an acrid stench.
Westerlands soldiers roamed the village, looting and killing.
Two soldiers dragged a girl of sixteen or seventeen out of a thatched cottage, her hair disheveled and her face streaked with soot and tears.
She struggled desperately, her fingers clawing bloody marks into the arms of the soldier dragging her.
"Please, let me go... please..."
One soldier slapped her hard across the face. "Behave! Keep struggling and I'll chop off your hands and feet!"
The girl's face snapped to one side, and blood seeped from the corner of her mouth.
She shook her head, crying, her voice already hoarse. "My little brother was only seven... you killed