The wind of the Westerlands carried the tang of sea salt.
But now, something else rode that wind.
The stench of death and decay.
Fifteen thousand former Lannister soldiers had become the most silent vanguard under the King in the North.
They needed no provisions, knew no fatigue, and feared no death, for they were death incarnate.
The only sound of their march was the monotonous scrape of armor.
At last, on the distant horizon, a city of breathtaking grandeur appeared before them.
It seemed less a work of human hands than a stone beast that had grown from the depths of the earth.
The entire mountain was a castle.
Its rock had been carved into a roaring lion, gazing down upon the Sunset Sea below.
Casterly Rock.
The lair of House Lannister, the heart of power in the Westerlands, an impregnable fortress built over thousands of years with gold and blood.
Even Mance Rayder's breath caught for a moment when he saw Casterly Rock.
Behind him, the wildling warriors let out a murmur of astonishment.
They had never imagined such a magnificent fortress could exist.
It was far grander than Winterfell.
Yet the Army of the Dead showed no reaction.
Neither the grandeur of Casterly Rock nor the splendor of the Sunset Sea found any reflection in their eerie blue eyes.
Their eyes held only the deepest darkness of their master.
Mance Rayder raised his hand.
The Army of the Dead halted a mile away.
They made no camp and prepared no siege engines.
They simply... stood.
Fifteen thousand wights in Lannister surcoats formed an enormous square, standing silently with their faces turned toward the walls of Casterly Rock.
The sight was more chilling than the charge of a vast army.
The walls of Casterly Rock had already descended