The lands of the Westerlands no longer flowed with milk and honey, only blood and rust.
Casterly Rock, the lion's lair that had stood for a thousand years, had become an island enveloped in fear.
Outside its walls, the silent army had "grown" again.
Lefford, Marbrand, Crakehall...
The banners of almost every notable house in the Westerlands stood crookedly amid that formation of corpses, as though mocking every living soul clinging to life atop the walls.
Forty thousand.
A full forty thousand walking corpses surrounded Casterly Rock, leaving no way out.
They had once been the pride of the Westerlands, the claws and fangs of House Lannister.
Now they had become Lynn's hounds, patiently awaiting their master's order to rip out throats.
Inside the city, the air was so oppressive it felt as though water could be wrung from it.
With no supplies coming in, the dwindling reserves of food and fresh water grew more dire by the day, and the soldiers' sanity was being eaten away at a visibly alarming rate.
At first, they had shouted abuse from the walls, cursing the monsters and their master in the foulest language they knew.
But the wights never reacted.
Later, they began to pray, begging the Seven and any god they could think of for salvation.
But the gods gave no answer.
Now they neither cursed nor prayed.
They merely stood numbly atop the walls or hid in the corners of their barracks, staring with hollow eyes at those outside who had once been their comrades, brothers, even fathers and sons.
Half of Ser Damon Lannister's hair had turned white in just a few days.
He slept fewer than three hours each day, spending the rest of his time patrolling the walls and barking hoarsely at the dazed soldiers, trying to