The red-robed priest Thoros came from Myr across the Narrow Sea, arriving in the continent of Westeros to spread the faith of the Lord of Light.
During his time in Westeros, he lived through the reigns of three kings.
When the Mad King ruled, he tried his best to preach the doctrines of the Lord of Light to him, but that king, obsessed with flames, believed only in dragonfire—certainly not in some chaotic Lord of Light.
This left the red priest Thoros deeply confused and beginning to doubt himself.
Later, Robert Baratheon rose in rebellion and took the Iron Throne. Thoros's target for preaching became Robert.
Although Robert was not a good king, to Thoros he was a good friend. They often indulged together in wine and women, played and laughed, fought side by side in battle—and Robert had even been the first warrior to climb the walls of Pyke.
As for all those strict rules and commandments?
To hell with them!
It was just a pity that Robert died.
After that, the king became Joffrey. That little brat understood nothing, and under the protection of Queen Regent Cersei, he was like a giant infant raised in a greenhouse—utterly incomprehensible.
During Joffrey's reign, the red priest Thoros fell out of favor. The Hand of the King, Lord Eddard, dispatched him together with Lord Beric to the Riverlands to capture the Mountain, who had committed countless crimes.
However, only a few days after leaving King's Landing, the situation changed abruptly. Ned was imprisoned by Joffrey, and the Hand of the King became Lord Tywin.
This sudden upheaval made their status extremely awkward. On top of that, war soon broke out in the Riverlands, and these people suddenly became rebels.
After discussing it, Thoros and Beric decided that since Tywin would certainly regard them as enemies anyway, they might as well stay here and help the common folk resist the brutal Lannister forces.
And so, the Brotherhood Without Banners was born.
Sadly, the good times did not last long. Before they had experienced many battles, they suffered a devastating blow.
If not for the young man before him, Thoros feared he would have died here today.
The red priest Thoros let out a long breath and looked around. The troops led by this young man were absolutely elite.
They were like merciless monsters, silently slaughtering on the battlefield, yet plunging their enemies into the deepest terror.
With just one charge, these cavalrymen shattered the forces of Ser Bolton Crakehall, scattering them in all directions. The battles that followed displayed astonishing coordination and discipline.
In less than half an hour, the shouting on the battlefield gradually faded away, leaving only painful, powerless groans.
Thoros saw Ser Bolton Crakehall and his lackeys tightly bound and thrown before Robb.
Yet there was no panic on their faces. According to long-standing noble custom, captured nobles were generally not killed, but ransomed back to their families.
The personal safety of nobles was something common folk could never compare to.
Robb looked at them expressionlessly. "Was the village ahead burned by you?"
Bolton Crakehall lifted his chin. "Yes, it was me. I killed those children. As for the women—hah, there's nothing pretty among peasant stock, but even if they're ugly, they're still usable."
Seeing this, Robb found it almost amusing. Even Jaime the Kingslayer, after being captured, had maintained basic courtesy. Yet this noble who had crawled out of nowhere dared to speak to him like this.
Robb said nothing.
Little Jon, furious, rushed forward and smashed the sword pommel hard into the man's face.
"You damned thing, watch your words! Standing before you is the King in the North, the Protector of the Riverlands, the Young Wolf of House Stark whose lineage spans a thousand years, the Blood Wolf who strikes terror into the hearts of enemies on the battlefield! You should address him as Your Majesty!"
Greenbeard stood to the side, dumbfounded, secretly lamenting how he had never been able to come up with such flattering phrases himself.
Bolton Crakehall spat. "What King in the North? Your Majesty? Lord Tywin will kill his way here sooner or later. War isn't a game for you little brats to play house."
Robb felt nothing at his words. In his mind was the scene of that village earlier—a beautiful village burned to the ground, not a single person left alive.
Those were all his people!
My property!
My money!
Robb turned to his wolf cavalry. "Anyone who has sworn loyalty to the Dreadfort, step forward."
Five or six riders came out. They had once served under Roose Bolton.
"Do you know how to flay skin? Old Flayer should have taught you lot, right?"
They nodded. "A little. Not as skilled as Lord Bolton. The person might die halfway through."
Robb said casually, "That's fine. Just flay him. I'll heal him."
Hearing this horrifying exchange, Ser Bolton Crakehall's heart nearly stopped. His body began to tremble uncontrollably.
He was afraid.
"No! What are you doing?! You want to kill me?! You can't do this!"
Little Jon stepped forward again and smashed his mouth, shattering his teeth. "I told you to say Your Majesty!"
Ser Bolton Crakehall hurriedly corrected himself, words leaking through broken teeth. "Y-yes, yes—Your Majesty! Please, forgive me!"
Robb looked at him curiously. "Why can't I do this?"
Poor Ser Bolton Crakehall now spoke with air whistling through his mouth. He burst into tears. "Your Majesty, I beg you, don't do this! My family is rich—they're willing to pay ransom! For the losses of five villages, they'll definitely compensate you!"
Robb's gaze sharpened. "Five?"
Bolton Crakehall froze, then quickly changed his words. "One! One village—just one! I was talking nonsense, I remembered wrong!"
Robb spread his hands. "What a pity. If you had listened to the pleas of those you killed, perhaps I would listen to yours."
"Huh?"
Ser Bolton Crakehall was completely confused. Did those lowly peasants beg him for mercy?
He had no idea. It was too chaotic back then—he was only concerned with his own pleasure, listening to screams, not pleas.
Besides, even if they had begged, who had the time to remember what peasants said?
Robb no longer wished to waste words on this scum. He waved at the riders from the Dreadfort. "Begin. After flaying them, tie them to long spears and raise them up. Feed them and give them water on schedule. With me here, I guarantee they'll live for a week."
Them?
The riders who had followed Bolton Crakehall turned pale.
In that single word, they heard their fate.
Without hesitation, they all collapsed to the ground, wailing loudly. Tears and sweat flowed freely as they begged Robb for mercy.
"Your Majesty, please spare us! We were just following orders!"
"Don't do that—please, just kill me!"
"Your Majesty, I'm willing to become your servant, please spare me!"
Robb found the noise irritating. "So loud. Cut out their tongues."
The red priest Thoros watched the brutal scene unfold before him, at a loss for words.
Just what kind of existence had he fallen into the hands of?