The midday sun pierced through the sparse branches, casting dappled light spots on the forest floor.
Robb reined in his warhorse and gazed into the distance.
Through the gaps in the trees, Harrenhal's towering black keeps were faintly visible, and further away, several plumes of grey-black smoke rose straight up—those were signal fires.
Greatjon Umber seemed to have launched an attack on Harrenhal.
Robb observed intently for a long time.
Other than birds, there was no sign of a dragon in the sky.
It seemed Aegon Targaryen was indeed firmly drawn into the battle at The Trident.
With the main Targaryen forces trapped on the front lines, and even that most terrifying "big fish" lured away, Harrenhal must be vulnerable at this moment.
They had to seize the moment; the sooner they breached it, the better.
"Give the order, prepare the whole army…" Robb turned, ready to command the cavalry to advance and assist Greatjon in taking this crucial Riverlands stronghold as quickly as possible, completely severing the Targaryen supply line.
Just as his words were about to be uttered—
"ROAR—!!!"
A terrifying, indescribable roar, without warning, tore through the sky, and also tore through the hope that had just risen in Robb's heart!
Robb's head snapped up, the color instantly draining from his face, leaving only disbelieving horror.
On the horizon, a tiny golden speck was enlarging and approaching at a visible speed!
Its speed defied all common sense.
In just a few breaths, that golden speck had expanded into a colossal, sky-obscuring shadow, descending mightily in the direction of Harrenhal, bringing with it a pressure that made all things tremble!
Against the backdrop of that pale golden dragon's massive body, even Harrenhal's towering keeps seemed to shrink.
No… impossible!
Robb's heart felt as if it were gripped by an icy hand, almost stopping its beat.
Wasn't Aegon Targaryen supposed to be at The Trident?
Did he not go?
Or… did he receive news of the attack on Harrenhal midway and turn back?
How could the news have spread so quickly?
Could it be… his entire plan had been seen through from the very beginning?
Countless chaotic and terrified thoughts, like ice water, instantly flooded his mind.
He forced himself to suppress the gasp that almost escaped him and the uncontrollable panic.
He was the King in the North and The Trident; he could not lose his composure.
However, reality gave him no respite.
The sky above Harrenhal suddenly darkened.
Golden lightning, dazzling to the extreme, abruptly erupted in that dark expanse!
Even from such a distance, Robb's eyes were in sharp pain from the sudden burst of light, and he involuntarily raised a hand to shield them.
The terrifying roar, even attenuated by distance, still rumbled like muffled thunder, faintly reaching his ears, and the ground beneath his feet seemed to tremble slightly.
Divine punishment… this was true divine punishment! How could human strength contend with it?
Robb froze on his horse, muscles taut, fingernails digging deep into his palms, drawing blood, just barely maintaining a shred of lucidity.
He couldn't panic! There was still a chance!
Yes, there was still a chance!
Since Aegon was here, then The Trident… Wylis! Wylis was leading eight thousand troops, facing two main Targaryen forces alone!
The plan to attack the rear had failed; now they must preserve the remaining main force of the North!
Go to The Trident, rescue Wylis, retreat to Riverrun, and make new plans from within the castle!
"All troops, heed my command!" Robb's voice was somewhat hoarse from extreme tension, but he used all his strength to bellow the order, "Full speed return! Reinforce Ser Wylis!"
The Northern cavalry behind him were also terrified out of their wits by the apocalyptic scene in the distance, their faces filled with horror and bewilderment.
Hearing the King's command, many instinctively tugged on their reins, trying to turn their horses around.
But their warhorses, seemingly also struck by the primal fear transmitted across the great distance, became restless, neighing and spinning in place, refusing to be controlled.
For a moment, the formation was somewhat chaotic.
"Control your horses!" Robb roared, sharply kicking his own horse's flank first, forcefully controlling his equally startled mount, and charging back the way they came.
Spurred on by him and the shouts of the officers, this shaken cavalry unit finally managed to regroup, like a frightened pack of wolves, desperately galloping towards The Trident and Green Fork.
The sound of hooves was disordered and urgent, pounding the forest floor and striking at the anxious hearts of everyone.
They didn't know what they would face upon returning, only that they had to leave this place, leave the area shrouded by the dragon's shadow.
When they finally returned to the familiar riverbank where they had fought a bloody battle just yesterday, the scouts brought back news that chilled everyone to the bone.
"Your… Your Majesty…" The scout's face was pale, his voice trembling, "Lord Wylis's forces… annihilated! The battlefield… the battlefield is scorched black, the Green Fork is cut off… it's… it's that dragon!"
"The Targaryen dragon came here, and then…"
Annihilated.
Robb swayed on his horse, almost falling.
His teeth ground together, and the taste of blood filled his mouth.
How could this be?
Aegon Targaryen was clearly at Harrenhal! He had seen him with his own eyes!
Could it be… could that dragon's speed truly be so fast that it could traverse such immense distances in such a short time, destroying two battlefields consecutively?
This completely exceeded all his understanding of war and power.
He looked back at what was behind him.
Three thousand Northern cavalrymen, every face now drained of color, eyes filled with terror, despair, and bone-deep exhaustion.
The successive blows and the shadow of the dragon had pushed the morale of this once valiant army to the brink of collapse.
Robb forced down the metallic taste in his throat, using his last bit of strength to steady his voice, though it was dry as rubbing sand: "To Riverrun. There… is our last chance."
No explanations, no rallying cries.
This remnant cavalry, like marionettes, followed their young king, turning again and beginning another desperate charge towards Riverrun, not knowing what lay ahead.
Horses foamed at the mouth, knights were covered in dust, each relying on their last instincts and momentum to keep going.
They galloped for an unknown duration, feeling as long as a century.
When the familiar outline of the castle, standing at the confluence of the two rivers, finally appeared on the horizon, a faint and unrealistic hope ignited in everyone's hearts.
However, that spark of hope was instantly extinguished, turning into bone-chilling ice, upon seeing the banners flying atop the castle walls.
The familiar red and blue trout banner was gone.
In its place, flying high on Riverrun's tallest tower, was a black banner with a three-headed red dragon.
The Targaryen banner.
Riverrun had fallen.
The last hope was completely shattered.
"No… no…"
"It's over… all over…"
"The city has fallen! The Duke and them…"
Suppressed sobs, desperate moans, and disbelieving murmurs spread through the cavalry like a plague.
This time, even Robb did not try to stop them.
He just sat motionless on his horse, staring blankly at the glaring banner on the distant castle wall, like a stone statue that had instantly lost all life.
His teeth had bitten so hard they bled, and blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, yet he was oblivious.
He just stared, fixedly, at that banner, the once knife-sharp light in his blue eyes completely extinguished.
All that remained was boundless bewilderment, emptiness, and a deep-seated, incomprehensible, and unacceptable sense of powerlessness.
How could this be?
How was it possible?
He had painstakingly planned every step, and all his strategies had clearly begun to show results, even successfully dividing and pinning down the main Targaryen forces at one point.
But why?
Why, the moment that dragon, the moment Aegon Targaryen truly made his move, did all his schemes, all the bloody battles of his soldiers, all their sacrifices… become so laughable, so fragile?
Wylis's eight thousand strong army was gone.
Greatjon's forces attacking the rear were likely also in dire straits below Harrenhal.
Roose Bolton was nowhere to be found.
Now, even Riverrun, the last stronghold in The Riverlands, the home of his mother and uncle, the place where his pregnant beloved Jeyne was… had fallen into enemy hands.
He had given his all, but what he got in return was this dispirited remnant of less than three thousand defeated soldiers by his side.
He had lost The Riverlands, lost the main force of the Northern army, and perhaps… lost all his kin.
"Your Majesty… Your Majesty, what… what should we do now?" a Personal Guard captain asked, his voice trembling, his eyes full of confusion.
Robb opened his mouth, wanting to say something, but only a strange gurgling sound escaped his throat.
The breath he had been holding, that mix of unwillingness, anger, and despair, suddenly gave out.
His vision abruptly darkened, the world spun, and he fell straight from his horse without even a muffled groan.
"Your Majesty!!"
"Quick! Help the King!"
The Personal Guards cried out in alarm, hastily dismounting and scrambling to catch Robb's limp body.
The scene was chaotic.
…
When Robb regained consciousness, painstakingly opening his heavy eyelids, what greeted him were tall, bare branches and the cold, pale light of another morning, filtering through the gaps in the leaves.
He lay on the ground, covered with a cloak of dead leaves, surrounded by his weary, worried Personal Guards.
"Where… where is this?" he asked, his voice so hoarse it was almost inaudible.
"Your Majesty, you're awake!" A Personal Guard quickly bent down and whispered, "This is Whispering Wood."
Whispering Wood.
Robb's consciousness gradually cleared, and then a pain mixed with absurdity and bitterness fiercely seized him.
Whispering Wood… this was where he first showed his prowess, captured Jaime Lannister, and earned the renown of The Young Wolf.
Now, had it become his final resting place, where he had suffered utter defeat and reached the end of his rope?
He struggled to sit up, and the Personal Guards quickly helped him.
"Our… army?" Robb asked, a premonition of ill fortune already in his heart.
The Personal Guard lowered his head, his voice strained: "After Your Majesty fainted… morale completely collapsed. Many… left during the night."
"Now, only we, the most loyal of House Stark's… less than five hundred cavalry, remain gathered here."
Five hundred cavalry.
Robb fell silent.
He leaned against a rough tree trunk, tilting his head back to gaze at the grey sky.
The cold wind of late autumn blew through the forest, carrying with it a bone-chilling coolness, and the faint, distant sounds of horns and clamor from an unknown force.
The once grand Northern army with its flying banners, The Young Wolf who swept through the Westerlands and struck fear into the Lannisters…
Now, only these few hundred survivors lingered in the forest, living a cold, bone-deep nightmare from which there was no waking.
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