West of the Reach, east of the Golden Tooth, the village of Acorn.
Late at night.
The village of Acorn lay in the hilly country east of the Golden Tooth, thirty miles east of the border of the Riverlands. The village was small, with just over thirty households that had grown wheat and raised sheep for generations. At the entrance to the village stood several old oak trees, said to be hundreds of years old—the village's name came from them.
The winter wind blew from the north, carrying a bone-chilling cold. The doors and windows of every house were shut tight; only the mill in the center of the village gave off a dim light.
The mill was the largest building in the village, usually used for grinding flour, and at night it became a gathering place for the villagers to eat. At this moment, a fire burned in the center of the mill, with a large iron pot over it, bubbling and steaming as something cooked inside. Dozens of villagers sat around the fire, holding wooden bowls, eating hot porridge and chatting.
"This time, the lord took two lions on the expedition," a middle-aged man said, chewing his food.
"Lions?" A young man's eyes lit up. "Is that true?"
"Of course it's true." The middle-aged man wiped his mouth. "I saw it with my own eyes. Two big lions, locked in iron cages, following the army."
An old man with grey hair sighed. "We haven't seen lions in the West for many years. When I was young, they were still in the mountains, but later there were very few..."
"Grandfather, what is a lion?" A boy of seven or eight tugged at the old man's sleeve and asked.
The old man smiled, showing a few missing teeth, and stretched out both hands to gesture with claws and teeth. "A lion is a big cat that can carry you off in one bite. It specializes in eating disobedient children at night."
The little boy shrank in fear into his mother's embrace, making everyone laugh. The laughter echoed through the mill, dispelling the cold of the winter night.
"How big are the Targaryen dragons?" a young man asked curiously.
"I've seen them! I've seen them!" A middle-aged man of about forty stood excitedly, his face flushed in the firelight. "When I was young, I went to King's Landing and saw those dragons with my own eyes!"
Everyone looked at him one after another, their eyes full of curiosity.
The middle-aged man gestured triumphantly. "The biggest one, called Vhagar, spreads its wings and blots out the sky! The sun vanishes! It roars, and the whole ground of King's Landing shakes!"
The children were fascinated, their eyes wide.
"What does it eat?" a little girl asked timidly.
"Eats cows! Eats sheep! It can eat ten cows in one meal!" The middle-aged man said. "It breathes dragonfire and can burn stone!"
The children exclaimed.
The old man shook his head and smiled. "Alright, alright, stop spoiling them. If you keep spoiling them, these children won't be able to sleep."
The middle-aged man smiled, sat down, took his bowl, and ate again.
The fire crackled, and the porridge in the pot steamed. Outside the window, the north wind howled, but inside the mill it was warm, full of firelight and human warmth.
At that moment, the village elder coughed, stood up, and his smile became somewhat restrained.
"Quiet, I have something to say."
The crowd quieted and looked at him.
The village elder was a man of about seventy, with white hair and a wrinkled face, but his back was straight. He had been the head of Acorn village for forty years, and the villagers respected him.
"Someone from the Golden Tooth gave orders today," the village elder said. "As I've mentioned before, our West is now at war with those rebels from the North. The lord has ordered all villages to be vigilant, to organize the young and strong, to patrol at night, and to guard against bandits from the Riverlands who have fled here."
Everyone exchanged glances, and some spoke dismissively.
"Village elder, you're taking this too seriously. We have Lord Lannister—the lord himself is leading the expedition this time. What trouble can those mud-footed Riverlanders cause?"
"That's right," someone echoed. "Our knights of the West, one charge will slaughter them so not a single suit of armor remains."
The village elder frowned and said in a deep voice, "You shouldn't say that. War is a serious matter; it's always right to be cautious. Starting tomorrow, we will take turns patrolling each night, with one man from each family..."
Before he could finish, the door of the mill suddenly burst open.
Cold wind rushed in, making the fire flicker.
At the door stood more than a dozen men, dressed in chainmail and dark cloaks, with swords and axes in their hands. The leader was a young man just over twenty, with short brown hair, his face reddened by the cold wind, but his eyes were remarkably bright. He glanced at the villagers in the mill and smiled.
"Hey, where's supper?"
Dead silence fell over the mill. The villagers froze in place, still holding their bowls and with their mouths open, but no one dared move. The clothes of these men, their weapons, and the indescribable killing aura around them...
The young man ignored everyone and walked straight to a child by the fire. The child was so frightened that he shrunk into his mother's embrace, not daring to move. The young man reached out, took a handful of porridge from the bowl in front of the child, put it in his mouth, and tasted it.
"Not bad," he nodded. "You eat well."
His accent was very strange, completely different from that of the westerners—with the roughness and curtness characteristic of the North.
Suddenly, an old woman stood up, pointed at him, and asked, "Who are you? What do you want?"
Before she finished, the burly, fleshy-faced man beside the young man punched her in the face. The old woman screamed, fell backward, and knocked over a barrel behind her.
"Grandmother!" Several children cried and sobbed.
The villagers were in chaos, but looking at the gleaming swords, no one dared move.
The village elder tremblingly stood up, trying to help the old woman, and said as he moved, "My lord... my lord, calm your anger... if you need anything, we can..."
The young man looked at him and smiled. "You're reasonable."
He paused and said slowly, "My name is Riley. Riley Karstark."
The village elder's face instantly went pale. He was well-informed, and hearing the northern accent and that surname...
Riley Karstark drew his sword from his belt, walked to the village elder, pointed the tip at his eye, and said mockingly.
"Listen, you lot. Eat, every one of you, hand it over. Understood?"
The village elder's legs went weak; he nearly knelt. He nodded desperately. "I understand... I understand..."
---
An hour later.
The villagers of Acorn stood in the cold wind, shivering. Before them lay mountains of grain and more than a hundred sheep. Every household's summer surplus grain, prepared as rations for the long winter, was all here.
The northern cavalry gathered around the grain piles, satisfied smiles on their faces.
"My lord," a subordinate approached Riley Karstark and lowered his voice. "Gathered—this food will last our thousand men four months."
Riley nodded, looking at the villagers. They were still weeping.
Riley was somewhat displeased. Why did these cowardly southerners have such good land?
Watching these people sob quietly, some silently crying, some holding their children tightly, as if that could stop these fierce northerners...
The village elder knelt with a thud, crawled to Riley, and bowed.
"My lord! My lord, please! The long winter is coming soon! Could you... could you leave us at least half the food? Half, and we can just barely make it through on gritted teeth!"
The village elder raised his head, tears streaming down his face. "My lord, we have infants and young children! Without food, they will starve!"
Riley looked at him and was silent for a moment. The northern soldiers around also fell silent. Didn't they each have families?
Then Riley sighed, crouched, and looked at the village elder at eye level.
"Old man," he said, "it's not easy."
A spark of hope flickered in the village elder's eyes.
Riley continued. "Don't worry, I've thought about it. You don't need to worry about the winter."
The village elder was stunned, then ecstasy appeared on his face. "Really? Really?"
"Really." Riley stood and brushed the dust from his knee. "Next year—next year, you won't need to worry about winter. We will free you from your suffering."
The village elder's smile froze on his face. He didn't fully understand what Riley meant.
Riley did not look at him, but turned to one of his men and asked, "How's it? Are you ready?"
The subordinate smiled faintly. "Ready. Can bury over a hundred people."
Riley nodded and looked at the village elder again. "Alright, does anyone else have a problem?"
The village elder opened his mouth but was speechless.
"No?" Riley said. "Well, brothers, do it."
Then the northern cavalry raised their longswords and battle axes.
Screams, wails, and pleas for mercy echoed through the night sky. But soon, all was silent.
Riley stood at the entrance of the village, watching as the bodies were dragged into a shallow grave dug by their own hands. His face showed no expression.
A subordinate approached him and whispered, "My lord, it's done."
Riley nodded, looked at the shallow graves, and murmured to himself, "If you want to blame someone, blame the Iron Throne."
He turned and mounted his horse.
"Let's go. Next village."
That night, fourteen western villages near the Riverlands suffered the same fate.
Lord Cregan Stark's orders were clear: destroy the villages, gather the grain, leave no survivors. Most of the seized grain would be sent back north to the starving northerners. The seized property would be exchanged for additional food. And those who died...
Lord Cregan had told him: this is war. War is death. Northerners will die too. If they had no food, hundreds of thousands would starve across the North. In comparison, who were these thousands of western peasants?
Moreover, he had another goal. He wanted to provoke the Lord of the West, Jason Lannister, who was marching toward the Golden Tooth. What would the proud lion do when he heard that his people were being slaughtered? He would surely be furious. And if he became furious, he would lose his reason. And that was exactly what Cregan wanted.
That night, the northern cavalry departed, leaving behind burning villages and piles of civilian corpses.