To the east of the Golden Tooth, Acorn Village
It was deep into the night.
Acorn Village sat among the hills east of the Golden Tooth. The Riverlands border lay some twenty miles farther east.
The village was small, only a little over thirty households. For generations, the villagers had lived by growing wheat and raising sheep.
A few ancient oak trees stood at the entrance of the village. It was said they had stood there for hundreds of years, and Acorn Village had taken its name from them.
The winter wind blew down from the north, cold enough to cut through bone. Every household had its doors and windows tightly shut. Only the mill at the center of the village still glowed with dim yellow light.
The mill was the largest building in the village. During the day, it was used for grinding flour. At night, it became the place where the villagers gathered to eat together.
At this moment, a bonfire burned in the middle of the mill. A large iron pot hung above it, something bubbling away inside with steaming gurgles.
Dozens of villagers sat around the fire, wooden bowls in hand, eating hot porridge while chatting among themselves.
"This time, the lord even brought two lions with him on campaign," a middle-aged man said through a mouthful of food.
"Lions?" The young man beside him lit up instantly. "Seriously?"
"Of course it's true." The middle-aged man wiped his mouth. "I saw them with my own eyes."
"Two huge lions locked in iron cages, marching with the army."
"Lions..." an old man with graying hair sighed wistfully. "It's been many years since we've seen lions in the Westerlands."
"When I was young, there were still some up in the mountains. Later on, they became harder and harder to find..."
"Grandpa, what's a lion?" a little boy of seven or eight asked as he tugged on the old man's sleeve.
The old man grinned, revealing several missing teeth. He stretched out both hands and made clawing motions.
"A lion's a cat this big. One bite and it'll carry you right off. At night, they love eating naughty little children."
The little boy immediately shrank into his mother's arms in fright, drawing laughter from everyone around him.
The sound of laughter echoed through the mill, driving away the chill of the winter night.
"How big do you think those Targaryen dragons are?" a young man asked curiously.
"I've seen them! I've seen them!" A man in his forties suddenly stood up excitedly, his face glowing red in the firelight.
"When I was young, I went to King's Landing and saw those dragons with my own eyes!"
Everyone immediately turned to look at him, their eyes full of curiosity.
The middle-aged man gestured animatedly. "The biggest one was called Vhagar. When it spread its wings, it blotted out the sky!"
"You couldn't even see the sun! And when it roared, the whole ground in King's Landing shook!"
The children listened in complete fascination, eyes wide and round.
"Then what does it eat?" a little girl asked timidly.
"Cows! Sheep! It can eat ten cows in one meal!" the man declared. "And one breath of dragonfire can melt stone!"
"Woooow..." the children gasped in amazement.
The old man shook his head with a laugh. "Alright, alright, stop bragging."
"If you keep going, these children won't be able to sleep tonight."
The middle-aged man chuckled and sat back down, lifting his bowl to continue eating.
The bonfire crackled softly while steam rose from the pot of porridge.
Outside, the north wind howled. But inside the mill, it was warm and lively, filled with the smell of food and the warmth of human company.
At that moment, the village chief cleared his throat and slowly rose to his feet, the smile on his face fading somewhat.
"Quiet down, everyone. I have something to say."
The villagers gradually fell silent and looked toward him.
The village chief was an old man in his seventies. His hair was white, and his face was covered in wrinkles, yet his back remained straight.
He had served as Acorn Village's chief for forty years, and everyone in the village respected him.
"A messenger came from the Golden Tooth today," the village chief said. "Word from above is that the Westerlands are now at war with those northern rebels."
"The lord has ordered every village to stay alert, organize the able-bodied men, and patrol at night in case Riverlands bandits wander across the border."
The villagers exchanged glances. Someone said dismissively, "Village chief, you're taking this too seriously."
"We've got the House Lannister behind us. The lord himself is leading the army this time. What kind of trouble could those Riverlands peasants possibly stir up?"
"Exactly," someone else agreed. "One charge from the knights of the Westerlands and they'd cut those people down without leaving a single survivor."
The village chief frowned and said in a deep voice, "You can't think like that."
"War is serious business. There's nothing wrong with being cautious."
"Starting tomorrow, we'll take turns patrolling every night. Each household sends one man—"
Before he could finish, the mill doors were suddenly shoved open.
A gust of freezing wind poured inside, making the bonfire flicker violently.
More than a dozen men stood in the doorway. They wore chainmail beneath dark cloaks and carried swords and axes in their hands.
At the front stood a young man barely in his twenties. He had short brown hair, his face reddened by the cold wind, but his eyes burned with startling brightness.
He swept his gaze across the villagers inside the mill and grinned.
"Oh? Having dinner?"
The entire mill fell deathly silent.
The villagers froze where they sat. Bowls still in hand, mouths half open, yet not a single person dared move.
Those men's clothing, their weapons, and the indescribable killing intent hanging around them...
Ignoring everyone else, the young man walked straight toward a child sitting beside the fire.
The boy shrank into his mother's arms in terror, too frightened to move.
The young man reached into the child's bowl, grabbed a handful of porridge, and stuffed it into his mouth for a taste.
"Mm." He nodded. "You people eat pretty well."
His accent was strange, completely unlike that of the Westerlands. It carried the rough, clipped cadence unique to the North.
An old woman suddenly stood up and pointed at him.
"Who are you people? What do you want?"
Before she could finish, a thickset man with a face full of scars beside the young man drove a fist into her face.
The old woman screamed and fell backward, knocking over a wooden barrel behind her.
"Grandma!"
Several children burst into tears.
A wave of unrest swept through the villagers, but at the sight of the gleaming swords and axes, no one dared move.
The village chief shakily got to his feet and tried to help the old woman up.
"My lords... my lords, please don't be angry..." he said as he walked forward. "If there's anything you need, we can provide it..."
The young man looked at him and smiled.
"At least you're sensible."
He paused before speaking slowly.
"My name is Rylly."
"Rylly Karstark."
The village chief's face instantly turned deathly pale.
He had seen enough of the world to recognize the northern accent, and that family name...
Rylly Karstark drew the sword at his waist and walked up to the village chief. Pointing the tip of the blade at the old man's eye, he sneered.
"Listen carefully."
"All the food."
"Hand it over."
"Every last bit."
"Understand?"
The village chief's legs nearly gave out beneath him.
He nodded frantically.
"I... I understand..."
An hour later.
The villagers of Acorn Village stood trembling in the freezing wind.
Before them lay a mound of grain piled as high as a hill, along with more than a hundred sheep. The food every household had stored over several summers—the provisions meant to carry them through the Long Winter—was all there.
The northern horsemen stood around the stockpile, satisfied smiles on their faces.
"My lord," one of the men said quietly as he approached Rylly, "if we stretch it a bit, this will feed several thousand men for four months."
Rylly nodded and turned his gaze toward the villagers.
They were still crying.
The sight irritated him somewhat.
Why did these weak southerners deserve land this good?
Some were quietly sobbing. Some were wiping away tears. Others held their children tightly, as if their embrace alone could shield them from these fearsome northerners.
With a thud, the village chief dropped to his knees.
He crawled to Rylly and repeatedly knocked his forehead against the ground.
"My lord! My lord! Please!"
"The Long Winter is almost here!"
"Could you..."
"Could you at least leave us half the grain?"
"If we have half, we can grit our teeth and survive!"
The old man looked up, tears streaming down his face.
"My lord, there are infants here. Children!"
"If the food is gone, they'll starve to death!"
Rylly looked down at him and remained silent for a moment.
The northern soldiers around them also fell silent.
After all, every one of them had families back home.
Then Rylly sighed and crouched down until they were eye level.
"Infants, huh..." he said. "That really is difficult."
A flicker of hope appeared in the village chief's eyes.
Rylly continued.
"Don't worry. I've thought about all of that."
"You won't have to worry about surviving the winter."
The village chief froze.
Then ecstasy spread across his face.
"Really? Truly?"
"Truly."
Rylly stood and brushed the dust from his knees.
"Next year, and the year after that, you won't have to worry about surviving the winter either."
"We're going to free you from that burden."
The village chief's smile froze.
He did not quite understand what Rylly meant.
Rylly ignored him and turned to one of his men.
"How's it going? Ready?"
The man smiled faintly.
"If we squeeze them in, the pits can hold over a hundred bodies."
Rylly nodded and looked back at the village chief.
"Good."
"Anyone else have any questions?"
The village chief opened his mouth but could not speak.
"No?"
Rylly said.
"Then get to work, brothers."
The northern horsemen raised their swords and battle-axes.
Screams.
Cries.
Begging.
The sounds echoed through the night sky.
But before long, everything fell silent.
Rylly stood at the entrance of the village, watching as bodies were dragged into the shallow pits that had already been dug.
There was no expression on his face.
One of his men walked up beside him.
"My lord, it's finished."
Rylly nodded and looked at the graves.
"Blame the Iron Throne," he muttered.
Then he turned, mounted his horse, and said: "Move out."
"Next village."
That night, fourteen villages in the Westerlands near the Riverlands suffered the same fate.
The orders issued by Cregan Stark had been explicit.
Slaughter the villages.
Take the grain.
Leave no survivors.
Most of the stolen grain would be sent back to the North to feed the starving northerners. The valuables they seized would be exchanged for even more food.
And the dead...
Lord Cregan Stark had told him this was war.
People died in war.
Northerners died too.
Without food, hundreds of thousands across the North would starve.
Compared to that, what were a thousand smallfolk from the Westerlands?
Besides, he had another objective.
He wanted to provoke Jason Lannister, who was leading his army toward the Golden Tooth.
How would that proud lion react when he learned his own people had been massacred?
He would be furious.
And fury clouded judgment.
That was exactly what Cregan wanted.
Under the cover of darkness, the northern horsemen rode away.
Behind them lay burning villages and heaps of dead smallfolk.
---
I will post some extra Chapters in Patreon, you can check it out. >> patreon.com/TitoVillar
---