A few days later, Tywin returned to Harrenhal with his main army.
He did not approach the castle that had already changed hands. Instead, he stationed his forces north of Harrenhal… near Lord Harroway's Town.
The camp of twenty thousand n spread across the plain. Tents stretched endlessly, banners waved like clouds.
From a high vantage point, it looked like a sea of grey-yellow mushrooms, densely packed between the river and the woods.
Inside the central command tent, the noble lords of the Westerlands were arguing chaotically.
Lord Leygood of Goldtooth had the loudest voice, his fleshy face trembling: "Adam Marbrand is a useless fool! If not, then he's a traitor who was bought off!"
Lord Slynt of Silverhill spoke in a deep, rumbling voice that made several people fall quiet: "I heard that Luke Jaqenion possesses divine power. He can fly, has three pairs of flaming wings, and can hatch dragons that had long been extinct. Soone saw him flying with three young dragons… he wasn't riding them — he was flying himself!"
"Seven Gods above… are we really going to make an enemy of him?"
As soon as these words were spoken, more than a dozen Westerlands lords began whispering among themselves.
The voices of agreent were few. Those who supported Lord Slynt secretly glanced at Tywin's face. Tywin sat at the head of the table, expressionless.
Lord Crakehall of Crakehall slamd his hand on the table and stood up.
His legion had the strongest overall combat power. His ancestor was the legendary "Crakehall the Boar Killer," and he had inherited that unyielding spirit.
He glared at Lord Leygood, his voice booming like a bell: "Hmph, Leygood, does your Goldtooth also want to surrender to that so-called Son of the Seven Gods? I didn't know you were so pious toward the Seven!"
He turned around, scanning the crowd, his voice growing more impassioned: "So what if he can fly? Even mighty dragons can be wounded and fall. And he is not a dragon! If he dares to co, my archers will turn him into a porcupine!"
He paused, then lowered his voice slightly: "Since he can hatch dragons, he must be a Targaryen bastard! We must kill him while his dragons are still young. Otherwise, once the hatchlings grow up, it will be another Aegon! The Targaryens are all madn! Do you still want to live under the rule of a madman?!"
He caught his breath and continued: "He only has ten thousand n, while we have twenty thousand — twice his numbers. And from what I know, his soldiers are all newly trained recruits!"
Lord Swyft of Cornfield clapped his hands in approval: "Exactly! What right does this Luke have to call himself Protector of the Realm? Where does that leave King Joffrey? Since we are vassals of the Westerlands, we should share the king's burdens! If we hadn't been tied down by that little wolf pup from the North last year, we would have crushed that ridiculous Draco long ago! Now that he has delivered himself to our doorstep…"
Everyone spoke at once. So slamd the table, so waved their fists, so secretly watched Tywin's expression.
Tywin said nothing. He was listening, observing, weighing.
This eting had little real substance. He was rely testing the loyalty of the Westerlands lords.
He could already sense the wavering hearts. After all, the rumors outside had grown increasingly fantastical. All kinds of stories were circulating throughout the Riverlands, claiming Luke was the Son of the Seven Gods with divine power. So believed, so didn't, so were half-convinced.
But at least for now, no one dared speak of surrender in front of him.
After the eting ended, Tywin and Jai remained behind alone.
"Father," Jai's voice was urgent. "We cannot wait any longer. Every extra day puts Cersei and Joffrey in greater danger. Stannis's fleet could appear in Blackwater Bay at any mont."
Tywin looked at his sowhat impatient son and spoke calmly: "The vanguard of the Reach army has already rushed to reinforce King's Landing. Sotis you have to admit that Tyrion has his own unique talents. He will surely hold out until Loras arrives."
He paused, a complex tone entering his voice. "It's a pity he is a dwarf."
Jai wanted to say more, but Tywin raised a hand to stop him. "Right now, you should focus on how to retake Harrenhal. Let the army rest for two days, then attack at night. Harrenhal is too large and heavily damaged. There are many places where we can enter. We have the advantage in numbers —"
Before he could finish, a squire rushed into the tent in panic, his face deathly pale, stamring: "He… he's here! The Son of the Seven Gods is here! With burning wings!"
The Lannister father and son exchanged a glance and imdiately rushed out of the tent.
By now the entire camp was in chaos.
Soldiers looked up with open mouths, weapons in hand, unsure whether to raise them or lower them. So pointed at the sky and scread, so knelt and prayed. The noise was deafening, like a boiling pot of porridge.
Tywin looked up, and then he saw it.
Above the camp floated a golden-armored flying man.
Behind him were three pairs of burning wings. In the afternoon sunlight, the flas were orange-red with an almost transparent quality. Every flap of the wings scattered sparks, like a rain of fire flowing upward. He hovered there, only a few dozen ters above the ground. The air around him was distorted by waves of heat.
"Loose arrows! Loose arrows! Shoot him down for !"
Lord Crakehall had the loudest voice. He was shouting commands, directing the archers to fire.
Tywin had long prepared archers precisely to deal with this "flying man" if he ca. The entire camp now had two thousand archers on constant patrol. The mont an "unidentified flying object" appeared, they were to shoot it down.
To ensure a killing blow, the arrowheads had all been coated with deadly poison!
He glanced at Jai. Jai nodded in understanding and imdiately ran toward a row of tents not far away… where he had prepared a "gift."
Whoosh whoosh whoosh—
Dozens, then hundreds of arrows shot toward Luke in the sky. The sharp sound of arrows cutting through the air was piercing, dense like a swarm of locusts descending on prey.
Under everyone's gaze, the first arrows seed to hit an invisible barrier. They stopped dead about a ter away from Luke, hovered in the air, then fell powerlessly downward.
"Loose!"
Whoosh whoosh whoosh—
The second volley flew. Luke dodged left and right in the air with agility that seed impossible for soone wearing full plate armor. He slowly gained altitude until he was beyond the range of the bows.
"Tywin Lannister, is this how the Westerlands treats its guests?"
The voice was too loud. It wasn't the volu of shouting — it was a massive sound coming from all directions at once, making people's eardrums throb with pain.
Centered on Luke, within a fifty-ter radius, eight giant speakers floated in the air, broadcasting his voice in real ti.
Many people felt as if their hearts had been struck by a heavy hamr. So instinctively covered their ears, so staggered backward.
Tywin raised his hand, signaling the archers to stop firing.
He looked up at the figure hovering in the sky and shouted loudly: "You are Luke Jaqenion? Trespassing in my camp is not the behavior of a guest! Why have you attacked Harrenhal and my army? The Westerlands has no grudge against you. Your actions are far too rude and domineering!"
"Hahahaha…"
Laughter crashed down from the sky, shaking the canvas of the tents.
"Rude and domineering? The rude and domineering ones are the Lannisters! Starting wars for your own selfish desires, occupying other people's castles! Lady Harren should have lived out her days in peace, but you drove her into exile. She recently passed away in Draco…"
The laughter stopped abruptly. The voice turned icy: "But I don't want to talk about that now. Allow to introduce myself."
Luke removed his helt and turned in a circle. His golden titanium alloy armor was blinding in the sunlight. Every plate reflected white light, as if he were draped in sunlight.
"People of the Westerlands, believers of the Seven Gods! I am Luke Jaqenion! The noblest Celestial Dragon in the world, bearer of the most sacred magical bloodline. King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First n, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm! Crowned by the Seven Gods!"
His flaming six wings suddenly flapped once, scattering countless sparks. Those sparks drifted in the air like a shower of gold, adding a layer of radiant light to Luke's entire figure.
He continued: "I have co today only to inform you — to inform everyone present, whether noble or common soldier! I am the Son of the Seven Gods, sent by heaven, carrying the Mandate of Heaven. The gods have sent to save mankind!"
His voice grew solemn, like a priest preaching: "In the lands of eternal winter in the North, demons have awakened. In the na of the Seven Gods, I will gather all living people to fight the ice demons! Anyone who stands in the way of my unification of Westeros is a sinner, and sinners have only one path — death!"
He looked down from above, his gaze sweeping over everyone present: "Tywin Lannister and all the nobles of the Westerlands, all the soldiers here. I give you one day to consider. Submit to and swear fealty to . Otherwise, you will be enemies of the Seven Gods, enemies of all living people, and enemies of House Jaqenion —"
Luke's voice suddenly stopped.
His pupils dilated sharply.
Seven or eight thick "arrows" shot toward him simultaneously from different directions. These were not ordinary arrows — they were giant bolts from ballistae, as thick as an arm, with iron heads and wooden shafts, stabilized by fletching at the rear.
The sound they made cutting through the air wasn't "whoosh" — it was a deep "buzz"… like a swarm of enraged giant hornets.
Luke reached out and grabbed one. Yes, it was a javelin, not an arrow.
The others were stopped by an invisible force three ters in front of him, hovering in the air as if gripped by an unseen hand.
The tops of more than a dozen tents near Tywin's central command tent had been thrown open. Inside each tent was a "giant crossbow," similar to a ballista, requiring three n to operate.
The arms were drawn back, strings taut, cold iron bolts aid at the sky.
Luke narrowed his eyes.
A ball of fla appeared in his hand. He burned the javelin he was holding into ash. The wooden shaft carbonized instantly, and the tal head fell straight down from the sky.
He tilted his head and saw Jai Lannister.
This first volley had been Jai's doing. At this mont, Jai was urgently shouting at his attendants to reload: "Quick! Reload! Next group, fire!"
Their eyes t. The corners of Luke's mouth curved into a mocking arc. He sneered: "You even know about staggered volleys and covering fire."
He quickly gained more altitude. Earlier, to hear Tywin clearly, he had lowered himself after the arrows stopped. Now he rose directly to two hundred ters.
Looking down, the tents looked like matchboxes, and the soldiers looked like ants.
He counted — there were a full twenty-four giant crossbows, firing in three waves.
It looked impressive, but not a single bolt hit him.
He didn't even need to dodge: many of the bolts missed by a ridiculous margin — off by tens of thousands of miles.
The soldiers operating the ballistae were trembling. Aiming at a person in the sky was far harder than aiming at a window on a wall.
"Loose arrows! Everyone loose arrows!"
Tywin's voice rose from the ground, hoarse and shrill. It didn't sound like the eternally calm Lion of the Westerlands, but like a cornered beast.
"He is not a god! He can be wounded! Whoever shoots him down will be rewarded with one hundred thousand gold dragons!"
One hundred thousand gold dragons.
The number exploded among the soldiers.
So swallowed hard, so gripped their bows tighter, so reloaded arrows.
But more people looked up at the six-winged figure two hundred ters above, at the bolts hovering around him, at the iron arrow he had grabbed and burned to ash with one hand.
Most lowered their heads and fell silent. They stopped firing.
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