Game of Thrones: I Created the Weave

"Bruce, did we make it?"

The hoarse-voiced knight leaned against the rough cliff face, gazing blankly at the tide in the west, and murmured the question to his companion.

Massey's Hook's west coast had been ravaged by the two thousand knights they commanded, leaving it desolate.

Not to mention the coastal villages and towns, even the fishermen on boats had long since moved to the safer north to make a living. The sea was empty; not a single boat could be seen.

For a fleeing defeated army, such a beach seemed to be the best route.

The deserted beach was hidden enough to allow them to stay away from the remaining population on Massey's Hook, avoiding any noise that might alert the "hunters."

Moreover, they had lost all their supplies.

If they didn't want to spend all their time hunting, gathering fruit, and scavenging for food in the ruins, giving the "hunters" ample time to catch up, there seemed to be only one answer left—the beach.

The tide would bring many shells and small fish, enough to fill their stomachs for those who were on the move all day.

The only problem was fresh water.

There were some puddles of accumulated fresh water behind the rocky hills and tidal flats, but for the hundreds of them, this was just a drop of water on a bonfire, disappearing with a "hiss," leaving the flames still hot and thirsty.

Without enough fresh water, they would die of thirst before even leaving Massey's Hook.

Everyone knew this.

But to venture inland for this, risking getting close to those small rivers and lakes?

Anyone with a normal brain also understood that the guards of Sharp Point and Stone Dance City, and the hundreds of monsters that suddenly appeared, these "hunters" would surely be盯死 every water source, waiting for them to walk into a trap.

Fortunately, this was only the third day of their southward escape, and the situation hadn't become serious enough to cause disputes,搶奪, or even mutual slaughter.

Fortunately, it rained heavily yesterday.

The powerful raindrops hit every inch of their skin. Everyone faced the sky, moistening their cracked lips, letting the raindrops fall directly into their open mouths.

Finally, everyone filled every container that could store water, revealing a rare smile.

If they were lucky enough, they would be granted several heavy rains in succession, enough to replenish fresh water, but not so fierce as to cause the sea to rise or even a storm.

But even so, the rain was not entirely good and kind.

More than twenty companions had fallen on the road. Either their wounds were infected, or they had high fever all over, or they just collapsed while walking.

Clearly, the rain bestowed hope, but it also presented a test.

Only those with the strongest will and the strongest bodies could possibly go south, cross Massey's Hook, cross the Crownlands border, and return to their homes in the Stormlands.

This would take at least half a month.

After all, they were defeated too thoroughly, with only the armor and weapons they carried, no horses to ride, and no life-sustaining rations.

It's no exaggeration to say that their current situation was worse than that of the refugees whose villages and towns were destroyed.

You know, to make as many refugees as possible go to King's Landing to be a burden, they had given each refugee two weeks' worth of rations and other basic supplies.

And the monsters that destroyed the entire camp had not considered their needs for their escape route.

For three days, they lacked food and fresh water, endured the scorching sun and the cold dark night, experienced wind and rain, monsters chasing them closely, and the continuous deaths of their companions.

How far had they walked?

Had they escaped the hunting range of those monsters?

The knight lowered his head, staring blankly at the black sleeping lion on his breastplate.

"Disturb Not My Slumber," House Grandison of Allview had taken this as their motto for generations, signifying the sleeping lion's peaceful intent while also deterring foreign enemies who dared to invade.

The sleeping lion was already so powerful, who would dare to wake it?

But on that night three days ago, the flame monsters that suddenly appeared launched a Night Raid, waking the sleeping lion from its slumber.

What was the result?

Amidst the烈火, steel, and roars and screams that did not sound human, Nabert Grandison woke up abruptly from his bed, and immediately confirmed the reality: someone was attacking!

Where did these people come from?

The sentinels gave no warning?!

Nabert Grandison immediately woke his attendant, and while hurrying to put on his armor, he pondered the strangeness of it with a face full of disbelief.

By order of the Earls, their two thousand knights would go all the way north to Sharp Point at the northernmost tip of Massey's Hook, destroying all villages and towns along the way, forcing everyone to flee to King's Landing without any support.

The mission had been going very smoothly.

They didn't waste energy on difficult castles, only focusing on clearing villages and towns.

The scattered knights and guards of the various Lords could only watch from inside the city walls. If they dared to come out to resist, the only outcome was being killed or captured.

By that night, they had cleared most of Massey's Hook, leaving only a small area around Sharp Point in the north. The land there was even more barren, with a population probably only in the thousands or tens of thousands.

The mission was about to be successfully completed, and the guards of Stone Dance City and Sharp Point still cowered inside the city, not daring to move.

Even so, they were still careful in their actions.

Nabert himself, Ser Bruce Buckler of Bronze Gate, Ser Hart Fell of Fallenwood, and Ser Roland Storm of Nightsong each commanded a team.

But since entering the territory of Massey's Hook, their four teams would gather in one place every time they camped.

This time was no exception.

A full two thousand cavalry were stationed together in an unnamed town between Sharp Point and Stone Dance City. The scouts sent out all returned safely, reporting that everything was normal, and there were sentries and rotating night patrols.

With such cautious and thorough arrangements, how could they be silently attacked at night?

Nabert couldn't understand.

But when he walked out of his room, everything he saw made him feel as if he had fallen into a nightmare.

Endless flames roared, danced, and flew.

People were burning, horses were burning.

Weapons, houses, and even the ground were covered in layers of fierce fire.

The air was so hot it felt like being in a steaming cage, the vision was as bright as daylight under a scorching sun, but it was red.

How could the flames be so dense?

This must be a nightmare, right?

A gust of wind blew, and the hot but damp air rushed towards Nabert's face, making him even more certain that he was in a dream.

How could real flames be so wet?

But the shouts and battle scenes from all directions still made his heart pound, and he couldn't help but grip the longsword in his hand.

"Throw down your weapons and surrender! You won't be killed!"

Nabert turned sharply. The owner of the voice was shouting in another direction.

Good opportunity! Nabert quickly approached with light steps.

But he stopped again quickly. On the silver-white cloak on that person's back was embroidered a golden Six-Pointed Star, yet it was completely undamaged, as if it had just been washed.

It really is a dream!

Just as Nabert was hesitating whether to continue approaching, that person took out a round ball from a pouch at their waist and threw it into the distance.

Bang!

The round ball shattered, flesh and blood splattered, and a layer of white water mist slowly covered the air.

Then, that person turned around.

And saw him.

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