The night was still, the moon pouring silver light through deepening shadows. The ground lay thick with fallen leaves, the ridges cloaked in dense forest. The hills sloped gently down toward the riverbed.
The lower the land sank, the thinner the undergrowth grew.
The unending roar of the Blue Fork carried over the woods, while in the distance the outline of Oldstones flickered faintly beneath the night sky.
A crow settled on a branch, its violet eyes gleaming in the moonlight.
Figures moved through the trees. The crow studied the banners among them: a white sun on black, a roaring giant on red, a black-horned moose on orange, a black fish, and a direwolf.
The bird's heart leapt into its throat. Its violet eyes blinked rapidly, but it dared not caw. The Blackfish had already felled many crows—it would not die here. With a beat of its wings, it glided out into the night.
It swept across the forest and over the valley.
Below, torchlight flickered. The air rang with screams and wails as lions tore into trout, the stench of blood heavy in the night.
Crows relished the scent of blood. Already it saw its kin circling above, waiting for the feast when the killing ended.
But this fight would not end so quickly.
The violet-eyed crow turned back toward the woods. It saw nothing—if even it could not pierce the dark, how could a lion? It circled again and again, searching the chaos below for a familiar face.
"After them!" Jaime Lannister sat tall and striking in the saddle, golden hair streaming as he pulled off his helm to scan the field more clearly.
His squire followed, lance in hand. His hair too was golden—another Lannister.
"Brother!" the violet-eyed crow cried.
"The crows already scent death! The Tullys' doom is at hand!" Jaime bellowed. "Pursue! Drive them into the river—let the trout swim back to where they belong!"
On the riverbank, some three hundred horsemen pressed close. Their swords were sharp, their armor well-forged, now smeared with blood.
Mounted, they had broken the Tully ranks apart, turning the fight into slaughter.
Only a day before, Jaime had received word from his father: Tyrion lived, and Robb Stark's northern host might march through the Twins. He was warned to stay alert.
His father's orders and intelligence were never wrong. Jaime had doubled his patrols and scouts, smashing several bands of raiders in the past days, though no sign of the northern army had yet appeared.
This Tully band—two to three hundred men—had been spotted by scouts three hours earlier, fresh from the Whispering Wood.
On the report, Jaime had handpicked three hundred riders and ridden out from the siege lines at Riverrun to intercept.
Three hundred cavalry against two hundred footmen was no contest, only massacre.
And yet, the valley troubled him. It was perfect ground for an ambush. They fought now on the flat at its center, but if men lay in wait among the trees, matters could turn grim.
"Gawen!" Jaime shouted. "Quenten Banefort! Reginald Estren!"
The knights he named pulled their horses from the melee in the clearing and rode back to him.
The violet-eyed crow recognized them. Gawen Westerling's cloak bore a white shell, the sigil of the Lord of the Crag. Quenten Banefort's arms were hard to make out in the dark, but the crow knew him as the lord of Banefort. Reginald Estren was the Lord of Wyndhall.
"Each of you take a dozen riders and sweep the woods," Jaime commanded. "Gawen, you'll go east—no need to ford the river there."
"Quenten, take the north. Reginald, the west. Both of you bring light horse. You'll need to cross water—don't risk your knights."
"My wise brother," the crow thought. "No one fights like him—so seasoned, so deadly."
The three men nodded, lowered their visors, and led their men off in their assigned directions.
Jaime turned slowly, watching each of them ride away.
The blow came almost at once. Lord Gawen was the first to fall. Just as he reached the treeline, a black swarm burst from the forest, as if bees had descended on a bear.
"Arrows!" Jaime called for his squire. The boy moved to hand him a lance, but Jaime snapped at him. "Idiot—my helm first!"
Lord Gawen's armor would have turned aside most shafts, but his horse was not so fortunate. It crashed to the ground, pinning his leg beneath it.
"Ambush! Ambush!" Jaime roared. "Quenten! Reginald! Fall back! Brax—form the men for retreat!"
The poor Lord of Banefort was brought down by a tripwire. Seven or eight men leapt from the trees to hold him fast.
Northerners.
Reginald Estren was speared from the saddle by a knight's lance, the Northerners piling over him in an instant.
Deeper in the forest, torches flared to life. Cavalry poured from the trees—scores, hundreds, more than Jaime could count, with gods knew how many still hidden in the dark.
"Retreat! Retreat!"
The horns sounded. At Jaime's command, the Lannister riders wheeled and tried to reform.
Those who had crossed the river in pursuit never made it back. The Northerners cut them down where they stood.
"Cavalry!" Jaime pulled on his helm and lowered the visor. "Drop the plunder! Lances too—now!" Around him men hurled spoils, weapons, and heavy gear to the ground.
"Ser Tytos Brax!" Jaime barked. "Ride for the siege camp at Riverrun. Tell them to follow the plan—withdraw to the Westerlands!"
The crow's violet eyes fixed on Brax's purple unicorn sigil. May he ride as swiftly as the beast on his shield.
Within minutes the valley floor was littered with lances, armor, and the spoils of war.
Jaime counted his losses: more than half his men gone, nearly every knight taken. But there was no time to dwell—the Northerners were already fording the river. He drove what was left of his force into retreat.
Unburdened, the Lannister horsemen were fast. The pursuing Northmen could only snap at their heels, unable to close the distance.
The violet-eyed crow, wings heavy, spied the direwolf banners snapping in the wind. At their head rode the foremost of the Northern riders—barely more than boys.
"Kingslayer!" came a cry from behind. "I am Robb Stark! Let us end this here and now!"
"Run, brother, run!" the crow shrieked.
Jaime Lannister thought of his father's letter, of Tyrion's warning. He glanced back at the young Stark leading the charge, the rest of the Northern host falling behind.
Five minutes. No—three. That's all I need, Jaime thought, reining his horse hard.
"Cavalry! Turn about!"