The forest held its breath.
No man moved. No horse shifted. Even the falling snow seemed to slow as the riders of Ravenhold listened to the darkness ahead.
Corvyn's hand remained steady on the hilt of Nightfeather.
Another branch snapped.
Closer.
Ser Halric's voice came low and controlled. "Dismount."
The riders obeyed instantly.
Leather creaked softly as men slid from their saddles. Reins were looped over low branches, and blades slipped quietly from sheaths.
Steel whispered through the cold air.
Corvyn crouched beside Halric near the edge of the narrow path.
"You hear how they move?" Halric murmured.
Corvyn nodded.
Not the careless crashing of animals.
Not the quiet steps of hunters.
Soldiers.
Trying to be silent.
Trying and failing.
"They know the woods," Corvyn whispered.
"But not well enough," Halric replied.
A shadow moved between the trees.
Then another.
Dark shapes slipping through the snow.
The faint glow of a covered lantern flickered briefly behind a pine trunk.
Corvyn counted quickly.
One.
Three.
Six.
More behind them.
Bolton men.
One stepped forward into a thin line of moonlight breaking through the clouds.
His cloak parted slightly.
Beneath it, stitched crudely into dark leather, was the pale shape of the flayed man.
Halric's jaw tightened.
"Scouts," he breathed.
Corvyn shook his head.
"No."
Halric glanced at him.
"They're searching."
Another Bolton soldier stepped into view.
This one carried a short spear instead of a sword.
His eyes scanned the trees carefully.
"Spread out," the man muttered to the others. "Tracks came this way."
Corvyn felt a flicker of grim satisfaction.
They had found the Ravaryn trail.
But too late.
Halric leaned slightly toward him.
"Orders?" the older knight asked quietly.
Corvyn looked around.
His riders were already positioned between the trees, cloaks blending with the shadows.
Twenty silent hunters.
The Bolton soldiers walked directly toward them without knowing.
Corvyn remembered his father's words.
Watch.
Wait.
Strike.
He slowly drew Nightfeather.
Even in the darkness the Valyrian steel caught what little light existed, the rippled blade drinking the moon's glow like black water.
Halric gave a low whistle.
"Beautiful sword," he muttered.
Corvyn lifted a hand slightly.
Not yet.
The Bolton men moved closer.
Ten paces now.
Eight.
One of them suddenly stopped.
He looked down.
At the ground.
At the tracks in the snow.
"Wait," the soldier said.
Too late.
Corvyn's hand dropped.
"Now."
The forest exploded with movement.
Ravaryn riders surged from the shadows like ghosts.
Steel flashed.
A Bolton soldier barely had time to shout before Halric's blade crashed into his chest.
Another turned in panic—
—and Nightfeather cut through the air.
The Valyrian steel sword moved faster than the eye could follow.
One clean strike.
The Bolton's spear fell into the snow as the man collapsed.
Shouts erupted through the forest.
More Bolton soldiers rushed forward from deeper among the trees.
Corvyn's eyes widened slightly.
There were more of them than expected.
Much more.
Halric saw it too.
"Gods…" he muttered.
From somewhere deeper in the woods came the thunder of approaching hooves.
Not twenty.
Not thirty.
An entire force moving through the trees.
Corvyn felt the cold realization settle in his chest.
This was no scouting party.
This was an army.
And they had just walked straight into it.