Smoke lay over the low hills like a torn cloak. By afternoon the road toward Stony Sept was crowded with men moving the wrong way. Mail was dented. Spears were splintered. The banners that had come eager to the bells now trailed in the mud. A red griffin on white—House Connington—rode near the center of the column.
"Howland," Lyanna said, keeping her voice low, "we cannot ride through that."
They had crept along hedgerows all morning. Winter picked her steps between ruts while the marsh-pony nosed at weeds. Tom o' Sevenstreams walked and hummed a nothing tune, his hat pulled down to shadow his eyes. In the cart, the albino raven sat with feigned stupidity, eyes blank and beak tucked.
Howland weighed the ground as if it were a map. "There's a cattle lane down that fold," he said. "It bends toward the river and back up to the high road west of the town. We can skirt them if no scouts ride the hedges."
They turned. They did not get far.
Hooves beat from both ends of the lane. Two riders dropped from the rise ahead, lean and fast on coursers. Two more sealed the rear. One lifted a horn. The sound carried like a cold knife.
"Hold," Dacey warned. She slid from the cart and rolled her shoulders loose. Lyanna eased Winter sideways, putting the mare between the scouts and Howland.
The four formed a semicircle at the lane mouth. Their sergeant had a tired face and a careful way of looking. His eyes skimmed the cart, stuck on the fine weapons peaking from their garments, then climbed to Lyanna's face and did not leave it.
"Names," he said. "And your business."
"Fishmongers," Tom said before anyone else could breathe. "Late to market and poorer for it."
The sergeant's gaze flicked to the albino bird. "What's wrong with your crow."
"Bred in caves," Tom said brightly. "Never seen the sun. Loves a tune."
The man's mouth tightened. "You'll come with us. The commander is taking all travelers for questions."
Dacey lifted her mace. "We are not criminals."
"Everyone is a suspect today," the man said. "Hands where I can see them."
Lyanna shut her left eye. The world softened at the edges. Green echoes showed where the riders would push. One would try to hamstring Winter. One would lean in and snatch the shield. The sergeant would test Dacey with a probe at the knee. None of it mattered. More hoofbeats drummed from the road. A bigger net was already falling.
"Do not make a scene," Howland murmured. "If they are Connington's men, they keep order well enough. We can still choose where to break away."
Lyanna nodded once. She lifted her hands. Dacey did not, but she lowered the stick. The sergeant motioned them forward with a jerk of his chin.
They were marched to the main road and into the stream of retreat. Men bled as they walked. The bells of the town still tolled, a tired, stubborn sound. At the head, beneath the red griffin, sat a young man with a straight back and a face like a whetted blade. Hair the color of old copper. Eyes that missed little.
"Lord Connington," the sergeant said, drawing up. "These four. The girl hid a painted knight's shield. The white bird is… odd."
Jon Connington's gaze took them in, one by one. It lingered a shade longer on Lyanna. He dismounted with the ease of a practiced rider and came close enough to see the wet stains on their boots and the grit under their nails.
"You," he said to Lyanna, not unkindly. "Lift your hood."
She did. The wind flipped a damp strand of hair across her cheek. He studied her. Recognition moved over his features like a shadow.
"Lady Lyanna Stark," he said at last. No triumph. Only certainty.
Dacey shifted her stance. "You have mistaken her."
Connington's mouth twitched. "I have not." He looked to Howland. "Crannogman. And you." He turned to Tom. "Your hands are too soft for fish."
Tom doffed his hat with a sad flourish. "A bard must eat what he can."
Jon Connington did not smile. He spoke to Lyanna. "I am told the prince's… interest in your safety has sparked stories that now drown camps and septs alike. If you are on this road, the stories will grow teeth."
Lyanna held his eyes. "Your king murdered my father and brother."
A muscle ticked in his jaw. "I was not in the Red Keep, my lady."
"You wear his banners."
"I serve the realm," he said. The words sounded like iron in his mouth. "Today the realm lost a battle. Men will pay for my failure. I will not pretend I do not know the cost of choosing a side."
"Then why choose this one."
He glanced past her, toward the south, where the road bent toward King's Landing. "Because I know the man who will mend it when it breaks," he said softly. "Because I have seen him mend me."
There was no point to press that point. Lyanna tried a different blade. "What will you do with us."
"Divide you," he said. "Lady Lyanna is far too important to let out of sight. The gentleman of the Neck and the singer will go west. They can carry a word." He looked at Howland with that same unblinking care. "Tell Eddard Stark this: I have his sister. If he wants her back, he and Robert must present themselves for judgement at King's Landing."
Tom blinked, then found the part he could set to rhyme. "Captured in a company," he murmured.
Connington turned back to Lyanna. "You and your handmaid will ride with me to Sow's Horn. The prince is there. He will keep you safe."
Dacey stepped between them. "Safe from whom."
Connington did not answer her. He watched Lyanna. She weighed the line of men on both verges and the archers set back on the rise. Her green sight showed a blur of bad options. Dacey might break two. She might break three. Then arrows would would take them all.
Lyanna looked at Howland. He understood at once. "We will go," he said. "We will take the word. We will find Ned." He squeezed her arm once, light as a leaf. It was both promise and plea.
Dijkstra made a bland croak. He did not dare more in public. Lyanna felt the old, double gaze again—bird and root, mischief and patience. He would follow when he could.
Connington gestured. "Disarm, treat their beasts well, and see the men off with food," he told his captains. "No one touches the ladies without my leave."
The column swallowed Howland and Tom, turning them west. The marsh-pony plodded dutifully. Tom sent a small salute with two fingers and a ghost of a grin. Howland did not look back.
Two officers approached Lyanna and Dacey with quiet caution. "Wrists," one said. "We'll tie soft. No shame if you ride close."
Dacey bared her teeth. "You tie my hands, I tie your throat."
Lyanna set a hand on her forearm. "Save it," she murmured. "We pick our ground."
They gave up sword and stick. The griffin men bound their wrists with doubled cloth and left enough slack that they could shift in the saddle. It was not kindness. It was calculation. Connington meant to deliver prizes, not corpses.
They rode at the front, flanked by four lancers. The road unfurled toward the low, gently rolling plain along the Blackwater's banks. Behind, the bells of Stony Sept grew dull with distance. Ahead, rain threatened again at the edge of the sky.
Jon Connington kept them in his eye but did not crowd. When he spoke, it was only once. "My prince will be glad to see you alive," he said. "He has looked for you in every rumor since Harrenhall."
Lyanna stared straight ahead. "He will hear the truth from me. Not from songs."
Connington gave a small nod as if that, at least, was fair.
The albino raven rode the cart rail in silence, eyes clear and wicked. When no soldier watched, he inched closer to Lyanna's wrists and pecked a knot loose in her binding. Not all the way. Just enough. He cocked his head at Lyanna, red eyes bright. The message was simple. Give me the word, and chaos will follow.
They crested a ridge as the light bled toward evening. In the shallow valley beyond, fires pricked the dark under a scatter of oaks. Tents went up in neat lines. A black banner edged in red moved in the center like a slow heart.
Sow's Horn waited. So did the prince, and his deadly pursuit.