Night lay silent beneath a wash of moonlight, shadows layered upon shadows. The ground was thick with fallen leaves, the ridgeline cloaked in dense forest, the hills sloping gently downward toward the riverbed.
The lower the land fell, the sparser the brush became.
The ceaseless rush of the Blue Fork echoed through the woods, and in the distance the silhouette of Harrenhal loomed faintly against the night.
A crow settled on a branch, moonlight gleaming in its violet eyes.
Figures moved among the trees. The crow studied the sigils carefully—on black, a white sun; on red, a roaring brown giant; on orange, a dark-horned elk; and there too, the black fish and the direwolf.
The crow's heart seemed to leap into its throat. Its purple eyes blinked rapidly, but it dared not caw.
The black fish had shot down many ravens already; it had no wish to die here. With a sudden beat of wings, the crow slipped into the night sky.
It passed over the forest and glided above a river valley.
Below, torches flickered across the ground. Cries of agony and battle filled the air—lions tearing savagely into trout, the stench of blood rising like a fog.
Crows loved the smell of blood. Many of its kin wheeled nearby, waiting for the slaughter to end so they could feast.
But this would not end quickly.
The purple-eyed crow turned back toward the forest. It could see nothing—if even it could not, how could the lions? It circled again and again, searching the chaos for a familiar figure.
"Pursue!" Jaime Lannister rode tall and proud, golden hair streaming. He had removed his helm to better survey the field.
His squire followed close behind, carrying his lance. The golden hair marked him as a Lannister as well.
"Brother!" the purple-eyed crow cried.
"The crows already smell death—House Tully's doom is at hand!" Jaime shouted. "Ride them down! Drive them into the river—send the trout back where they belong!"
Along the riverbank gathered more than three hundred cavalrymen, well-armed, their swords keen, their armor orderly but now splattered with blood.
Using their mounts, they split the Tully soldiers apart. What followed was slaughter.
About a day earlier, Jaime had received his father's letter—his beloved brother Tyrion Lannister was safe, and Robb Stark's northern host might cross at the Twins. He was warned to remain vigilant.
Tywin's intelligence was never wrong, so Jaime had strengthened patrols and scouting. In recent days they had crushed several raiding bands, yet still no sign of the northern host.
This Tully force—some two or three hundred men—had been spotted by scouts three hours ago, just after passing through the Whispering Wood.
Upon receiving the report, Jaime selected three hundred horse and rode out from the siege lines around Riverrun to intercept them.
Three hundred cavalry against two hundred foot soldiers—inevitably a massacre. Yet the valley unsettled him. It was perfect for an ambush. They fought now in the open center; if enemies waited in the surrounding woods, it would be disastrous.
"Gaven!" Jaime called. "Ser Quenten Banefort! Ser Raynald Westerling!"
The named knights reined in and withdrew from the melee to join him.
The purple-eyed crow recognized them—Gaven's cloak bore white shells, lord of the Crag. Quenten Banefort's sigil was lost in the dark, but the crow knew him lord of Banefort. Raynald Westerling, lord of the Crag's neighboring lands.
"Each of you take a dozen riders and scout the woods," Jaime ordered. "Gaven, east—no river crossing there."
"Quenten, north. Raynald, west," he continued. "You two take light horse. You'll need to ford—no knights."
My wise brother, the crow thought. In war, none surpass him—seasoned, deadly.
The three nodded, lowered their visors, and rode off.
Jaime watched them in turn.
Disaster came swiftly. Gaven was first—just as he reached the forest's edge, a black swarm burst forth like bees upon a bear.
"Arrows!" Jaime thrust out his hand. His squire moved to pass the lance, but Jaime snapped, "Fool—my helm first!"
Gaven wore heavy plate; arrows alone might not fell him, but his horse was not so lucky. It collapsed, trapping his leg.
"Ambush!" Jaime roared. "Quenten! Raynald! Fall back! Brax—form the retreat!"
Poor Lord Banefort was unhorsed by a trip line, then overwhelmed by half a dozen warriors leaping from the trees.
Northmen.
Raynald was struck from the saddle by a lance, swallowed by the rush.
Deep in the woods, torches flared—countless. Northern cavalry poured out, thousands, impossible to number.
"Retreat! Retreat!"
The horns sounded. Under Jaime's command, the Lannister horse began to rally and withdraw.
Some who had chased too far across the river never made it back, cut down mercilessly.
"Cavalry!" Jaime lowered his visor. "Drop the plunder! Drop the lances—now!"
The men obeyed, casting aside burdens.
"Ser Tytos Brax!" Jaime commanded. "Ride to the siege camp—tell them to withdraw to the Westerlands as planned!"
The knight's armor bore the purple unicorn. The crow thought, may he be as swift as the beast he wears.
Within minutes the valley floor was littered with lances, heavy armor, spoils.
Jaime counted losses—more than half gone, many knights captured. No time to mourn. Northern riders were already crossing the river. He ordered the retreat.
Unburdened, the cavalry moved swiftly. A few northern riders clung to their trail, but could not catch them.
The purple-eyed crow's wings ached with fatigue. Then it saw the direwolf banner—and the young rider at the front.
"Kingslayer!" came the shout behind. "I am Robb Stark. Let us settle this here and now!"
Run, brother! Run! the crow screamed.
Jaime thought of his father's letter—of Tyrion Lannister's warning. He glanced back. The young commander had ridden ahead of his main force.
Five minutes… no, three. I need only three minutes, Jaime thought, tightening the reins.
"Cavalry—turn about!"