The quiet town of Tumbler's Falls sits along the side of the northern reach of the Blackwater Rush, which cuts a blue path through the surrounding green fields – north into the Riverlands and south into the Crownlands. The clear water sparkles in the light of the early morning sun as it ascends from the eastern horizon. It would be a picturesque view, if not for the two massive army camps sitting as scars upon the land on opposite sides of the river.

On the western bank, the banner of the Lannister lion flies highest, above a score of smaller sigils – boars, roosters, peacocks and badgers. To the east, cast in shadow by the blinding sunrise behind it, flies the crowned stag of House Baratheon, attended by huntsmen, towers, foxes and golden roses. Beneath one such banner – white tower with orange flame on brown – sits the tent of Ser Urrigon Hightower. Within, young Alyn Ambrose scurries about, racing against the dawn to clean the disaster left behind by his knight's late hours of raucous revelry the night before. He gingerly steps over two of Urrigon's companions – Ser Ben Bushy and Ser Hugh Beesbury – who still lie passed out on the floor of the tent. With a sigh, he nudges Ser Hugh's unconscious form, to no avail, and returns to scrubbing spilled wine and ale off the top of the intricately carved table – a gift from Urrigon's father, if he recalls correctly.

Only one more turn of the moon, the nervous squire tells himself, gagging as his nose catches whiff of some yet-undiscovered pool of vomit lurking in the corner of the tent. Once I'm sixteen, he'll knight me and I'll marry Elinor and we'll live peaceful lives, back home at Red Hill. Smiling at the thought, he rubs the golden favor pinned to his chest – a gilded rose, gifted to him by Elinor Tyrell. He pauses in his work, thinking back to the day of their betrothal. Him, eternally bullied for the freckled, dust-colored skin and lumpy orange hair he'd inherited from his red-headed father and half-Myrish mother. And her, as far as he was concerned, the most beautiful girl in the world, telling him how handsome he was. After we win the war, surely she'll like me even more, he thinks, imagining himself kneeling on the battlefield, surrounded by slain foes, as Urrigon lowers his sword to knight him…

The thunderous snores of the knight in the present startle him back from fantasy. Turning to the bed, he sees Urrigon is still buried beneath the sheets, his massive shape forming a silk orange mountain. Creeping around to the other side, he spots the last remaining prostitute from the night before, still sleeping in the knight's shadow. She has to go before someone sees her, Alyn thinks. Lord Tarly had made it clear, there were to be no whores in his camp, he'd declared, but Urrigon had found near a dozen of them nonetheless, drawing a crowd of knights to his tent with free-flowing drink and dancing women. The sooner she's gone, the better. Lord Tarly frightened him. He takes a step forward and nearly trips over the dress lying on the ground. He stops to pick it up – it was fine once, made from soft fabric and patterned around the waist. But it was old, with torn seams and loose threads and a strong, lingering scent of wine and perfume. The smell makes him linger for a moment, until he remembers the septon's warnings of temptresses seducing noble knights with alluring fragrances and tears it away from his face.

"Um… e… excuse me, m'lady…" he stammers, nervously approaching. At the sound of his voice, the woman's eyes snap open and he jumps back, anxiously averting his gaze as the naked woman gently lifts off the covers, careful not to disturb Urrigon. She swings her feet out of the bed, stretching and yawning as if in her own tent.

Getting up, she looks about on the ground for her dress before spying it in Alyn's blindly outstretched arms, his neck craned awkwardly away from her.

"Thank you," she smiles, chuckling to herself as she pulls the dress over her head, wriggling into shape. "You can look now." Alyn nervously turns his head back to face her. "What a little gentleman you are. Did your betrothed give you that?" She points at the favor and he nods, sheepishly. "I'm sure you'll make her very happy. Loyal men are hard to come by, and thank the gods for that. I'd be out of a job otherwise."

Alyn stands by gawking, unsure what to do, as the woman rummages about in Urrigon's things before finally producing a small bag of gold. She opens it, carefully counting each coin in the palm of her hand.

"Excuse me, my lady, you can't…" Alyn moves hesitatingly to stop her. She grins mockingly back at him, slipping the coins back into the pouch and cinching it shut.

"Whores may be a mystery to an honorable lad like yourself, but surely you can't expect me to work for free?"

"No, but…" Alyn steps between her and the exit, nervously glancing over her shoulder at Urrigon, still snoring in bed. "I… I have to speak to Ser."

"We arranged everything last night," she shrugs and slips the pouch down into her bosom. "Are you going to take it back?" Alyn stops his eyes from following the path of the coins, enforcing eye contact. But the woman's gaze is just as distracting. Deep, round hazel eyes; calm and inviting. His guard begins to slip…. With a gulp, he steps out of her path. She strides by, over Ser Hugh, and grabs the last bottle of wine from the table. Taking a long drink, she looks back at Alyn, frantically trying to conjure noble memories of his betrothed.

"The name's Allyria, by the way. Your knight isn't like to remember that when he wakes up, but he'll be wanting to."

With that, she slips through the tent flap and disappears, gold in bosom and wine in hand. Taking a moment to recompose himself, Alyn snaps back to the work of cleaning. He is almost complete when Urrigon erupts from his long sleep with a thunderous roar. Alyn trips over the table in shock as the huge knight leaps naked out of bed.

"Alyn!" He stumbles, eyes still blurry, knocking over the nightstand his squire had so carefully reset moments before. "Alyn what is the time, have I overslept?"

"Only by a hair, ser," Alyn rushes off to retrieve the knight's clothes.

"Wait!" Urrigon turns back to the bed. "Where's my whore?"

"She's gone, ser… She, er, left her name, in case you wanted to call her again?"

"You didn't give her any gold, did you?"

"No, ser!" Alyn blurts out. His face flushes red with panic, and he anxiously moves to make the bed, hiding the frantic look on his face.

"Gods, what was her name…" Urrigon stumbles over Ser Ben as he looks for a drink.

"Allyria, ser."

"Oh, so you talked to her!" The knight dunks his head in the cool cistern of fresh water, shaking his long hair and tangled beard dry like a shaggy dog. Alyn finally turns back to face him in time to receive a face full of the spray. "Don't believe a word of it though. Allyria's a highborn name. She just told you that to get more gold!"

"Oh, ser, I didn't…"

"No, no, you should see more women, Alyn! Learn the way of the world!" Urrigon grunts, cracking his neck with a loud snap and stretching to wring the cramps out of his dense muscles. "What's that pretty little rose of yours going to think if you make it to the bedding and don't have a clue what to do with her?"

"Ser, I would never…" Alyn protests, balling up the sheet in frustration. "Please, ser, your clothes, the lords are waiting…"

"Ser Urrigon!" The entrance to the tent flies open as young Dickon Tarly sprints in, freezing wide-eyed at the scene – Urrigon, still naked, mid-stretch, Alyn, mortified, instantly turning pale as a ghost. He frantically hurls the sheet across the tent at the unfazed knight.

"What is it?" Urrigon grumbles, wrapping the sheet around himself.

"Lord Tarly requires your presence in his tent, ser!" Dickon quickly regains his composure. A perfect squire for the perfect commander, Alyn scowls jealously. He'll tell his father about this, no doubt. "There were riders at the dawn. They tire of waiting, ser."

"Well, they can tire all they want!" Urrigon blusters, throwing on his underclothes as Alyn rushes to fetch his freshly-shined armor. "You remind your father we share command, on the king's orders! No one reports to anyone without me!" He angrily snatches the breastplate out of Alyn's hands, howling in pain as it yanks on his beard in his rush to pull it on. Dickon, however, does not move from the entrance to the tent, watching it all with the most disdainful face Alyn has ever seen on a twelve-year-old.

One more moon, he tells himself. Just one more moon.


By the time Urrigon pushes aside Dickon and Alyn to march into Lord Tarly's tent, it is clear his fellow commanders have been waiting for some time, and have taken little care to hide their impatience.

Lord Mathis Rowan, Ser Jon Fossoway, Ser Imry Florent, Lord Steffon Varner and Lord Albus Footley all sit around a long table, covered with a map of the region, peppered with markers to denote the duelling camps. Last, but certainly not least, Ser Garlan Tyrell, his well-rested face and carefully combed brown curls looking as bright as the gilded roses decorating his surcoat, sits at Lord Randyll Tarly's right-hand. Without a word, Urrigon grabs the last remaining chair and drags it to the head of the table, taking a crowded seat beside Lord Tarly.

Alyn nervously watches the presiding lord's face, but though the wrinkles on the bald man's head furrow a tad deeper, he lets no anger show.

"Thank you for joining us, Ser Urrigon," he states plainly, his voice as cold and practical as a cleaver on the block. "We were awaiting a report from Atranta."

"Do we have any wine?" Urrigon looks about the tent, ignoring his rival lord.

"You had more than enough drink last night, from what I've heard." Randyll finally lets a scowl begin to form. Alyn glares at Dickon, whose own face is plastered with a proudly guilty grin. "We have important matters at hand."

"Who's this?" Urrigon points to the far end of the table, finally noticing the young knight standing at attention in a quartered surcoat – white tower on black matched with green dragon on white, helm in hand, exposing a plainly unmemorable face.

"Ser Kirth Vance, m'lord," the knight's voice cracks. "I have the honor of being the youngest son of Lord Norbert Vance, of Atranta."

"Ser Kirth, this is Ser Urrigon Hightower," Randyll corrects him. "Sworn sword to House Ambrose of Red Hill. He is no lord, but at his grace King Robert's order, he shares the command of this expedition. He will need hear your message as well."

Urrigon's fists clench at the insult, but he listens quietly as Ser Kirth reports. "My lord father sent me to ride upon reports of the encroachment of your army upon our lands. My cousins have taken to the western bank with the same message I bring to you. Turn back, and proceed on another path. The Father has graced our land with peace in this war, do not bring it upon us now."

Urrigon opens his mouth to respond, but Randyll speaks first. "And as I told Ser Kirth before, we are here on order of the king, to restore peace to the Riverlands and put down the western rebellion, by whatever means we deem necessary. As House Vance has always been loyal to the crown, we trust they will not interfere."

"Lord Tarly, I understand, but my father…"

"Has sworn fealty to King Robert, and therefore…"

"Let the man speak!" Urrigon interrupts. A gasped hush falls over the tent. Randyll slowly turns his head to face him for the first time, but he continues. "Like he said, this is his land. I wouldn't want armies stirring up trouble on my land either. War is a messy business."

"You have no land," Lord Varner mutters under his breath.

"I have some land!" Urrigon pounds his fist on the table. "And I speak with the command of the king as well! I've dined with his grace more than any of you…"

"Calm yourself," Randyll demands, his voice teetering on the edge of temper as Ser Kirth nervously backs away from the table, unsure how to respond. Alyn stares down at his feet, trying to disappear once again into the quiet of his mind.

"Ser Urrigon is right!" A single commanding voice suddenly halts all argument as Ser Garlan stands, speaking for the first time. Randyll and Urrigon look equally shocked. "This land belongs to House Vance. As loyal servants of the crown, they too deserve a say in what battles will be fought upon it. Ser Kirth, we have agreed to a parlay with the Western commanders at noontide. You are welcome to accompany us beneath his grace's banner."

"It would be an honor, ser," Kirth bows swiftly. "Do not doubt our loyalty to the cause. My brothers fight at Lord Edmure Tully's side as we speak. Our kin at Wayfairer's Rest have already fallen to the Lannister dogs, and we will have vengeance. My lord father wishes to end this rebellion as greatly as any loyal lord. But we do not wish to lose our home, as well."

"We all pray for peace, ser," Garlan nods approvingly, before looking back to the head of the table. "If this pleases the lord commanders?"

Urrigon silently nods, still processing the sudden turn of events, but Randyll pauses for a moment, his face darkening, before finally standing. "Very well. I see no reason why House Vance should not be represented in our parlay. That will conclude this meeting. Prepare your horses. We ride at noon." He shoots a final glare down at Urrigon. "Do not be late."


The day rolls on and, some hours and several mugs of ale later, the afternoon sun glares down upon a small tent set along the banks of the Blackwater. Beneath it, there is no table, only two opposing rows of chairs. Waiting to take their seats, Urrigon and Lord Tarly wait with their commanders beneath the long rainbow pendant of truce, held aloft by Alyn. It is now well past noon, the late summer sun bearing down hard on the party, boiling away their patience as they wait for the western lords to arrive.

But on the far side of the river, the large ferry built on the shore remains unmoved. Instead, a small rowboat is slowly making the passage alone beneath the rainbow banner of truce, carrying only two men.

"That can't be right," Lord Tarly glares, gritting his teeth as he wipes the sweat off his glistening brow. "Dickon, bring my far-eye!" The squire hurries to his father's side, holding in his hands a delicately carved ebony case. Randyll snaps the lid open and produces the gilded instrument, carefully raising it to his eyes to examine the distant shore. "Where in the Seven Hells are they?"

"May I see, my lord?" Garlan asks, carefully receiving the far-eye, twisting its grooved cylinders to focus on the rowboat, now halfway across the river. "That's Tybolt, Lord Crakehall's son. I faced him in tourney once."

"Crakehall vowed to meet us in parlay himself, and to bring his commanders," Randyll takes the far-eye back, slipping it into the case and dropping it back into Dickon's hands. "This is an insult to the king's authority." He turns away from the river, cutting a broad path through the small crowd of confused lords and knights.

"Shouldn't we wait and see what he has to say?" Urrigon speaks, uneasily. A nervous chill runs down the length of his spine as the rowboat draws nearer - not from the hangover or the relentless sun… something isn't right.

"I do not make a habit of waiting upon oathbreakers," Randyll answers without looking back. "I'll await your report in my tent. Dickon, my horse!"

Slowly, the other assembled nobles begin to turn back, following Lord Tarly to their waiting mounts. But Urrigon refuses to take his eyes off the boat. A long bead of sweat slides down his forehead to the tip of his nose. With a huff, he blows it away.

"Bless you, ser."

Urrigon jumps back, not realizing Garlan was still standing by his side. "Erm, thank you. Just a sneeze. Damn sun is a curse in this armor. Sooner summer ends the better."

"We should enjoy it while we can," Garlan shakes his head. "The maesters fear we are in for a hard autumn, and a harder winter." He looks down at the boat, almost to the shore now. "I have a bad feeling about this. Lord Crakehall would not break his word so easily. Something's wrong."

"My thoughts exactly," Urrigon nods, feeling behind his back for the cold assurance of his trusted ax handle. "Don't like it one bit."

The rowboat has finally reached the shore, with Ser Tybolt taking his first steps onto the muddy sludge, when they hear Alyn shouting from behind them. Turning back they see their own banner dipping near the ground as the squire points and shouts to the horizon.

"Rider approaching!" Alyn's voice cracks. Sure enough, over the top of the closest hill, a horse careens at breakneck speed. Even at this distance, the patterned drapings on the pale steed are unmistakable of House Vance.

"Stay here to meet them!" Urrigon demands, leaving Garlan by the shore to run back to the approaching horse. He quickly unbuckles the ax from his back as he has countless time before, watching the blade sparkle in the sun as he takes its weight into his hands. Alyn does good work, he thinks. It's ready for blood. He shoves his way through the other men to get a better view of the approaching knight.

"Hold!" Lord Tarly commands, already atop his horse. "Let him come!" But Ser Kirth ignores the command, breaking rank to sprint through the grass as fast as his armor will allow. Urrigon sees now - the rider is exhausted, near-collapse, hunched over in the saddle and clinging to the reigns with desperation.

"Alyn! Water, now!" he bellows, following Kirth up the hill. At the sight of the rushing knights, the horse stops, its rider toppling forward to the ground, landing with a thud at Kirth's feet.

"It's my cousin, Walder!" he yells, bending over the boy. Urrigon lowers his axe as he nears. The squire is no threat, his gasps for air louder than a gull's cry. Alyn comes dashing up behind him, waterskin sloshing about as Kirth snatches it away to pour water into his cousin's throat.

"What is the meaning of this?" Randyll demands from atop his horse.

"Lord Tarly!" The men turn back at the sound of Garlan's shout, as he comes heaving back up the riverbank. "We need to leave, now!"

But Urrigon keeps his gaze fixed on the panting squire, face tomato red from the heat and exertion, as he struggles to choke out his message in between gulping drinks.

"The… the raven… the ravens came from the capital! The king…. The king is dead!"