More than twenty riders bearing the sigil of House Tully were hurrying along the road to Willow Town.
Their horses' hooves pounded the dry dirt road, kicking up clouds of dust.
Riverrun's guard captain, Robin Leger, urged his horse alongside the Blackfish, Brynden Tully. Gripping the reins tightly, he said, "This was a shameful sneak attack, Ser Brynden!"
"A victory without honor! As devious and treacherous as those pirates!"
Brynden Tully's gray eyes swept over the distant, rolling hills. He made no comment on the matter. "The purpose of war is victory, isn't it?"
"It sounds like one of those legends sung by minstrels: an army raised in a day, a march downriver, and a city taken in three. It doesn't sound like a real war."
"It's a miracle—or perhaps there's some plot we haven't considered."
"The only thing we know for certain is that your cousin suffered an epic defeat, my friend."
Robin Leger fell silent. The Blackfish said nothing more. No one had imagined this would happen—or perhaps they simply hadn't wanted it to.
When his elder brother Hoster had been forced to send out this troop, the old man's expression, mingled with anger and unease, had resurfaced in his mind.
That young man had won too decisively, disrupting the course of events.
Everything that had happened had strayed from its proper course. It had even affected the situation at the front: the five hundred soldiers House Legg had supplied were asking to leave and return to fight Suleiman.
A dark line appeared on the road ahead.
It slowly crept closer, and only then could they make it out: an endless column of refugees.
They pushed wheelbarrows and herded gaunt cattle and sheep. Their carts were piled with battered belongings and sacks of grain.
The elderly leaned on