After Robb Stark's humiliating bargain with Tywin Lannister on the banks of the Red Fork, the combined armies of the North and the Riverlands disbanded.
Robb hurried north with what remained of his northern army to deal with the Ironborn attacks on the North.
The river lords left Riverrun with their newly ransomed, still-shaken families and the remnants of their own forces, returning to lands repeatedly ravaged by war in the hope of a brief respite.
But no respite came.
Within days, some of the armies that had just departed trudged back along the same roads, exhausted, returning to the castle of Riverrun beneath its flying trout banners.
Their banners were caked with dust, and the soldiers' faces bore bewilderment and fresh fear.
The lords' faces were grim, their eyes filled with anger and helplessness.
The reason was brutally simple: halfway home, some just as their own castle towers came into view, they received word from scouts or fleeing peasants...
Their homes, their castles, had already been occupied by another army.
Black banners flew from the battlements, embroidered with a crimson three-headed dragon.
The Targaryen army had swept into the Riverlands like a tide.
The thick stone walls of Riverrun's great hall could not contain the resentment and anxiety seething within.
The fire in the hearth burned brightly, illuminating faces twisted with anger, sorrow, or fear.
The river lords who had returned stood or sat, still covered in the dust of their travels.
Edmure Tully sat at the head of the hall. His sister Catelyn had gone north with Robb, leaving him to face these agitated vassals alone.
He straightened his back, trying to muster the authority befitting the head of House Tully and Governor of the Trident.
"My lands are right beside Darry! My scouts saw the Targaryen black