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Little had changed in the Riverlands, even though a lifetime had passed since he had last laid eyes on them. Every leaf and blade of grass still glowed in a verdant green and swayed gently under a soft breeze from the sea. Together with the sapphire sky above, they coalesced into a canvas that was only interrupted by the occasional streams of crystal water but otherwise spread far to the west until he hills of the Westerlands rose.

It will take the changing of the seasons to sully this beauty. Something which, gods willing, would not be for a few years yet. War and winter together would mean more deaths than the sum of them alone.

In the distance, he spotted something corner of his eye. A trail of smoking rising into the sky. Something other than autumn could blight the lands, something their scouts had seen, something Jon was hunting.

His spurs dug into the sides of his horse. Wordlessly, the party behind him broke into a trot, the drumming of their hooves growing louder until it was a thunder chasing him. He lowered then his lance, now in a full gallop.

Only Ghost outpaced Jon; the direwolf could not be overtaken, not by steed nor the banner bearing his likeness, his white fur floated in speed as he shot through the grasslands like an arrow of ivory.  

His colossal frame soon collided with an armored man’s. A spear fell unbloodied by the wayside as the direwolf’s maw engulfed the man’s entire head and crushed it in one brutal bite. Jon’s lance found its own mark soon after, piercing both solid plate and the ribs beneath it.

The lance then shattered, and the hiss of Valyrian Steel that followed rung over even the crashing of the host. Its eversharp edge severed a man’s head and spine, then sundered a sword of castle forged steel and the man that held it.

More men fell upon him, but none survived his fury. An enemy horn rumbled through the hamlet and hornblower was slain with it still on his lips. Jon was unstoppable atop his steed, and his blade reaved dead every man in his path until the raiders broke beneath him.

They would find no escape, and the valemen chased them until the last skull was trampled beneath hooves of wroth.

By the time it was over, most of the village still stood, and the bodies were entirely of the raiders. Jon’s band had arrived well before any slaughter could take place. The common men and women both had already left their hiding places and carried buckets of water from the river to the burning houses.

“Lord Stark!” One of them, an older woman, said at the sight of him. Every commoner turned towards him at her words then erupted into cheer and swarmed his mount, even with blood staining it still warm.

He was unused to such displays; in the Siege of the Iron Oaks he had collapsed soon after he landed the dead griffin, and at the Battle of the Dammed River there had been no one to cheer, only soldiers to mourn the fallen.

It was enough to warm his heart.  So rarely did he get to see firsthand those he defended. And the attention itself was intoxicating, something that no bastard drilling footwork in cold yards under starlight could have imagined receiving. He smiled and waved towards them like a knight from the stories, forgetting for a moment what he was looking for.

Only when he spied a rider in black and red did his senses return. He extracted himself from the crowds around him and trotted ahead.

“One would think you a prince.” Domeric said through a grin and Jon gave him an uncomfortable chuckle in return. “Did you learn who they were?”

“Aye.” Jon lied, he turned his eyes to the fallen bodies of the raiders and tried to parse a sigil among the blood and leather. When he turned back to Domeric, he saw him holding out a torn patch of leather with a sigil on it, but Jon’s embarrassment soon gave way to confusion. “House Payne? But they’re from the Westernlands.”

“Aye.” Domeric said. He threw the patch away onto the lifeless bodies who had carried it in life.

“What could bring them here?” Jon asked. “We are still east of the Crossroad Inn, not even in the Riverlands proper.”

“My one guess is these are the lands of the lords who were captured in Highgarden and then swore allegiance to Renly.” Domeric said, shrugging his shoulders. “This could be Tywin’s way of punishing them. Renly slew his grandson after all.”

“Perhaps.” Jon said. Tywin’s proclivity for violence was wanton enough for such a scheme. “But Jonos Bracken has sworn allegiance to Renly, and Stone Hedge is far further west than this. Why not attack him?”

Domeric shrugged.

A familiar pit of fear blossomed in Jon’s chest. Maidenpool where Bran would have disembarked was not far from here, and while his brother was in the company of capable lords and their retainers, the roads they were forced to travel would be infested with Ironborn and Westerlanders both.

He ordered Zephyr and Ghost both to go scour the lands for his younger brother, then murmured a silent prayer to the Old Gods and Seven both.

“We’ll learn more at the Crossroad Inn.” Domeric said. “Travelers from far and wide converge there, even in times of war. They’ll carry word of the happenings beyond the Vale.”

Jon nodded to his friend and rode alongside him back towards the village. The band of raiders they had slain was the only one their scouts had spotted, and so they took the road west in comfortable silence with no worry on their mind.

But every once in a while, Jon would catch Domeric looking at him. It was a habit that the Bolton had picked up in the days since they had left the Vale, staring strangely at him like a lover absorbing his features. He wondered briefly if Nymeria had passed on her… habit, and if there was cause to warn Mya.

Domeric broke his gaze at Jon’s notice. The hours that followed between them and the Crossroads melted away. They saw first the camps of the valemen, scattered tents and campfires that grew more luxurious the closer to the Inn they got, going from worn wool of the common levy to the silks and velvets of the lords and knights. Above them hung the banners of the Redforts, Waynwoods and Royces, as well as the Sunderlands, Belmores and Graftons.

Hardyng had taken rooms inside of the Inn itself. Jon had done the same, as had Domeric and the most prominent of Lords of the Vale. Inside of the hall, the Lord Regent sat with Roland Waynwood to one side and the newly named Lord Belmore to the other. An unfamiliar man sat beside Lord Belmore, while Ysilla Royce sat alone by the fire.

“Do you take us for fools, ser?” Roland Waynwood asked the unfamiliar man. “One million men on each side?”

“I swear it, my lords! May the Seven strike me down this instant if my lips tell a lie!” The man boisterously declared. He had a wide mustache, perhaps the largest Jon had ever seen, and a pudgy pale face. His armor gleamed like untarnished silver. “Their banners covered half of the Crownlands and the entire northern half of the Reach. No greater slaughter has taken place in the last thousand years!”

“What does he speak of?” Jon asked. He moved and took a seat opposite them. Eyes widened at the sight of the blood still staining him.

“Don’t worry about him.” Hardyng said, waving the man off. “You found them? Where?”

“A few hours east on horseback.” Jon said. “We slew them to the man.”

“Ironborn?” Roland Waynwood asked.

“Westerlanders. Men of House Payne.” Domeric said. “I suspect Tywin sent them as raiders to punish the River Lords who declared for Renly.”

“Or they are broken men.” Hardyng said, turning back to the boisterous man. “There may be truth to your tale tales.”

“I’d still wager him a fool.” Roland Waynwood said. The smile was unmoved from the stranger’s face, as though Roland gave him praise rather than insult.

“I’d wager not!” Lord Belmore said. The man was young, his beard like mud staining his face. The war with the Clansmen had rendered extinct the main branch of the Belmores, and this man, a distant cousin who’d spent the war as a merchant in Gullstown, had been elevated to Lord of the Strongsong.

“What tales are those? This supposed battle of two million?” Domeric asked.

“It is when the Lions and the Roses clashed, my lords!” The man continued in the same tone. “I was there to see it! Woe these eyes of mine what butchery they witnessed, it—”

“Neither the Westerlanders nor the Reach can call on a million men.” Jon interrupted him.

“But a million men they each had, my lord!” The man reassured him.

Though Jon was little assured. To call upon a million men to fight would leave both kingdoms without one farmer in the fields or sailor in the docks, without the steel for anything but spearheads and the grain for anyone but soldiers. But perhaps not everything he said was a lie. A green fighter could mistake a ten thousand for a million.

“Are you saying Renly and Tywin did battle recently?”

“Aye, my lord.” The man said, and everyone leaned in closer. “King Renly and the Kingslayer found each other in the middle of the battle, like shadows of King Robert and Rhaeger, the earths trembled every time their blades crashed. The two men embraced when their swords broke and—“

“Stop speaking.” Domeric ordered, leaning back and covering his eyes as though warding off a headache.

“I’d like to hear what he has to say!” Lord Belmore said.

“Then hear it outside.” Ysilla Royce said, moving to take the seat alongside him. “I’ve heard enough of his voice to last a lifetime. Spare me.”

“My lady, I—” Lord Belmore began.

“I am afraid I agree with her, Belmore.” Hardyng said, then turned towards the fool. “You’re dismissed.”

The man rose to his feet and bowed towards Hardyng with the smile still emblazoned on his pudgy pale face. Lord Belmore hesitated for a moment, before rising to his feet to take after him.

“Was there no better man for the lordship?” Domeric asked.

“None could with a better claim to the Strongsong.” Hardyng said. “There’s more room for choice with Heart’s Home. Any man of noble birth who marries Lady Jocelyn will ascend to lordship.”

“I was surprised when you refused, ser. The Corbray lands are rich and vast.” Roland Waynwood told Jon.

“I was less surprised.” Domeric said with a wry smile on his face.

“Really?” Ysilla asked.

“I know Jon well.” Domeric said.

“You speak of me as though I am not present.” Jon said, as surprised by Domeric’s words as Ysilla had been, “Turn your minds to the days ahead. If there is any truth to that fool’s words, then the Lannisters and Tyrells have made battle somewhere, and these were broken men rather than a raiding party.”

“If that’s the case, then who emerged victorious, and is King’s Landing still under siege?” Hardyng asked. “Are we still in a rush to relieve Stannis, or can we see to both the Ironborn and the dead men in the North first?”

Bethany could have found out in a day. He was missing both her company and having a greenseer at his side. Zephyr could also accomplish the same, but Jon cared more about finding his younger brother.

“We must also find Robb.” Jon said.

“A ferrymen told my retainer that the Roaring Wolf had been pursuing Victorian Greyjoy along the Red Fork. We’ll find your brother will be west of here.” Roland Waynwood said. A grin made its way to Jon’s face without his noticing. “What ridiculous monikers the common levies give you Starks.”

“Are you jealous, Waynwood?” Ysilla said with a laugh, he turned to her with glare.

Just then the doors of the inn opened and Nymeria made her way inside. Roland almost made a point of turning his nose up at her, but a glare from Jon quelled him.

“There is much to tell.” She said, taking a seat opposite them. “Where to begin? Harrenhal is being turned into a city.”

“In times like these?” Domeric asked.

“Because of times like these. A refuge for the displaced and those fleeing the conflict.” Her gaze turned then to Jon. Playful, moreso than it usual. Like Domeric’s looks, it had also become of a habit of hers since they left the Vale. “Your brother is lord of it. Not Robb, the younger one.”

“Bran?” Jon asked. His younger brother was one quarter Whent. Edmure had even wanted to name him Lord of Harrenhal before the war began. “I must see him. Harrenhal is only days southwest of here.”

“We can pass by there.” Hardyng said. “Hopefully we’ll learn of this battle between Tyrell and Lannister from someone other than a fool. If Renly’s forces are reduced to a few thousand, then we can continue south to King’s Landing, if not, we will head further west to find Robb Stark.”

The marching orders would spread from that table to the rest of the lords and then to the larger host. All the while, Nymeria told them all the news from around the Crossroads. Men, women and children of the Reach were becoming commonplace in the Riverlands, all of them fleeing the advance of the Lannister hosts.

Stannis had suspended the punishment for poaching in the Kingswood, then in all the Crownlands, and many of the local lords and landed knights were furious, or lobbing off hands despite the King's word. Some even declared for Renly. Similarly, Maidenpool, Rosby and the Antlers were all swarmed with the displaced, Lord Buckwell had even ordered his knights to chase them off.

We’ll run into more starving children than soldiers at this rate.

With Nymeria’s news exhausted, they all stood to leave. Domeric however asked for a private word from Hardyng.

“Does this concern me?” Jon asked after everyone else had left. Domeric shook his head. Once outside, Jon found Nymeria calling him.

“I pray that Tywin triumphed over Renly.” She said. Jon turned an eyebrow up at her words. “If Renly was the victor, then Tywin has escaped to Casterly Rock with his tale between his legs. But if Renly’s the loser, then Tywin may still be in reach and my cousins and aunt may still be avenged. If Hardyng can be convinced to attack him.”

 Jon remembered then his own sworn vengeance. The glare he shared with Tywin on the day the Mountain fell. The same justice owned to his siblings that Nymeria pursued. It had seemed impossible for so long, quelled by the length of Kingdoms, the might of the West and the unimpeachable peace of Robert’s reign. Now, however, a weakened Tywin could be a week's ride away.

“I’ll convince him.” He told her. His earlier raised eyebrow was now directed back at him.

“Why?” Nymeria asked. “You’ve already slain his nephew, his mad dog and even assisted in killing his other mutt. No other man alive has done him greater harm, and it wasn’t even him sending the assassins after you. Still you would pursue him?”

“You’ve said it yourself. He will despise me until his last breath, and the kingdoms will never be at peace until we all bend the knee to his bastard grandson and dance at his orders.” Jon said and shrugged. “Better to bury him when he is weakened.”

Nymeria hide her true feelings well; her mask was impenetrable to most, but Jon could see that she was unconvinced. Jon turned back then to the inn, where Domeric and Hardyng still were. What could they be talking about?

“I’ve a favor to ask.” She said quickly and he turned back to her. “It’s nothing serious, but I’ve heard many of the Ironborn captains keep Valyrian Steel daggers as trophies and weapons.”

“The dagger’s yours if a second one crosses my path.” Jon said.

“Second?”

“There was a camp follower who stole my heart.” Jon said with a shrug, now smiling.

“I’d sooner believe the Maiden’s spread her legs.” Nymeria said as his cheeks grew crimson.

“The dagger’s yours.” Jon said, raising his hands as she laughed. His eyes turned back to  the tavern again.

"What do you think they’re talking about?”

“Ser Ilyn Belmy.” Nymeria said, capturing Jon’s attention a third time. “He rode at Domeric’s right in every battle they fought. Do you know him not?”

“I’ve seen him in passing.” Jon said. “But he is Domeric’s man.”

“Aye, he is.” Nymeria said. “He asked Domeric to present him to Hardyng as a candidate for Lady Jocelyn Corbray’s hand in marriage and the lordship of Heart’s Home. Domeric agreed.”

“He told you about this?” Jon asked.

“We talk a lot.” Nymeria said. “He spends less time with the soldiers than you. Though do not think I resent you for it. You’re the army’s banner. How many of them would follow you into the Hells?”

“Most.” Jon said honestly. Most of those who survived the Strongsong had heard his voice booming in their ears, every man in the Iron Oaks had seen him soaring through the skies, and he had ridden the length of Dammed River during the battle. That was besides the distant and unwitnessed stories of his knighting or his duel with the Mountain. 

“More than most.” She said, her eyes fell upon the tent as Domeric left the Inn.

The hairs on the back of Jon’s neck stood. There was something afoot.