Late at night, a raven took flight from the high tower of Twin River City. Its black wings sliced through the starlit sky, gliding over clouds like a shadowy bolt of lightning along the King's Road. Its glossy black eyes glimmered like polished onyx as it scanned the road far below. Villages and inns glowed faintly in the distance, and the occasional bark of a dog broke the quiet stillness.
About half an hour later, Eddard Karstark, seated atop the same high tower, opened his eyes. His gaze had traveled far along the King's Road, following the raven's flight nearly a hundred kilometers away. The bird hovered briefly, seemingly confused, before turning back toward Twin River City along the path it had come.
"My Lord?"
Scholar Bennett, standing quietly nearby, dared to speak, curiosity lacing his tone, though he refrained from asking the question that lingered on his mind. At the Citadel, he had once read Wallis's treatise, Hardhome: Three Years Among Wildlings, Raiders, and Forest Witches Beyond the Wall, and learned that certain Northerners possessed the ability to communicate with beasts. Just now, Bennett had perceived a faint, inexplicable connection between Lord Eddard and the raven—a strange, fleeting bond that had suddenly vanished.
"Scholar Bennett," Eddard said, a trace of amusement in his voice, "Blackfeather will return shortly. It flies fast, and I have confidence in its speed."
With Lord Tarly's army marching toward the city, Eddard needed constant updates. Scouts were limited, and he could not afford to risk precious cavalry. Ravens, he decided, offered a safer and more efficient alternative; at night, their eyesight far surpassed that of men.
Scholar Bennett bowed slightly, a shy smile on his lips. "My Lord, Blackfeather is the finest raven in Twin River City. It is my honor to serve you. Captain Dita Kalander has been waiting outside for some time."
"Thank you again, Scholar. I have matters to attend to. We shall speak tomorrow."
Bennett hesitated for a moment, as if to inquire about the strange bond with the bird, but ultimately held back. "Very well, My Lord. Goodbye."
Eddard descended the spiral stairs of the tower. Outside, Dita Kalander was pacing, her concern visible even in the dim torchlight.
"My Lord!" she called.
"How goes recruitment?" Eddard asked. "How many of the villagers were willing to join for coin and sustenance?"
"Not many," Dita Kalander admitted, her expression grave. "I visited a dozen villages flying the Running Wolf Flag. Only about two hundred people were willing to enlist. The rest—strong, young men—hid or refused to appear."
Eddard nodded knowingly. He had expected as much. Many of the able-bodied men willing to risk life and limb for wealth had already left with House Frey's army and were likely stationed in Riverrun. The remainder were either timid or unwilling to step onto the battlefield. Nothing could be done about it.
A trace of helplessness crossed Eddard's face. "By the way, any news from those sent to the Melister family?"
Earlier that morning, he had written a letter requesting aid and dispatched it with Scholar Bennett's raven. At its speed, a round trip should take no more than two hours. To ensure no delays, Eddard had also sent McKen with four cavalrymen, each with two horses, to act as envoys. The distance to Seagard was roughly one hundred miles, and the Melisters had remained relatively unscathed by the recent conflicts, still loyal to House Stark.
"None," Dita Kalander replied after a brief pause. "No word has reached us, and no one mentioned McKen returning."
Eddard frowned slightly. "I understand. You've worked hard today. Rest well; tomorrow will demand more."
He waved her off and walked toward his tent. Something felt off. His cavalry might reasonably be delayed, but the lack of any message from Lord Jason Mallister at Seagard was unusual. Had something happened along the road? No reports suggested danger, yet a nagging unease lingered.
Shaking his head, Eddard removed his armor, tossed it to the ground, and lay on his bed, contemplating the many details of the coming siege. Fatigue soon claimed him, and sleep enveloped him in its dark embrace.
---
McKen's world was darkness, punctuated by pain and confusion. He had lived over forty years and fought countless battles, yet never had he felt so helpless.
Galloping along a country road with four men, he had been ambushed in a forest. Tripwires hidden in the mud caused him and his companions to tumble from their horses, horses and riders alike entangled and disoriented. Before he could react, a group of masked figures bound them tightly with hemp ropes. McKen caught only glimpses of movement before the edge of consciousness swallowed him, and something hard struck the back of his head.
Time passed. When he awoke, he felt dizzy, parched, and disoriented, slumped as if still on a horse's back. His voice, muffled and weak, muttered, "Who exactly are you people?"
There was no immediate threat to his life. If his captors had intended to kill him, it would have been easy while he was unconscious. He had a mission to complete—delivering a message to Seagard to warn Twin River City of House Tarly's advance. There was no time to waste on distractions.
A hooded voice spoke softly, "House Karstark soldier, speak quietly if you wish to keep your tongue."
McKen's reply was firm. "You ambushed us but did not kill us. There must be a reason. I will not play childish games. Speak plainly."
Murmurs rose around him, incomprehensible amidst the forest and hooves. Soon, his captors stopped. The hood was removed, revealing a small clearing under a moonless sky, a bonfire casting flickering light. A dozen figures stood silently, all watching him.
"Money? Or your life?" asked one, stepping forward, imposing despite shabby attire.
"We seek neither," said a man in a tattered red robe, gray hair untamed. "We need your help to find someone."
McKen's face contorted in anger and disbelief. "You ambush us, and now demand my help? Are you bandits?"
The boy with red hair and freckles, clad in studded leather, snapped, "We have slain more bandits than you've ever seen dead!"
A man plucked a seven-stringed lyre and sang, his voice carrying across the firelight: "We are the holy brothers, knights of the empty mountains, rangers of the realm, striking fear into bandits, bringing justice where none dares tread…"
"Enough!" McKen roared, exasperated. "I don't have time for your theatrics!"
"Stop your complaints," said Angai, a young ranger, "we need you to help us arrange a meeting with your lord, Eddard Karstark."
"Then go to Twin River City yourselves!" McKen shouted. "I have a vital mission!"
A man with a dented breastplate, missing a patch of hair, stepped forward. "We are the Brotherhood Without Banners. There are rumors you killed Gregor Clegane at Red Fork. We must meet him. His guidance is crucial to our cause."
McKen, frustrated beyond measure, could only curse again, feeling that fate had placed him in the company of lunatics, yet he had no choice but to comply.
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