The wind howled across the autumn fields, bending the tall grass beneath a grey sky thick with cloud. Beneath the shadows of the Green Fork, only a few miles south of the Twins of House Frey, a great host stirred. Banners flapped in the cold breeze—blazons of the crownlands and the riverlands: the crowned white stag of House Stokeworth, the red salmon of Mooton, the crowned black bat of Lothston, the gold-and-black towers of Hayford, the trident of Rosby, the silver chalice of Darklyn, and the blazing torches of House Massey. Among them, the raven on scarlet of House Blackwood flew high and solemn, in honor of the Hand's blood.
In their midst, clad in black leather and cloaked in dark crimson, Lord Brynden Rivers stood like a figure hewn from the bones of winter. The brooch of the Hand of the King fastened his cloak over his heart, and his white hair was bound back beneath the hood. His single red eye gleamed like a dying coal, scanning the arrayed ranks before him:
—Three hundred Raven's Teeth, his personal archers, grim men clad in black mail and hoods, longbows taller than a man upon their backs.—Five thousand infantry, drawn from loyal houses, seasoned from border wars and skirmishes.—Five hundred knights, steel-clad and sworn to uphold the peace of the realm.—And three brothers of the Kingsguard, silent and white as snow, waiting at his back.
Brynden mounted his black courser, and a hush fell over the camp.
"You know why we march," he said, voice cold as the wind. "A wedding, they claim. A tourney, they say. A game of swords and songs, sweetmeats and silks."
He raised a gloved hand toward the east.
"But in Whitewalls, a shadow stirs—a name whispered in darkness, a dragon's egg passed like stolen gold, and treason dressed in song. They hope we sleep. They think we're blind. But the realm has many eyes…"
He lowered his hood, letting the men see his face, his pale skin, and the blood-red eye that glowed with righteous fire.
"Daemon the Younger thinks himself a dragon reborn. But I remember another who thought the same. I remember the Redgrass Field, and the screams that filled the sky when the Blackfyre banners burned."
He leaned forward in the saddle, his voice rising.
"We ride not for vengeance. We ride for peace. For the realm. For the king!"
A cheer erupted from the host, rolling like thunder over the grasslands. Men beat swords on shields. Trumpets called. The Raven's Teeth let out a shrill, wordless cry like hunting hawks.
Brynden raised his hand, then dropped it like a blade.
"March."
And so they rode, the banners of the crown and rivers flowing behind them like rivers of fire and ash, led by a one-eyed man who had stared down dragons and did not blink.
The second Blackfyre Rebellion had begun.