Sunlight breached the branches of the trees to the north of Harrenhal, scant few hours’ ride. King Durran rode ahead of a short column of knights, accompanied by his close friend and hunting partner Ser Alyn Buckler. A short distance back were Ser Beric Toyne and Ser Justin Morrigen, two younger knights and frequent fixtures in the Storm King’s retinue.

The forests here were different, in some ways, from the Stormwood. For one, they did not belong to him. He had sent young Lomas to request permission to hunt these lands-- he would not be called a poacher. They halted their horses just within the tree line, and Durran dismounted into the leaves and paused.

The wood smelled different, foremost. From through the trees one could almost hear the flowing of the Trident, though it was too far distant to truly be heard. Instead, one could smell the wetness of the air, the softness of the earth. Trees here were younger, many of the older ones having been knocked down when the great river flowed over its banks at some point in the distant past.

Birds whistled and chirped in the branches overhead, jays mostly. Somewhere in the distance the screech of a hawk could be heard, a long and keening noise that seemed almost unearthly. For several blissful moments there was only Durran and the forest, until Ser Alyn pressed a spear into his hand. After that a bow, and after that a quiver and some arrows.

“Trident has good game,” Ser Alyn announced, stringing his own bow and testing it. “Deer, pheasant, rabbits, wild pigs, wolves, perhaps even black bears. Be on the lookout in the wetlands, pheasant is a delicious bird.”

Durran scoffed. “The whole damned Trident is wetlands.”

“So much the better,” Ser Alyn replied, smirking. “Ten arrows each, two spears. Let’s see who bags the most, shall we?”

Ser Alyn had, much to Durran’s chagrin, had a much better hunt on their way along the Bronze Road to Harrenhal. The deer he had put an arrow into had fed the King’s party for a couple days, and the rabbits’ meat made for a fine stew. Durran hadn’t found much, conversely. A fat crow and two rabbits, which was an underwhelming haul to say the least.

They moved on into the brush, the Storm King moving surprisingly quietly for a man of his height. He carried only the allotted armament, along with a hunting knife and his two-handed hammer on his back-- trouble seemed as like to be a resident in the Trident as anything. Ser Justin followed at a short distance, never losing sight of his King. Ser Alyn vanished into the woods to the west with several Buckler guards, so each man would have his own grounds.

The hunt was on.