Mists blew across the open ground beneath the great walls of Storm’s End as a palfrey carrying a exhausted-looking man flying a banner bearing three trees: one green, one red, and one bare. The grey horse panted as it slowed upon approaching the gates. Guards atop the walls turned to face the comer, their burgonets barely visible through the fog swiveling outward.

A man-at-arms stepped forward, clearing his throat and holding a hand up as the rider came close. “Who goes there?”

“I come bearing news from Lord Wendwater,” he said, producing a scroll of paper from a leather satchel bearing the same arms pressed into green wax. “It is of grave importance, I must speak to the King.”

The Durrandon guardsman looked back at the gatehouse from where a fellow approached, this one in much more expensive looking plate and mail. “I am Ser Baldrick of the Stormwood,” he announced. “You have a message?”

Exasperated, the rider beckoned with the parchment. “Yes, from Lord Wendwater.”

Ser Baldrick approached and examined the seal. For a moment, the rider remained in suspense. At last, the Knight of the Stormwood looked over his shoulder. “With me, boy.”

The knight took the rider through the gates, and a stableboy pried the reins of his palfrey from his cramped fingers. He followed Ser Baldrick up the stairs and through the massive doors into Storm’s End’s keep, and through the winding corridors to a wooden door on the second floor. Ser Baldrick rapped on the oak three times and waited.

Another man in his nightclothes opened the door, eyes bleary. “Who’s this?” he asked.

“Ser Robert, this rider comes from Wendwater. He bears a message from its lord, one he asserts is highly important,” Ser Baldrick responded.

Ser Robert gestured for the scroll. “Give it here, lad.”

The rider surrendered the scroll and watched Ser Robert break the seal, his tired eyes widening as they descended the page. An interminable period of time passed while Ser Robert read, and when at last he looked up all sleep had fled his features.

“Get the boy some water and some bread, I will compose a message for him to carry to Wendwater. Send my squire upstairs immediately,” Ser Robert said, rolling up Lord Wendwater’s message and closing his door.

Near to an hour later, long after the rider had returned to the stables with a new message to deliver, Ser Robert Swygert strode purposefully through the keep. Passed dawn and truly into morning, Storm’s End began to come to life.

The bevy of councils and meetings that the King held since returning from Harrenhal had filled the keep with more men than usual, all of them from the very corners of the Kingdom. His squire, Derrick, went from room to room and fetched whichever Wardens remained and issued an emergency summons.

Ser Robert himself climbed to the highest room, that of the Storm King.

A pair of guards awaited in the hall, but Ser Robert was a common sight and they let him passed. At the door he found one of the squires-- the Estermont one, he judged, though he could scarce tell them apart. “Wake the King, it is important.”

The boy entered the room, and several minutes later a gruff, partially dressed King called for him to enter. “What is it, Ser Robert?”

His guest searched for a candle, and placed it into a brass holder. He put the wick to embers in the brazier, still hot enough to light it, and approached his King. In his off-hand he held Lord Wendwater’s note. “News from the Stormwood, I’m afraid.”

Durran cocked an eye at that. Afraid did not please his ears. Ser Robert was a man prone to understatement, and fear did not frequently enter into his vocabulary even then. The Storm King warily grabbed the message, unsure if he wanted to read it.

Durran stormed into the meeting room, tossing the message from Wendwater onto the table before whichever lords remained behind. A vein bulged on King Durran’s forehead, his face red.

“The Reach has invaded us!” Durran declared, giving vent to his thoughts. “Ten thousand men, more or less. They passed through Wendwater and Mallery lands in the north, and have likely proceeded on to the Dusklands.

“This calls for a response, my lords! We can not sit meekly by as our borders are violated by the bloody Reachmen!” the Storm King raged. “Our lands do not exist for Gwayne fucking Gardener to do with as he pleases! They must pay for their transgression, in gold or in blood!

“The host Lord Trant was assembling will not do. Three thousand men will not do! I want ten thousand, I want a host to match the Murderer’s, and I want it marching north now!”