The day had come, at long last. The armies of the Stormlands had marched a long way to answer the call of their new allies in the West, and to avenge the wrongs done them by Gwayne Gardener.

It had been on the march from Harrenhal that a rider came to his encampment, bearing a message sealed by some scion of House Celtigar. It endowed him with renewed purpose to learn that Gwayne the Murderer had incited the Dusklands to rebel against his rule. Their campaign would not end under the walls of Riverrun, it would seem, but further to the east under the walls of Duskendale.

At least, so he prayed. War had a funny habit of being an unpredictable beast.

A war camp was a funny thing as well. So much energy, nervous and anxious but equally excited. Young boys craved glory, old men had more grounded objectives: defending hearth and home, their families and their livelihoods.

Now they arrived on the road east of the Reachmen, who themselves camped to the east of Riverrun. The great home of House Tully sat astride the Tumblestone and the Red Fork, highly defensible. It seemed Gardener had not laid a proper siege, however, and one could only just make out Lannister banners and tents on the west bank of the Tumblestone.

His own camp awoke early, prepared for the next day’s march. He broke his fast on pheasant and Riverlander piss-water, preferring to save what little ale he hadn’t left in Harrenhal for the road home. While the men went about striking their canvas lean-tos and other meager structures, Durran enjoyed the pavilion tent for what may be the final time. One never knew.

When the sun broke the horizon, it would be time to march for death and glory.