“Your Grace!” a dirty-looking man in chainmail called, riding alongside the column of infantry. “Your Grace! Word from the outriders.”

They had been on the march for several days now, moving south towards what Durran believed would be their target: Tumbleton. It was the nearest keep to the Trident, and a natural place to attempt to regroup or prepare for a counterattack. It made perfect sense to him.

“What news?” Durran called over the sound of plate and mail clattering along the dirt road.

The scout maneuvered his horse around behind the last company of men and before the next, deftly getting across the road. “There are few obstacles on the road, as we do not believe the Reachmen have passed by here.”

“What?” Durran asked, squinting at the man. “Where have they gone if not here?”

“Someplace further to the west,” the scout replied. “We found signs of their passage north of us.”

“Ride up this road and give King Lannister my compliments, along with a warning that the Reachmen have turned south-west, rather than due south. They may be headed to Goldengrove or Bitterbridge,” Durran responded, pointing up the road down which they’d been traveling. “And tell him that they are not ahead of me, but either between us or behind us.”

The rider acknowledged. “Aye, Your Grace.”

With an energetic “Yah!” the rider dug his heels into the flanks of his mount and galloped northward.

Next Durran sent word for Ser Beric, Lord Trant, and the newly-anointed Ser Cedric Swann to join him with all haste.