Rhaegar's army marched north for four dreary days. With the end of the false spring, the air grew colder and snow drifted on the wind once more. The ground drank what little sun the clouds allowed.
Dacey missed Lyanna most when the column fell quiet. Lyanna didn't make protection easy, with her talent for finding trouble. But Dacey longed for their shared adventures, surprising as this was to realize. Instead, she was tied up in the royalist rear with the other captives and hangers-on. Bears do poorly in captivity, and Dacey was no exception,
To keep her mind busy, she watched pikes rise and fall in time with the road. She tried to count all the wagons, but with the shuffling it was easy to lose track.
On the last morning the trees opened. The Trident lay ahead like a band of dull steel, wide but lacking depth. Fires pricked the far bank. Banners moved as if the river itself breathed. The camp officers argued about trench positioning while carts jammed the lanes between tents.
Ser Barristan Selmy came himself. He did not wear his helm. The white cloak was clean and heavy on his shoulders. He looked at Dacey's wrists, then at the cut on her cheek where a gaoler's ring had kissed bone. His jaw worked once. Then he chained her to the post in her solitary prison tent with a surprising gentleness.
"You could have sent a squire," she said.
"Squires fumble when they are afraid," he said. "And when fear sits in a camp, knots should be sure."
He tested the ropes. Not cruel. Only careful. He stood a moment as if the weight of what was ahead pressed on the back of his neck.
"How many?" Dacey asked.
"Enough to drown a bad plan," he said, then answered the real question. "They have near seventy-five thousand by our count. Thirty from the North. Twenty Riverlanders, many of them archers. Five from Storm's End. The Vale marches twenty more. We hold near fifty-five thousand. Twenty Hightower men. Fifteen Crownlanders. Ten from Dorne. Ten from the eastern Riverlands. The river helps, we can defend the ford. But the cold is a problem."
"The North has summer snows worse than this," Dacey said.
"Perhaps, but most of our army has never seen snow," he answered. "When our armies marched, they didn't dress warmly."
He tied one more knot low on her ankle. "You should not be here," he said in a quieter voice. "I fear what hotheaded men might do to a northern woman in this camp."
"I can take care of myself," Dacey said.
When he was gone, the noise of the camp washed in. Smiths struck rivets. A cook cursed a broken spit. Horses stamped, nervous at the scent of wet iron in the air. Dacey breathed slowly like Maple had taught her. Rooting herself. She felt the post's rough grain through her palms. She tested the give at her wrists and ankle. Dacey was strong, but iron chains were beyond even her ability to break.
A white raven dropped from the ridge and landed on the wagon's plank. He shuffled sideways with mock innocence, then cocked his head so both red eyes took her in.
"Don't speak," Dacey murmured. "There are ears."
The bird opened and shut his beak as if swallowing words. He leaned close. In a voice like bark rubbed with gravel he said very softly, "Lyanna is in the king's city. She is not in chains. She says 'leave now to meet at Dragonstone.' Our she-wolf seemed rather concerned for your welfare here."
Dacey let out the breath she had been keeping. "So her plan worked? I'm glad she is leaving safely with the princess."
"She played the prophet well," the raven said, pleased. "Those white metal men see irrefutable truth in her every word now."
"Lyanna has a talent for making people agree with her reckless plans, myself included." Dacey smiled for a moment.
After a pause she continued, "Yet my work as her protector is unfinished. The crown prince's pursuit of my lady has gone on long enough. He wants to force her into making prophecy babies, and it's my duty to stop it."
"And you plan to fight the prince while surrounded by his army? I know our she-wolf well enough to know your death would have her howling in grief." Dijkstra argued back.
"I must protect her, but I'm not going to battle alone through ten thousand men. There is a massive rebel army camped across the river." Dacey murmured to herself, contemplating.
"Guards!" She called out. "Tell the army command I seek a parley with the rebels. I think I can make some of them change their minds."
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They chose the shallows above the ford, where the river ran thin over a bed of pale stones. The parley flags went up on both banks. Trumpets answered. Men lowered bows. For a brief, brittle span the Trident only hissed over rock.
Rhaegar came first from the royalist side. Clad in his black steel armor with his helmet tucked under an arm, his charisma was on full display. Connington rode at his right with a soldier's stillness. Ser Arthur Dayne, Ser Barristan Selmy, and Lord Gerold Hightower formed a white flank that threw back the weak sun. Lord Walter Whent followed alongside lords Mooton and Rykker. Dacey Mormont came last on a borrowed gelding, wrists roped to the pommel. She kept her chin up.
Across the water, the rebels gathered like a storm cloud. Jon Arryn took the position of chief diplomat in plain but well-made plate and a blue cloak. Brynden Tully rode silently in black chainmail. Representing the North was Ned Stark, Howland Reed close at his knee. Tytos Blackwood followed between lords Tully and Reed, while Lyn Corbray sat his saddle like a drawn sword. Robert Baratheon loomed over them all, stag antlers on his surcoat, breath smoking in the cold.
They met mid-stream, each party held by a line of guards, horses shifting at the feel of the current. The river wet the hems of cloaks both white and dark.
Connington spoke first, voice even. "You outnumber us. That is plain. Yet the realm has bleed enough already. Any lord who turns home now and tends his fields will be left in peace. No forfeitures. No hangings."
Jon Arryn's expression did not change. "And the king? Will he be left to boil his counselors alive while the rest of us plant barley and hope he forgets our names?"
"The king's days on the throne are counted," Connington said. "The prince speaks for the future of the realm."
Rhaegar lifted his head. His voice carried clean over the water. "Hear me. This war began on a lie. I did not steal Lyanna Stark before the first sword was drawn. I met her since. Before the High Septon, she became my wife according to the Faith."
Murmurs ran along both banks. Robert's hands closed on his reins until the leather creaked. Ned Stark's jaw set.
Dacey drew breath through her nose. "The prince speaks true," she said, loud enough to carry. "I saw Rhaegar speak his vows."
She turned her head and found Jon Arryn's eyes. Ever since Lyanna told her of his meetings in the sept, Dacey began to suspect him involved in Brandon's demise. With Brandon Stark's death, Lord Arryn's ward would become a Lord Paramount.
"My lady is safe," Dacey said. "Someone used the house of the direwolf to spark this war, but Lyanna remains alive and well. Ask yourselves who stands to gain by spilling Stark blood."
Dijkstra fluttered onto her shoulder and croaked out, "wolf safe, wolf safe."
Arryn's gaze did not flinch. The Blackfish shifted in his saddle, face like a whetstone.
Rhaegar went on. "Lay down arms. Help me unseat a mad king and restore order. The North is the North. Only Starks can hold it, I know that. I do not ask you to kneel to fire. I ask you to stand against madness."
Arryn's patience snapped like thin ice. "Your father is not a fever we can sweat out," he said. "He is a king who burned his subjects and spat on law. He summoned a lord to court and roasted him, then strangled a son who came to beg for mercy. And you speak to me of order?"
"You speak as if your houses have not reached past their rights for a century," Rhaegar replied, voice cooling. "Your Vale has challenged royal authority since Aegon the Unlikely."
"Do not preach me history to excuse tyranny," Arryn said. "Aegon V trampled on noble privileges and paid for it with fire. Yet even he did not turn wildfire on honored guests. Your father did. And you ask the lords of the realm to trust a Targaryen's judgment."
Robert's temper broke. "Trust?" he roared, spurring a step closer, water foaming around his horse's knees. "You steal my betrothed, mumble a few words with a fat priest, and call it law? You think I'll bless that bed? I'll smash your pretty head and feed your crown to the river."
Arthur Dayne's chin lifted a fraction to the challenge. He seemed ready to duel Robert on the spot.
"Enough," Connington said, but Robert shook his head like a bull and would not be quieted.
"You want terms?" Robert shouted. "Here are mine. Give me Lyanna, put your father in chains, and I'll let you keep your silver harp."
Rhaegar's face did not move. "We are done here," he said. "Let the river choose which bank carries the currents of fate."
Dacey held Rhaegar's eye for a heartbeat. She is not your prize she thought. Nor his. And I will make sure she never will be.
The parties wheeled apart. Flags dipped. Guards backed horses out of the water. The hiss of current filled the brief gap left by silence. While her guards dragged Dacey back to camp, both armies assembled outside it for battle.
On the way back through the royalist pickets, Dacey's escort tightened. Two men took her reins. A third held the rope that bound her wrists. They talked over her head about battle tactics and the depth of the ford. One complained of wet boots.
Dacey breathed low and slow, rooting herself. She thought of Lyanna, her promise to protect her before the heart tree on the Isle of Faces, and drew strength from her vow. Following Maple's teachings, Dacey reached into the space inside herself, her ursine soul. The power in her chest woke like a bear rolling from winter sleep.
At the prison tent a corporal stepped out to chain her back up. "Orders are to keep the Northwoman out of trouble," he said, giving the links a tug.
Dacey smiled without showing teeth. "Sorry, but trouble is already here."
She twisted her wrists, turned her thumbs in, and gave a sudden pull that was all arms and shoulders. The rope rope frayed for a moment when it snapped tight. Then, it gave completely.
The nearest guard swore. Dacey seized the broken leash with both hands and jerked. As he stumbled forward, she met him with her brow. His nose broke with a wet snap. She took his dropped spear and swept the shaft low. The second man's legs went out from under him. She jabbed the butt into his throat before he could shout.
The third went for steel. She stepped inside the draw, caught his wrist, and turned it. The sword clattered free. She kicked it away and hammered his temple with the spear's butt. He sagged to his knees.
More shouts. A squire gaped, then bolted. Dacey tossed the spear aside and grabbed a fallen shield. It was cheap pine, light and broad. She took a smith's hammer from a tool crate as if it had waited for her. The weight was perfect.
A sergeant with a cudgel ran in. She took his swing on the rim and shoved. He bounced off a tentpole and folded. Two more came with short blades. She stepped toward them rather than away, taking advantage as they overreached in their attacks. The first man got her shield edge in the teeth. The second took a hammer to the ribs and dropped wheezing.
A horn blew down by the water. In the distance, Dacey could hear the charge of the vanguard.
She sucked in a breath and tasted iron and smoke. The cold sat heavy on her skin as she turned towards the river. Every competent warrior was at the battlefield, and with her guards all on the ground, anyone else nearby had already fled.
"Bearblood," croaked a white raven from the guy-rope of a tent. He flapped his wings with excitement for the spectacle of battle. "The stag and the dragon go to the same shallow. If you want to break fate, that is where it bends."
"I'm grateful for the information," Dacey said. "But you should probably stay out of the sky. We wouldn't want you catching a stray arrow."
"My eyes are at your service," he said, pleased, and moved to rest upon a pine branch.
She ran. Not headlong. Not wild. She ran the way Maple had taught her to move across slippery logs. Weight low. Steps sure. Breath a steady furnace. She slipped through the lanes in the direction of the royal kidnapper. The shield rode her forearm. The hammer rode her palm. She was done with ropes.
Cresting the last hill before the river valley, she finally saw the battle. Shields locked. Pikes set. The rebels pressed forward, the royalists held the crossing, and the cold made soldiers of both sides miserable.
Dacey chose a seam where the royalist backline frayed and went in like a wedge. She did not roar. She did not boast. She simply drove toward the position Dijkstra shared, bashing anything that tried to get in her way.