"Do you know what they call me?" Edmure complained angrily to his steward. "Scared Edmure."
"What do they know? We only have 1,300 men. If we send them all out, who will defend the city?"
Before the steward could respond, the maester approached, holding two injured ravens in his hands. "My lord, these birds came from the North."
At the mention of the North, Edmure's mood shifted instantly. He had seen his nephew nearly crush the Lannisters in battle.
"Is it from Robb?"
He snatched the letter eagerly, eyes lighting up as he recognized the direwolf seal. Breaking it open, he read the contents, then laughed aloud.
"The fools! Those stupid Lannisters dared to divide their forces."
Turning to the steward, he commanded, "Summon all the knights to the hall. Tell them that Lord Edmure has urgent matters to discuss."
When the river lords gathered in the great hall, a heavy silence filled the air. The situation was dire, and they all knew it. So when Edmure strode in, looking uncharacteristically pleased, many assumed he had simply spent the night with another castle maid.
But instead of a smug remark, he pulled out a letter, its direwolf seal unmistakable.
"The brave raven has brought us good news," he declared.
Someone muttered under their breath, "Black wings bring black words."
Edmure ignored the whisper. He straightened, speaking with an uncharacteristic confidence.
"In two days, my nephew, Robb Stark, will lead the Northern cavalry in an attack on the Lannister camp. I know some of you have taken to calling me 'Cowardly Edmure.'" His voice rose with anger. "But on that day, I will personally lead the warriors of Riverrun into battle. And I will take Jaime Lannister's head myself."
A skeptical voice cut through the hall. "How do we know this letter isn't some Lannister trick?"
Edmure scoffed. "I recognize my nephew's handwriting, Lord Janos." He said it with absolute certainty, though, in truth, he had barely seen Robb's writing before. Still, the arrow wound on the raven was enough proof for him.
And in the end, the truth would be revealed soon enough. From their position atop the walls, they would see everything unfold.
For the next two days, Edmure was uncharacteristically active. He personally oversaw training, ordered drills, and prepared his men for battle. He would show them his bravery—he would silence the whispers of his cowardice.
Meanwhile, Robb Stark and his army were advancing on Luanda City, unaware that they had been deceived. The Lannisters had not received reinforcements—only a small force of cavalry that had appeared seemingly out of nowhere.
By the time Robb realized the trap, the enemy had already gathered their forces and erected spikes, blocking any chance of a counterattack.
Frustrated, he had no choice but to withdraw.
The Northern army led by Roose Bolton had also suffered a defeat at the hands of Tywin Lannister. Reports soon arrived that Tywin's forces were marching north, closing in on Luanda City.
Lord Walder Frey had sent urgent letters, demanding that Robb's forces block Tywin's advance. When Robb finally entered Luanda City, the old lord's face was filled with barely concealed displeasure.
Robb assured him that he would defend the gorge, preventing Tywin from advancing north. That seemed to ease the old man's anger—at least for the moment.
But soon after, Frey pressed Robb about his marriage. Robb deflected with the excuse of their original agreement: the wedding would take place after the war.
Despite their setbacks, the Northern army remained strong. The war was far from over. With control over Moat Cailin and the Twins, they still had strategic fallback points.
And, more importantly, they still held hostages—Jaime Lannister, Willem Lannister, and lion Frey remained in their grasp.
Two nights later, Kevan Lannister stood outside his tent, eyes fixed on the sky.
The darkness deepened, and mist began to rise from the river. A light drizzle fell, soaking the earth, making the air heavy with moisture. The atmosphere was grim, the camp guards standing sluggishly at their posts.
Kevan had set his banners in the northern camp, though he flew the sigil of a vassal house. He led the southern camp himself.
Cole had sworn to him that there would be no moonlight that night. At first, Kevan had been doubtful, but seeing the thick fog blanketing the river, he found himself believing—at least, mostly.
Where had Tyrion found this man? A savage who could predict the weather with such accuracy—it was almost unnatural.
A gust of wind sent a chill through the air. Cole, wrapped in furs, coughed lightly before turning his attention to the woods.
He led a force of a thousand cavalry, all clad in Stark colors, hidden among the trees. The Lannister camps lay in the valley below, unaware of what was coming.
The others had no idea of the real plan, and Cole had no intention of letting them find out. As bait, they didn't need to know too much.
At this moment, he felt as if his heart had turned to stone. But to make the act convincing, sacrifices had to be made.
"Ahem—" He coughed, hastily covering his mouth. His palm came away sticky with blood. The armor on his body felt heavier with each passing moment.
On the city walls of Riverrun, Edmure scanned the darkness, but all he could see was the glow of scattered fires. Doubt gnawed at him—was this truly a Lannister trick?
Impossible. How could the Lannisters have known tonight would be shrouded in fog with no moon? Unless the gods themselves had whispered it to them.
In truth, even Cole hadn't foreseen the fog. He had only calculated that tonight was likely a waning moon—almost complete darkness.
"My lord, the lights on the north bank of the Tumblestone River seem to be in chaos," a soldier reported.
Edmure's pulse quickened. Here they come.
Distant shouts and screams pierced the night, growing louder as flames erupted across the northern bank. Then, through the thick mist, the unmistakable sigil of House Stark—the direwolf—appeared on a banner.
"Gather the men!" Edmure ordered sharply.
The knights of Riverrun had been waiting for this moment. Within minutes, they assembled at the base of the walls, their armor glinting in the firelight. Edmure wasted no time—he barked a few words of encouragement, then commanded the gates to be opened.
The iron bolts were drawn, the great wooden doors creaked apart, and the drawbridge was lowered with a resounding boom.
As soon as it hit the bank, Edmure spurred his horse forward, leading a wave of cavalry straight into the Lannister camp.
Panic spread like wildfire among the enemy ranks. The Lannister soldiers broke almost instantly, scattering in all directions. They were cut down with ease, like wheat beneath a scythe.
Seeing the enemy's terrified expressions, some of the Riverrun knights relaxed. It seemed this was truly a Northern relief force.
From a hilltop, Cole watched the battlefield unfold. He did not descend—his entire right arm was numb, useless. He could barely grip his sword. Instead, he remained atop the ridge, his face impassive as he issued commands. Several Lannister knights stood guard around him.
From Riverrun's walls, the distant glow of the Lannister south and central camps remained, but the movement within them had thinned considerably.
Meanwhile, Edmure was consumed by battle lust. The sight of the Stark banners had erased his doubts. He led his cavalry forward, relentless in their pursuit of the fleeing Lannister forces.
As they charged, a Northern cavalryman—his horse lost beneath him—staggered past. Edmure reined in sharply.
"Where is Lord Stark?" he demanded.
The man hesitated for only a moment before pointing toward a hill.
Edmure followed his gaze. A small group of riders was stationed there, barely visible in the gloom.
His heart soared. Without hesitation, he spurred his horse forward, leading his guards up the ridge toward what he believed to be Robb Stark.
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