“Lord Tytos, good to see you.
Come sit by the fire, it’s a damp evening,” Edmure Tully said, smiling in a way that was open and easy.
“My thanks,” the man nodded with quiet dignity, thin and wiry, with a hooked nose and a close cropped mustache.
His name was Tytos Blackwood, head of an ancient house that held the castle of Raventree Hall.
Very few people knew him by his private nickname, Gray.
Blackwood crossed the room slowly, straight toward the roaring hearth.
Three armchairs stood nearby, draped in wolfskins for comfort.
Beside them sat a table already laden with fine food, several jugs among the spread, and three heavy cups completing the picture.
They welcome me kindly, Tytos thought.
That likely means they intend to offer something, or ask for something in return.
Well, we’ll see how it plays out.
He greeted the third man present, Lord Karyl Vance, with a nod.
“Stern and to the point, as always,” Edmure said, with a laugh.
“I like that about you.
I’ve regretted plenty of things I’ve said over the years.
Never once anything I kept to myself.” “Well put,” Tytos said, settling into his chair.
He shifted, made himself comfortable, glanced into the fire, and watched Vance pour wine into the waiting glasses.
It looked unusually rich and dark, likely Arbor wine, the finest and most expensive vintage in Westeros, though some preferred other varieties.
The sweet, heady scent all but confirmed his guess about its quality and origin.
“Help yourself,” Vance said, sliding a glass toward him.
“We’ve a long conversation ahead of us.” Blackwood, true to habit, said little.
Since old Lord Hoster’s death, Karyl had risen sharply, becoming something like the right hand of Riverrun’s new master.
There’d been plenty of talk about it in the camps; people had already accepted Vance’s ascent from Wayfarer’s Rest as simple fact.
But Blackwood found himself far more interested in Edmure Tully himself than in Vance’s rise.
He’d held his own opinion of the man once.
These past weeks had changed it considerably.
Lord Tully had shifted, sharply and unexpectedly.
He’d once seemed a very different sort of man.
What Tytos saw now pleased him, in its way, while also leaving him a little unsettled.
He’d always reacted that way to things he didn’t fully understand, especially things that might touch his own life, or the fate of Raventree Hall.
“The Blackwoods have always been true friends to House Tully,” Edmure began.
“And your reputation lives up to those words completely.
Your judgment as well.” “Sing on, then,” the Lord of Raventree said, the faintest smile crossing his face as he waited for them to reach the point.
Edmure had never spoken to him quite this way before.
He surprised Tytos again by offering food first.
That evening the table held beef and bacon pie, cheese, honeyed chicken, baked apples, and blackberry jam.
Blackwood noticed at once that these were dishes favored in the North.
His house had left the North long ago, driven out in a war they’d lost to the Starks, and yet he himself still honored the Old Gods, and the food his ancestors once ate, with real respect.
He liked these dishes, and Edmure had clearly taken the trouble to learn as much.
The conversation moved unhurried, easy.
They spoke of Tytos’s children.
To his surprise, Tully remembered every one of their names, and singled out the third, Hoster, the bookish one, the reader of the family.
Edmure praised the boy’s gifts, and Tytos, despite his usual reserve, found himself smiling.
They spoke of Raventree’s situation, of the losses the war had brought.
And yet this wasn’t the true reason he’d been summoned here, Tytos could feel that much.
Edmure had managed to intrigue him, if only a little.
Why keep circling the real subject?
“We hear you’ve kept a good many friends and kin in the Reach,” Karyl Vance said, refilling their glasses, catching Edmure’s nod before turning the conversation.
“I hope they haven’t forgotten you.” “Our faiths differ.
They worship the Seven, we the Old Gods.
It’s never troubled our friendship,” Tytos said, the longest sentence he’d offered all evening.
“Is that what you called me here to discuss?” “It is,” Edmure said at once.
“I don’t want to dance around it or waste your time, Lord Blackwood.
So let’s speak plainly.” He paused, choosing his next words with care.
“The war continues, and I can’t honestly say we’re winning it, King Robb’s victories notwithstanding.” “Fortune in war has always been changeable,” Tytos said, reaching for a dagger on the table and cutting himself a piece of bread.
It was excellent, fragrant, still faintly warm from the oven.
“Of course.
Are you glad the river lords are no longer vassals of the North?” Edmure asked, without warning.
“I fully support what you’ve undertaken, Lord Tully,” Blackwood answered, carefully diplomatic.
The question looked simple enough at first glance, but by naming the title of Riverrun’s master so plainly, Edmure had made his position unmistakably clear.
Truth be told, Tytos rather liked the Stark boy.
Something about him, open and warm hearted, appealed to him.
It carried the scent of the North.
And yet, he had to admit, an independent Trident looked far more promising.
And now that Lord Tully had achieved just that, his standing in the eyes of many lords had only grown stronger for it.
At first, while Robb Stark was busy crushing the Lannisters, everyone had felt flattered enough to acknowledge Winterfell’s supremacy.
Those days had passed now.
And given how things had turned out since, no, Edmure Tully had made the right call.
He’d even treated his own uncle, Ser Brynden, with real honor, despite everything the man had thrown at him.
“Then you’ll agree we need to find our way out of this war,” Karyl Vance said.
“Or would you rather see it continue?” “The former, I should think.” “Good to hear,” Edmure said, cracking his knuckles.
“Before the king rode out, we discussed a few matters.
He knows I mean to send a man to the Reach.
That’s why you’re here.” “And the king agrees to this?” “He does.
So this isn’t a matter of betrayal.
We mean to drive a wedge between the Lannisters and the Tyrells.
We want to survive this, and keep what’s ours.” “And if it doesn’t work?” “Then we’ve bought ourselves some time, at least,” Vance said.
“We risk nothing, betray no one, and still stand to gain something.” “So you’re suggesting I travel to the Reach myself.” “Exactly.
Willas Tyrell, heir to Highgarden, remains there now.
A clever, thoughtful young man.” “Why not send me to his father instead?
Or his grandmother?” Blackwood asked.
Though everyone knew well enough what to expect from Mace Tyrell, the man they mocked behind his back as Fat Rosan.
He held little real influence over anything; talking to him would waste everyone’s time.
Mace was Lord of the Reach in name alone.
The real decisions belonged to his mother, Lady Olenna, known far and wide, and for good reason, as the Queen of Thorns.
Tytos began to see where Edmure was steering this.
“There’s nothing worth discussing with Lord Mace,” Vance said, echoing his very thought.
“And Lady Olenna sits in the capital just now.
Better to start further out, with her favorite grandson.” “An interesting approach.” “Are you willing to take on such a role?” Edmure asked, bluntly.
“Let’s start by settling what exactly we need from the Tyrells.” “Peace with them.
Or, failing that, at least keeping their troops off the Trident, and Lord Tarly recalled.” “That doesn’t sound especially convincing,” Blackwood said at once, stroking his mustache.
“They’re winning this war.
They’re likely counting on gold or land once it ends.” “That’s true enough.
We’re unlikely to succeed outright, but every opening is worth taking.
Try to build some friendship between us, enough that the Tyrells might lean on the Lannisters toward peace.” “That sounds more realistic,” Blackwood agreed.
“What can I offer them?” “That’s the difficult part,” Edmure said, frowning.
“The truth is, the Riverlands have little to offer the Reach right now.
Our lands lie in ruins, our coffers are empty, and we’ve lost more men than we’ve kept.” “And yet we must have something to offer,” Blackwood said, watching the two men closely.
“We do,” Edmure said, pausing.
“I won’t ask any oath of silence from you, Lord Blackwood.
The Blackwoods are Riverrun’s standard bearers; that’s enough for me.
Tell him everything, Karyl.” He rose and walked to the window.
“The truth is, Lord Tytos, all is not smooth between the Tyrells and the Lannisters.
Both houses covet the Iron Throne.
The Lannisters hold it.
The Tyrells only dream of it.” “The Tyrells have a marriage alliance with the Lannisters.
King Joffrey and Lady Margaery are to wed soon.” “That’s right.
But there’s no shortage of mutual suspicion between them, and plenty of grievances besides.
We believe the situation will only worsen with time,” Vance said, glancing quickly at Edmure, who said nothing.
“We’ve heard the Tyrells aren’t pleased with Joffrey.
And their dealings with Cersei look strained, to say the least.” “And?” “You, Lord Blackwood, will promise the Tyrells that the moment they choose to make their own move, House Tully and every lord of the Trident will stand behind them.
That’s the currency we’re offering.
That’s what we have to give.” “A move?” “A game of thrones,” Tully said.
“Yes.
That could work,” Blackwood said, not fully grasping everything hidden behind the phrase, though he liked the sound of it well enough.
And the idea itself had real merit, he thought.
“A few questions, though.
First: are the Tyrells even likely to want to play such a game?” “The odds are quite good,” Edmure said, with real confidence.
“And once we’ve made our offer, better still.” “Understood.
Second question, and I say ‘we’ because I believe we’re no longer merely allies here, but on our way to becoming true friends: how far are we prepared to go in keeping our word?
What, exactly, and how much, am I authorized to promise on behalf of the Trident?” Blackwood spoke, as always, without much visible emotion, though something inside him stirred all the same.
He’d always felt the pull of games like this one, the kind Lord Tully was offering him now.
There’d been none of it under old Hoster.
King Robb Stark had no taste for such things either; he was a warrior, not a diplomat.
But now, thank the gods, that had changed.
Was he really about to become the man pulling the strings behind the scenes?
Tytos stood a good fifteen years older than Edmure.
It seemed a strange time in life to be forging new friendships.
What was more, Tully had surrounded himself with companions his own age nearly from the cradle, Vance, the late Darry, Mallister, Goodbrook, Piper.
The circle of Riverrun’s future confidants had long since been settled.
Blackwood had never pushed his way into that circle.
But now, here he was, invited in.
Tully had been the first to extend his hand.
The Lord of Raventree felt a real satisfaction settle over him.
So he, and what he had to offer, were needed after all.
“We’ll need to honor whatever we promise, Tytos.” Edmure seemed to read his thoughts exactly, and used his given name, familiar, easy.
That, Tytos understood, meant he’d been let into the inner circle.
“So promise as little as you can manage.” “I’ll do my best, Edmure,” Blackwood said, using his lord’s given name in turn, watching to see how he’d take it.
“Glad we understand each other,” Tully said, nodding with satisfaction.
“One more thing.
Make your promises, but bear in mind that another power may soon rise in Westeros.
And it will be a considerable one.” “What power is that?” “We’re not ready to speak of it yet,” Vance said quietly.
“Too early for me to know, then?” “Too early,” Edmure said, weighting the word.
“Very well.
But next time we meet, I’ll remind you of this.” “And I’ll answer you then,” Edmure promised.
“One more question.
Why send me all this way to the Tyrells?
Why not approach Lord Tywin directly?
What sort of peace does he actually want?” “We’ve written to him three times,” Vance said.
“He hasn’t bothered replying to any of them.” “I think he means to squeeze us as hard as he possibly can before he’s willing to even discuss peace,” Edmure said, reaching for the jug and pouring wine for all three of them.
“That’s the ugly truth of it, Tytos.” “That hardly surprises me.
The Lannisters are famous for their grip.” Blackwood took a slow sip.
The wine truly was excellent.
“And what of King Robb, while we’re on the subject?
Is he willing to settle?
On what terms?” “You’ve a gift for the sharp question, Tytos,” Edmure said, with a laugh that carried little real humor.
“Stark wants peace, but he means to keep his crown.
He intends to remain king.
We can’t abandon him, and we’ll go on supporting the North, because without him we’ll all be crushed in turn.
But if Robb refuses to bend at all, he may push us into steps none of us would enjoy taking.” “Betrayal?” Blackwood asked, unafraid to name it plainly; he needed the full shape of things now.
“No.
I don’t intend to allow that.
He’s my own blood, after all.” Tully shook his head.
In that moment it was plain how tired the man truly was, how thoroughly worn down; the pale skin, the shadows beneath his eyes, left little doubt of it.
“But we didn’t win our independence for nothing.
The Riverlands can choose their own path now.” “If Stark’s so determined to die for his crown, that’s his right,” Vance added.
“But we’re under no obligation to follow him into the grave.” Silence settled over the room.
All three men sat with their own thoughts, turning over what had just been said.
Only the fire crackled in the hearth, and the air carried the smell of cold meat and onion gravy.
“When should I leave?” “As soon as you can manage it.
One more thing, and I hope it doesn’t offend you, Lord Tytos: would you travel without your own banner, in the plain garb of a common knight, without much of a retinue?” Vance asked.
“Not at all.
I understand perfectly well why such things must stay hidden.
It might seem an unusual step for a man of my standing, but the Tyrells will grow wary the moment outsiders learn of my visit.” “Exactly so.
The Spider holds a great many threads in King’s Landing, and an echo of other men’s plans and intentions travels down every one of them.
But he mustn’t hear a whisper of you, Tytos,” Edmure said, leaning down to clasp his arm.
“Then I’ll travel under a false name.” “The rest is up to you.
The sooner you’re ready, the better.
I’d suggest taking Hoster along.” “Why him?” “He and Willas share a good deal in common.
It should serve you well.” “I’ll think on it, Edmure,” Blackwood said, finishing his wine, rising, and beginning his farewells.
As he left Riverrun’s small private chamber, the Lord of Raventree felt a genuine thrill of excitement stirring in him.
At last, real business had begun, the sort of business that might raise his house’s fortunes and strengthen its standing for years to come.
com/Hezzario