“Write to your father, Ser Lothar, and tell him his silence troubles me.
It’s starting to push me toward certain conclusions,” Roman remarked, almost casually.
He and Lothar the Lame stood together in the solar.
Over these past weeks, the honoured prisoner had moved through several distinct moods: irritation, resentment, anger, and finally something like hope.
Now the Lord of Riverrun was carefully, quietly steering him toward a new one entirely: fear.
“What do you mean, Lord Tully?” Frey asked.
He looked worn down, crumpled, his captivity dragging on with no end in sight, and the promised prize of Harrenhall showing no signs of coming any closer.
“I told him to send his daughters here, and gave my firm word I’d marry one of them.
So why does he keep stalling?
This is the dream of his whole life, marrying a daughter of his to the Lord of Riverrun.” “My lord father…” “He’s stalling.
Being careful,” Roman cut him off.
“What is he waiting for?
Where’s the army from the Twins?
We’re at war, and he can field four thousand men.
Where are they?
Why aren’t they here with me?” “You must understand…” “No.
Listen to me.” Roman cut him off again.
“From where I stand, this whole business looks deeply suspicious.
It has an unhealthy smell to it.
I’ve heard rumours your father’s been sending ravens out.
To whom, and for what purpose?
What is he planning?” “I know nothing of any letters, and even if they exist, I’m certain there’s nothing improper in them.
You’ve misread the situation, Lord Tully,” Lothar said, his voice level, though he didn’t look like the most confident man alive just then.
“Write to your father.
If he doesn’t send his daughters, I’ll take that as a deliberate insult.
He’s welcome to delay, but then he shouldn’t be surprised when there’s no wedding at all.
And I’ll begin to question his loyalty outright.” “Lord Tully!” Lothar flinched, his eyes going wide.
His hand jumped, nervous, to the clasp of his cloak.
“You’re backing us into a corner.
You can’t do this.
Where’s a knight’s honour in that?
Where’s his word?” “His word?” It’s already been given.
Write your letter, if you still dream of Harrenhall.
My patience isn’t endless,” Roman said at last.
Despite the gravity of the moment, despite how much rode on this particular game, he could barely stop himself from losing his temper and striking that cunning face outright.
Lothar, of all people, one of the men who’d helped plan the Red Wedding down to its finest details, a man who’d never once cared for another human life, now dared to lecture him about conscience and honour.
And with such a wounded expression on his face!
It was almost too absurd to bear.
Why was it that scoundrels who made a living off deceit and betrayal always found themselves so deeply offended the moment those same tricks got turned back on them?
On a misty morning, just as the sun’s edge cleared the distant treeline, Riverrun’s gates swung open and released a river of cavalry.
Three thousand horsemen rode out on campaign toward the western lands.
Noise rose from the direction of the Tumblestone, not loud exactly, but constant, as though the river itself had grown too cramped within its own banks.
Horses whinnied, trumpets sang out clear and bright, and the banners of a dozen houses snapped in the fresh morning wind.
A lone gull passed overhead.
The Blackfish led the vanguard.
He’d left the castle grounds while it was still dark, wanting to avoid the crowds and confusion that would surely have gathered otherwise.
Roman had forgiven the man; there’d been no real alternative.
A man like Brynden couldn’t simply be executed, or left to rot away in some cell, not in times as dangerous as these.
His skill, his authority, his tactical mind, his fearlessness, none of it could be thrown away.
Roman wouldn’t allow such waste.
After a long, tense conversation between them, the Blackfish had earned his chance at redemption.
Along with him, Roman had pardoned every other conspirator too.
Punishing the followers while forgiving their leader would have looked absurd, and worse, unjust.
That didn’t mean they’d all escaped consequence entirely.
Roman had stripped old Robin Ryger of his post as captain of the guard and sent him into a comfortable, honorable retirement at his own family seat.
In his place, Roman had installed Robin’s son, Tristan, exactly as Karyl Vance had advised.
The Lord of Wayfarer’s Rest had assured him the son would value the life his father had been spared, and would serve out of genuine loyalty rather than fear.
Roman had trusted his new friend’s judgment.
He’d also taken a closer look at the younger Ryger himself and concluded the man was a solid, steady soldier, calm by temperament, honest, without much ambition or guile.
Exactly what the post called for.
The rest of the common conspirators he’d scattered to the roads and to distant watch posts.
Riverrun itself he left in the hands of its old, familiar guard, the steward, the maester, and the master at arms, backed by Robert Peg and Hugo Vance to help them manage things.
The Bloody Mummers had been ordered to camp beneath the walls and build their strength for whatever heroics might lie ahead.
Roman held nominal command of the army’s centre, though real authority rested almost entirely with Karyl Vance.
The memories of the old Edmure hadn’t vanished, but remembering something and actually commanding a force this size were two very different things.
A man could make disastrous mistakes here.
Roman had extended the honour to Vance easily, naturally, and it had the added benefit of showing real respect.
Karyl hadn’t refused.
Now Roman simply listened to his orders, watched, learned, and did his best to keep a calm, thoughtful expression fixed on his face.
Marq Piper rode near him, cheerful and full of restless energy, yawning so hard each time that his jaw seemed in real danger of dislocating.
A boy named Beric Cox, grandson of the Lord of Saltpans, shivered against the morning chill and rubbed his sleepy eyes.
Roman had his own long term plans for House Cox and their salt trade, and had shown the family real favour by taking the boy on as his squire.
Tristan Ryger, wearing a new cloak over his mail, rode near the back, leading the guard.
His plain, honest face radiated genuine devotion.
Roman, catching sight of him, felt a brief pang of discomfort at first.
It turned out some people needed very little to feel truly happy.
Patrek Mallister remained back at the castle for now, commanding the rearguard.
His confident, gravelly voice carried even from behind the walls.
The Mallisters, father and son, lords of Seagard, had arrived at Riverrun only a few days earlier at the head of three hundred riders.
After a long conversation, Roman had won the elder Mallister’s agreement to travel on to Dorne, while the son took command of a portion of the army in his place.
The lords of Seagard looked like something out of an old saga, tall, powerfully built, fair haired, with pale blue eyes.
Their sharp, weathered faces carried a natural severity, even a kind of ferocity.
They hated the Ironborn with a passion, and were known across the Riverlands as some of the most stubborn fighters alive.
The younger of the two, Patrek, Roman had quickly welcomed back into his circle of friends.
The old Edmure had been close with him for years, but Roman had come to see something more in that family: real, untapped military strength.
The elder, Jason Mallister, Lord of Seagard, had spent his years acquiring something just as valuable: genuine cunning, patience, and caution.
Roman had decided to place real trust in this family, just as he had with Vance, Piper, Blackwood, Goodbrook, and Peg before them.
He needed people like this around him.
They could become true friends, the very core of a group capable of pulling them all out of the mess they were in.
Fittingly enough, a line from an old, half remembered song drifted through his mind, one about getting by, about lifting yourself higher, with a little help from the people who stood beside you.
Lord Jason Mallister was to leave for Dorne that same day.
He’d travel first along the left, northern bank of the Trident, where the roads stayed relatively safe, at least as far as the Ruby Ford.
From there, once he reached Saltpans, he’d take ship south.
The journey ahead of him was a long one, but Roman believed in its success.
Or at least hoped for it; there was little else left to do but hope.
After talking it over with Vance, Roman decided to hold off sending anyone to Stannis at Dragonstone for the time being.
Baratheon had been beaten badly and was still licking his wounds, and there was no telling what the man might be planning next.
In the story Roman remembered, Davos Seaworth had eventually convinced him to sail north and lend the Night’s Watch a hand against the wildlings.
Stannis had done exactly that, landing at Eastwatch by the Sea.
He’d genuinely helped save the Watch and hold the Wall, true enough, but his real motives had run considerably more self-interested than that; the self-declared king had been counting on winning northern support for his claim to the Iron Throne.
But now, with Robb Stark very much alive, Stannis had no reason to march north.
Better, Roman decided, to simply wait and see what the man chose to do.
Envoys could always be sent once his intentions became clearer.
“Well.
May the Seven watch over us,” Karyl Vance said quietly, glancing back over his shoulder to check on how the column was moving.
“We have to win.
And we will,” Roman answered.
“There’s no other road left open to us.” “The gods favor the bold,” Marq added.
“Go on, tell me I’m wrong.” Vance glanced at him but said nothing.
Roman kept his own silence too.
Riding at the head of this column, he felt an extraordinary tangle of emotions churning through him.
He commanded a genuinely formidable force; he’d never seen so many strong, healthy men in steel gathered together in one place before.
Knights, horses, banners, gleaming gear, all of it stirred something deep in his imagination.
And in this world, for the first time in longer than he could say, he felt young again, and despite everything still ahead of him, he found himself believing, honestly believing, in success.
Excitement, wonder, hope, worry, something like tenderness, all of it tangled together into a strange, unfamiliar mixture, sharpened further by the tension of the moment itself.
It was enough to send something like a horse sized dose of adrenaline pouring through him.
Riverrun could have fielded a larger army still, but the Blackfish had judged three thousand men more than sufficient for their purposes.
The Trident lacked the raw strength to properly conquer the western lands outright, but a force this size could manage something else just as valuable: a fast, well prepared, hard hitting raid.
Ser Brynden had handpicked riders who knew how to sit a horse properly, seasoned men ready for whatever came.
With fighters like these, real ambitions became possible.
The trouble was, the Lannisters could field three times as many men of comparable quality.
The red stallion of House Bracken, the dancing maiden of House Piper, the black dragon and golden eyes of the Vances of Wayfarer’s Rest, the green dragon and towers of the Vances of Atranta, the two headed horse of House Roote, the blue stripe of House Goodbrook, the silver eagle of House Mallister, the swallow of House Deddings, all of them flashed in bright color across the many banners overhead.
Even the nine bats of House Whent of Harrenhal flew somewhere among the host.
Only one member of that house remained now, the thin, aging Lady Shella, a kinswoman of Edmure Tully’s late mother, who’d taken shelter at Riverrun with her household and servants for the duration of the war.
Watching the assembled knights, Roman found himself genuinely moved.
Armored cavalry looked so imposing, so grim, so effortlessly bound up with everything war and valor were supposed to mean, that it struck something deep in him.
He hadn’t expected to feel anything like this over such a sight.
And everywhere he looked, of course, the silver trout of House Tully leapt gaily across the waves on more banners than any other sigil in the host.
The Riverlands had gathered their finest, drawn them into a single fist, and readied themselves for one powerful blow.
Roman had real doubts about his own competence in all this, reasonably enough, but the Blackfish rode with him, along with a dozen other lords and knights, less celebrated perhaps, but no less capable.
Besides, there was no real alternative left to him.
He had to act.
And a strike west, as a starting point, looked sound enough on its own merits.
The River Road and the country around it had already suffered badly in this war.
Though Tywin Lannister and his main strength had fought further south and east, manoeuvring around Harrenhal and the lands nearby, the local smallfolk here had drunk deep from the same cup of misery all the same.
Early in the war, the Westerlands’ second army, under the Kingslayer’s own command, had swept through this ground, burning and looting before laying siege to Riverrun itself.
Then Robb Stark had struck back, unexpectedly, defeating the Kingslayer, taking him prisoner, destroying part of his invading force and scattering the rest.
Local lords had crawled out from behind their walls afterward to finish the job, hunting down stragglers across fields, forests, and river valleys alike.
That grim work had done little to help local farms recover, or bring artisans back to their trades.
At the crossroads where a side road split off from the River Road toward the Stone Mill, the army called a one day halt, waiting for stragglers to catch up.
It gave them a chance, besides, to reshoe some of the horses, put themselves back in order, and rest after the hard pace of the march.
That evening, Raymond the Rhymer, whom Roman had brought along from Riverrun, performed his Song of the Battle at the Stone Mill.
It told the story of how Lord Tully had once held Lord Tywin Lannister’s army at the ford, keeping him from crossing west to relieve his own threatened lands.
The song went over well enough, though it didn’t exactly win any hearts.
Roman, sitting by the fire, found himself struck by an idea.
“Come here, Raymond,” he called, once the singer had finished.
“I’m listening, my lord,” a man of middling height approached, shaggy haired, wearing an easy, cheeky grin, a harp tucked under one arm.
The old Edmure had spoiled the man badly over the years, dragging him along everywhere and rewarding him generously and often.
“Here’s what I’d suggest,” Roman said.
“That song of yours about the Stone Mill isn’t bad.
But it won’t travel far beyond these hills.
If you write me something new, though, something people will sing from the south all the way to the north, you’ll have a real reward waiting for you.
How does that sound?” “A song of your victory, my lord?” “Exactly that.
Something bold, something cheerful, something that reminds people the glory of the Riverlands hasn’t faded, something that gets their feet moving on their own.
Can you manage it?” “I’ll do everything in my power.” “See that you do.
And once it’s finished, sing it for us here first.” Roman gestured broadly at the lords gathered around him.
He had little real hunger for fame himself, certainly not cheap fame of this sort.
But people needed reminding that courage hadn’t drained out of the Riverlands entirely, that the Lannisters hadn’t bled them dry just yet.
A good song could lift spirits, put fresh strength into tired men.
And whatever the Rhymer had composed so far simply didn’t carry that fire, that defiance, that proper mockery of the Lannisters the moment called for.
And really, when you looked closely at it, the old Edmure had won a genuine victory at the Stone Mill, one that Robb Stark himself had somehow chosen to view as a defeat.
“Why does this matter to you, Ed?” Karyl asked.
“There are too few songs about the Riverlands and its lords.
I don’t care for that.” “Ha!
I’ve thought the same myself,” Mallister said.
“There’s the Rains of Castamere.
Why shouldn’t someone write something like that about us?” “Well, for a song like that to work for Edmure, you’d really want some rebellious house to make an example of,” Vance said.
“And which house would that be?” Mallister thrust his jaw out, ready for a fight.
“Seagard would do just fine.” “Oh, come now,” Patrek said, feigning offense, to laughter from Goodbrook and Piper.
Roman grinned, took a sip of wine, and let the idea settle in his mind.
There was something to what Vance had said.
Swap out the loyal Mallisters, though, and put the Freys in their place instead.
com/Hezzario