There was nothing left to do but set sleep aside and pick up one more dagger from that crowded table.
And that particular dagger had to be Karyl Vance, bound for King’s Landing.
Edmure simply couldn’t afford not to send him.
Whatever success Gray and Mallister had achieved, they’d only secured preliminary understandings, nothing more.
The true fate of Riverrun, and which road it would ultimately take, had to be settled elsewhere: in the capital itself.
If he failed to send someone there, and everything later collapsed into ruin, he’d never forgive himself for missing the chance.
What if, against all odds, it could actually work?
Edmure came down to the Great Hall in a foul, restless mood.
He had no wish to see anyone that morning.
But playing the hermit, even for a single day, simply wasn’t an option open to him.
There were people to deal with.
Robert Peg met him first at the door, smiling, clearly pleased with life in general.
Marq, Patrek, and Karyl sat by the fireplace, working through a leisurely breakfast.
The Blackfish sat near them, picking absently at a bowl of oatmeal with his spoon.
Tristan Ryger stood off at another table, quietly discussing something with the guardsmen.
“How are you this morning, Ed?” Edmure disliked the man’s tone from the very first word, that knight with the twin snakes on his coat of arms speaking to him with far too much easy familiarity.
It seemed, without quite meaning to, he’d spoiled his newer friends a little too much.
“You don’t look like you’ve slept well.” “Are you quite all right, then?” Several others had heard the exchange besides his close friends, which meant word of it would spread through the castle by evening regardless.
“What’s got you in such good spirits, eh?” Peg realized, a beat too late, that he’d stepped straight into a foul mood and fell silent at once.
Well, that was his own doing, in the end.
The knights gathered at Riverrun needed the occasional reminder of where they stood, and Edmure had already committed to playing this particular role through to its end.
And honestly, it didn’t hurt to let off a little steam of his own besides.
“I believe I asked a question.” The Lord of Riverrun let real edge creep into his voice.
“I’m not entirely myself today, Lord Tully,” Peg said, coughing, shifting his weight from foot to foot.
The smile had vanished from his face as if a wind had simply blown it away.
The friends at the table went quiet.
Piper froze mid motion, goblet still raised.
The Blackfish turned to watch with obvious interest.
Every other knight and servant in the hall suddenly found urgent reason to study the floor, doing their best to disappear into the background.
“Just as I thought.” Edmure kept his voice as commanding as he could manage, his eyes sweeping the room.
“That’s exactly the sort of silence that suits Riverrun’s current situation.
This is no laughing matter.
And since you’re clearly in such high spirits, Ser Peg, go find Lord Dondarrion and his Brotherhood without Banners.
Invite them to the castle, and promise them the warmest welcome Riverrun can offer, on my word.” “Where would I even find him?” Robert asked, carefully.
“South of Riverrun.
If you actually want to find him, you will, he’s hardly a needle lost in a haystack.” The knight’s expression showed nothing that could be called enthusiasm, and Edmure pressed a little further.
“I trust that after your trouble with the Kingslayer, you’ll manage a task like this one well enough.
Or should I find someone else for it?” “No, Lord Tully.
I’ll see it done.
Will you give me men for it?” “Yes.
Take everyone who rode with you after Lannister, and move out as soon as you can manage.
No later than noon.” “Understood.
Consider it done,” Peg said, inclining his head before turning sharply and making for the door.
Edmure let out a breath.
That would do it; a small shock like this one would serve everyone well in the end, Peg included.
He understood clearly enough that by evening, every knight in Riverrun would know exactly how badly Robert’s luck had run at Harrenhal.
Breakfast continued in the company of Karyl, Patrek, and Marq.
The Blackfish had already gone, off, as usual, to see to the castle’s defenses and drill the soldiers.
His friends stayed a little stiff at first, and Edmure kept up the show of irritation a while longer for good measure.
Only toward the end did the mood properly lift, Piper cracking jokes once more by the time they finished.
Robert Peg rode out of Riverrun at noon.
The gates had barely closed behind him when a rider came galloping into the castle.
Edmure received his report right there in the courtyard, since the rain had finally let up.
“Lord Tully,” the somewhat heavyset man said, dropping from his saddle and splashing through a puddle as he landed.
“A large company’s approaching.” “Enemies?” Piper straightened at once, understandably alarmed.
The Blackfish had set up a thorough network of watch posts around the castle by now; they knew, and saw, everything happening within two days’ ride in any direction.
No enemy could catch them by surprise.
The ravens would have carried word long before any real threat arrived.
“No, my lord,” the messenger said, shaking his head.
“Northmen.
Men who served the executed Lord Karstark.” “What do they want?” Edmure’s interest sharpened at once.
If this turned out to be what he suspected, Riverrun stood to gain some genuinely fine soldiers.
“They want to take service with you.” “Permanently?” Vance asked.
“They didn’t say, my lord.” “Who leads them?” Mallister asked, tucking his thumbs behind his belt.
“A rider named John Hawkwood.” “Vance, go and meet them outside the gate.
Let only Hawkwood and a few of his people through.
The rest can rest where they are, outside the walls.” “We’ll see to it, Ed,” Vance said, and went to give the necessary orders.
John Hawkwood turned out to be a man of average height, average build, average in nearly every visible respect.
Nothing about him stood out at first glance.
Just another rider, one of a thousand you might pass without a second look.
His face, though, looked like it had been hacked out with an axe, rough and hard set: a thin, tight line of a mouth, heavy brows, a full beard, gray eyes that suggested the man had either forgotten how to smile somewhere along the way, or had simply never learned.
He carried an assortment of weapons, wore clothing stained with mud and scorched by countless campfires, and old armor streaked with rust.
A hide hung across his shoulders, bear by the look of it.
Alongside John came the two men Karyl had allowed through with him, quiet, serious, bearded fellows.
Hawkwood introduced them as Black Simon and Elward.
“What brings you to Riverrun?” Edmure asked, studying the three soldiers.
Impressive men, clearly, the kind who fought with real conviction.
He already had a fair notion of what had brought them here.
“Lord Karstark sent us out to find the Kingslayer.
Then our lord was executed.
Recently, in some village along the highway, we learned Lannister’s already safe in King’s Landing.
No more reason to keep hunting him through fields and forest.” “And what do you want from me, then?” “We want to serve.” John’s voice came out hoarse, roughened by what sounded like a lingering cold.
Elward nodded along in agreement, while Black Simon shifted his weight from foot to foot.
“For life?
Or are you thinking of eventually heading back to Karhold?” Edmure couldn’t quite hide a satisfied smile.
The North, in some ways, put him in mind of old Scotland; knighthood carried far less weight and prestige up there than it did in the Riverlands or the Reach.
Knights existed, certainly, especially in Manderly’s lands, but plenty of noble warriors up north simply went by the plainer title of rider, without much ceremony attached.
Not quite a formal rank, more a mark of noble blood paired with a professional soldier’s trade.
“However it goes, my lord,” John said, with a shrug.
“How many of you are there altogether?” Mallister asked, his tone even, though Edmure had come to know his friend well enough by now to see he was genuinely pleased.
Men like these didn’t simply fall into your hands every day.
“Two hundred and eighty two, all told.
Forty mounted, the rest on foot, archers, spearmen, men with axes.
A dozen wounded, another dozen sick, but every one of them will stand in line when it counts.
In time,” John reported.
“Good.” In truth, Edmure had hoped for a larger number, five hundred at least.
“We lost some of our people along the way, Lord Tully.
Others decided to take their chances and make for Karhold instead.
They hired passage on a ship out of Saltpans.
We remember their names,” Elward added.
“And what of you three?” Piper asked.
“Our lord now is Harrion.
He’s held prisoner at Maidenpool,” Hawkwood answered simply.
“We want to stay close to him.
No telling how this war ends up.
He’ll need loyal men around him when it does.” “We thought perhaps you were simply looking for somewhere new to settle, and had decided to wait out hard times at our expense instead,” Piper said, a little too bluntly.
“We’ll earn every bite of bread we’re given,” the northman said, drawing himself up.
Black Simon’s jaw tightened, his fists clenching at his sides.
“Enough, Marq,” Edmure said, clapping the knight on the shoulder.
He talked too freely sometimes, even when there was truth in what he said.
“And you, John Hawkwood, don’t hold a few hasty words against us.
Serve faithfully, and Riverrun will take you in.” “My thanks, Your Grace,” John said, with a nod, though he made no move to bow.
“I’ll accept your oath of service.
Six months, to start.
We’ll see how things stand after that.
Does that suit you?” “It does,” the northman said, the faintest hint of a smile crossing his face for the first time.
“Marq, let them through the gate.
They can make camp right here inside the walls.
No sense delaying the oath taking either.
These men need a hot bath and a proper meal.
Wouldn’t you say?” “That’s the truth of it,” Elward agreed, plainly satisfied.
“Camp rations sit like a stone in a man’s throat after a while.” A horn sounded, nasal and clear, from the tower above, signaling the all clear.
The northmen began filing into the castle, marching four abreast.
Many of them wore bandages, their clothes filthy and travel worn, but even so, something in the way they carried themselves spoke of real strength, real endurance.
At first, Edmure felt a flicker of disappointment, both at their modest numbers and their reluctance to commit permanently.
But given how things stood, he’d learned to take whatever fate offered him.
Already his mind had started working through the possibilities.
Perhaps, in time, he could win these men over for good.
Offer some a permanent place in the garrison.
Others, the ones who proved themselves strong fighters or sharp minded commanders, might be granted small holdings of their own; there was no shortage of empty land in the Riverlands these days, more than anyone had hands left to properly bury the dead who’d once worked it.
Surely some among them, especially those without wife or children waiting back home, would be tempted to trade the cold North for the gentler climate of the Trident.
com/Hezzario