The next day, Karyl Vance sent Vargo Hoat and the Bloody Mummers out toward the country around Harrenhal.
Gregor Clegane had reoccupied that grim castle, and the mercenaries would spend their time there harrying his foragers, wearing at his patience from the shadows.
The Mummers themselves held little real value in Edmure’s eyes.
Only Hoat himself, as a potential bargaining piece in any future peace with Tywin Lannister, held any real interest for him at all.
The sadistic Vargo had cut off Jaime Lannister’s own hand, after all, and that wasn’t the sort of thing a man like Tywin simply forgot.
If the Lannisters wanted their revenge, and they surely did, Edmure would hand the mercenary over without a second thought, and a clear conscience besides.
But when might that day actually come?
Would it come at all?
Either way, there was no sense keeping the man’s company camped so close to the castle in the meantime.
Let them earn their keep instead.
They wouldn’t dare betray him; no one in their right mind would want to tangle with that particular company regardless.
Their wages for the past month still needed paying, admittedly, but that cost had already been folded into the price of hiring mercenaries in the first place, so to speak.
Scouts had reported that the Holy Hundred had joined the Mountain at Harrenhal.
These men styled themselves as knights, or near enough; whatever else could be said of them, they fought from horseback and had taken vows renouncing worldly pleasure, fighting instead, they claimed, for the glory of the Seven.
They’d once served Stannis, but had switched allegiance after his defeat on the Blackwater.
Around a hundred strong, and Edmure felt a brief pang of regret that men like these now stood on the wrong side of this war.
Though, if things worked out as he hoped, he’d build something just as formidable of his own, built around John Hawkwood and his men.
He’d already settled on a name for it: the White Company.
Another conversation with Lothar the Lame followed, though it accomplished little.
The lame man remained as slippery and evasive as ever.
Edmure had already leaned on him hard enough, long enough, that pressing further seemed pointless.
From here, the only real options left were torture, or simply leaving the man be for a while, under heavy guard, naturally.
Edmure chose the latter.
In truth, the whole business with the Freys had settled into a genuine stalemate.
The old ferret lord had somehow avoided the grave far longer than anyone expected, and remained, for all his age, a remarkably sharp old man, skilled at fishing in troubled waters.
It was a real shame Edmure lacked the means, just now, to repeat what the young Tywin Lannister had once done to Houses Reyne and Tarbeck: cutting them down cleanly, utterly, the moment their disobedience finally exhausted his patience.
That single act of ruthlessness had taught the whole realm an unforgettable lesson.
Forty years on, no one had forgotten it either, and his vassals still felt a genuine chill in their bones at the mere mention of treason.
Old Hoster Tully, and the old Edmure after him, had already broken a fair number of houses over the years.
The Lord of the Twins most of all, among them.
How satisfying it would feel, to finally pin that whole filthy family to the wall for good.
But Edmure simply didn’t have the strength for it, not yet.
The Twins remained a formidable stronghold in its own right.
Patrek Mallister and Karyl Vance, both of whom he’d consulted on the matter, urged patience.
The Freys would need to be squeezed like an old bear caught between two hunters, pressed from both banks of the Green Fork at once.
And even then, a proper siege could easily drag on for a month, perhaps six.
It would take at least three thousand men to manage it properly.
Where would he find them?
Strip Riverrun bare?
Pull garrisons off every other border?
And who, then, would hold back Randyll Tarly, or the Mountain, or whatever else came crawling out of the south?
What if an army marched out of King’s Landing while his back was turned?
It would all have been so much simpler if Frey had simply handed him some real excuse to act.
But he never did.
His letters came back, every time, in the same maddening, needling tone: Lord Tully, the roads are simply too dangerous these days, and I cannot in good conscience send my beloved daughters and granddaughters to see you.
I want nothing more than to grant your request, truly, but I cannot risk it.
I fear too greatly for their safety.
Surely you understand a father’s feelings on such a matter.
The old man had made it quietly, unmistakably clear that he saw straight through the whole game.
And he played his own hand with remarkable softness throughout, all while simply ignoring every order that reached him.
Edmure had no choice but to swallow the bitter pill whole, and play along as though he believed every word of it.
Mallister had already drawn up a full plan for a campaign against the Freys, worked out the men and provisions such an effort would require.
But carrying it out demanded a real pause in the fighting elsewhere, a genuine window to focus entirely on the Freys.
That window simply hadn’t opened.
Or rather, it seemed to, now and then, only for fresh trouble to threaten a dozen other fronts at once, right when it mattered most.
Never mind.
Edmure held firmly to his belief that fate would eventually hand him his chance to settle accounts with the Lord of the Crossing.
And when it did, he’d remember every last insult in full.
Lothar the Lame’s demands during their negotiations, and Rivers’s sneering tone besides, the jokes, the mockery, and worst of all, the flat refusal to obey, the treachery working quietly behind his back the whole time.
They’d answer for their betrayal in full, every one of them.
The night of long knives was a patient thing.
Sooner or later, it would find the Freys too.
And when it did, people would write songs about it.
Greetings, Lord Yohn Royce.
I regret that my news is not encouraging.
Troubling rumors have reached Riverrun, and I feel bound to pass them along to you.
It’s said that Lord Petyr Baelish, granted Harrenhal by the King’s Hand, Lord Tywin Lannister, without any true right to bestow such a thing, now resides at the Eyrie.
He has married Lady Lysa Arryn.
And he now holds a most troubling influence over both her, and my nephew Robert.
Edmure worked through his final, clean draft of the letter, weighing every phrase, every turn of expression, testing more than a few before settling on the right words.
The goose quill scratched steadily along, a motion his hand had grown thoroughly used to by now.
I, as their nearest kinsman and protector, cannot stand idly by while Littlefinger drags my beloved sister toward ruin, and the whole of the Vale along with her.
I’ve heard your word carries real weight, and I trust you to keep this letter between us.
I hope, too, that you’ll keep a careful watch over Lady Lysa, over Robert, and over the Vale itself.
It is, Lord Royce, very much in your own interest to do so.
With respect, Lord Edmure Tully.
Edmure sprinkled sand across the wet ink.
Unable to sit still any longer, he rose and paced the length of the room.
What if the letter fell into the wrong hands?
What if Royce simply handed it straight to Littlefinger?
No, surely not; the man wasn’t built that way.
Solid as bronze, by every account.
He wouldn’t deceive, wouldn’t betray a trust like that.
It was no accident the Blackfish had spoken of him in such glowing terms: measured, loyal, steady, brave, and honest to the bone.
Coming from the old Blackfish, words like that carried real weight.
And still, the possibility of the letter going astray hadn’t entirely vanished.
“Damn it all,” Edmure muttered to himself, stopping in front of a mirror, studying features that had once belonged to a stranger.
He thought of them as entirely his own now.
“Am I right about this, or not?” The reflection showed him a serious, faintly frowning young man, blue eyed, with a copper colored beard.
It offered no answer.
Foolish Lysa Arryn had shut herself away in the Eyrie and answered none of his letters, and he’d sent well over a dozen by now.
Only once, right at the start, had she bothered to reply at all, a few brief lines insisting Robert’s life and health mattered more than anything else, and that she had no intention of risking either.
You foolish woman.
He’d apparently picked up the habit of talking to himself somewhere along the way, here in Westeros.
The knights of the Vale would prove immensely useful right about now.
Joined with the North, they could form a formidable alliance, one with a real chance of breaking the Lannisters for good.
Add Dorne or the Reach into that mix, and there’d be nothing left of them at all.
But no, she preferred striking a pose instead, refusing to risk anything remotely dangerous.
Among everything else, Lysa had fallen in love.
And that particular feeling, tangled up with plain desire, had apparently finished off whatever remained of her judgment, assuming she’d ever had much to begin with, which was very much an open question.
Dear Littlefinger had eclipsed her entire world, it seemed.
Was the man truly that devilishly charming?
Or was Lysa simply a foolish woman, easily led?
And who, exactly, had poisoned her own husband?
Who was it that had sent Catelyn that fateful letter claiming Jon Arryn had been murdered by the Lannisters?
Who had let the Imp slip through her fingers entirely?
That woman alone had cooked up half the mess everyone else was still struggling to untangle.
And now she meant to simply sit it out, tucked safely away in her mountains.
Wonderful.
Simply wonderful.
He paced the room a while longer, drank his wine, looked out toward the Tumblestone below, and finally decided nothing especially terrible would come of it, even if the letter somehow found its way to Littlefinger.
The man already had the Lannisters’ favor firmly in hand, still angling for that promised grant of Harrenhal, and Edmure had no intention of making that particular path any easier for him.
He could, in theory, write to Littlefinger directly, offer something, drop a hint or two.
But no, not while the Lannisters still held the upper hand.
The man wouldn’t switch sides, not now, not with so many of his own interests already invested in the capital.
Only his brothels, packed tight with women like barrels of salted herring, would keep him tethered firmly where he was.
Perhaps later, circumstances might shift.
Not now, though; not while there was still coin and comfort to be lost by changing course too soon.
So, the first letter would go to Royce.
A start, at least.
Perhaps, in time, real friendship might grow from it.
And having learned a fair amount about Bronze Yohn’s character from the Blackfish’s own words, Edmure felt reasonably confident things would work out well enough there.
The key was simple: no deception, no betrayal, only genuine concern shown for the man’s kin.
And once Lysa finally died, well, then it would be time to act with rather more urgency.
He paced a while longer, circling back to one last question: should he mention Sansa to Royce at all, or not?
No, he decided, that particular step still felt premature.
Littlefinger had only just arrived in the Vale.
The fact that word of it had already reached distant Riverrun was suspicious enough on its own; better not to raise questions about how much Edmure actually knew.
That particular conversation could wait for later.
Edmure folded the letter, sealed it with his personal seal, a leaping trout, and carried it up to old Maester Vyman.
“Is this letter urgent, or can it wait for the next bird?” the maester asked, grunting as he gave the order to send it on toward Runestone.
“Urgent.
Very much so.” Edmure climbed up to the rookery alongside the old man and watched him tie the letter to the raven’s leg before releasing it out the window.
Vyman made no real effort to hide his displeasure.
The old Edmure Tully had never troubled himself with writing his own letters by hand.
He’d simply state his decision aloud, and the maester would handle the rest, composing the actual text, choosing every word himself.
In that way, the old man had come to know most of Riverrun’s secrets over the years.
Things had changed considerably since then.
Edmure kept a great many secrets entirely to himself now, and had already sent off more than a few sealed letters the maester never got to read.
Truthfully, Edmure gave Vyman’s displeasure little thought.
Given the right opportunity, he fully intended to replace the man with someone younger, sharper, more suited to the times.
The air smelled of dampness, rotting leaves, wet clay, and faintly of ripe strawberries.
Petrichor, the scent of earth after rain.
Edmure had always loved that smell.
He’d never have admitted such a soft sentiment to any of the local knights, of course, but it remained there all the same, a small, private piece of who he was.
Riverrun’s courtyard was a genuinely spacious one.
And yet, whenever a real crowd gathered within it, the space always seemed to shrink.
Some hundred knights on fine horses, along with common soldiers and servants, prepared to set out.
Pennants bearing the sigils of various river houses fluttered from the tips of raised spears.
The largest banner, bearing a seven pointed star, was carried by the party’s own standard bearer.
The embassy, led by Karyl Vance, departed for King’s Landing beneath a peace banner blessed by the Seven.
Edmure had already sent word ahead to the capital and received a reply from the Hand confirming he’d receive the river lords.
That meant, at least, no serious obstacles would be placed in their path.
Tywin no doubt believed he could drive a wedge between the North and the Trident this way.
At the very least, he’d hear out the Lord of Wayfarer’s Rest.
“Karyl.
You remember everything?” “Of course, Ed.
I’ll do my best to stay calm through all of it.
If the Seven favor me, things will fall out exactly as they should.” “Don’t forget,” Edmure said, lowering his voice, “if the Red Viper lives, look for a way toward the Dornish.
If he dies, put your weight behind the Tyrells instead.” “You’ve said those words so often now I hear them in my sleep,” Vance said, with a brief laugh, before turning serious again.
“Rest easy.
I haven’t forgotten a thing, and I’ll give it everything I have.” “Well then, this part’s easy enough for you.” Edmure gripped the hand of his first real friend in Westeros, then gave the man’s gelding a firm slap on the rump.
“Take care of yourself out there.
I need you alive.” The true climax of his whole strange journey through Westeros was drawing closer now.
And he’d done everything in his power to make it that, a genuine odyssey, rather than some reckless adventure, or something considerably worse.
Which was the wiser course, really?
Say nothing to the Red Viper, offer him no warning at all, and let him die safely at the Mountain’s hands as fate had originally intended?
Or work instead to help the man survive?
Edmure never quite settled on an answer.
Both paths carried real advantages, and real risks besides.
Tywin’s death, should it come, looked like the more appealing outcome on the surface.
But for that, Martell would need to die too.
His death would set off its own chain of consequences, ones worth watching closely.
And yet there were solid arguments for the other path as well.
Karyl already knew a great deal.
Edmure had told him, openly, about his supposed dreams, held nothing back.
Sharp, observant, careful with risk, calm as an old snake coiled in the sun, Vance was the one man likely to find the right answer here.
It would fall to him to read the capital’s true currents, to make the decisive move when the moment came.
There, in King’s Landing, Karyl alone would decide whether to place their weight behind the Tyrells, or the Martells instead.
Or perhaps, if fortune allowed, some workable arrangement with the Lannisters themselves might even present itself.
“Gods know, I tried,” Edmure murmured, watching Vance’s back recede into the distance.
He climbed the gate tower and stood there a long while, looking east.
“Now there’s nothing left to do but wait.”
com/Hezzario