“What do you think you’re doing?” Brynden burst out the moment the door swung shut.
The old warrior’s face had gone red with fury.
“What do you mean?” Roman turned his goblet idly in his hand, feigning indifference.
“I was only trying to clarify something.
I am, after all, Frey’s overlord.
It’s unacceptable for them to address us like that.
It reflects poorly on Riverrun’s standing.” “We’ve wounded his pride!” Robb said.
“We?” Roman singled out the word deliberately.
“Perhaps you’re the only one who’s wounded anything.
I haven’t hurt a soul.” He masked his nerves, rose, walked to the window, and turned to face the room.
With the light now behind him, his face fell into shadow, and it would be harder for them to read what he was feeling.
“Lord Tully, you forget yourself,” Robb said, seeming honestly startled that anyone would say such things to his face.
“Listen to me, and listen carefully.” The Blackfish scraped his chair back and advanced on him.
Roman wasn’t afraid of the man exactly, but he understood how the Blackfish could put fear into people just by the way he moved.
Commanding men for as many years as he had left its mark.
“You will marry Frey’s daughter.
That is exactly what you’ll do.” “Don’t be so sure of yourself, uncle.
I have the right to make my own choices.
Forcing my hand isn’t the way.” “I have that right too.
And in a moment my fist is going to remind your teeth of it.” “Uncle.
Ed.” Catelyn broke in.
She’d stayed quiet until now, but her face burned with indignation as she looked at him with open reproach.
“Don’t swear at each other.
What’s gotten into you, Ed?
Don’t you understand what’s at stake here?” “If we refuse them, our alliance with the Freys falls apart,” Robb said, turning his back and leaning over the table.
“So you’re finally giving that some thought, nephew?” Roman had made a point, all these days, of never once calling him king.
The tactic seemed to be wearing on Robb.
Old Frey had wanted this marriage for twenty years, Roman knew, having dug that fact out of Edmure’s memories.
“If I agree, it will be on my terms, and the choice of which of his daughters to marry will be mine to make.
That’s the only way this goes right.” In truth, Roman couldn’t see any path forward that didn’t end in marriage.
Frey’s wounded pride demanded to be soothed.
Beyond that, he needed this alliance himself, simply to survive, and the North needed it too.
But he meant to walk into it on his own terms, and to make certain everyone in this room understood he had real power now, power that would have to be reckoned with.
There were other roads, of course.
He could bring the whole house of Frey crashing down, along with its foul old lord, and show them exactly who held the strength here.
He could ignore the threats entirely and refuse to travel to the Twins.
Without the chance to spring his trap, the old weasel would think three times before risking open rebellion, especially with his patron Tywin Lannister so far away and the northern and river lords camped so close.
But that path risked losing everything, and Roose Bolton wasn’t in any position to help.
Common sense left him very little room to maneuver.
If circumstances had been different, he might have had real choices: Myrcella Baratheon, Arianne Martell, Margaery Tyrell, one of Randyll Tarly’s daughters, a Manderly girl, someone from House Hightower or House Florent.
A match like that would have bought him powerful allies and the swords to go with them.
All of it might have been possible, if only he’d arrived in Westeros a few years sooner.
Now there was no room left to maneuver, and no time either.
Refuse Frey, and everything collapsed.
Roman’s strange new life in Westeros would end before it had properly begun.
“Would you gamble our lives, our freedom, just to hold out for a prettier wife?” Catelyn stood.
“Did you say the same to Robb when he broke his oath to the Freys and married Jeyne instead?” In truth, Catelyn hadn’t even been present when Robb made that choice, so she’d had no chance to weigh in either way.
But that hardly mattered now.
“I’ll tear your lying tongue out of your head,” the Blackfish snapped.
“Watch your words, you stupid trout.
You’re speaking to your king, and to his mother.” “Don’t you dare drag Jeyne into this,” Robb shot to his feet as well, sending his chair clattering to the floor.
“Enough,” Roman gathered every scrap of will he had and pointed a finger at his uncle, ignoring the boy entirely.
“You seem to forget you’re speaking to the Lord of Riverrun.
It seems all of you have forgotten you’re fighting this war in the Riverlands, eating my bread, sleeping under my roof.
You’ve forgotten what respect looks like.
Allow me to remind you.” “What?” Robb’s eyebrows shot up.
For a moment he was too startled even to hold onto his anger.
His voice trembled all the same, and Roman noted that with some satisfaction.
“You swore an oath to me, my lord.
You named me your king, and that means I can command you.” “An oath was spoken, yes,” Roman allowed, shaking his head.
“But it was never done properly.
That day at Riverrun, the rest of us fell in with Greatjon Umber and agreed to call you king.
The river lords raised their swords together.
But none of us knelt, none of us spoke the words before the Seven, the way it’s meant to be done.
I don’t think that oath binds the way you’d like it to.
And I think it’s time we revisited it.” “Have you lost your mind?” The Blackfish stepped closer.
Roman genuinely wondered whether the old man would manage to hold himself back or simply strike him.
“You damned fool boy, choosing this moment of all moments to plant your flag.
I could call the guards right now and have you thrown in a cell.
A night down there would sober you up fast enough, and remind you who the true lord and king really is around here.” “Threatening me now, are we?” Roman brushed past him, close enough to bump his shoulder, and returned to the table to take up his goblet again.
“That would be unwise.
Men here swore their oaths to me, not to you, and mine were sworn properly, by every rule that matters.
So which of us do you think they’ll actually listen to?” He was telling the truth, as far as it went.
Every senior figure at Riverrun, the master at arms, the captain of the guard, the maester, the rest, had served Lord Hoster for years and remembered both Catelyn and the Blackfish well.
Formally, the castle belonged to Roman now.
But loyalty wasn’t always so simple, and the situation remained genuinely delicate.
Even so, Roman had done what he could to prepare for exactly this conversation.
His own men outnumbered the northmen at Riverrun four to one.
Marq Piper and Karyl Vance, loyal to the end, would stand behind their lord without question.
They should already be waiting just beyond the door, ready to move the instant he called for them.
He hoped it wouldn’t come to open conflict.
“You,” the Blackfish couldn’t hold himself back any longer and seized him by the front of his jacket.
His grip was strong; the fabric tore, and a few buttons scattered across the stone floor, clattering as they went.
Whatever Roman had known and practiced in his old life, this new body carried it well enough.
He twisted the Blackfish’s arm, caught him around the neck, and swept a foot behind his knee before the old man knew what was happening.
Brynden hadn’t expected it, hadn’t been braced for it; self defense of the kind Roman knew hadn’t been invented yet in Westeros.
The Blackfish struggled, but Roman held firm.
In a real fight, blades in hand, he wouldn’t have stood much chance against a warrior of Brynden’s skill.
This was a different kind of fight, and here he could hold his own.
“Calm down, uncle.” Brynden jerked again, but the grip didn’t loosen.
Catelyn stared at the whole scene, wide eyed, and Robb clearly had no idea what to say or do.
“There,” Roman said, having weathered the Blackfish’s resistance and found a stable hold, and shoved him down into a chair.
“We’re allies.
We’re family.
And I do love you.” The lie came easily enough, since he felt nothing especially warm toward any of them.
“But things are going to be different between us from now on.
And you’re going to treat me differently too.” “I am the king.” “Yes.
King in the North.
And here, along the Trident, I am the lord.
From this moment I am no longer your vassal.
We’re allies, equal and by choice.” “I am fighting a war.
We cannot win it without the Freys.” Robb was nearly shouting now.
“We don’t have time to haggle over this.
What is wrong with you?
Come to your senses, uncle, and I’ll overlook this madness.” “I haven’t forgotten the war, believe me.
But you aren’t the only one fighting it.
We fight together, side by side.
Have you forgotten that, nephew?
And don’t think you can bully or threaten me into anything.” “No, you don’t understand what you’re doing,” Catelyn said, her words coming quick and urgent.
“It’s as if something’s crawled under your skin.
This isn’t you, Ed.” Now Roman could read every thought moving across their faces.
Confusion, surprise, indignation, fury.
His new family still half believed they were watching one more of Edmure’s old outbursts, the kind that had happened before and always ended the same way: with him backing down and accepting whatever terms were handed to him.
He’d never had the nerve to push all the way through and see a fight to its end.
Even now, they were waiting for him to speak his piece, cool off, feel a little embarrassed, and let the rebellion quietly die.
Then everything would go back to how it had always been.
“What about our family?
Think of all of us.” You’re making a terrible mistake, Edmure.
Gods, what has happened to you?” Catelyn pressed on.
“A mistake?” Did you think through what you just said?” Now it was Roman’s turn to let it all out, everything he’d thought while reading the old story and weighing Catelyn Stark’s choices.
“You took Tyrion Lannister prisoner without any real thought, told everyone you were heading to Riverrun, and then rode straight for the Vale instead.
You set me up to take the fall for that.
Thousands of people paid for your impulse with their lives.
Because of you, Lord Tywin unleashed the Mountain, and the butcher Amory Lorch, and the Brave Companions, and let them tear the Riverlands apart.
It was you and your sister, in her hysteria, who let Tyrion slip through your fingers and set this whole war alight in the first place.
Why even bother, if you were only going to bungle it so badly?
And it was you who freed the Kingslayer from captivity.
And your own son let Theon Greyjoy walk free, and Theon repaid him by taking Winterfell.
Who exactly is supposed to think about the family here?
You keep muddying the waters and then leave me holding the blame for your mistakes, over and over again.” “Edmure!” His words seemed to land harder on Catelyn than any slap could have.
“Uncle…” “Quiet, Robb.” You thought with something other than your head when you broke your oath to the Freys.
Have the courage to admit that, at least.” “I haven’t lost a single battle.
But I am losing this war.” Robb’s face went from flushed to pale and back again, sweat beading on his forehead.
He waved his arms, and underneath it all, Roman could see plain fear in his eyes: fear of losing an ally as valuable as Riverrun.
The boy hadn’t yet learned how to put down a challenge to his authority, and Grey Wind, who’d helped him deal with the Greatjon before, wasn’t here at his heel now.
“And now you want to tear apart what’s left!” “No.
I want to save what’s left, for all of us.
You’ve been acting strangely enough yourself,” Roman said, drawing a breath.
“I’ll go to the Freys.
But you, Robb Stark, are going to have to ask me.” “I am the king.
If we don’t act now, we’re finished.” “Kings are two a penny these days,” Roman said, deliberately blunt.
“You yourself offered Greyjoy a charter promising to recognize his father as king in exchange for an alliance.
So you can recognize me, or something close to it, if that’s what it takes.
And we are not finished.” “How do you even know about Theon’s letter?” Robb looked genuinely thrown.
“Only the two of us knew about that.” “I know a great many things you might not expect.” “Riverrun has never been a kingdom,” Catelyn tried a different approach, appealing to reason.
“And this isn’t the moment to start pretending it is.” “So I’m meant to find room for your plans, your ideas, whenever it suits you?
Then you can find room for mine.” “Is this a mutiny?” Robb seemed to be reaching, consciously or not, for his late father’s old bearing, trying to crush the moment with sheer authority.
“Fool.
You’ll come to regret this,” Brynden had been simmering the whole time like a kettle about to boil over.
“By the Seven, I didn’t want it to come to this.” He slammed his fist on the table hard enough to knock over a wine jug, sending a dark stain spreading across the wood and onto the floor.
Ignoring the widening puddle, he stood, strode to the door, threw it open, and shouted, “Guards, here!” “Yes, my lord, we’re here.” Marq Piper, Karyl Vance, and the captain of the guard, Ser Robin Ryger, were already standing just outside, at least a dozen soldiers crowded behind them.
Spearpoints rose toward the ceiling with unmistakable purpose, though the faces above them showed nothing but confusion.
Every one of them wore the silver trout somewhere on their clothes or armor.
They must have heard the whole exchange, or at least the parts spoken loudly enough to carry through the door.
The two knights spoke now not for themselves alone but as a voice for something larger: the river lords no longer much cared for how things stood.
A few months ago they had honestly and willingly accepted Robb as their king.
Since then, plenty had changed.
Robb favored his northern lords and kept them close.
The Greatjon was never far from his side.
Roose Bolton commanded the second army and now held Harrenhal.
Rickard Karstark, before the deaths of his sons and his subsequent execution for murder, had stood as the king’s right hand.
Robb had even trusted Theon Greyjoy more, before his betrayal.
None of it sat well.
Even the Blackfish’s constant presence at the king’s side, one of their own though he was, hadn’t done much to soothe the river lords’ wounded pride.
“Seize the fool,” Brynden turned and jabbed a finger at Roman.
“Whose hand do you imagine gets raised against the Lord of Riverrun, my lord?” one of the guards asked coldly, with open indignation.
“He belongs to us, and to you as well, my lord.
He is our liege.” “I am the brother of the late Lord Hoster.
I speak in the name of the King in the North.” “We take our orders from the Lord of Riverrun,” Marq Piper said, armored head to foot, visor raised.
He snapped it shut with a clang and set his hand on the hilt of his sword, leaving no doubt he meant business.
“Lord Edmure, what are your orders?” “Well spoken, my lords,” Roman nearly smiled.
Brynden stood there with an expression less like his fish nickname and more like something freshly hauled out of the water and left gasping on the bank.
“Hold your posts.” Robb and his mother looked as though they’d been carved from stone, staring back and forth between Roman and the armed men filling the doorway.
Ser Piper nodded to one of the soldiers, who shut the door firmly, nearly in the Blackfish’s face.
Roman liked the way they’d carried themselves, though Ser Ryger looked uneasy, uncertain.
Understandable enough.
It was likely the first time he’d ever watched the Tullys sort out who truly held power here, and the performance clearly hadn’t pleased him.
The door closed with a heavy knock, and it felt, for a moment, as if it had sealed off the past entirely and sent history down some new road.
Roman stood still, fully aware that nothing would be quite the same from here on.
Silence filled the room.
Catelyn broke it first, her voice hollow, staring at her brother as though she’d never truly seen him before.
Which, in a sense, was true.
“You’re wrong, Edmure.
Now, more than ever, we need to stand together.
You’re going to be the ruin of all of us.” She seemed to have run through her arguments and was gearing up to start over.
“You’d do better to hold your tongue, sister.
You talk about family, but you mean the Starks, your daughters, your sons.
You and Lysa have a habit of remembering your younger brother only when it’s convenient, only when you need something from him.
Ask yourself honestly.
How often have either of you asked after my hopes, my plans?” Feeling like the clear winner of the exchange, Roman sat back down, stretched his legs out, and turned to Robb with an easy, open smile.
“So, nephew.
Are you ready to ask me for a favor?
What exactly do you need, and what will you give me in return?”
com/Hezzario