Edmure listened to the guards beginning their rounds, a dog barking somewhere in the kennels, fish breaking the surface of the water below.
The sounds faded as he sank into his own quiet, heavy thoughts, turning the whole situation over once more.
It was, in Westeros, the tail end of the year 299 since Aegon’s Conquest.
Right now, somewhere beyond the Wall, Jon Snow was marching with the Night’s Watch.
The old Lord Commander had decided to learn why his rangers kept vanishing, and what exactly was stirring out there.
He’d led three hundred men north.
A battle was coming at the Fist of the First Men.
The wildlings would drive the black brothers back south in ruin, and most would die there.
Snow’s own path was only beginning.
Winterfell lay in ruins.
Ramsay Snow, Roose Bolton’s bastard, had crushed both Ser Rodrik Cassel’s ragged defenders and Theon’s men, taken Theon prisoner, burned the Stark seat to the ground, and slipped back to the Dreadfort, leaving Greyjoy to answer for the wreckage he’d left behind.
Bran, along with the Reeds and Hodor, had gone north in search of the Three Eyed Crow.
Rickon Stark and Osha were somewhere near the Last Hearth, or perhaps had already reached the island of Skagos.
Walder Frey had made his choice to betray them.
So had Roose Bolton, who’d already set up Glover and Tallhart’s men to fail.
Bolton still held Harrenhal, for now, but he was ready to abandon it any day and cross the Ruby Ford on his way to the Twins.
By this point Robb Stark had already set every one of his fateful choices in motion: his marriage to Jeyne Westerling, the execution of Lord Karstark.
Men had already begun calling him, quietly, the king who lost the North.
Arya was somewhere with the Brotherhood without Banners, or perhaps already on the road to the Twins with Sandor Clegane.
Sansa Stark had been married off to Tyrion.
The Iron Islands were readying themselves to choose a new king.
Balon Greyjoy was dead, and two claimants now stood for the honor: his daughter Asha, and his younger brother Euron.
Victarion Greyjoy had already sailed for home to take part, pulling most of the garrison away from Moat Cailin in the process.
A delegation from Dorne, led by Oberyn Martell, the Red Viper, was due to arrive in King’s Landing any day.
Tywin Lannister was there as well, tending to his own business, and the Tyrells had already settled into the capital.
Everything pointed toward the coming wedding of Joffrey and Margaery.
Stannis Baratheon was licking his wounds on Dragonstone after his defeat on the Blackwater.
Far to the east, Daenerys was closing in on Meereen, still raising her dragons.
And to the west, Daven Lannister was hastily raising a fresh army, one that would soon be marching on Riverrun.
Such was the state of things.
Edmure rubbed at his chin, thinking absently that a trim wouldn’t hurt.
How was he meant to go on?
How could he survive, and hold on to everything he now had?
Who could he count on?
Who might actually help?
Common sense said he needed new allies, and messengers to reach them.
Dorne seemed a natural fit for that.
Stannis was worth a line as well, a hook cast out to see what bit.
Was there any chance of drawing Lysa Arryn and her knights out of the Vale?
Petyr Baelish would be arriving there soon enough, and there might be some common ground to find with him, though that was a dangerous game.
Littlefinger was cunning, cold, and endlessly two faced.
A man could deal with someone like that and not even notice his pockets had been picked clean, and worse besides.
There was perhaps a chance of interesting Olenna Tyrell, the Queen of Thorns, though with what bait he couldn’t yet say.
Everyone wanted the same things: power, money, glory, a crown, the Iron Throne itself.
What did the Lord of Riverrun have to offer any of them?
But holding on to the allies he already had mattered even more.
And there was only one real way to manage that: stop the Red Wedding before it happened, stop Frey, Bolton, Karstark, and Roose Bolton’s other conspirators from carrying out their betrayal.
The question was how.
He would need to grit his teeth and hold the line.
Above everything else, he had to keep Robb Stark alive, whatever it took.
As long as Robb lived, the Riverlands still had a chance.
Let the boy rage and swear, let him swing wildly from one plan to another, let him win his battles and still lose the war; he had to be supported all the same, with everything Edmure had.
Along the way, there might even be a chance to knock some sense into that stubborn head of his.
And time, too, needed buying.
The Purple Wedding was coming soon, and with it, the end of foolish King Joffrey.
After that, Tyrion would be tried, and Tywin Lannister would die.
The future held real pain for House Lannister.
And once Cersei sat alone at the front of things, vain and overmatched, things would grow easier.
The trick, for now, was simply to wait, and to endure.
“So what exactly are you planning, Ed?” Karyl Vance’s voice broke the quiet.
Something in his tone told Edmure he was being looked at differently now.
Not the way he used to be looked at.
His closest friends had gone alert, watchful, caught somewhere between confusion and something close to respect.
And once his dreams began coming true, one by one, that respect would only deepen.
Marq and Karyl would become his men, fully, down to the bone.
“I’m thinking about the next step,” Edmure said, leaning back in his chair.
“Does either of you have any ideas?”
com/Hezzario