Rain fell steadily over the stone of Riverrun, running in long streams down the walls and filling the moat until it overflowed into the swollen rivers beyond. The air smelled of wet steel and mud. The storm had been unending for two days, as if the heavens themselves meant to wash the blood from the land.
The guards on the battlements saw them first, red cloaks cutting through the grey rain. A column of Lannister riders advanced up the causeway, banners snapping limp in the wet wind, their armour dulled by the weather. At their head rode Ser Damon Marbrand, his hair plastered dark against his skull, his cloak soaked but still bright enough to mark who commanded.
"Riverrun!" He called up through the rain, voice carrying across the water. "Open your gates in the name of King Robert Baratheon!"
The guards hesitated. One man shouted down from the walls, "What business do the Lannisters have at Riverrun?"
Damon's jaw tightened. "The King's business," he said. "Open the gates, or we'll open them for you."
There was a murmur among the men before one slipped away into the keep. The minutes dragged. Damon waited, reins in hand, his horse stamping in the mud. His men were silent behind him, a hundred red cloaks shifting restlessly in the rain.
Then came the groan of chains and the grinding of the portcullis rising. The gate creaked open, water rushing in around the edges. Damon rode forward without waiting for an escort.
The courtyard was half empty, the air thick with the smell of horses and smoke. Men-at-arms watched warily from beneath the covered walkways, their hands near sword hilts. Damon dismounted, his boots splashing into the puddled stone. His men followed, fanning out in disciplined silence.
Lord Hoster Tully stood waiting on the steps of the keep, wrapped in a thick cloak of dark blue. He leaned slightly on a cane, though his bearing remained proud. His grey hair clung wet to his temples, but his eyes were clear and sharp as ever.
"Lord Marbrand," Hoster greeted, voice even. "You arrive with little warning."
Damon inclined his head briefly. "By command of King Robert Baratheon, my lord. I am to take custody of Lady Catelyn Tully and the boy, Robb Stark. They are to be escorted safely to King's Landing."
The words echoed through the courtyard, swallowed by the rain.
Hoster studied him, the faintest flicker of amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You bring many men for an escort."
Damon didn't smile. "We were told Riverrun has been harbouring rebels."
"Rebels?" Hoster said, feigning confusion. "Strange word for a family that helped put your king on his throne."
Damon's tone hardened. "I wasn't sent to debate words, my lord. I was sent for the boy and his mother. Where are they?"
"Resting," Hoster said. "My daughter lies abed. The birth was not an easy one. She's in no condition to ride."
Damon took a slow step forward, rain dripping from his cloak. "Then she'll be carried."
Hoster's men moved instinctively, stepping in closer behind their lord. The tension rippled through the air like drawn bowstrings.
Hoster didn't move. "I'll not have my daughter hauled through rain and mud by men who answer to lions," he said quietly. "When she's well enough to travel, I'll see her safely to King's Landing myself if the King still wishes it by then."
Damon's eyes narrowed. "And the boy?"
Hoster's voice was calm, deliberate. "Robb Stark left Riverrun several days ago. Benjen Stark took him north."
A muscle twitched in Damon's jaw. He glanced to the guards lining the walls, to the men standing by Hoster's side, and then back to the old lord himself. "You let him go."
The silence between them spoke louder than words.
Damon drew his sword, the steel whispering against the scabbard. At once, Riverrun's men-at-arms raised their own blades. Across the courtyard, the Lannisters followed suit, red cloaks shifting as their swords came free. Rain hammered on their helmets, on the stones, on the water pooled beneath their feet.
Hoster didn't flinch. "Careful, Lord Marbrand. If you mean to carry out your king's will, you should take care not to start a war in his name."
"I serve the King," Damon said, voice low. "Not wars of my choosing."
"Then act like it," Hoster said sharply. "Robert Baratheon may wear the crown, but I doubt he commands Lannister knights to draw blades on the men who helped win it for him."
The courtyard held still, men breathing, rain falling, the world waiting for one word to decide what came next.
Then, slowly, Damon lowered his sword. His men followed. Hoster's soldiers did the same, though their eyes stayed fixed on the Lannisters.
Damon sheathed his blade. "You claim the boy's gone north?"
"I do."
"And you gave him up willingly?"
Hoster's reply was level. "I said he left. The rest is your assumption."
Damon stepped closer, the edge in his voice returning. "The King will hear of this. And of your part in it."
"Good," Hoster said. "He should also hear of my loyalty. I sent ravens days ago, declaring House Tully's fealty to his crown."
Damon's mouth curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. "Where was that loyalty when you let the rebels take the Stark boy?"
Hoster didn't blink. "I didn't know they were rebels. I've been here in my hall, not on your battlefields. Only after they left did word reach me of the realm's confusion."
It was a lie, and both men knew it.
For a moment, neither spoke. The rain fell harder, a steady curtain between them.
Finally, Damon said, "Lord Tywin won't be pleased."
"I imagine not," Hoster said. "But then, the lions rarely are unless everyone else is bleeding."
Damon's eyes flashed. For a heartbeat, it seemed he might draw again, but he didn't. Instead, he turned sharply and strode back toward his horse. "You've made your choice, my lord. Pray it's the right one."
Hoster called after him, voice steady and clear through the storm. "Tell Lord Tywin that Riverrun remembers its oaths."
Damon swung into the saddle, the rain streaming down his face. "You speak boldly for a man standing in the rain."
Hoster met his gaze. "And you speak too much for a man pretending to serve the crown."
Damon said nothing more. He wheeled his horse about, shouting orders. The Lannister host turned and began to file out, red cloaks dragging dark through the mud.
Hoster stood watching until the last of them disappeared beyond the gate. The portcullis lowered with a heavy groan, chains clanking in the rain. The sound echoed through the courtyard long after the riders were gone.
When silence settled again, Hoster let out a long breath and turned back toward the keep.
His steward stepped forward. "My lord, should I send word to—"
"No," Hoster said. "We've sent enough words for now."
He looked once toward the rain-soaked gate, where water ran down the grooves of the portcullis like thin rivers of blood.
"See that the walls are watched," he said quietly.
The steward bowed and hurried off.
Hoster stood there a while longer, the rain dripping from his cloak, until the courtyard was empty save for the sound of falling water. Then, slowly, he turned and disappeared into the shadows of the keep.
The gates remained closed behind him, the red of the Lannisters already fading into the storm.
-X-
The rain had not stopped for days. It came down in long, grey sheets, turning the roads to rivers and the rivers to seas. The air smelled of wet earth and iron, a lingering scent of war that refused to fade.
Benjen Stark rode at the head of his column, cloak drawn tight against the cold, the child pressed close to his chest. Robb barely stirred beneath the folds of fur, lulled by the rhythm of the horse. Around them, the riders of the North moved in silence, a few hundred men at most, armour dulled, banners heavy with rain, their faces drawn and hollow.
The land sloped downward ahead. Through the curtain of rain, the Green Fork spread out before them, wide, grey, and restless. Its banks were littered with the bones of the last great battle: rusted swords, broken helms, the half-buried remains of men and horses. To the south, near the Ruby Ford, the land was darker still, churned by hooves and trampled earth, where Robert Baratheon had struck down Rhaegar Targaryen. Even now, months later, the ghosts of that fight clung to the mud.
Ahead, smoke rose from the northern bank. The remains of their host had made camp there, tents half-collapsed in the wet, fires struggling against the wind. Boats bobbed on the river, tied to stakes and half-flooded.
For the first time in weeks, Benjen felt something close to relief. If they could cross here, the road to Moat Cailin would be open. The North would be within reach.
That was when the scout appeared.
"Riders!" The man shouted, mud flying from his horse's hooves. "South of the fork, Lannister colours!"
Benjen reined in sharply. "How many?"
"Two hundred, maybe more," the scout panted. "And their banner—" He hesitated. "Three black dogs on yellow."
Walder's expression darkened. "Clegane."
Benjen looked south. Through the veil of rain, faint movement flickered along the horizon, a thin line of red cloaks and spears, glints of steel in the mist. A hunting party, not a host. But led by the Mountain, two hundred men might as well have been two thousand.
"They'll reach us before we're across," Walder said flatly.
Benjen turned toward the riverbank, where men were already moving to ready the boats. "Then we'll have to hold them."
"You'll never hold the river," Walder replied. "Not with tired horses and half your men still scattered from the road. They'll hit before you've loaded the first wave."
Benjen met his eyes. "You have another plan?"
"Aye." Walder nodded toward the south. "Give me a hundred riders. We'll hold the approach and slow them down. You take the rest north across the river. By the time they reach you, you'll be gone."
"That's suicide," Benjen said.
"Only if I stay too long," Walder answered. "The Mountain's a brute, not a tactician. I'll draw him in, bleed him a little, then fall back. We'll meet again on the other side."
Benjen shook his head. "I won't send you to die."
"You're not sending me anywhere," Walder said. His tone was calm, not defiant. "You've got the boy. That's your charge. Mine's to see he gets where he's meant to go. Eddard gave me the task of protecting his son, I'll see to it that he gets to Winterfell."
Benjen looked down at Robb, small, quiet, unaware. "You come back," he said.
Walder gave a faint smile. "If the gods will it."
"They won't," Benjen murmured.
That earned the smallest chuckle. "Then I'll break the Mountain before they take me."
He turned in his saddle and raised his hand. A hundred riders peeled off from the column, following him without hesitation. The rest of the men watched silently as the smaller force rode south into the rain, grey cloaks flaring behind them.
Benjen sat still for a moment, watching until the shapes blurred into the mist. Then he turned his horse toward the river.
"Get the boats ready!" He shouted. "Every man across before they reach us!"
The camp burst into motion. Horses were driven into the shallows, men pushing boats against the current, ropes straining in the rising water. The rain grew heavier, drowning out the sound of voices.
Benjen looked back once more. Through the storm, he saw the faint glint of steel far to the south — two lines beginning to move toward one another. The grey against the red.
Walder didn't look back.
He raised his sword once, a sharp flash of light in the rain, and then his riders broke into a gallop, thundering down the sodden field toward the approaching Lannisters.
Benjen turned away. The sound of hooves and distant horns followed him up the bank as he rode for the river.
-X-
The rain hadn't stopped since the day Eddard Stark died. It drummed against the walls of the Red Keep and bled through cracks in the roof, as if the gods themselves disapproved of the man who now sat on the Iron Throne.
The air was thick with damp and the lingering stench of old smoke. Torches hissed from the moisture, throwing restless shadows across the chamber's stone walls and the long, battered table where Jon Arryn sat with what remained of the Small Council.
Lord Grandison of the Stormlands leaned forward, his fingers laced tightly together. Beside him sat Lord Cafferen, all three of them looking to have aged a great deal in the last few days since Eddard's death nought but a week ago.
Jon broke the silence. "A raven came from Riverrun."
The room said nothing. Only the sound of rain on stone and the creak of old wood filled the gap.
He set the letter down, the red seal of House Tully cracked and broken. "Lord Hoster has sworn fealty to King Robert. The Riverlands stand with the crown."
For a moment, none dared breathe. Then Lord Grandison let out a short, incredulous laugh. "He's bent the knee? After all that blood?"
Jon nodded slowly. "He has. Whether it's mercy or simple exhaustion, I cannot say. But the Riverlands are ours."
Cafferen exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. "Seven save us. I thought that old trout would sooner throw himself in the river than kneel to the man who slew his kin."
Jon's voice was low. "So did I."
He folded the letter with care and placed it aside. "Still, this steadies the realm. With the Riverlands pacified, the Lannisters will have fewer fronts to man. Perhaps it will give Robert a chance to rule instead of fight."
Grandison barked a humourless laugh. "Rule? The realm's bleeding out, Lord Arryn. Dorne's declared itself free. The Ironborn have done the same. The Reach still sits at Storm's End, choking out the last of Robert's kin. You call that steady?"
Jon didn't answer right away. His eyes lingered on the torchlight flickering in the damp air. "It's better than burning."
Lord Cafferen's voice was sharp with bitter scorn. "I remember when we called him saviour. The man who slew the dragon and ended the madness. Now half the realm calls him usurper, and the other half wonders if he's simply replaced one madman with another."
"Mind your tongue," Lord Grandison warned.
But Lord Cafferen did not look away. "You've heard what they say in the taverns, haven't you?"
Jon's eyes lifted, calm but cold. "I've heard."
"And do you believe it?" Lord Cafferen pressed.
Jon said nothing, and in that silence, the truth weighed heavier than any words.
Lord Grandison shifted in his chair. "Best not to speak of such things."
"No," Jon said softly. "But we should remember them."
He straightened, his tone turning brisk, practical. "What of Dragonstone?"
Lord Cafferen cleared his throat. "Still held by loyalists. Queen Rhaella remains there, under guard. Our spies say she's with child."
The room fell to stillness again. Rain pattered against the shutters, slow and unending.
"A child of Aerys's line," Lord Grandison murmured. "Another heir. Another war waiting to be born."
Jon's voice was weary. "We've no strength left for another war."
Grandison's jaw tightened. "So what then? Let her bear the dragon's spawn and pray the babe never draws breath?"
Jon's hand closed around the edge of the table. "We'll watch," he said quietly. "For now, that's all we can do."
The chamber sank once more into silence, the kind born not of peace, but exhaustion. The hope, if it could be called that, was that Hoster Tully's submission might buy them time, days, perhaps weeks, before the realm bled again.
The doors slammed open with a thunderous crash. The chamber guards barely had time to step aside as Robert Baratheon stormed in, his beard wild, his eyes burning with fury. He didn't look like a king; he looked like the same brawler who had split skulls on the Trident.
His voice tore through the council chamber like thunder. "Is it true?"
The lords around the table rose at once, startled. "Rob—" Jon began, but Robert was already bearing down on him.
"Don't 'Robert' me, Jon! Answer the bloody question! Is it true what I've heard about Tywin?" His fists clenched. "That he's been rampaging in my name. He turned his sword against men who fought beside me against the Dragons! Imprisoned them!
The torches seemed to flicker under the weight of his rage.
Jon's eyes lowered. "It's true."
Robert's voice cracked, half disbelief, half horror. "Seven hells... how could you let this happen?"
Jon's composure wavered, the mask of calm that had weathered rebellion and loss breaking for a heartbeat. "Because I watched one boy I raised as a son strike down another I loved the same. Because when the madness broke, when vengeance and loyalty clashed in the same breath, there was no stopping it. By the time I gathered myself, Tywin was gone. His banners had already withdrawn from the city."
For a long, trembling moment, the only sound was Robert's breathing, heavy, ragged, almost animal.
He turned away, gripping the back of a chair until the wood groaned beneath his hand. "We had won. It was supposed to be the end of it all. Not the start of another slaughter."
Jon nodded grimly. "It was because I freed the imprisoned lords of the Vale, the Stormlands, and the Riverlands that the realm didn't tear itself apart in the aftermath. Even now, Hoster Tully's fealty binds three of the Seven Kingdoms to your cause, but they are uneasy bonds, Robert. Fragile as glass.:
Robert spun around, his fury reigniting. "Then it's time that bastard lion remembered who wears the crown if he keeps using my name!" He turned to Lord Grandison. "Send a raven to the Old Lion. Summon him back to King's Landing at once."
Lord Grandison hesitated. "Your Grace, if he refuses—"
"If he refuses," Robert interrupted, voice rumbling like distant thunder, "then by the gods, he'll regret it." He stepped closer, his shadow falling over the table. "You make it clear to him, clear as the sunrise, that if he doesn't come when his king commands, I'll march after him myself. And I won't march alone."
His gaze swept across them all, Arryn, Grandison and Cafferen, one by one, daring any to speak against him. "Every lord who's lost kin to his treachery, every house dishonoured by his butchery, they'll ride with me. We'll see how high the Lion's pride stands when the realm itself bears down upon him."
Silence followed, deep and suffocating. Even the rain outside seemed to have stilled.
Jon finally spoke, his voice heavy with the weight of all that had been lost. "I'll have the raven sent before nightfall."