The ravens came at dawn, black wings cutting the grey light.
Their message was simple a summit of the river lords had been called at Riverrun. A chance, they said, to "restore balance" in the Riverlands. To negotiate peace among divided banners.
Althea read the message twice before handing it to nelly.
"It's a trap," Nelly said immediately.
"Of course it is," Althea replied, eyes narrowing. "But it's also an opportunity."
Peter smiled faintly from his place near the fire. "You always did have a fondness for playing with knives even when they're pointed at your own throat."
Althea's voice was calm. "That's where the sharpest truths lie."
The Journey
The road to Riverrun was damp and quiet, lined with bare trees that whispered secrets to the wind. Althea rode flanked by her guard, banners furled to avoid attention.
The countryside bore scars of war abandoned villages, burnt fields, frozen rivers. Every mile was a reminder of what chaos cost.
At dusk, they camped near the Trident. Nelly joined her by the fire, gaze distant.
"You're risking everything walking into Riverrun," she said softly.
Althea fed the fire another branch. "Every ruler must gamble. The difference between survival and doom is knowing when to call the bluff."
"And if you misjudge?"
"Then I die beautifully."
Nelly gave her a long, assessing look. "You sound like my mother."
Althea smiled faintly. "I'll take that as a compliment."
Arrival at Riverrun
The great fortress loomed over the river's split, its towers gleaming red under the morning sun. Lords and envoys filled the courtyard House Frey, House Blackwood, even envoys of the Lannisters, their crimson cloaks stark against the pale air.
Every gaze turned toward Althea as she dismounted.
"The Littlefinger's daughter," someone whispered. "The girl who commands Harrenhal."
She felt their eyes like daggers and let them. Power grows sharper when others fear to touch it.
Lord Eddy Tully greeted her at the gates polite, nervous, uncertain whether she was ally or threat.
"Lady Althea," he said, offering a stiff bow. "Your presence honors us."
She smiled just enough to disarm him. "And yours humbles me."
The Council of Shadows
The council hall smelled of old stone and politics.
Lords gathered around a long table Freys with their false smiles, Blackwoods with grim patience, and two golden lions from the west, observing silently.
Eddy cleared his throat. "We are here to discuss terms of stability. The Riverlands are bleeding. We must end the infighting."
A murmur of agreement followed but all eyes slid toward Althea.
"Lady Althea," said one Frey lord, "you've fortified Harrenhal beyond reason. Rumors say you prepare for war."
"Rumors," Althea said smoothly, "are the currency of those too poor for truth."
A ripple of discomfort spread through the hall.
Another lord pressed, "And yet your scouts move through our lands. Are you building alliances, or empires?"
Althea leaned forward, voice low and measured. "Empires last longer."
Silence. The Freys exchanged glances, the Lannisters smiled faintly predators recognizing their own kind.
Nelly, sitting beside her, whispered, "You're taunting them."
"No," Althea murmured. "I'm reminding them who leads the game."
The Assassination Attempt
The meeting dragged into late evening. Wine flowed, tempers loosened. Words turned sharper, hints of accusation hanging in the air like blades.
When the last toast was raised, Althea excused herself, walking the torch-lit corridors of Riverrun alone.
She sensed him before she saw him the faint whisper of movement, the flicker of a shadow that didn't belong.
The dagger came from behind.
She caught it mid-swing, twisting her body with trained precision. The blade grazed her sleeve as she slammed her attacker into the wall.
A boy barely sixteen his eyes wild with fear.
"Who sent you?" she demanded.
He spat, trembling. "The Black Stag sends his regards."
Before she could reply, he swallowed something poison. His body convulsed, fell limp.
Nelly arrived moments later, alarm flashing across her face. "Gods, Althea"
Althea wiped the boy's blood from her hands. "He's not the first to try. He won't be the last."
She looked down at the small sigil tied to his wrist a broken antler marked in ash.
"He's adapting again," she whispered. "He's learning faster."
The Prophecy in the Godswood
That night, she couldn't sleep. The wind outside carried voices the same whispering murmur of roots and river. Drawn by instinct, Althea left her chambers and followed the sound to Riverrun's small godswood.
The weirwood tree stood ancient and still, its face carved and worn by centuries.
She knelt before it. "You keep speaking," she said softly. "But never clearly."
The wind rose, carrying faint whispers that bled into her thoughts not words, but images.
A throne of black stone, crowned by weirwood roots.
A river running red with blood.
And her sitting upon that throne, a crown of shadows circling her head.
Her voice trembled. "Is this my destiny, or my warning?"
"Both," the Old Gods murmured. "A throne taken in shadow demands a price paid in light."
She closed her eyes, the vision burning behind her lids.
When she opened them, the moonlight gleamed against her reflection in the river her eyes, faintly glowing with crimson light.
Nelly found her there moments later. "You saw something," she said softly.
Althea nodded, voice quiet but resolute. "A throne."
"And the cost?"
She looked up at the weirwood's bleeding face. "Everything."
The River Pact
By morning, the lords gathered once more. The tension of last night hung thick, but the assassination attempt had changed everything. Fear lingered not just of the Black Stag, but of her.
She stood before them, calm and deliberate.
"The Riverlands cannot serve two masters," she said. "Choose chaos, and you'll drown in it. Choose me, and I'll give you order protection, prosperity, survival."
Murmurs rose, uncertainty rippling like the river itself.
Eddy hesitated, glancing at the Lannister envoys then at her. "And if we refuse?"
Althea's smile was soft and dangerous. "Then the river will wash your bones clean before spring."
Silence.
One by one, the lords lowered their heads.
The pact was sealed not with parchment, but with fear and awe.
That night, Althea stood at her chamber window, watching the waters of the Trident shimmer under starlight.
Peter approached quietly. "You have them. The Riverlords. Even the Freys are bending their knees."
"For now," she said.
He studied her. "You remind me of your mother when you stand in the light like that."
Althea turned to him slowly. "You mean when she thought you could be trusted?"
Peter's smile faded just slightly. "Touché."
Althea faced the window again, voice distant. "The game isn't about trust anymore. It's about inevitability."
The wind carried the faint whisper of the Old Gods again a promise and a curse entwined.
"The river flows toward the crown of shadows. Let it drown or let it reign."