The Riverlands changed as Riverrun drew closer.
The roads improved first—not by much, but enough to notice. Ditches were cleared. Milestones stood upright instead of toppled. A few patrol markers had been hammered into trees at regular intervals, the sort of thing meant as much for reassurance as for actual defense.
Then the land began to feel watched.
Not in the way King's Landing watched—hungry and curious—but in the wary, exhausted way of a house that had learned too many times what happened when it stopped paying attention.
A light rain started just after noon, thin and persistent. It turned dust to mud and made the fields smell like wet earth and old leaves. I rode through it without hurry, cloak pulled tight, sword strapped securely across my back. The river-blue cloth at my saddle strap darkened with water until it looked almost black.
By late afternoon, I saw it.
Riverrun.
It rose from the meeting of rivers like something grown rather than built, stone walls wrapped by water on two sides, its towers reflected faintly in the gray current. The castle wasn't the tallest I'd ever seen in this world, but it had a solidity to it—an old confidence—like it had survived too many floods and wars to bother being impressed by either.
The drawbridge was down.
Men stood at the gate in Tully colors, not ceremonial guards with polished helms, but tired soldiers with mud on their boots and eyes that had learned to count threats automatically.
One lifted a hand as I approached.
"Halt," he called. "Name and business."
"Garen Storm," I said. "I'm expected."
The man's eyes narrowed briefly at the bastard name, then flicked to the river-blue cloth on my saddle strap. His posture changed, subtle and immediate.
"One moment."
He spoke to another guard, who disappeared into the gatehouse. I waited in the rain, unbothered.
When the second man returned, he didn't look suspicious anymore. He looked… relieved.
"Ride in," he said. "Straight to the hall. Don't wander."
I didn't.
Inside the walls, Riverrun felt like a keep under strain. Courtyards that should have been busy with training had too few men in them. Stables held too many tired horses. A smith worked at a forge that burned low, striking metal with a rhythm that sounded more like maintenance than preparation.
War readiness wasn't a posture here.
It was a debt.
A steward met me before I reached the hall—a thin man with ink-stained fingers and a face pinched by sleeplessness.
"Garen Storm," he said, voice clipped. "I am Maester's man—steward's man, rather. Lord Edmure will see you."
Lord Edmure.
Not ser. Not guest.
Lord.
That alone told me how quickly the old lord's shadow was fading.
The hall was smaller than I'd expected, but warm, banners hanging from beams, rushes on the floor, the smell of damp wool and woodsmoke clinging to everything. A handful of knights sat along one side, drinking quietly, faces lined. Squires moved with careful steps, as if too much noise might break something.
At the far end, before the high seat, stood Edmure Tully.
He looked younger than the weight he carried.
Mid-twenties, maybe. Hair the color of autumn copper, eyes bright and earnest in a face that tried hard to look stern and didn't quite succeed. He wore a simple doublet in Tully colors, no crown, no unnecessary jewelry—only a sword at his hip and a cloak fastened with a trout brooch.
He stepped forward as I entered.
"Garen Storm," he said, voice steady. "You came."
"I gave my word," I replied.
His gaze swept over me—armor, sword, posture—and I saw the flicker of something in him: satisfaction mixed with relief, as if a piece he'd been missing had finally slid into place.
"Good," he said. "Because I need men who keep their word."
He gestured toward a table near the hearth. "Come. We'll speak plainly."
I followed, and he did something that surprised me—he poured wine himself and offered it, like he wasn't interested in playing at distance.
I took it but didn't drink yet.
Edmure watched me for a heartbeat, then nodded, as if approving the caution.
"You saw the roads," he began.
"Yes."
His jaw tightened. "Then you understand."
"I understand the symptoms," I said. "Not the cause."
He grimaced. "The cause is simple. The Riverlands sit in the middle of everything. Every war marches through us. Every hungry man knows he can hide in our forests. And my father—" He hesitated, the word sticking. "Lord Hoster is… not well."
The hall quieted a little. Not from eavesdropping—everyone already knew.
Edmure continued, voice lower now. "When men heard, they tested us. When they found our patrols thin, they grew bolder. Now it's not just broken men. It's organized bands. Men with leaders. Men who burn villages not for food but for fear."
I took a slow sip then, letting the wine warm my throat.
"What do you want from me?" I asked.
Edmure didn't flinch at the bluntness.
"Results," he said immediately. "I want roads passable. I want caravans reaching my towns. I want families sleeping without listening for boots in the dark." His fingers tightened around his cup. "I want the Riverlands to remember what law feels like."
A noble answer.
A dangerous one.
"Law is slow," I said. "Bandits aren't."
"I know," he said quietly. "That's why I'm offering you authority."
He reached into a leather folder and slid a parchment across the table. Wax seal. Trout. Signed.
"A writ," he said. "It names you Captain in my service. It gives you the right to raise men in my lands, to act in my name against banditry, and to bring offenders to Riverrun for judgment." He held my gaze. "And if judgment can't be brought back alive…"
He didn't finish the sentence.
He didn't have to.
I looked at the parchment, then at him.
"This is a lot of trust," I said.
Edmure's mouth tightened into something half-smile, half-grimace. "It's necessity. Trust is a luxury. I don't have luxuries."
That, at least, was honest.
"And the promise of land?" I asked.
Edmure didn't pretend it was guaranteed. "If you succeed, I will reward you. A holdfast, stewardship, perhaps more. Not because you asked for it—because I need men like you to stay."
Stay.
That was the hook.
The part of the offer meant to bind.
"I'm not a Tully," I said.
"No," Edmure agreed. "That's the point. You're not tied to my bannermen's grudges. You're not someone they can order around." He glanced toward the seated knights, voices low but present. "Some of them will hate that."
"And you're fine with it?"
His eyes hardened. "I'm fine with whatever keeps my people alive."
For the first time, I saw something steel-like beneath the earnestness.
Good.
Because earnestness alone didn't survive in Westeros.
A knight approached then, bowing stiffly to Edmure. "My lord. Riders returned."
Edmure's head snapped up. "Report."
The knight's face was grim. "Bandits struck again. Near the Tumblestone road. Two wagons taken. Three men dead. And…" He hesitated, then swallowed. "They left a message."
Edmure's jaw clenched. "What message?"
The knight looked at me, then back at his lord. "A trout nailed to a tree. Cut open."
The hall went colder.
Edmure's hand tightened on the table until his knuckles whitened.
"They're mocking us," he said.
"They're challenging you," I corrected.
He met my gaze sharply.
"Yes," I agreed. "And now you answer."
Edmure drew a slow breath, then pushed the writ toward me again.
"So," he said. "Captain Storm. Do you accept?"
I placed my hand on the parchment.
"I accept," I said. "And I'll start today."
Edmure's shoulders loosened fractionally, a tension he'd been carrying for too long easing at last.
"Good," he said. "Because I'm done being tested."
As I stood, the system stirred faintly behind my eyes—quiet, approving.
Not a congratulation.
A warning.
This wasn't a tourney pit anymore.
This was a war without banners.
And I'd just stepped into command.