The incident that forced the matter did not begin with blood.
It began with banners.
They appeared at dawn on the west road near Hag's Mire—three of them, planted deliberately where the road narrowed between marsh and stone. Red and brown cloth snapped in the morning wind, each bearing a sigil well-known in the surrounding leagues. Minor houses. Old names. Men who had never ridden patrols themselves but had always believed roads belonged to them by right of inheritance.
The Dauntless Vanguard reached the site just after first light.
Garen Storm took in the scene in a single, slow glance.
Thirty men blocked the road, mostly mounted, armor polished for show rather than wear. At their center stood Ser Halmon Vyre again, this time flanked by two other landed knights—Ser Donnel Brackenby and Ser Rycherd Smallwood—each wearing the faint, tight smiles of men who believed they had finally cornered something worth cornering.
The banners were the point.
This was no longer a dispute over jurisdiction.
It was a declaration.
"Hold," Garen said calmly.
The Vanguard halted in disciplined silence, blue cloth settling as one. No blades were drawn. Shields remained slung. Tom felt the tension ripple through the line and locked his jaw, remembering the lesson that mattered most: restraint is visible.
Ser Vyre rode forward a few paces, horse stamping impatiently.
"You're out of your depth, Storm," he called. "This road runs through our lands. You've been warned."
Garen did not raise his voice. "You've blocked a trade route under Riverrun's protection."
"We answer to Riverrun," Vyre snapped. "You do not."
That was the trap.
Tom felt it, sharp and immediate. Every instinct screamed to respond, to assert, to defend. He glanced toward Garen and saw nothing but stillness.
Garen lifted a hand slightly.
"Lower banners," he said. "Clear the road. No one needs to be embarrassed today."
Laughter rippled among the mounted men.
"Listen to him," Brackenby sneered. "The bastard thinks he can command us."
Tom felt his pulse spike.
Then Garen did something unexpected.
He turned his horse and rode back toward his own line.
Murmurs broke out on both sides.
Tom's breath caught—until Garen dismounted and stepped forward on foot, helm still off, sword still sheathed.
"I won't fight you," Garen said evenly, voice carrying across the road. "Not because I can't. Because if I do, I give you what you want."
Vyre's smile faltered.
"You want a clash," Garen continued. "So you can call this a rebellion instead of a correction. I won't give you that."
He gestured to the wagons halted behind the banners. "Clear the road. Or explain to Riverrun why trade stopped under your watch."
Silence followed.
Not agreement.
Calculation.
Brackenby leaned toward Vyre, whispering sharply. Rycherd Smallwood scanned the Vanguard's ranks and seemed to notice—perhaps for the first time—that these men did not fidget, did not posture, did not look eager.
They looked ready.
Vyre's jaw tightened. "This isn't over."
"No," Garen agreed. "But this is finished."
The banners came down.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
The mounted men withdrew, not defeated, but denied. The wagons rolled forward under the watchful eyes of blue-clad soldiers who did not jeer or cheer.
When the road cleared, Tom finally exhaled.
"You didn't even—" he began.
"Win?" Garen finished quietly. "I did."
The fallout was immediate.
By noon, messengers were riding hard toward Riverrun with contradictory accounts. Some claimed Garen had threatened noble blood. Others insisted he had defied rightful authority. A few—careful, precise—reported exactly what had happened.
Edmure Tully heard them all.
And this time, he did not wait.
The summons went out before sunset: a full gathering in Riverrun's great courtyard at dawn. Not a council. Not a closed session.
Public.
Witnessed.
The courtyard filled early.
Minor lords arrived stiff-backed and grim, retainers clustered close. Knights in service to Riverrun took up positions along the walls. Merchants lingered at the edges. Smallfolk gathered wherever they were allowed to stand.
And the Dauntless Vanguard assembled in formation along the lower yard—nearly a hundred men now, blue cloth catching the light.
Garen stood at their front, Merrick to his right, Tom to his left.
He felt the weight of Edmure's delay now—not as abandonment, but as proof. The Riverlands had watched him stand alone when it mattered. The outcome was no longer theoretical.
Edmure emerged onto the balcony overlooking the courtyard.
He did not shout.
He did not posture.
"Enough," he said—and the word carried.
He addressed the gathered lords first.
"You accuse Ser Garen Storm of overreach," Edmure said evenly. "Of building power without leave. Of threatening the balance of the Riverlands."
Murmurs followed.
"You are correct about one thing," Edmure continued. "Power has been built."
He gestured toward the assembled soldiers. "Because the roads were broken. Because villages burned. Because some of you were content to argue while others bled."
Faces reddened.
Edmure's gaze hardened. "You were warned. You were invited to contribute. You chose complaint instead."
He turned then, deliberately, to Garen.
"Ser Garen Storm," Edmure said. "You were challenged."
"Yes," Garen replied.
"You were provoked."
"Yes."
"You did not draw steel."
"No."
A pause.
"That restraint," Edmure said, "is why we are here without corpses."
He straightened.
"The Riverlands cannot afford men who only know how to escalate," Edmure declared. "Nor can we afford to discard those who stabilize my lands simply because their blood offends tradition."
A ripple ran through the crowd—some approving, some furious.
Edmure raised a hand.
"This is my decision," he said. "And I will not be shouted down in my own house."
Silence fell.
"Effective immediately," Edmure announced, "the Dauntless Vanguard is recognized as a sanctioned force under Riverrun's authority."
A sharp intake of breath from several lords.
"And," Edmure continued, voice steady, "in light of recent events, I will formally move to raise Ser Garen Storm to knighthood in the coming days, in full ceremony and witness."
The courtyard erupted.
Arguments flared. Protests were shouted. More than one lord turned red with fury.
Edmure did not flinch.
"This matter is settled," he said. "Any who challenge it may do so—through proper channels. Or not at all."
He turned and left the balcony without waiting for approval.
The crowd broke apart slowly, tension buzzing like a struck wire. Some lords departed in visible outrage. Others watched Garen with new calculation. A few nodded—small, respectful acknowledgments that carried more weight than applause.
Tom stood very still.
"They're going to hate you," he murmured.
"They already do," Garen replied.
Merrick exhaled. "You made him step in."
Garen shook his head. "He stepped in because it was time."
That night, alone near the river once more, the system surfaced.
[SYSTEM UPDATE — FORMAL RECOGNITION INITIATED]
Force Status: Sanctioned (Riverrun)
Political Opposition: Open (Minor Lords)
Patron Commitment: Public (Confirmed)
Title Progression: Knighthood (Announced — Pending)
Autonomy Risk: Elevated
Personal Reliance: Absolute
Garen let the ledger fade and stared into the dark water.
Edmure had acted.
Publicly.
Irrevocably.
And yet, Garen felt no relief.
Because backing—once spent—could not be reclaimed.
From this point forward, every failure would be magnified. Every success resented. Every choice watched by men who would gladly see him stumble.
He rested a hand on the pommel of his sword and felt the familiar certainty settle in.
He had never relied on permission to act.
He would not begin now.
The river flowed on, indifferent to titles and bloodlines alike.
And soon, it would witness a knighthood that had been earned not by birth—but by standing when no one else would.