# Scene 1
Dawn splits the sky over Riverrun, red and river-blue, catching on the razor edge of banners as they unfurl in the early wind. Three bridges meet at the base of the fortress—stonework slick with river mist, men shouting as they haul trunks and provisions up the switchback paths toward the open gates. The castle is under siege, not by an army but by the racket of its own lords.
The silver eagle of House Mallister, wings outspread, commands a corner of the western yard. The troupes under Lord Jason's banner are disciplined, steel helms lined in perfect formation, but the men themselves are already arguing with the nearest cluster of Pipers—blond, blue-eyed, arrogant, their double-helmed maiden sigil painted bright as piss on their shield faces. Brackens roll in next, two dozen horse and twice as many on foot, all bearing the red stallion rampant over a field of mud. Jonos Bracken is the first to dismount, hurling the reins at a sweating servant girl and shouting for the quartermaster before his boots hit the stone.
The bridge to the north is jammed with wagons from the Twins. Each driver wears Frey blue and silver, each wagon more ostentatious than the last: wheels painted, canopies striped, laden with food, drink, gifts, and—rumor has it—two new wives for Walder's collection. The last in line lumbers under its own weight and promptly throws a wheel, wood splintering, cargo spilling apples and green glass jugs down the slope toward the lower bailey. Two footmen try to catch them, arms and ankles battered by loose fruit, cursing the Freys as much as the muddy footing.
Other banners crowd the morning air: the plowman of Darry, the weeping willow of Ryger, and above all the black on crimson of House Blackwood, a raven with wings outstretched in the ancient style of the First Men. Servants in livery scurry like ants beneath the shadow of so many banners. Riverrun's own trout leap from flagpole to parapet, tail curled, mouth open in an eternal gasp.
Inside the keep, the corridors are a wet market of voices—men-at-arms bellowing for latrine buckets, women shrieking as they brush soot off borrowed tapestries, the hollow clatter of arms against stone as a new patrol is posted at each turn.
None of this matters in the moment, not to the two bodies tangled on Lady Lysa Arryn's bed.
Lysa's thighs clamp around Cade Blackwood's hips, bare heels digging into his spine as if she could pull him deeper by muscle alone. Cade's hand is clamped over her mouth, muffling the sound. She bites at the webbing between his thumb and palm, hard enough to draw blood, and he lets her. Every time she moans it comes out wet and frantic, and he can feel it in the pit of his chest.
Her room is lit by the first harsh beams of day, filtering through the slit windows and painting the bed in stripes of gold and cold shadow. The sheets are a tangle, damp with sweat and the thin trickle of blood where Cade's beard scratched her collarbone. The air smells of river, spilled wine, and sex.
"Quiet," Cade whispers, not because he cares who hears, but because he likes the way her body trembles under his voice.
Lysa bucks once, hard, and Cade's grip tightens on her jaw. She hisses, "Don't you dare stop—" muffled by his palm. Her eyes are glazed, blue as frozen ponds, and her nails rake furrows down his back.
The rhythm is rough, controlled, and she is arching under him, desperate for more. He lets her up for air, and she sobs out, "Gods, Cade, please—" before he covers her mouth again, this time with a kiss. Her teeth click against his, and she giggles, a high, keening sound that shivers up his spine.
Outside, a shout, the snap of a breaking wagon axle, a crash of glass on cobble. Lysa's hands clamp onto his ass, pulling him in, and her body goes rigid—every muscle drawn taut, her breath a gasp swallowed by his mouth.
"Scream for me," Cade tells her. His tone is soft but admits no argument.
She hesitates, not out of modesty but in anticipation, and then does. She screams—a sound that would shame a dying rabbit—perfectly timed with the shout of agony as a Frey footman turns his ankle outside. Cade laughs, a single exhale through his nose, and finishes her off with three deep thrusts. Lysa sags, her entire body collapsing into the mattress, one hand still clutching his hair.
She is not a pretty sight in this moment—red-faced, hair matted with sweat, lips swollen—but Cade thinks her beautiful all the same. He holds her for a breath, letting the sticky warmth pool between them, then rolls off with the effortless grace of a man twice her size.
Lysa is still shivering, trying to get her bearings. She makes a grab for Cade's cock, greedy as a drunk in a wine cellar, but he is already rising, tugging on his tunic and belt, not bothering to clean himself off.
"You're pussy was so wet," he mutters out.
"You made me that way," she says, voice ragged.
Cade kneels on the edge of the bed, lifting her with one arm and flipping her over. Lysa whimpers, but when he slides back into her—slow, deliberate—she claws the pillow and tries to push herself backward onto him. Cade grips her hips, guiding every motion, watching the way her back curves with each thrust.
"Are you going to fill me up?" Lysa teases, throwing a look over her shoulder. "Or are you too much of a coward to make a Tully girl a bastard?"
He leans down, breath hot in her ear: "I'd rather put a bunch of ravens in your belly than have you be a mother of falcons."
She comes again, body thrashing. Cade presses her face into the bedding, letting her ride it out. He does not finish, not this time, but lets her collapse in a puddle of her own doing mixed with a little of sweat and pride.
Lysa does not even try to cover herself as he stands and laces his boots. "You're mine, Lysa Arryn," he says, loud enough for the stone walls to carry.
She giggles again, the sound as much a warning as an invitation. "Yours until your uncle finds out and skins you alive."
Cade wipes the sweat from his brow with a stolen sheet and walks to the door, bare chest steaming in the cold air. He opens it and nearly collides with Catelyn Stark.
Lady Stark stands in the hall, a tray of pears and river cheese balanced in one hand. Her face betrays nothing, but her eyes flick from Cade's bare legs to the flushed nakedness of her sister sprawled on the bed.
"Lord Blackwood," she says, icicle-perfect.
"Lady Stark." Cade bows, exaggerating the dip of his head, never breaking eye contact.
Behind him, Lysa writhes under the covers, not bothering to hide the evidence. The room stinks of what they did, and Cade catches Catelyn's nostrils flare in disgust—or envy, he can't tell.
"Your sister requires nourishment," Cade says, gesturing at the tray.
Catelyn sets the food on the side table without another word. Her hands do not shake, but she refuses to meet his gaze again.
"Thank you, Cat," Lysa purrs, stretching like a satisfied cat. "Cade's had me up since before the bells."
Catelyn shoots her a look sharp enough to draw blood. "You're married, Lysa. Lady Arryn, now."
Lysa makes a show of licking juice off her fingers. "Jon Arryn's at court. And Cade—" she glances over her shoulder, voice dropping— "Cade makes me forget I'm ever alone."
Catelyn turns, her back rigid, and brushes past Cade in the doorway. Their eyes meet for a single beat: hers cold and furious, his unreadable.
He lets her pass.
Down the stairs, the world roars and pulses—men bellowing, children racing between legs, the smell of smoke and roasting meat drifting up from the courtyard. Cade moves through it without hurry, his hair still damp, his shirt loose at the throat. He stops at the main landing to look back, and from above, through the open door, hears Catelyn's voice scold Lysa:
"What if your husband finds out? What if father—"
Lysa's reply, breathless and defiant: "Let him. I'd let every lord in the Riverlands watch if it meant I could have Cade for an hour instead of a moonless night."
Cade smiles at that, knowing she means it.
He walks on, past the fretting stewards and the shrill-tongued servants, the banners outside snapping in the dawn wind, as the great families of the Riverlands gather for the first time since the rebellion ended.