# Scene 2
Minutes after walking out Cade sees the dawn banners, the castle grounds thrash with activity: lords and their armies choking the green with their colors, loyalist and rebel in uneasy orbit around one another, servants rushing about like it's the hour before a royal wedding. The yard is a field of mud, flagstone, and fresh blood, and by midmorning it already reeks of sour wine and sweat.
A scuffle near the north well: two Piper men, both blond and rosy with ale, square off against a pair of Ryger guards in black and willow-green. The youngest Piper throws a wooden cup at the lead Ryger, who dodges, sweeps the man's legs, and plants a knee in his ribs. Within seconds it's a proper brawl, arms and fists and boots, and the crowd surges closer, egging them on. Lord Malliard Ryger shouts, "Enough!" in his clipped merchant's voice, but it takes three of Riverrun's own guard to split the men up. One of the Pipers spits blood on the Ryger's sleeve, laughs, and winks at a girl in the crowd as he's dragged away.
On the steps to the great hall, the Brackens and the Freys pretend not to notice, but every tilt of the head, every slow sip of beer, says otherwise. The Mallisters keep to themselves, half an eye on every fight, but never joining. The true blood enemies—Darrys, Smallwoods, Mootons—form their own sullen cluster under the shade of the east parapet, heads together, voices low. They flinch at every shout and are always on guard.
Cade Blackwood moves through this chaos like it's a garden stroll. He doesn't pause for the fight, doesn't even glance at the Piper on the ground, just threads his way between quarrels and curses, his head up and eyes hooded. Some notice him, most don't. He's just another sharp silhouette in a castle full of them.
Eli and Henry are at the vendor stall near the main kitchens, arguing over the price of smoked trout. Eli is pretending to be scandalized by the cost, his voice rising for the benefit of the crowd. "You insult me," he tells the vendor. "Truly. My mother would faint dead on the ground at such a price." "Robbery," Eli says, "is illegal, you know." Henry snorts, tosses two coppers onto the counter, and takes twice the fish. "If your mother's fainting, it's not the price. It's you."
The vendor laughs and gives them a little extra besides. Eli bows with mock solemnity.
Cade joins them, offers each a silent nod. Eli hands him a strip of fish. Cade eats without comment.
"The Ryger boys are wound tight," Henry says, watching the bruised guards limp back toward their tent. "Saw two of them last night making a list of which girls to chase first—didn't even bother to whisper."
"They're afraid," Eli says. "Lost half their lands to the Tullys for picking the wrong king. They're just waiting for someone to spit in their porridge so they have a reason to fight."
"Let them," Cade says. He finishes his trout, wipes his hand on his tunic, and gestures for them to follow.
They cross the yard, mud sucking at their boots, past the clustered banners and the glare of a thousand suspicious eyes. The Blackwood camp is set up at the edge of the outer green, under the boughs of a massive elm tree that's twice as old as the castle itself. Here, the Blackwoods are not alone: Tytos Blackwood, his son Benfred, daughter Alysanne, and the little one—Darian, four years old and sharp as a thorn.
Benfred is at the practice yard, hammering a wooden sword against a padded post, sweat streaking his brow. He looks nothing like Cade except for the jaw, but carries himself with a kind of stubborn, battered dignity. Alysanne sits on a camp stool nearby, embroidering something red and black, but watching her brothers with obvious pride.
Tytos, lord of the house, is old but not frail, his long hair streaked with white but his hands still steady as he polishes the hilt of a ceremonial blade. He looks up at Cade's approach, and smiles always happy to see his late brothers only son.
Cade ignores the adults and drops to a knee beside Darian, who is playing with a set of carved wooden ravens, lining them up along the tree root.
"What's this?" Cade asks.
"Battle," Darian says, in a voice high but certain. "Ravens against wolves. Ravens win."
"Wolves are strong," Cade says. "And clever."
"Not as clever as us," Darian says, and smiles.
Cade ruffles his hair, then unrolls a thin parchment scroll and hands it to the child. "Read the first line."
Darian squints, moves his lips in silent sound, then says, "From the old gods, to the first kings, to us. House Blackwood stands forever."
"Good," Cade says with a smile. "Again. Stronger."
Alysanne leans over, listening. She says, "He's getting better."
Darian grins up at him. "I'll be better than both of you."
Cade's smile is small, but real. "That's the plan."
Darian repeats the line, faster this time. Cade nods and sets the next challenge.
Cade lowers himself to sit beside Darian, cross-legged on the grass, the great elm's shadow spilling over them. He smooths the parchment against his knee, tapping the next line with one steady finger.
"We'll do another. Take your time. The words matter."
Darian shifts closer—close enough that his small shoulder brushes Cade's arm. "Read it for me first," he whispers, as if learning from Cade were a privilege.
Cade obliges, voice low and even: "Where the shadows gather, we endure. Where the river runs, we rise."
Darian repeats it, stumbling once over gather. Cade corrects him with a quiet murmur and the boy tries again, this time flawlessly.
"Better," Cade says. He doesn't praise lightly—but Darian beams like he's been handed a lordship.
Alysanne watches from her stool, embroidery slack in her hands. She's been watching for weeks—how Cade somehow coaxes the best out of her baby brother without raising his voice, how Darian follows him with the faith of a sworn shield. Today is no different; she can't look away.
"You're patient with him," she says softly, almost surprised at her own voice. "I didn't expect that."
Cade glances at her—not long, not lingering, but enough to make her breath catch. "He listens," he replies simply. "Most don't."
Darian tugs his sleeve. "Again?"
Cade nods, turns the parchment. "This one. And slow—if you rush, you ruin it."
Darian leans in, reading the new line with all the focus of a grown man preparing an oath. When he finishes, Cade rests a hand briefly at the back of his neck—steadying, guiding.
Alysanne's chest tightens at the sight. There is a gentleness Cade doesn't show the world, something sharp and warm at once, something dangerous in how it makes her feel.
Cade looks between them, unreadable as ever. "Good," he says to Darian.
"Again. We do not learn once—we learn until it becomes part of us." Darian repeats it proudly.
Across the yard, Lymond Darry watches them with a hatred so pure it seems almost fragile. The boy is barely fifteen, but his gaze is old—hollowed out by grief, brightened by rage. He stands apart, alone except for two Darry retainers who hover nearby, eyes darting, hands never far from their sword hilts.
Lymond's jaw is clenched, his nails gouging his own palm, but he refuses to look away.
A memory: The Trident, one month earlier. Rain falling like arrows, mud to the knees, bodies floating face down in the eddies.
Lymond stands at the edge of the river, sword in hand, left arm hanging limp,Cade Blackwood and his thirty men—surround his older brother, Ser Jonothor Darry of the Kingsguard. Cade and his men, are all in black and red, they form a circle the knight, closing in step by step.
"Yield," Cade says, voice flat. "No one will think less of you."
Ser Jonothor spits blood, shakes his head. "I took an oath."
Cade doesn't say anything, he just smiles.
They don't cut him down all at once. It's methodical, deliberate—ankles first, then his sword hand. When Ser Jonothor falls screaming and begging for mercy,They spear him through the gut pinning him to the riverbank. One of Cade's men hacks off the hand that wore the white gauntlet, tossing it into the river for the current to take. Lymond screams, and tries to charge, but his own guards restrain him. They drag him away, and the last thing he sees is Cade Blackwood wiping his blade clean on the fallen knight's cloak, face as impassive as the dead.
Lymond tried to reach him. Gods, he tried. A Kingsguard—his brother—reduced to a butchered carcass. What broke Lymond wasn't the sight.It was the sound.When Cade's men stepped back from the mutilated body, when Cade planted his boot on Jonothor's chest, the riverbank erupted. Cheering. Roaring. A victory cry that rolled over the water like thunder. That sound lived inside him still—sharp, metallic, endless. The cheer of men celebrating the death of his blood. The cheer that made him swear House Darry would rise again, no matter the cost.
Now, in Riverrun, Lymond waits and plots. He's watched Cade every moment he can since arriving at Riverrun, cataloging the way he walks, the way he talks, the way he always just unbothered.
He wants to kill him. But he's smart enough to know that's not the move yet. Not here, not now, not with so many eyes watching. Instead, he takes note—records every friend, every habit, every crack in the armor.
He will have his vengeance. But not today.
Beneath the elm tree, Cade finishes the reading lesson. Darian is beaming, proud of himself, and Alysanne squeezes his shoulder.
"You could have been a maester," she teases.
Cade shrugs. "Better to rule them than serve them."
Tytos overhears, chuckles. "He's right, you know. The world is made by those who take."
Benfred is breathing hard from the practice yard, but he calls over, "Only if they have the brains to keep what they take."
Henry, always the observer, says, "In the end, the crows eat everyone. Doesn't matter how they lived."
The camp laughs. Cade only smiles.
He glances back, catches Lymond Darry watching, and for a moment their eyes meet. Cade holds the stare, then turns his back, signaling precisely how much he cares about the wounded boy's feelings: not at all.
The bells in the castle tower begin to ring, signaling to all the lords and their men that dinner is to be served in the great hall. Around the yard, men and boys hurry to straighten their banners, brush the mud off their boots, and prepare to feast.
Cade stands, lifts Darian to his feet, and says, "Time to go."
The Blackwoods move as a unit—strong, silent, and together. The Darrys trail after, a sullen knot of black and gold, their young lord burning with hatred.
# Scene 3
The hours crawl by on a tide of gossip and expectation. In the Blackwood quarters—a suite of three connected rooms in the east wing, close enough to the water to taste the river—Tytos sits with Benfred and Alysanne at a heavy table, maps and candles and ledger books sprawled between them. The walls are stone, cold and unyielding, but someone—probably Alysanne—has hung a Blackwood banner above the hearth, and the sight of it warms the place more than the fitful fire.
Tytos looks tired, but there is pride in his face. He speaks softly, as if testing the strength of his own words. "We are still fourth," he says, "behind the Mallisters, the Freys, and the Brackens. But that is up from fifth before the war."
Benfred rubs at the scar on his neck, a habit he picked up after the Trident. "The Mallisters are stronger than ever," he says. "Frey is ascendant, and Bracken's horses breed faster than our men can count. But none of them have a Cade."
Tytos leans back, eyes thoughtful. "Cade is a weapon, but a dangerous one. You saw what he did on the riverbank. No hesitation, no regret."
Alysanne, sleeves rolled and ink-stained from her own writing, speaks up. "The Tullys value loyalty and blood. We can give them both. But if we want better trade routes, I need to reestablish ties with our mother's kin. They're still angry about no rewards being handed out for their part in the rebellion."
Benfred snorts. "You mean the old bastard who spat at a Ryger knight in the great hall? He's angry even though we won the war."
Alysanne fixes him with a look. "He's angry because he married off three of their daughters and none of them came back with heirs. It's a practical problem, not just a grudge."
Benfred laughs at that, but it is not unkind. "Always the heart of a merchant."
Tytos stirs the fire, then says, "The Freys brought three of their best sons to court this week. So did the Brackens. Even the Mootons are offering marriage to anyone with a finger on the Tully bloodline. Every house is desperate to heal or grow."
Alysanne says, "If I were Tully, I'd look for someone ruthless enough to keep the peace, but with the discipline not to seize power outright. A Blackwood, maybe—but a caged one."
Benfred glances at the window, where the river glimmers darkly in the torchlight. "Why summon all of us so soon after the Trident? Most of the banners still have wounds that haven't healed. Some haven't even buried their dead."
Tytos answers, "It's the same reason Lysa Arryn is here, and not in the Vale. The war is over, but the next game begins today. Who gets the best marriages, the best lands, the highest seats—those will define the Riverlands for fifty years."
Alysanne nods, then tilts her head. "Do you think the old Lord Tully is dying?"
"No," says Tytos. "If Hoster were dying, they'd keep it quiet and run things through the Blackfish. No—this is about control. About sending a message to every house, every rival, every new lord. The war changed everything, but we are not to forget who rules."
Benfred looks at his father, then his sister. "We need to know what they want from us. Who they want us to marry, who they want us to betray. If Cade is to be our sword, we must be sure whose heart we are meant to cut out."
Tytos pushes the ledger away, leans forward. "Let's plan. Benfred, which sons do we have old enough to foster out?"
Benfred recites, "Quentin, Ronnel, and the twins—none older than seven. But the Blackwood blood is worth twice the usual fosterling if we're smart about it. Marriages? Our best bet is to wait and see for now, then jump at the opening."
Alysanne says, "The Bracken girls are all but spent, and the Frey girls are too many to count. We could try for a second marriage with the Smallwoods. Or a match with the Mootons, if we want to play against the Darrys."
Tytos says, "Let's keep every option open. The world is not what it was last year, or even last moon. The war is over, but only in the songs."
A soft knock at the door. Cade enters, not bothering to bow, his eyes as cold as the river outside.
"Ready?" he asks.
Tytos nods, stands, and the others follow.
As they leave the room, Benfred touches Cade's shoulder and says, "You did well today"
Cade only shrugs. "It's not over."
Alysanne falls into step beside Cade, voice low. "You ready cousin."
He smiles at her, the rare, crooked smile she alone can draw out.
The Blackwoods file into the corridor, joined by other lords and ladies—some armored, some perfumed, all wary. The castle hums with anticipation; the banners along the walls ripple in the night breeze. Somewhere below, the river whispers and hisses, carrying the secrets of a hundred years.
As they approach the great hall, Tytos says, "Let's listen, and let's survive."
And the Blackwoods do what they have always done. They keep their heads down, their eyes open, and their knives sharp—waiting for the world to decide if it wants them as allies or as the last enemy standing.