The great hall of Riverrun filled slowly, like a river swelling behind a dam.
At first there was only the echo of boots on stone and the murmur of distant voices bleeding in from the yard. Hoster Tully sat his high seat beneath the leaping trout, Brynden Blackfish at his right hand, Edmure at his left. Three Tullys overlooking an ocean of empty benches and unclaimed space.
"Give them time," Brynden said quietly, voice like gravel. "Lords are like oxen. Slow to move, slower to learn."
Hoster huffed through his nose. His eyes were shadowed; the war had carved something out of him and left it behind these walls. "They answered," he said. "That's something."
Edmure sat too straight in his carved chair, fingers curling and uncurling on the armrests. Young yet, not long out of boyhood, his face still soft around the jaw. He glanced between his father and uncle, clearly wanting to speak, clearly thinking better of it.
The doors creaked wide.
The Riverlands began to pour in.
First came House Frey, as if they meant to prove by sheer numbers that they were already half a kingdom on their own. Lord Walder Frey shuffled at the front of the knot, thin shoulders draped in blue and gray, the twin towers of his sigil stitched large and ostentatious on his breast. His face was a map of wrinkles and old resentments; his lips were pressed thin, eyes sharp and restless.
Around him spilled sons, grandsons, and a handful of pale Frey daughters, all in variations of blue and gray and smug self-importance. Some were handsome in a forgettable way, others narrow and ferret-like. Half of them walked as if the Crossing itself were under their boots.
"Walder Frey," Brynden muttered under his breath. "Seven save us from men who breed like rabbits and think it virtue."
Hoster's mouth twitched, but he said nothing. The Freys took a long table near the front, fanning out across both sides with the greedy spread of ivy.
Then House Bracken entered, and the air shifted almost imperceptibly.
Lord Jonos Bracken strode in as if he meant to plant his boot on the very stones. Tall, solid, with the build of a man who still rode to hunt and fought in the front rank when battle called. His beard was black threaded with iron gray, his hair cropped short like a soldier's. He wore a surcoat of bright yellow, the red stallion of Bracken rearing high on his chest—bold, defiant, impossible to ignore.
At his right walked his elder son, Ser Hendry Bracken: square jaw, broken nose, a scar tugging one corner of his mouth into a permanent half-snarl. A warrior through and through. On his left was the middle son, Ser Ulmer Bracken—the one Cade had marked. Broad-shouldered but lighter on his feet, dark eyes quick and restless, his smirk never far away. There was charm there, buried under arrogance.
Behind them came Jonos' younger brother, Ser Maron Bracken, leaner and sharper, a fox to Jonos' bull, eyes like chips of flint.
The Brackens took their seats with the easy arrogance of a house that knew it stood near the top. Jonos' gaze flickered toward where he knew the Blackwoods would sit, and he allowed himself the faintest smirk.
House Mallister followed with quieter dignity. Lord Jason Mallister of Seagard walked at the head of his kin, his purple cloak of office clasped with a silver eagle. Tall, straight-backed, his face weathered but composed, he carried himself like a man who had stood on battlements facing Ironborn reavers more times than he could count and had never once flinched.
Beside him walked his son and heir, Patrek Mallister, still young but already bearing the long-boned grace of his bloodline, his eyes bright and thoughtful. Behind them trailed a niece—Lady Elyra Mallister, willowy, silver-blond hair braided over one shoulder, steel in her posture despite the softness of her features.
They sat together along one side of the hall, not huddling, not sprawling. Watching. Always watching.
House Ryger came in smaller, tighter.
Lord Malliard Ryger had the pinched look of a man who'd lost a great deal and had to pretend it wasn't killing him. He wore willow-green and black, his sigil—a stylized willow over rippling lines—stitched carefully over a tunic that had seen better tailoring. His hands were ink-stained, a merchant's hands rather than a warrior's.
At his side walked his son, Tristan Ryger, lean, dark-haired, carrying himself like someone who had grown up expecting comfort and found only sour reality instead. Another kinsman trailed them—a cousin, perhaps—older, heavier, eyes wary and calculating.
They took their place close to the other former loyalist houses, shoulders tight, expressions guarded.
House Whent entered under a banner of black and yellow checks, the crowned bat still prominent despite all they had lost.
Lady Shella Whent walked at their head, one of the few women allowed that place by necessity rather than courtesy. Her hair had gone mostly silver, and there were deep lines at the corners of her mouth, but she held herself with the weary dignity of a woman who had once ruled Harrenhal and seen it taken from her fingers piece by piece. Two nephews walked with her—thin, serious boys barely past squire age, dressed in yellow and black, eyes gloomy and uncertain.
They sat stiff and upright, like mourners at a wake that would never end.
House Darry came next—what remained of it.
Young Lymond Darry wore black and dusty gold, the plowman of his sigil embroidered over his heart. He had his height, at least, and a certain grave, hollow-eyed beauty that would someday serve him well at court if he lived that long. Today his jaw was clenched, his back straight, each step measured.
He walked with two retainers of his blood—distant cousins old enough to shave but not old enough to hide their unease. The loyalist stain weighed heavy on their shoulders. They took their place near Ryger and Whent, the wounded flock together.
Lymond's eyes flicked briefly, instinctively, toward the doorway, as if he expected Cade Blackwood to appear there like a shadow made flesh.
House Mooton came in robes of soft blue and white, the red rooster bright on their chests. Lord Mooton himself—a man going slightly thick around the middle but still handsome, with fine clothes and inked fingers—walked between two of his kin. At his side was his only daughter, Emelyn Mooton—sixteen, her features plain, chin a little too strong, nose a little too sharp, but her gaze sharp and assessing. She looked more like a chess player than a maid, fingers worrying a ring at her hand.
They sat close to the Darrys, as if already half-bound by the bargains necessity would force them to make.
House Piper sauntered in with their usual careless charm. Lord Jonos Piper, broad and fair-faced, wore a laughing expression even in this hall of tension. He had two sons with him—one the boy who had earlier thrown a cup at a Ryger guard, still sporting a split lip and a darkening bruise, the other taller, better composed, but no less prone to easy smiles. They took their seats with the air of men who refused to let war or politics sour their taste for wine and women.
Others followed in a steady stream. Houses Vance, Goodbrook, Lychester, and more—each with their colors, their scars, their petty ambitions. Some lords came with a single son, some with a daughter because she was all they had left, some with brothers who did most of the thinking for them.
The hall filled and filled until the murmur of voices became a steady, buzzing drone under the high rafters.
And then House Blackwood entered.
They did not stride in like the Brackens, nor swarm like the Freys. They moved with a quieter kind of confidence, a dark river cutting through bright cloth and flashing steel. Their banner was carried before them—a dead white weirwood on a black field, red leaves like drops of blood.
Lord Tytos Blackwood led, tall and still broad-shouldered despite the years, his long dark hair streaked with white, his beard full but neatly kept. He walked like a man who remembered when his house had stood toe-to-toe with any in the Riverlands and refused to forget it.
Beside him was Benfred Blackwood, his heir. Stockier, scar across his neck like a white slash against tanned skin, he had the look of a man who had taken a spear and refused to fall. He walked with the careful, controlled steps of someone painfully aware that his body had betrayed him once and might again.
On Tytos' other side moved Alysanne Blackwood. Tall for a woman, long dark hair braided back from a strong, clever face, her eyes were keen and alive. She wore black and red, the colors flattering the olive tone of her skin, her bearing composed but not meek. There was pride in the tilt of her chin, the set of her shoulders.
And just behind them, a half-step off, walked Cade Blackwood.
He wore plain leathers and a dark tunic, no jewels, no rich cloth—yet somehow he drew the eye more than any of the silks in the room. His hair was pulled back into a rough knot at the back of his head, dark strands catching the torchlight. A thin scar cut along his forehead near the hairline, almost hidden. His face was all angles and shadow, softened only by the suggestion of a smile that rarely, if ever, appeared.
He walked like a man who had already measured the room, weighed every face, and found none of it surprising.
Some of the lords watched them closely—Jason Mallister, eyes narrowing with recognition; Brynden Blackfish, mouth twitching in something like approval. Others merely glanced and dismissed them as one more old house clinging to relevance. They should have looked longer.
The Blackwoods took their seats midway down the hall, not at the front with the Freys and Brackens, but not hidden in the rear either. Alysanne sat with her back straight, hands folded neatly; Benfred's fingers drummed lightly against the table; Cade sat still as stone, eyes hooded, expression unreadable.
When the benches were finally full, when even latecomers had slipped inside and taken what seats remained, the hall was a living, breathing beast—hundreds of lords, ladies, heirs, and spare kin crammed under one roof, their banners hanging like colorful threats from the rafters.
The noise ebbed as attention turned to the high seat.
Hoster Tully rose slowly.
The motion alone was enough to hush the hall. Brynden remained seated but leaned forward slightly, forearms braced on his knees, watching everyone as much as anyone watched Hoster. Edmure straightened further, swallowing.
"My lords," Hoster began, voice carrying cleanly without need of a herald. "My ladies. My blood. My vassals."
A few scattered chuckles at the order of that, quickly smothered.
"It is good," Hoster went on, "to see you all answer the call, and so swiftly. Some of you rode with us during the war. Some of you…" His gaze drifted, cool and flat, toward the Rygers, the Darrys, the Mootons, the Whents. "Did not."
Silence prickled across the hall.
"But whatever side you chose," Hoster said, "the choice has been made. The dragons are gone. The war is done. The Targaryens who ruled us for three hundred years now cling to rocks and foreign coasts, and their banners do not fly over our lands."
Some faces brightened at that. Others tightened.
"Some of you are glad," Hoster said bluntly. "Some of you mourn. I find I have no patience left to care." His voice hardened, like ice forming over running water. "What I care about is this: our lands have been trampled. Our villages burned. Our people scattered or slain. The Riverlands bled for this war more than any other crownland under the sun. And now…"
He let the pause stretch, then smiled. It was not a pleasant expression.
"Now, King Robert Baratheon tells me we are due no reward."
A ripple of anger moved through the hall like wind through grass.
"He says," Hoster continued, "that the Riverlands chose to join him late, that we were divided, that too many of you quarreled or hesitated while the realm burned. He says we must be content with having survived."
Jason Mallister's jaw tightened. Tytos Blackwood's fingers curled into a fist on the table. Walder Frey's eyes glittered with offended greed.
"And I," Hoster said, "cannot entirely say he is wrong."
That drew a sharper murmur. Men shifted uneasily. Alysanne's eyes flicked to Cade, then back to Hoster.
"Look at us," Hoster snarled suddenly, his voice cracking like a whip. "Look around you."
He thrust a hand out at the gathered lords. "Bracken glares at Blackwood, ready to draw blood over grudges older than any man in this room. Frey counts coin and crossings, waiting to see who will beg first. Loyalists sulk like beaten dogs instead of standing like men of old houses."
His gaze swept the hall, cutting one lord after another. No one dared meet it for long.
"You made me look weak," Hoster said, and there was no mistaking the fury under those words. "You made this whole damn region look like children picking fights in the mud while dragons burned the world above us. Some of you ignored my call, or delayed, or schemed for advantage while others died on the Trident."
Walder Frey shifted, color rising in his withered face. Malliard Ryger's mouth pressed into a bloodless line. Lymond Darry stared straight ahead, knuckles white around the edge of the bench.
"The crown has punished some of you," Hoster went on coldly. "Rightly. You chose the wrong king, and you lost. You made us look disordered and divided. Foolish."
A low, nervous laugh escaped somewhere near the Frey tables and died quickly.
"And worst of all," Hoster said, his voice dropping, dangerous, "you made me look like a man who could not command his own vassals. That I cannot abide."
Silence. Not even a flagon shifted.
"I am not asking you for unity," he said. "I am not begging you for order. I am not some half-dying lord clinging to old songs. I am your liege. I am the Lord of Riverrun. When I call, you come. When I say ride, you ride. When I say enough, the feuds fucking stop."
The curse cracked across the room like lightning.
His gaze snapped to Jonos Bracken, then to Tytos Blackwood. "There shall be no feuds," he said, low and hard. "Not while I sit this chair. Not while my blood holds this castle."
Jonos' jaw worked, but he inclined his head. Tytos did the same, slower, more carefully.
Hoster turned then to Walder Frey.
"And there shall be no disobedience," he said.
Walder's smirk had been creeping back, the smile of a man who thought himself cleverer than most. It froze.
"In fact," Hoster added, letting his voice sharpen to a point, "if I see even a hint of defiance from you—" he lifted a finger, pointing straight at Walder in full view of the hall "—I will bleed your coffers until you forget what it felt like to be rich. I will tax every cart that crosses your bridge, every grain that touches your stones, until you are begging to sell your sons as squires to any house that will take them."
A startled laugh burst from somewhere near the Piper tables. Another from the Vances. Then more. The tension cracked like a shell.
"And perhaps," Hoster went on, a cruel little smile tugging his mouth, "the singers will call you something new, Frey. Not just Lord of the Crossing. But the Late Great Lord Frey—"
The line landed like a thrown spear.
Laughter exploded.
It rolled across the benches—from Pipers, Mallisters, Vances, even from some of the battered loyalists who should have known better. Men slapped tables, choked on their wine, clutched their sides. Even Brynden's mouth twitched into the sharp, rare edge of a grin. Edmure actually snorted a laugh, then bit it back, eyes wide.
Walder Frey sat very still.
His pale eyes moved slowly across the hall. He watched every laughing mouth, every shaking shoulder, every banner fluttering above a table full of men who dared to laugh at him in his liege lord's hall. He memorized sigils—purple eagle, red stallion, black bat, plowman, swords, towers. He marked faces: Jason Mallister chuckling quietly, Jonos Piper grinning openly, Jonos Bracken's brief bark of amusement before he reined it in.
And then his gaze slid, almost by chance, toward the Blackwood table.
Tytos Blackwood's shoulders shook once with a quiet laugh. Benfred hid a grin behind his hand. Alysanne smiled, lips pressed together, eyes dancing.
Cade Blackwood did not laugh.
He did not smirk. He did not even soften.
He sat perfectly still, gaze fixed on the high seat, face unreadable. While everyone else shook with mirth, he could have been carved from the same stone as the Tully chair.
Walder's eyes lingered there a moment longer than they should have.
Curious boy, he thought.
The laughter ebbed.
Hoster let it fade naturally, then lifted a hand. Silence settled again, a little looser now but still attentive.
"This is not just about Frey," Hoster said, though his eyes cut back to Walder for half a heartbeat. "This is about every single one of you."
He swept his arm to encompass the entire hall.
"We are the Riverlands," he said. "We sit in the center of the damn continent. Every war, every rebellion, every border squabble—we are the ground it's fought on. To the northwest, you have the Ironborn, raiders who would love nothing more than to sail up our rivers and take what's left. To the west, the Westerlands—Lannister gold and Lannister steel. To the south, the Reach. To the east, the Stormlands and the Vale. To the north…" He tilted his head. "The Starks. Who remember everything."
His voice dropped.
"We are surrounded. We always have been. If we spend the next ten years feuding and sulking and squabbling like children, do you know what that makes us?"
He let the question hang.
"Prey," he said at last. "It makes us prey."
A hush, deep and uneasy, settled over the benches.
"The Targaryens are gone from Westeros," Hoster went on. "The game has changed. The rules have changed. Some of you lost lands. Some of you lost sons. Some of you lost everything. I cannot give you back what you lost. The crown has said we are not due reward."
His jaw tightened.
"So," he said, "we will make our own."
He straightened in his seat, shoulders squared, eyes brightening with something like grim resolve. "Six moons from now, each of you will come back to this hall. Not just with swords. With kin. Sons. Daughters. Nephews. Nieces. Cousins. Blood. This hall will be full of them. We will feast, we will speak, and we will make matches. Alliances. Pacts. If the king will not knit us stronger by reward, then we will bind ourselves by marriage and trade until no man can pull us apart without losing a hand."
A murmur rose—uneasy, interested, calculating.
"My son needs a wife," Hoster said plainly, laying a hand on Edmure's shoulder. Edmure tried not to flush and failed. "Many of you will need friends more than you need pride. Some of you…" His gaze slid toward the Rygers, the Darrys, the Mootons, the Whents. "Will need such friends if you mean to survive the next ten years."
He paused, letting that sink in.
"Between now and then," he finished, "you will go back to your lands. You will rebuild what you can. You will put aside ancient hatreds long enough to remember that you bleed the same river mud as the man across from you. And when you return, we will decide together whether the Riverlands is a cracked shield to be broken—or a wall no storm can breach."
Hoster looked over them all one last time.
"I am not your enemy," he said. "But I will not be your shield while you stab each other in the gut. Wake up. Grow up. Or be swept away when the next tide comes."
With that, he stepped down from the high seat.
Brynden stood with him, nodding once to the hall—soldier's acknowledgment, not lord's. Edmure hesitated, then rose, following his father like a younger shadow.
For a long breath, no one in the hall moved.
Then the whispering began.
Jason Mallister leaned toward his son, voice low. Jonos Bracken muttered something that made Hendry grunt and Maron smirk. Walder Frey sat with his hands folded, lips pressed so tightly together they'd gone white.
At the Blackwood table, Tytos exhaled slowly.
"A storm's coming," Benfred murmured.
Cade watched Hoster's retreating back, mind already moving, already sorting possibilities, already considering what six moons could build—or destroy.
He smiled then, very slightly.
Peace, he thought, was going to be a far more interesting war.