The backlash didn't come with swords.
It came with smiles.
Garen noticed it first in the way doors closed a little faster when he approached, and in how conversations in the lower yard softened into murmurs the moment his boots hit stone. The men still saluted. Still obeyed. Still looked relieved when he took the front.
But somewhere above them—behind the walls, inside the halls—the castle had begun to argue about him again.
A bastard with authority was a stone in the shoe of every minor lord who'd spent his life believing rank was proof of worth.
And stones never stayed quiet.
It was late morning when Merrick found him, expression the same as always—composed, competent, tired in the bones.
"They're convening in the solar," Merrick said. "Ser Alren and two others. With the maester."
Garen wiped his blade down with a cloth, slow and deliberate. "Edmure?"
"In the hall with the knights. Receiving petitions," Merrick replied. "He knows. He's letting them talk first."
Let them talk, Garen thought.
Then watch what they do.
"Any movement on the roads?" Garen asked.
"Quiet," Merrick said. "Too quiet."
That made Garen nod. "Good. Quiet is information."
Merrick hesitated. "Tom wants to speak with you."
"Where is he?"
"Practice yard," Merrick said. "He's been there since sunrise."
Garen turned toward the yard without another word.
Tom Rivers was alone, spear in hand, breath steaming faintly in the cool air. He'd set up a crude marker—two old shields strapped to a post—and was thrusting at it with a rhythm that was almost disciplined.
Almost.
His feet still betrayed him when he tired. His shoulders rose too high. He overcommitted on the third thrust every time, as if his body believed it could force an enemy to be where it wanted.
Garen watched three cycles.
Then he spoke.
"Stop."
Tom jolted, nearly dropping the spear, then snapped upright. "Captain."
Garen walked up and nudged Tom's lead foot with his boot. "You're planting wrong."
Tom frowned. "It feels stable."
"It feels stable because you're putting your weight where you can feel it," Garen said. "Stability isn't comfort."
He reached out, tapped Tom's hip. "Here. Too far forward."
Tom adjusted.
Garen stepped back and lifted a hand. "Again."
Tom thrust.
Better.
"Again."
Tom thrust again, then tried the third—overcommitted—and Garen stepped in, slapped the spear aside, and placed two fingers against Tom's throat.
Tom froze.
"Dead," Garen said.
Tom swallowed, face reddening. "I—"
"I know," Garen replied. "That's the point."
Tom exhaled sharply. "Captain, I've been thinking."
"That's dangerous," Garen said dryly.
Tom blinked, then laughed once, short and tense. "About yesterday. About how they're changing."
"Yes."
"If they're watching us," Tom said, eyes sharp, "then they're going to try to make us look foolish. Or make us choose wrong."
Garen studied him for a beat. "Good. Keep going."
Tom's posture straightened with the permission to speak. "So… if you're not there. If you send me with a patrol and something feels off—what do I do?"
Garen didn't answer immediately.
Because the honest answer was: You die if you guess wrong.
Training didn't change that.
It only improved the odds.
"You slow down," Garen said at last. "You don't chase. You don't prove anything. You live long enough to report."
Tom's jaw tightened. "Even if it means they get away?"
"Especially then," Garen said. "Bandits don't win by taking grain. They win by pulling men out of position."
Tom nodded, but the fire in his eyes fought the idea. "It feels like letting them—"
"It feels like losing," Garen finished. "That's how traps feel."
Tom stared at the practice post as if it had offended him personally. "I hate that."
"Good," Garen said. "Hate keeps you awake. Just don't let it steer."
Tom looked back at him, more serious now. "And what about you, Captain?"
Garen raised an eyebrow.
Tom's voice dropped. "They know your name. If they can't beat Riverrun's patrols, they'll try to break you. How do you survive that?"
Garen felt the weight of the question settle deeper than Tom intended.
Because Tom was right.
A regional problem had turned into a personal one.
"How do I survive?" Garen repeated softly.
Tom nodded.
Garen's hand tightened around the cloth he'd been wiping the sword with. "By not pretending I'm the only piece," he said. "By building something that keeps moving even when I'm not there."
Tom held his gaze. "Then teach me," he said. "So I'm not dead weight."
Garen nodded once. "I will."
He paused. Then added, more bluntly: "And you will stop trying to be brave."
Tom bristled. "I am brave."
"You are eager," Garen corrected. "Bravery is what's left after fear tells you to run and you still choose correctly."
Tom's expression flickered, then steadied. "Then I'll learn."
"Good."
A runner arrived as if summoned by the word.
He was one of Garen's quiet watchers—cloth plain, boots muddy, eyes always scanning. He bowed quickly.
"Captain," he said, "message."
"From whom?" Garen asked.
The runner swallowed. "No one. It was left on the east road marker. Nailed to it."
Garen's eyes narrowed. "Show me."
They moved through the lower yard and out past the inner wall to the road marker tree that stood just outside Riverrun's patrol path—chosen specifically because it was visible.
A scrap of parchment had been pinned to the wood with a clean iron nail.
No seal.
No signature.
Only a symbol drawn in charcoal: a crude lion's head.
Beneath it, three words.
WE SEE YOU.
Tom stared at it, throat working. "That's—"
"Not bandits," Merrick said quietly from behind them.
Garen's gaze went to the nail.
Too clean.
Too straight.
Driven with the calm confidence of a man who knew he had time.
He pulled the parchment free, then pulled the nail with a twist of his gauntlet. The metal came away without resistance.
He turned it over in his hand.
Maker's mark on the head—tiny, almost invisible unless you looked for it.
A western forge.
Not proof enough to proclaim.
Enough to confirm what he already knew.
Garen folded the message and tucked it away.
Tom's voice was tight. "What do we do?"
Garen looked at the tree, then at the road beyond it. "We do what we were going to do," he said. "Only now we assume someone smart is watching."
Merrick shifted his weight. "Edmure should see this."
"He will," Garen said. "But not before I decide what it means."
That earned him a look from Merrick—respect and concern mixing. Merrick was a soldier. He liked chains of command. Garen did too, but only when chains didn't strangle action.
They returned to the yard.
Garen dismissed Tom to eat, then walked alone to a quiet corner of the armory and let the system surface.
Not as comfort.
As accounting.
[SYSTEM REVIEW — RIVERRUN FRONT]
Authority Acceptance: Contested (Noble Opposition Active)Operational Reach: Expanding (Shadow Net Forming)Civilian Stability: Fragile (Compliance Through Fear Confirmed)
Opposition: Organized (Discipline Observed)Visibility: High (Individual Identified)Command Unit: 8 Levies — Minor Injuries (Cumulative Fatigue Rising)
Subordinate: Tom Rivers• Courage: High• Discipline: Developing• Training Potential: High• Risk Factor: Impulse Under Pressure
Garen stared at the line that mattered most.
Visibility: High (Individual Identified)
He let the ledger fade.
So.
The board had noticed him.
That wasn't fatal.
But it meant every decision he made now would echo beyond the next village.
He went to the hall.
Edmure was mid-petition, listening to a farmer complain about missing sheep with the same seriousness he'd given war reports. His earnestness wasn't weakness—it was a choice, and choices could be exploited.
When Edmure saw Garen, he dismissed the farmer gently and rose.
"What is it?" he asked quietly.
Garen placed the parchment on the table.
Edmure read it once.
Then again.
His face tightened. "A lion."
"Yes," Garen said.
Edmure looked up. "This is a warning."
"It's a test," Garen replied. "To see if you overreact. To see if you call banners too early."
Edmure's jaw clenched. "I can't ignore it."
"I didn't tell you to," Garen said. "I told you to interpret it."
Edmure exhaled slowly. "The solar," he said. "They're waiting."
"Let them," Garen said. "They want to feel in control. Give them that feeling. Then use them."
Edmure blinked. "Use them?"
"Minor lords want relevance," Garen said. "Give them responsibility they can't refuse. Small patrol obligations. Coin incentives. Make their pride a tool."
Edmure studied him, then nodded. "You've thought about this."
"I've lived through worse," Garen said, and did not explain.
Edmure folded the message and placed it inside his doublet as if hiding it from the room itself. "And you?" he asked. "What do you do?"
Garen paused.
Because this was where mistakes were born—where a man believed he could outplay a larger force simply by being stronger and smarter.
He could feel that temptation like a blade at his back.
"Tonight," Garen said, "we shift our pattern. We let them see a patrol move where it shouldn't."
"A lure," Edmure said.
"A question," Garen corrected. "We don't spring it. We just ask it. And we watch how they answer."
Edmure nodded slowly, tension in his shoulders easing into purpose. "Do it," he said. "And Captain—"
"Yes?"
Edmure's gaze held his. "Don't let them pull you into their pace."
Garen gave a short nod. "I won't."
He left the hall and went straight back to the yard where Merrick and the levies gathered. Faces were weary. Bruises darkened under eyes. Hands moved slower than yesterday.
Fatigue was a tax.
Taxes broke armies faster than swords did.
Garen pointed at Tom. "You ride with Merrick tonight."
Tom's head snapped up. "Captain—"
"You asked how to survive without me," Garen said. "This is how. You do nothing heroic. You keep your eyes open. You come back alive."
Tom swallowed. Then nodded. "Yes, Captain."
They rode out at dusk.
Garen stayed at Riverrun, standing on the wall walk, watching the line of torches shrink into the dark.
He hated letting them go.
Not because he doubted their courage.
Because courage wasn't the problem.
The problem was that somewhere out there, men wearing mud and pretending to be bandits were adjusting their plans around one name.
Storm.
A bastard.
An inconvenience.
A variable.
Garen stared into the Riverlands night and felt the shape of the next mistake waiting for him—soft, reasonable, wrapped in confidence.
The kind of mistake you made when you believed you'd seen the whole board.
And the kind of mistake Tywin Lannister built wars on.