Exactly what King Robert and Prime Minister Eddard Stark argued about during their brief excursion into the cold wilderness would never be known. Whatever words were spoken between them were carried off by the biting wind, lost to the ancient, empty land. Only a handful of people were even aware that the King and the Hand had stepped away from the camp.
As for the Black Stone Mercenary Group—after Karl silently made his position known—none of the others dared show curiosity. They pretended not to have seen anything at all. Thus, when Robert and Eddard returned separately to the camp, both wearing expressions that could be interpreted as the aftermath of a "pleasant conversation," the army simply resumed its march south.
But the lumbering advance of a full host could never compare to the swift maneuvering of a small company. The West lay on the far side of the continent, and the North had no choice but to march the entire length of Westeros by land. They could not sail from White Harbor to the Westerlands; the coastline and currents made that impossible. The fastest route was a long, grinding march across half a continent.
No matter the difficulty, the army pushed forward. The next obstacle was the most treacherous natural bottleneck in all the Seven Kingdoms—the Neck. The land narrowed into swamp, bog, and mire, and even the fastest force slowed to a crawl.
It had taken nearly a month for the banners of the North to be raised, the armies assembled, and the march begun. Another week passed before the royal order formally declaring war on House Lannister was carried south, reaching the Riverlands.
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Riverrun — The Lord of the Trident Acts
Riverrun, seat of the ancient Tully family, stood where the Red Fork and Tumblestone rivers met. The castle had been built more than a thousand years earlier, during the Andal invasions, and the Tullys had ruled from it ever since. It was a place steeped in river-mist, memory, and unbroken lineage.
Lord Hoster Tully, however, had not walked the halls of his fortress in years. Illness had confined him to his bed, leaving him pale, thin, and fighting for every breath. His body weakened day by day, but his mind—thankfully—remained sharp.
When King Robert's order arrived, he knew instantly that the message must be sealed and the matter kept quiet. War had come too suddenly. The Lannisters were not reacting as expected. Something felt wrong.
Without hesitation, he dispatched a small, discreet scouting party westward to infiltrate the lands near Golden Tooth. If Tywin Lannister was planning something, the Riverlands could not afford to be caught blind.
The scouts returned swiftly—and with alarming news.
The Westerlands were stirring. Lords from the west had gathered at the command of Tywin Lannister, converging near Golden Tooth City. The number of mustered forces grew daily.
Hoster Tully received the report with a grim calm. His instincts were confirmed. The Lannisters were making preparations—and serious ones.
Riverrun needed to act.
In his authority as Lord Paramount of the Trident and Governor of the Riverlands, he sent out ravens to every house sworn to him. Banners rose along riverbanks, in glens, villages, and holdfasts. The Riverlords answered their liege lord with surprising speed. Within two weeks, a sizable force was assembled.
But Hoster Tully was bedridden. The task of commanding, planning, and bearing the burden of looming war fell to his heir—Edmure Tully.
---
The Sickbed Council
Edmure entered his father's chambers quietly when summoned. The heavy door shut behind him with a soft thud. His father lay propped against pillows, his skin pale as parchment, his breath shallow but steady. Edmure's face tightened at the sight.
Hoster motioned weakly to his servants, who helped him shift upright against the headboard before withdrawing from the room. He beckoned his son closer. Edmure pulled a stool to the bedside and took his father's frail hand between his own.
"Father," he said softly.
Hoster managed a faint smile. "Tell me—the Lannister host. What movements have they made?"
Edmure's brows knotted. "More and more banners gather at Golden Tooth. Our scouts can no longer enter. The entire region is locked down. Whatever Tywin intends, it isn't defensive."
He hesitated, then added, "Father… considering their posture, it looks like they plan to strike. They don't look like an army preparing to hold their ground."
Hoster nodded, unsurprised. "And the message sent to the King? What word have you received?"
"Only that Eddard Stark has already marched south with the Northern host. But…" Edmure hesitated. "We cannot wait for them. They won't reach us in time."
As the heir of Riverrun, he had been forced to grow fast these past years. With his father bedridden, the weight of responsibility pressed heavily upon him. And now, with war upon them, that weight had doubled.
Hoster saw the strain in his son's eyes. He squeezed Edmure's hand, his frail fingers surprisingly firm.
"Everyone assumes the Lannisters will retreat behind their mountains and wait for the King's wrath to descend upon them," Hoster said. "But Tywin Lannister… he is no fool. He does not sit idle. He chooses the time and place of war."
Edmure nodded grimly. "Yes. He moves first. And the first blow looks to be aimed at us."
"As I expected," Hoster murmured. "He wants to strike before the King's armies unite. Break the Riverlands first, divide the realm, and then crush the North or the Crown at his leisure."
Edmure swallowed. "If we fail to hold them…"
"Then war will sweep through our lands like wildfire," Hoster finished calmly. "That is why we must act before Tywin fully reveals his hand."
He drew a slow, laborious breath.
"The Riverlands lie in the center of Westeros. Every invader must cross our waters, our fields, our bridges. This has always been our curse. But today—today it can become our advantage."
Edmure frowned. "Advantage?"
A spark of life lit his father's dimming eyes.
"Yes," Hoster said. "Think, Edmure. If we strike boldly now—if we delay the Lannister advance long enough for the Northern host to arrive—we may reshape the balance of power in the region."
Edmure stared, stunned.
Hoster continued, voice gaining strength fueled by determination alone:
"Golden Tooth is the key to the western border. Strong, defensible—but it belongs to the West. The other passes through the mountains favor the Vale or the Westerlands. But here, along the Trident? Here, the land is ours."
He tightened his grip on Edmure's hand.
"This crisis is also an opportunity. If we prove ourselves the King's sharpest sword—if we become the vanguard of the realm—then the Riverlands will no longer be the battleground that others trample. We will be indispensable."
Edmure's breath caught. "You mean… if we win time for the North—"
"Then the Lannisters will be crushed between hammer and anvil," Hoster said firmly. "And afterward? Our position in the realm will rise higher than it ever has."
The old lord's cheeks flushed with a brief surge of vigor. For the first time in months, he looked like the Hoster Tully of legend—the governor whose judgment shaped the fate of the central kingdoms.
"Father…" Edmure whispered in awe. "You mean—this war could remake the Riverlands?"
"If we survive it," Hoster answered. "If you lead well."
The weight of responsibility settled fully onto Edmure's shoulders. But where moments earlier he had felt only dread, now a fierce determination ignited.
"Tell me what must be done," he said.
Hoster smiled—proud, weary, hopeful.
"My son, the Riverlands cannot wait for rescue. We must seize initiative. Gather our banners. Send riders to the lords of the Trident. Prepare to march before Tywin makes his first strike."
He closed his eyes for a moment, gathering what remained of his strength.
"We may not win the battle. But we must win time."
Edmure straightened, shoulders square.
"Very well, Father. I will prepare the Riverlands to fight."
Hoster's hand trembled slightly as he lifted it to touch his son's arm.
"This war will cost us dearly. But if we endure—if we prevail—then from the ashes of conflict, a stronger Riverlands will rise."
Edmure bowed his head.
"I understand."
The old lord gave one final, satisfied nod.
"Good. Then go. The smoke of war is coming from all sides… and with it, opportunity."
Edmure rose from his seat, blood burning with purpose. He strode from the darkened chamber ready to lead—not just for his father, but for the future of the Riverlands.
Behind him, Hoster Tully lay back against his pillows, eyes closed, whispering to the silent room:
"Profit comes to those who dare."
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