The men Edmure Tully gave me were not impressive.
There were eight of them in total, standing in the outer yard of Riverrun beneath a sky that threatened rain again. Eight men to pacify roads that hadn't been safe in years, to face bandits bold enough to mock a great house with dead fish nailed to trees.
Too few.
Too tired.
Too honest for what the Riverlands had become.
I stood in front of them, helmet under my arm, greatsword strapped across my back, and let the silence stretch long enough for them to grow uncomfortable.
They shifted, glanced at one another, adjusted grips on spears and swords that had seen more use than care. Most of them were older men—veterans whose eyes carried the dull caution of those who had learned how easily courage bled out.
And one who wasn't.
He stood third from the left. Too straight. Too alert. Barely old enough to shave without cutting himself badly, judging by the faint scars along his jaw. His mail was serviceable but patched, the Tully trout stitched clumsily onto his tabard by hands that hadn't done it often.
When my gaze passed over him, he didn't look away.
Good.
"What's your name?" I asked, stopping in front of him.
"Tom," he said quickly. Then, after a heartbeat, corrected himself. "Tom Rivers, ser."
"Not a knight," I replied.
"Yes—Captain," he said, ears reddening. "Sorry."
Rivers.
A Riverlands bastard's name.
Fitting.
"How long have you been wearing that mail, Tom Rivers?"
"Six months," he said. "Since the last patrol was… reorganized."
That meant ambushed.
"And before that?"
"I worked my father's land," he said. "Until there wasn't much left to work."
Fire burned in his eyes—not wild, not reckless, but focused. The kind that came from watching something precious be taken and deciding the world owed you an answer.
I nodded once and moved on.
The rest introduced themselves as I went down the line—men who had seen too much, lost too much, and were still standing because someone had to be. No knights among them. One serjeant who had been promoted three times by default as others died.
Edmure watched from the steps, hands clasped behind his back, rain dampening his hair.
"This is what I can spare," he said quietly when I joined him. "More men leave Riverrun exposed."
"It'll do," I replied. "For now."
He grimaced. "You ride for the Tumblestone road."
"Yes."
He hesitated. "Captain… be careful with them. They're not expendable."
"Neither am I," I said.
That earned a thin smile.
We rode out within the hour.
The Riverlands swallowed us quickly—trees closing in, road narrowing, the smell of wet leaves and churned earth thick in the air. The men rode in a loose formation, alert but quiet, hands close to weapons.
Tom Rivers rode close to me, eyes scanning the undergrowth like he expected it to leap at him.
"Captain," he said finally, unable to hold the silence any longer.
"Yes?"
"Is it true what they say?" he asked. "About the melee?"
I glanced at him. "What do they say?"
"That you fought two hundred men and didn't kill a single one."
"That's exaggerated."
"But you could have," he pressed. "Couldn't you?"
I considered him for a moment.
"Yes," I said.
His jaw tightened—not with fear, but with resolve.
"Good," he said. "Because these bastards…" He swallowed, then went on. "They don't stop unless someone makes them."
There it was.
Too much courage.
The kind that ran ahead of judgment and tripped into graves.
"Justice isn't about stopping," I said. "It's about ending."
He frowned slightly. "What's the difference?"
"You'll learn," I replied.
We found the site by midafternoon.
The road dipped between two low rises, trees thick on both sides. Broken wagon wheels lay half-buried in the mud. One cart had been dragged off the road and burned, its blackened frame still smoking faintly despite the damp.
And there—tied to an oak at the edge of the clearing—
A trout.
Its belly had been split open, innards hanging, flies already gathering despite the cool air.
Tom swore under his breath.
The men spread out instinctively, forming a rough perimeter. I dismounted and crouched near the road, examining the tracks.
"Too many," I said. "And too orderly."
Boot prints overlapped, but not chaotically. Someone had directed them. Someone had decided where to stand, where to strike, how long to stay.
"This wasn't hunger," I continued. "This was theater."
"They wanted us to see it," Tom said.
"Yes."
"And to come," he added.
I looked at him then.
He met my gaze without flinching.
"You're right," I said. "Which is why we won't do what they expect."
His brow furrowed. "We won't?"
"No," I said. "We'll do better."
A twig snapped somewhere deeper in the trees.
The men stiffened. Hands went to hilts.
I rose slowly, one hand resting on the sword.
"Positions," I said calmly.
This wasn't the first bandit patrol.
It was the beginning of something else.
And Tom Rivers, with his fire and his courage, was about to learn what justice cost in the Riverlands.