Riverrun did not panic.
It tightened.
That was the first thing Garen noticed as the gates closed behind him and his men rode into the lower yard. The castle moved with purpose—doors barred not in fear but in preparation, runners already moving along the walls, officers speaking in low, clipped tones. Whatever Edmure Tully lacked in experience, he did not lack the instinct to brace when the river rose.
Garen did not go to the hall at once.
He went to the armory.
He laid the evidence out on a plain oak table beneath lantern light: the red-thread stitching cut from a cloak, the clean rivets from mail that should have been rusted if it truly belonged to bandits, a signet-less buckle bearing a maker's mark known in the west.
Not proof enough to shout.
More than enough to whisper.
Only then did he present himself.
The great hall of Riverrun was quieter than it had been days earlier. Fewer knights lounged along the walls. Those present stood straighter. Edmure waited at the high table with a handful of advisors—Maester Vyman, Merrick the serjeant, two landed knights whose expressions suggested they'd already argued this morning.
Edmure waved the guards back as Garen approached.
"Captain Storm," he said. "Report."
Garen did not embellish.
He spoke plainly: Millford, the ash marks, the scouts, the ultimatum. He described formations, discipline, escalation patterns. He placed the red-thread stitching on the table last.
Silence followed.
Maester Vyman adjusted his chain, frowning. "Bandits can steal cloaks."
"They don't restitch them," Garen replied. "Not like that."
One of the knights snorted. "You're suggesting—"
"I'm stating," Garen said evenly. "This is the opening move."
Edmure leaned forward, eyes fixed on the scrap of red thread. "Say it," he said quietly.
Garen met his gaze. "Tywin Lannister."
The word landed like a dropped blade.
"No," one knight said immediately. "That's madness. There's no cause—"
"Cause comes later," Garen said. "First comes pretext."
Edmure's jaw tightened. He didn't argue. He thought.
"Testing response times," Edmure murmured. "Measuring how thin we are."
"And how quickly you answer," Garen added. "They're not burning yet because they don't need to. They're teaching villages to comply without banners."
Maester Vyman exhaled slowly. "If this is true—"
"It is," Edmure said. He straightened. "And we can't accuse the west without ironclad proof."
"Then don't accuse," Garen said. "Prepare."
That drew Edmure's attention fully.
"How?" Edmure asked.
"Quietly," Garen replied. "Reinforce roads without announcing levies. Rotate patrols so scouts can't map you. Use men who don't wear your colors to watch the watchers."
One of the knights frowned. "You want deception."
"I want survival," Garen said. "Open banners come later—if at all."
Edmure looked around the table. "Riders," he said. "Discreet. To trusted bannermen only. No proclamations."
He turned back to Garen. "And Millford?"
"They hold," Garen said. "For now. But the pressure will return somewhere else to see if you overcommit."
Edmure nodded once. Decision made. "Captain Storm," he said, voice firm, "you'll have latitude. Men, supplies, authority to act without waiting for writs—within reason."
"Within results," Garen replied.
A flicker of a smile touched Edmure's mouth. "Within results."
A runner entered, breathless. "My lord—messengers report riders seen west of the Tumblestone. Markings removed. No fire."
Edmure closed his eyes for a heartbeat. "They're learning," he said.
Garen felt the old, cold certainty settle in his bones—the one he'd carried from another life where wars began long before the first city burned.
"They always do," he said.
Edmure dismissed the council with a wave and gestured for Garen to stay. When the hall emptied, the young lord's shoulders sagged just a fraction.
"I didn't want my first months to begin like this," Edmure admitted.
"No one does," Garen said. "They still begin."
Edmure looked at him then, not as a lord to a captain, but as a man choosing how to carry a river on his back. "If you're right," he said, "this puts us on a path with no clean end."
Garen thought of Tom's eyes, of ash lines and deadlines, of red thread hidden beneath mud.
"There aren't clean ends," he said. "Only contained ones."
Edmure nodded slowly. "Then contain it."
As Garen turned to leave, horns sounded softly from the outer yard—riders departing in pairs, unmarked, fast.
The river was moving.
And this time, Riverrun would not be caught standing still.