Garen Stormguard did not need a raven to know what came next.
He knew the shape of the story.
But did not know its timing.
That difference mattered more than anything else.
Jon Arryn's death was the first true confirmation that the world he remembered was aligning with the one he now inhabited. Not perfectly—never perfectly—but closely enough that ignoring it would be negligence. The Hand of the King dying without war or plague was not coincidence. It was a stone removed from an arch, and the weight above it had not yet realized it was unsupported
Garen stood alone in the upper chamber of the holdfast, a place that smelled faintly of stone dust and river air, and stared down at a map that had been revised so many times the parchment was thin in places. This one was not military. It marked roads, inns, river crossings, and distances measured in days rather than leagues.
Movement was what mattered now.
He knew the broad strokes.
King Robert Baratheon would ride north. He already was. That much had been confirmed by multiple riders. The king's progress would be slow, heavy with feasting and hunting, his retinue swelling and thinning as lords joined and departed along the way.
At Winterfell, he would ask Eddard Stark to become Hand.
Ned would refuse.
Then accept.
Not because he wanted power—but because he loved his friend and feared what would happen if he said no.
That choice mattered.
Not immediately.
But everything that followed depended on it.
Garen pressed two fingers against the bridge of his nose and breathed out slowly.
In his previous life, the story had been clean because it had already ended. Cause and effect had been neatly arranged by hindsight. Here, he had only fragments: events remembered out of order, motivations inferred rather than witnessed.
And memory was not prophecy.
The system surfaced faintly, unprompted, as if reflecting his hesitation.
[SYSTEM CONTEXT — KNOWLEDGE LIMITS]
Canonical Awareness: Partial
Event Certainty: Low (Precipitating Actions Pending)
Intervention Timing: Undefined
False Assumption Risk: High
Garen dismissed it.
He would not act as if the world were a script.
He would act as if it were a board with pieces beginning to move.
The next piece was not Tyrion Lannister.
Not yet.
That was the mistake people made when they remembered the story too cleanly.
Tyrion Lannister would not ride directly south. He would linger. He would visit the Wall. He would drink and observe and delay. His arrival in the Riverlands would come days after the king's party passed through.
Which meant the true first indicator was not Tyrion.
It was Catelyn Stark leaving Winterfell.
And that had not happened yet.
Garen turned back to the map and adjusted the markings accordingly.
He did not circle the Inn at the Crossroads.
Instead, he marked watch points.
Bridges.
River ferries.
Market towns.
Places where news traveled faster than ravens.
He rang for Merrick.
The vice-captain arrived moments later, already carrying a slate.
"I need information," Garen said without preamble. "Not rumors."
Merrick raised an eyebrow. "That narrows it."
"I want riders stationed discreetly along the Kingsroad," Garen continued. "Not patrols. Observers. They are to note the king's progress, his stops, and who leaves the retinue."
Merrick nodded slowly. "Watching nobles now."
"Yes."
"And not interfering."
"Under no circumstances," Garen said. "If we're noticed, we've failed."
Merrick made a note. "Anything else?"
"Yes," Garen said. "I want word the moment there is movement from any party outside the king's entourage."
That made Merrick pause.
"Outside?," he repeated. "Are we expecting someone to make a move?"
"Potentially."
Understanding dawned gradually. Merrick did not smile.
"That's dangerous knowledge to act on," he said.
"I'm not acting on it," Garen replied. "I'm listening for it."
Merrick inclined his head. "I'll place men who know how to disappear."
"Good."
Next came Tom.
Tom listened in silence as Garen explained the framework — not the conclusion, not the remembered outcome, but the possibility.
"You're preparing for something that may not happen," Tom said finally.
"Yes."
"And if it doesn't?"
"Then we've wasted some effort and learned something about the realm's rhythms," Garen replied. "That's acceptable."
Tom considered that. "You're worried about someone acting on the king's party."
"I'm worried about what is yet to happen but may be," Garen said carefully.
Tom frowned. "What do you expect to happen?"
Garen did not answer immediately.
"What I think doesnt matter.," he said at last. "Your job is to figure out what might happen before it does so that we may act before the realm reacts."
Tom understood enough.
Garen tapped the map once.
"The inn at the crossroads," he said. "This is where events will collide."
Tom's eyes narrowed. "You definitely know something."
"Again, whether I know matters not," Garen corrected. "If something happens we must be the first there to ensure the safety of Riverrun."
"And if I can not handle it?"
"Then observe," Garen said. "And send word to me."
That answer sat heavily between them.
Tom nodded anyway. "I'll prepare the men."
"No," Garen said. "You'll prepare messengers. Fast ones. This isn't about force yet."
Tom exhaled. "This feels like waiting for a knife to fall."
"It is," Garen said. "But catching it too early cuts you just as badly."
Days passed.
Then weeks.
The king's party moved north. Word arrived in fragments — banners seen, horns heard, roads cleared in advance. The Riverlands did not stir. Garen did not move.
He watched.
Then came the first true deviation from quiet.
A rider arrived at dusk, breathless, boots caked with northern mud.
"Ser Stormguard," he said, bowing quickly. "The king has left Winterfell."
Garen nodded. "And Lord Stark?"
The rider swallowed. "Preparing to follow. No other party has shown any movement."
That was the most important part.
Not yet.
Garen dismissed the rider and stood alone as the sun sank behind the river.
The game had not begun.
But the board was finally being set.
He did not know exactly when Catelyn Stark would ride south.
He did not know whether Tyrion would arrive at the crossroads inn drunk, late, or not at all.
He did not know whether his presence would change anything.
What he did know was this:
When the moment came, hesitation would be worse than ignorance.
And so Garen Stormguard waited — not with certainty, but with preparation — having placed eyes on the road, ears in the markets, and men ready not to interfere with fate, but to redirect it if it threatened to ignite the Riverlands too soon.