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The stench of river mud and despair clung to Riverrun's gates. Lord Hoster Tully stood atop the high stone wall, gripping the cold iron railing, his eyes fixed on the tide of refugees below. Gaunt children huddled beneath the gatehouse, their wide-eyed terror mirroring the broken men and women of the Riverlands—shattered by weeks of Ironborn raids. The market square, once vibrant, now lay choked with hunger and displacement.
"This is how it ends," Hoster muttered, voice bitter. "Starving at my gates."
Ser Brynden Blackfish glanced at him. "Not yet, brother. You hold the walls. You hold the Trident."
"Walls mean little when bellies are empty," Hoster said, softer now. "How long before Riverrun is a husk like the Red Fork villages?"
Brynden's mouth tightened. "If you wait for the Crown's aid, we'll starve first."
Hoster's gaze drifted to the Trident's restless waters, reflecting a bruised sky. Once a lifeline, the river now carried whispers of Ironborn victories and the Riverlands' growing desperation.
A pale squire approached, clutching a letter sealed in wax. "From King's Landing, my lord."
Hoster broke the seal, reading slowly. Brynden waited. "Well?"
"'No coin. No men. The Ironborn are a threat, but the Crown is stretched thin.'" Hoster crumpled the parchment. "Excuses while our lands burn."
"The bannermen won't take kindly to that," Brynden said.
"They take kindly to nothing now." Hoster's voice was low. "They whisper of seizing the crossings, defying the King."
A guard appeared, nervous. "My lord, a traveler claims assassins roam the roads. Some say the Faith has set bounties on those who speak against the Seven."
Hoster frowned. "Assassins? Here?"
"Rumors spread like rats," Brynden muttered. "But I've heard the same. If the Faith sends killers, the King's silence is a greater threat than his words."
Hoster let the letter fall. "If the Crown has forsaken us, do I forsake it? To fight the Ironborn alone is to strip Riverrun bare."
Brynden's eyes were sharp. "Lose the crossings, and Riverrun is nothing but a tomb."
Hoster stared at the Trident, its dark currents roiling. This is the cost of power, it seemed to whisper. "The realm is my duty," he said quietly. "I'll not let Ironborn or Crown take Riverrun."
He turned away from the window. The roar of the river faded as he walked through the cold halls of the keep. Each step echoed the weight in his chest, heavy as chainmail. He could not leave duty at the water's edge; it followed him into stone and fire.
The council chamber reeked of damp stone and fading hearthfire. Hoster sat at the head of the oaken table, Brynden at his shoulder. The Riverlords' banners hung limp in the dim light. Around him sat his bannermen: grizzled Lord Vance, stern Lord Piper, young Ser Darry, and dour Lord Bracken. Their impatience crackled like dry kindling.
Lord Piper spoke first, voice sharp. "The Ironborn choke our rivers and burn our fields. The Crown sends only words. We must act, or the Trident falls."
Lord Vance leaned forward, beard flecked with gray. "Act with what? Half our men guard Riverrun, the rest fend off raiders. Strip the castle to fight at the crossings, and we lose the heart of the Riverlands."
Lord Bracken scoffed, fist clenched. "I say we take the river for ourselves. Why bleed for a king who abandons us? Let the Riverlands stand alone."
Ser Darry's fingers stilled on the table, his voice measured. "Treason won't save us. The Ironborn thrive on division. Weaken the realm, and we invite worse than raiders."
Piper's eyes flashed. "Duty means nothing to starving folk. The Trident is our lifeblood—lose it, and we're dead."
"Enough!" Brynden's voice cut through. The hall fell silent.
Hoster's gaze swept the table. "I hear the cries beyond these walls. The King's neglect stings, but rebellion leaves us prey to the Ironborn. We hold the crossings—not for the Crown, but for the Riverlands. We starve if we must, but we do not yield."
Lord Vance exhaled, weary. "So we fight. But with what strength?"
"With all we have," Hoster said, knuckles white on the table. "The Trident is ours. By the Seven, it will remain so."
Silence fell, broken only by the wind and the faint rush of the river below. Through the chamber's narrow window, the Trident's dark shimmer gleamed, a silent promise of endurance.