Ned holds the mirror Haedrian, or Harry as he asked to be called, had thrown towards him and told him to just call Sirius's name and that he had to go check up with his grandfather. The girls are in the chambers adjacent to the sitting room in the guest quarters of the Hightower, something that is a marvel to be up close to.
The mysterious black stone soaks up all the light at the base, making for an eerie visage as if the tower is floating in a shadow.
Clearing his throat, he calls out awkwardly, "Sirius." He watches as his reflection seems to warble and then shimmer to reveal the familiar face of his second youngest brother and most faithful companion to have.
The surprise on Sirius's face morphs into one of excitement and relief, "Neddy! You have Harry's mirrors so that means you're safe, right?"
"Where is he anyway?"
Ned merely chuckles, "The lad has been busy making sure we have been comfortable," Ned can see the smug pride as his brother beams.
"Told you my godson is the best!"
Sombering Sirius asks, "How are the girls?"
Ned sighs, rubbing his face, "I think they'll be alright, fortunately, they have a lot of distractions to soothe their trauma."
"I bet, I'm sure Harry is spoiling them rotten, be careful that one has a way of wrapping you around his thumb."
Ned can only laugh, "Aye, I think it's a little late for that."
After a second he clears his throat, "How's the boys?"
Sirius sighs, "Rickon is missing everyone, especially your wife, Bran is still struggling with his injury."
"My wife?"
But Sirius ignores him and continues, "Robb has been overwhelming himself trying to prove himself, and I think knowing you guys are out of immediate danger will take a lot of the stress off them."
"What about cat Cat?" He cuts off confused, and he has to wince as the cold expression frosts over his brother's face.
"She left in the middle of the night, and took off to her sisters, according to the letter found by her maid."
"She what?" He asks, feeling dread as they are in a very precarious situation.
The Lannisters previously had three of the vital people having been held hostage, now that they are not being imprisoned he can assume that the boy king will do something drastic. Now he has to deal with his wife deciding to risk the enemy gaining a hostage.
"Why?" He asks again, quiet like his namesake.
"Her sister sent for her, is all she said," Sirius replies, rubbing his face.
"Uncle, I can see you in the mirror!" Arya cries out, popping up from behind the couch he had been sitting in.
The room is spacious enough to have a whole set of furniture, from an intricate sitting table to the small library and desk off to the side. A fireplace provides a warm glow to offset the residue that cold big stone castles can get.
Sirius seems to soak up the bright eyes of his daughter and Ned can't blame the man.
"Hello, little Pup, you seem well." His brother chirped, and his boisterous attitude dialed down.
"I can't wait to show you my new moves! I'm going to be training under the sand snakes! Hah!" She says bouncing and Ned can only smile.
It heals his soul each time he sees his children smile, it helps him not focus on what if.
What if Haedrian hadn't been here?
He needs to stop being a fool and start being the lord of the North.
Gently prying the mirror from his daughter he addresses his brother, "Sirius, I want you to assemble your pack."
"Oh," his brother inquires with a savage grin.
"A Pack?" Arya asks, confused and excited.
Ned nods to the guard who escorted him to the lord's study. He only allowed his daughters out of his sight because he has come to trust Harry, and knows the kind young man would sooner cut his foot off than allow his children to be hurt.
He takes a deep breath as he enters and is surprised at how young the older lord, who most haven't seen outside his tower in over a decade. The man's salt and pepper hair was styled back and cut to his shoulders.
Leyton is currently chatting with Haedrian and his eldest Baelor who is playfully holding the younger lord in a headlock.
"Oi, cut it out breakwind!" Harry says ducking out of the older man's hold with a playful scowl.
Baelor pauses with mirth, looking down at him in mock offensive, "Why little nephew the betrayal." He whispers like he's made a great offense.
Lord Hightower peers over them and meets his guarded gaze with a calculated one, "Lord Stark, I'm glad to see you are well."
Tersely Ned nods, "Aye," Though he sincerely says, "And I have your grandson to thank for that, my lord." Lord Leyton laughs and waves his formalities off and motions for him to come to sit by his bar off to the side.
"Nonsense, we are both too old and you are a guest of my grandson, call me Leyton." Ned can hear the man's love for his children and grandchildren as he gazes at the two roughhousing, despite Baelor being around his age the man seems spry as a child.
"Ned then," he says, taking the offered glass of arbor wine, not his preference but he doesn't mind it.
"So, According to the letters Stannis sent out the blonde boy is a bastard and a product of incest, I take it you were imprisoned for such knowledge." And Ned thanks the gods he has a syringe drink for this conversation.
"Aye,"
The lord gives him a look, one that he gets often enough by southerners, he is from the north where the people are too worried about surviving the next winter to play games. He has been taught by one of the most honorable men and people still are surprised.
"I'm sure you tormented yourself enough that my opinion isn't necessary, nor are we close enough that it should matter."
The man tips his glass, "I commend you, most would stray from their values, brave, stupid, or foolish. It doesn't matter, that takes strength."
Ned tips his glass back, "Aye, I guess."
"Ned save me!" Harry cries ducking behind the seat he is sitting on and peeking over his shoulder as Baelor comes stomping with his hair color being royal purple.
"You think a Paramount will save you!" Baelor roars with no real heat as he swipes for the younger man, who in turn ducks and runs off.
"When I get you!" Baelor promises as he chases Harry.
"Aren't they lively," Leyton muses with fondness.
"Aye, they are." He says with a slight smile.
Tyrion shivers keeping to the wall as far back away from the cold giant opening that drops off thousands of feet. He can feel the uneven surface of the wall digging into his back, but the snagging sensation is soothing to his fear that a great wind will sweep him away.
It's times like these when his mind torments him with cruel jokes about his misfortune.
The blasted woman, Catelyn Stark. While she is a beautiful woman, if a little too prudish for his taste. A snobbish cunt if he will.
Hey, If he wasn't a prisoner of her vile and delusional sister he'd be more kind in his head.
He wonders how his father is going to react to this.
Will he even care? The man will probably throw a party and send Lysa a reward for getting rid of the lion's stain. He coughs around his chapped lips cupping his hand and trying to stay warm as the night air bubbles in.
He doesn't know if he's going to make it out of this.
If only he had some wine.
Harry shakes his head and picks up Baelor's youngest as they slam into his legs. He still doesn't know how to handle having so many family members in this life.
The little boy, not even five years old, has the infamous silver locks that his mother has along with the chocolate eyes of his mother Rhonda Rowan. Lifting the lid he puffs his cheeks making the boy giggle, "And what do you think you are doing Remmy?"
He still can't believe they allowed him to name the boy, despite his good aunt being the one who insisted.
"Nothing!" Remmy sings wiggling as he adjusts.
"Who's the pretty one?" Remmy says pointing towards Arya much to his amusement.
"Wait, me!?" Arya asks dubiously before turning to Sansa with a sly grin, "Hah! You're the ugly one now!"
"Shit up!" Sansa hisses with an embarrassed blush.
"Arya!" Ned says sternly, "Don't talk to your sister like that."
"But, she always calls me-" she stops herself.
Ned raises his brow at the suddenly sheepish Sansa, "she always what?"
Harry shares a look with his baby cousin and decides to dip out before things get awkward, he catches some of the spiel as he walks away.
"…her friends would call me…."
Sirius trots through the foliage and dances through the trees as he sprints through the forest, his paws spitting up snow as he makes his way toward his pack. He can't say he's disappointed with the change in his animagus form, even if it's only the fact that he's at least three times as big as he had been. His pitch-black fur blends into the shadows and his scenes are even more powerful than when he had been a Grimm.
He breaks through the shadows and comes to an encampment of men who are under his command, he has them surveying the land and keeping the peace. Like the modern police, just on a much smaller scale. They mainly focus on bandits and the like while not under orders. Most are men who he met in his travels and some are second sons of his brother's vassals, who wanted to prove themselves.
One agreement they have to undergo is a vow of silence about his quirks, though given that those in this society are zealous with oaths it wasn't that hard. The black in him is proud of how easy it was.
"My lord," a newer younger soldier says, startled and eager as he approaches, his sword clinking alerting them. It was somehow still attached to his hips.
That is the wonder of being an animagus.
He reaches out and ruffles the kid's hair, "What's up squirt?" He says purely to see the kid fuss.
And to his satisfaction the boy ducks out of his hold with a petulant scowl, "I'm not a squirt,"
Then with a confused face, he adds, "Whatever that means,"
"Whatever it means, I agree with 'em, Cregan." The aforementioned Cregan squawks in offense, like a lot of northerners most tend to give their children a namesake in honor of the Starks, believing that it blesses their children with good fortune.
"My lord!" The man who spoke before steps forward, his gray beard braided with stones.
"What brings you here? Are we finally going to fight a lord!" Bryan, one of the captains of his force, asks brandishing his battle ax.
"Aye, the winds of winter are howling and we must prepare."
Chapter Text
Daenerys watches under the cover of shade provided by the tarp set up as they settle for the night.
She absently caresses the swell of her stomach feeling a love only a mother could feel as she takes in the new status she has. She had successfully managed to make Drogo see her as more than a cunt to fuck. She can tell she only needs a few more weeks before she has him ensnared in her web.
"Khaleesi, there is someone here to meet you." The wary voice of Jorah makes her turn to her left and she takes in the sight of a lithe man, his hair is auburn all but a strip of hair that is as silver as hers. The man gives her a bland smile and his eyes seem to shift between coal and silver as if they can't decide.
The man steps forward with his hands clasped behind his back, "A man is here to offer his services," the phrasing makes those around them who can understand common freeze.
She can see Jorah reaching for his sword and feels her heart leap in her throat, the only people who refer to themselves as a man or a girl are the faceless. Did the usurper finally decide to spend the price to acquire the house of black and white?
Before everything can escalate the faceless man holds up his hands, "A man does not come to give you the gift of death, but to offer you protection from it."
"What?" She feels dumbfounded, the house of black and white doesn't have bodyguards.
Jorah raises his sword, "I've never heard of a faceless man being a protector, you will not deceive the princess."
This man merely smiles even with a blade pressing into his throat, "a man is only doing what his lord wills."
That doesn't mean much to her but Jorah's face spasms, "why would a god of death care about protecting one from it?"
"Not a man's god, but a God's son."
Daenerys feels bile rise and it has nothing to do with the conversation, she embarrassingly turns over and pukes into one of the pales offered to her when her pregnancy sickness started.
"It might help if you give the princess some citrus." The faceless man says somehow producing a satchel that is full of fruits.
"An offering from my liege." He says and sets the bag in front of him, at her nod Jorah picks it up and inspects it.
"How do we know it's not poisonous?"
"If a man wanted to kill you, you would be dead." And despite the chill that runs down her spine at the sheer confidence in his tone, she thinks it's his strange way of trying to comfort her and her protector's fears.
"Jorah, he is right, let me see."
He reluctantly does so and feels her heart pound as she opens the bag and sees an assortment of fruits.
But it's the lemons that make her eyes water.
She doesn't know why it brings so many emotions other than the memory of the red door and the lemon trees, but what is buried inside makes her heart stutter and her mouth open.
"My God's." She says and Jorah almost snatches the thing out of her hands but stops as she proceeds to pull out a crown.
"It's my mother's crown." She whispers thickly, having thought she'd never see it again.
The bright sun and humid breath of the Riverlands bake down on a small quaint village just a ways from the river leading to the pinkmaiden. The people of the village are river folk who make their living off of fishing and using the river as transport for goods and merchandise.
They, like many towns in the Riverlands, are disputed on who lords over them, for the Tully's never have had a firm hand on their vassals. This causes a lot of fear for a scrabble of the lords, and everyone knows who suffers the most on the whims of a lord.
It certainly didn't help when the Baratheon king had given simple hedge knights of Riverlands a boon in the name of the land, courtesy of house Tully's reluctant agreement. The old noble houses felt slighted about having to give away land they had held for centuries, with the only consolation being they were paid 2 gold dragons an acre.
Deep in the village, many people pause as they hear noise in the distance, some ignore the sound, but those who are aged and wizen to the ways of the world feel fear trickle down their spines. The mothers of mothers who've experienced the horrors of war rush with ice in their veins as they hurry gather their families and seek refuge from what's to come.
The older men, the ones who survived going to war in both the rebellions, hear the sounds and with great dread close their eyes. Not even a second later a swarm of red-cloaked men peek over the hill and finally the rest of the town understands the danger, unfortunately, it's too late.
The biggest man they've ever seen swings his thick blade in an arc upon his sword and decapitates three people in succession. The man raises his sword the blood of their fiends dripping off the blade.
"Slaughter everyone and burn down everything the Tullys dare take Lord Tywin's son hostage, they betray the crown!!" The beastly man roars inside his helmet, the dog design snarling an ugly snarl.
What ensues is what becomes the bloodiest massacre to ever be committed by man, not with a dragon. Women are torn from their husbands and forced to endure the dirty paws of the Westerland men.
Babies are thrown into the dirt and crushed by the horses stampeding. Fathers, brothers, and husbands are forced to watch as their daughters are dragged into alleys or even mounted in broad daylight.
A lone survivor stares, the garrison leaving to wreak havoc on another town ignored in favor of his gaze locked on the listless eyes of his daughter, her head worked at an odd angle when the man rapping her got too rough and snapped her neck.
The demon had simply laughed, said 'whoops' and kept going.
The father lets out a keening noise and bows his head, thousands of bodies litter the ground, and surrounding him are burning houses.
The whole time a caravan of musicians had been playing the Rains of Castamere as they followed along.
Sansa shifts in her seat in the guest room of the Hightower's keep, still trying to adjust to the unsettling contrast between her current comfort and her past captivity in King's Landing. The room is luxurious, adorned with plush tapestries and offering a view of the bustling city of Oldtown.
Despite the beauty and safety around her, a lingering sense of fear keeps her on edge. She gazes out the window at the vibrant life below, the colorful market stalls, the busy streets filled with merchants and laughter.
The sounds and sights of Oldtown are a stark contrast to the cold silence of the Red Keep and kings landing horrid stench, Sansa struggles to shake the feeling of dread that follows her.
Absently, she traces the embroidery on her gown, a beautiful piece crafted from the fine fabric Harry gifted her. The gown symbolizes safety and hope, yet it feels strange to be free from the constant fear she has lived with for so long.
She continues to fiddle with her needle, her mind restless.
A soft knock on the door interrupts her thoughts. Startled, she looks up as Lady Malora Hightower enters.
Malora is an intimidating person, with her serene yet socially awkward presence, brings a strange mix of mystique and unladylike demeanor. Her flowing robes and ethereal aura add to the sense that she is not entirely of this world.
"Lady Sansa," Malora's voice is soft and resonant, carrying a calming tone. "I hope I am not intruding."
Sansa blinks, momentarily taken aback but grateful for the company. "Not at all, Lady Malora. Please, come in." Malora moves with a deliberate grace, her gaze wandering around the room with an almost otherworldly interest.
She takes a seat opposite Sansa, her robes creating an almost magical aura around her, "Are you comfortable?"
Her eyes are gentle and steady. Sansa hesitates before nodding. "I am, thank you. It's just… everything is so different from what I've known."
Malora's eyes are lit with understanding. "The world can be vast and strange, and it is often difficult to adjust when what was once familiar becomes foreign."
Sansa sighs, feeling the weight of her fears. "It's hard to let go of the fear."
"Even here, in safety."
"The past is a persistent shadow," Malora intones softly. "It takes time for its grip to loosen, even when the present offers light and hope."
Sansa's gaze drifts back to the window, where the city's vibrant activity contrasts sharply with her inner turmoil. "I keep expecting the worst to happen, as if safety is just an illusion."
"There is wisdom in caution," Malora says gently, "but balance is crucial."
"The past has shaped you, but it does not define your future." Sansa looks at Malora, searching for answers in her serene eyes.
"How do you find peace? I've heard so much about you and your… abilities. Do you use them to find peace?"
Malora's expression becomes thoughtful. "My abilities are tools, not sources of peace."
"True peace comes from within, through acceptance of oneself and the world. It is a journey, not a destination."
Sansa takes a deep breath, feeling a small sense of comfort from Malora's words. "I hope I can find that peace."
Malora's gaze remains steady and kind. "You will."
"In time, you will find your own path to peace. Remember, you are not alone. There are those who care for you and wish to see you thrive."
Sansa nods, feeling a flicker of hope in Malora's wisdom. The lady's calm presence and serene demeanor offer a sense of reassurance, making the room feel a little less like a cage.
Malora rises gracefully, her movements deliberate. "If you ever need counsel or simply someone to listen, know that I am here."
"Thank you," Sansa says earnestly. "Your kindness means a lot to me."
Malora offers a serene smile. "It is my pleasure. The journey to peace involves many steps, and each step brings you closer."
William stared out at the bustling streets of Oldtown from the vantage point of a high balcony, the city's vibrancy a stark contrast to the somber thoughts that weighed on his mind.
He had always found solace in the grand architecture and the constant hum of activity below, but today, his gaze was drawn more to the people, the faces he passed by daily, the ones whose stories he seldom knew.
It wasn't always this way.
William had come to Oldtown with grand ambitions, much like any young knight eager to prove his mettle. He had been a bright-eyed youth when he first met Haedrian Tyrell, or Harry as the lord insisted on being called, and it was Harry's vision that would alter the course of his life.
When Harry Tyrell had first arrived in Oldtown, the third son of the paramount, that of considerable wealth and influence, but he as the spares spare, he had much to do to make his mark.
The little lordling was charming and had a keen intellect, yet he approached his new role with a palpable sense of responsibility. The city was vibrant, but beneath its surface lay deep-seated issues that Harry couldn't ignore.
It all started with a series of conversations held in the private chambers of Harry's apartments.
He would sit with his advisors, that being his uncle, Baelon, and the archmaester who focused on architecture and infrastructure. The little ambitious lad was rumored to stay late into the night, discussing the state of the city and its myriad problems.
The plight of abandoned and orphaned children weighed heavily on him. Harry had witnessed the struggles of the common people and knew that Oldtown's prosperity was marred by neglect and poverty for some.
One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows over the city.
William, who was just a green fresh knight, had just recently joined the city watch, when Haedrian thanked him for stopping him from falling when he tripped over his feet. The little lord took a liking to him, and ever since he has been a part of the bright lordlings life.
He has come to appreciate Harry's dedication to addressing the issues that others might overlook.
"I've seen too many children roaming the streets, hungry and desperate," Harry had said one night after a heated discussion with the archmaester, his voice steady but laced with resolve. "It is clear that we need to act, not just for the sake of these children, but for the future of our city." The room had been filled with murmurs of agreement, but Harry's eyes were focused.
He wasn't interested in mere words; he wanted action. "I propose we establish a sanctuary, a place where these children can find safety, nourishment, and education."
"A place that can offer them a chance at a better life."
The proposal was met with skepticism, as it was ambitious, and the challenges ahead were daunting.
And for most caring for the smallfolk is a new concept, horrible as that is.
In spite of all the reservations, Harry's determination was infectious. He spoke of creating a safe space, a haven where children could be nurtured and given the tools to rise above their circumstances. As the discussions continued, the idea of the Lily Corp was born.
It would be a dedicated space within Oldtown, separate from the chaos of the streets, where the most vulnerable could find solace. Harry envisioned it as more than just a shelter, it would be a center for education and empowerment.
In the following months, Harry's vision began to take shape. The process was far from easy.
Oldtown's bureaucracy was cumbersome, and there were many who viewed Harry's initiative with suspicion or outright hostility. The idea of providing aid to those in need was often met with concerns about its impact on the city's social order.
William had been one of the first to step forward and offer his support. He was passionate about the cause and saw it as an opportunity to make a tangible difference. He spent countless hours alongside Harry, navigating the labyrinthine process of securing resources and support.
The Lily Corp was established in a previously neglected district of Oldtown.
The area was refurbished with the aid of both funds and volunteer labor. Old buildings were renovated, and new structures were erected to create a space that was both functional and welcoming. The work was grueling, but Harry's unwavering commitment kept the project on track.
William was heavily involved in the process, often overseeing the day-to-day operations. He coordinated with craftsmen, arranged for the delivery of supplies, and ensured that the construction was progressing according to plan. His dedication was matched only by Harry's vision.
William was present on the day of the grand opening.
The sense of accomplishment was palpable as the doors of the Lily Corp were opened to the first group of children. The sight of their wide eyes and tentative smiles was a reward that made all the hard work worthwhile.
He became a key figure in managing the daily operations, ensuring that the children received the care and attention they needed. He worked closely with the staff, who were recruited for their compassion and dedication.
One of William's primary responsibilities was to oversee the educational programs.
He was deeply involved in recruiting educators and setting up a curriculum that would provide the children with the skills and knowledge they needed to succeed. He took a personal interest in their progress, often spending time with them, listening to their stories, and offering guidance.
The work was challenging, and there were days when William felt overwhelmed by the enormity of the task. However, he was driven by a sense of purpose and a belief in the potential of each child. The Lily Corp was not just a sanctuary; it was a beacon of hope.
As the years passed, the impact of the Lily Corp became evident.
Many of the children who had come through its doors went on to lead successful lives, using the skills and knowledge they had gained to make a positive impact on their own communities.
The sanctuary had achieved its goal of providing a lifeline to those who needed it most.
William often reflected on the journey from the early days of the Lily Corp to its current success. He thought about the challenges they had faced, the obstacles they had overcome, and the lives they had touched.
The experience had changed him, and he was grateful for the opportunity to be a part of something so meaningful.
Hoster Tully stands by the window of Riverrun, the setting sun casting long shadows across the stone floor. He watches the rushing waters of the Tumblestone merge with the Red Fork, his thoughts as turbulent as the rivers that have long defined his house.
The Riverlands are bleeding, his people, his lands, caught in the crossfire of a war that seems to stretch on without end. The image of the smallfolk, those who have suffered the most, haunts him.
Gregor Clegane, the Mountain, and his band of marauders are cutting a swath of terror across the countryside, burning villages, slaughtering innocents.
The devastation is beyond anything he's seen in his lifetime.
His brother, Brynden "Blackfish" Tully, enters the room, his face set in a grim line.
They've had this conversation before, but each time it feels like they're grasping at straws, trying to find a way to stop the unstoppable.
"The reports keep coming in," Brynden says, his voice rough from years of command. "Clegane's men are near Harrenhal now, burning and pillaging as they go. The smallfolk are fleeing in every direction, but there's nowhere safe to run."
"The Mountain doesn't leave survivors."
Hoster nods, his heart heavy. "He's Tywin's rabid dog, unleashed to terrorize and break the Riverlands."
"Tywin knows no mercy, not even for the innocent. The man is a butcher, and his hands are stained with the blood of my people." He spits out with aged rage.
Brynden stands beside him, both men staring out at the rivers that are the lifeblood of their house. "We need to strike back, Hoster."
"The Blackwoods and the Brackens are preparing to mount a defense, but they're divided as ever. If we could unite them, maybe we could make a stand. But even then, against the Mountain…"
"It's a death sentence." Hoster closes his eyes, feeling the weight of his years pressing down on him.
"Our men are stretched thin, Brynden."
"I've already sent ravens to the Vale, but Lysa… She won't lift a finger. She's too afraid, too wrapped up in her own fears. We're alone in this."
Brynden's silence is telling.
The Blackfish is a man of action, a warrior who thrives in the chaos of battle, but even he knows the odds they're facing. "We could try to send word to Robb, but he's in the North, and with winter approaching, the roads will be treacherous."
A knock on the door interrupts them, and a servant enters with a note in hand. Hoster takes it, recognizing the seal of House Stark. As he reads, a flicker of hope kindles in his chest.
"It's from Robb," he says, glancing at his brother. "He and Benjen is seems have administered an army when the Lannisters put Ned in the black cells, they are passing the Neck now."
"They'll reach the Twins soon."
Hostler lets out a shaky laugh, at least his other daughter isn't a disappointment. He hasn't seen the lad, Robb since he was a babe, but he does remember Benjen, the man is a tactical genius and will be a great boon to their force.
"How many?"
"A little over ten thousand troops,"
Brynden raises an eyebrow, but addresses a different topic. "The Twins? Walder Frey won't be easy to deal with. He's a snake, always looking for an advantage."
Hostler grip tightens on the parchment, his thoughts immediately turning to the Freys' reputation.
The slimy rat ignored his calling of the banners. Walder Frey is a man who demands something in return for every favor. "Good luck, my grandson."
"I pray Walder doesn't trick you into marriage."
Brynden's expression darkens. "If Tywin's learned of this, he'll use the Freys as another weapon."
"We can't let Robb be ensnared by that old lecher."
Hoster nods, feeling the old familiar burn of frustration in his chest. "Tywin's bloodthirst has no bounds. He's lost his leverage with the capture of Sansa, Arya, and Ned."
Thank the gods.
"He's lashing out at the Riverlands to sow fear and chaos, but he's a fool if he thinks it will save him. The North remembers, and so do we."
Brynden places a hand on his shoulder, a rare gesture of comfort. "We'll hold the Riverlands, Hoster. We've weathered storms before, and we'll do it again."
Hoster looks at his brother, the man who's stood by him through every trial. "We must. For our family, for the people who look to us for protection. We can't let Tywin's cruelty go unpunished."
"The Riverlands will not be broken."