Tyrion Lannister looked down at Twin River City, a sense of unease gnawing at him. From this northern gateway into the Riverlands, the city was a critical junction connecting Winterfell and Riverrun, and it was firmly under the control of House Karstark, the Starks' most loyal vassals.
For a Lannister to approach here was like a lamb stepping into a tiger's den. Tyrion's mind raced with possibilities of what might happen if Eddard Karstark even harbored a moment's suspicion. Another Lannister might not leave the city alive.
Why had this negotiation not been arranged in Duskendale, where they could have been safer? Or at the very least, a large tent near Harrenhal would have sufficed. Instead, they had to venture straight into the heart of enemy territory.
Tyrion's lips twitched in frustration. Does my father care so little about his dwarf son? Or does he know Eddard Karstark values Sansa Stark more than me and is counting on it?
"How long is that Karstark brat going to make us wait?" Bronn muttered, tugging his reins to calm his restless horse. The mercenary had been sitting for nearly two hours, the morning meal long digested. Hunger and boredom were making him irritable. That he hadn't begun cursing yet was a minor miracle.
"Bronn, temper yourself," Tyrion warned quietly. "Northerners don't fret over etiquette like the lords in King's Landing. Say the wrong thing, and you could be challenged to a duel. Remember, the man we face recently killed Gregor Clegane on the battlefield."
A small squad of red-cloaked Lannister guards rode behind them, along with several mountain clan mercenaries. Tyrion knew his father had insisted on such protection because a dwarf traveling alone in the North would be considered fair prey for opportunistic bandits.
Bronn scowled. "Do you think I can't beat Gregor Clegane? All I need is to stay nimble and wear the brute down. One stroke, and he's done."
Tyrion gave a polite nod. "Of course, my captain. But even with your skill, we are vastly outnumbered by Twin River City's four thousand men. If you want to avoid being surrounded and slaughtered, leave the talking to me."
Bronn grunted, clearly displeased, but wisely kept his tongue in check.
At last, a group emerged from the city gate. Their leader was tall and imposing, clad in a black outer robe embroidered with gold. A massive two-handed greatsword rested across his horse's back, and a golden sun shimmered on his cloak. Tyrion suppressed a shiver, masking it with a composed expression.
The Lannister banner approached the Karstark emblem, the lion meeting the sun in a tense display of heraldry. Tyrion noticed flecks of blood on the leader's armor and the attendant carrying a large golden-handled axe, the blade still stained. A show of force, Tyrion thought grimly. He forced a smile.
"Lord Karstark, I hope we are not intruding," he called, his voice steady. "Are you busy?"
Eddard Karstark's eyes flicked to the axe in the attendant's hand before he nodded. "Yes, indeed. You arrive at an inopportune time. Had you come a few hours earlier, you might have witnessed a Northern custom: a lord personally executing a few impertinent vassals."
This morning, he had beheaded vassals who refused to bend the knee and redistributed their lands. Now, the River Crossing territory was firmly under his control.
Tyrion's eyelids twitched. "Lord Eddard, perhaps an executioner would be wise. In the South, nobles do not dirty their hands with such tasks."
"Thank you for your suggestion," Eddard replied evenly. "But personally carrying out executions is our Northern tradition. It is not easily forsaken."
A slow grin spread across his face. "Oh, and perhaps I should arrange for some salt and bread?"
Tyrion blinked. "That won't be necessary. After a long journey, I prefer rich wine and roasted meat to soothe my stomach."
Salt and bread—guest right. A sacred tradition binding host and visitor. Any harm done under its protection violated the laws of the Old and New Gods alike. But for Tyrion, far from the reach of the Iron Throne, the concept offered little real protection.
Eddard Karstark nodded and turned his horse, leading them into Twin River City. Despite the tension, he understood the visiting envoy must be treated as half a guest. Tyrion followed, remaining at the front and inquiring cautiously.
"I hear King Robb Stark has returned north to address the Bolton rebellion and Ironborn raids. How fares the situation?"
Eddard's eyebrows lifted. Is he reminding me the North is still in turmoil, and that Stark requires peace more than Lannister does?
"The King of the North and the Trident, Lord Robb Stark," Eddard corrected, his voice firm. "I hope you take note. Once, I shall remind you, and that is sufficient."
"Of course," Tyrion replied smoothly. "And the war—how goes it?"
"Very well," Eddard said, crossing the city drawbridge. "Roose Bolton is isolated in Dreadfort, powerless to muster meaningful resistance. The fortress will soon have a new master. As for the Ironborn, they are cowed. Only lingering in their shallow waters, afraid to set foot ashore."
Robb Stark had indeed sent only Greatjon Umber north, monitoring the Dreadfort. Most Northern forces had returned home, yet through careful diplomacy and strategic promises, the Starks maintained loyalty from vassals like House Ryswell and the Dustin family. Rickon Stark, only four, would be married to an influential granddaughter of the Ryswells—a union that caused internal debate but was ultimately secure.
Tyrion frowned, noting the efficiency of Eddard's maneuvering. The North is far from defenseless, he thought. And he knows much more than I anticipated.
He pressed on, pretending casual concern. "Lord Mace Tyrell of the Reach might be worried. I hear Stannis Baratheon has mobilized—Copper Gate, Haystack Hall, even forces at Harvest Hall in the Dornish Marches."
Eddard nodded thoughtfully. "Minor troubles, indeed. They have little consequence here. The Iron Throne's reach is tenuous, and even with Prince Oberyn Martell's presence in King's Landing, the Reach remains a distant concern. The North faces its own challenges."
Tyrion attempted reassurance. "The Iron Throne has united with Dorne—Princess Myrcella is wed to Trystane Martell. Dorne is a loyal ally now, ready to act."
Eddard laughed loudly, shaking his head. "The Dornish protecting the Reach? You must be joking!"
Tyrion pressed further. "And what of justice for House Martell? Gregor Clegane—he has already been slain in Harrenhal."
Eddard raised an eyebrow, smiling. "I trust Prince Oberyn will find that justice enough."
With that, he dismounted, gesturing toward the Banquet Hall. "Let us speak no more of these matters for now. Allow me to fulfill my duties as host with a proper meal. This afternoon, we may attend to serious discussion."
Tyrion followed him, masking his unease behind polite smiles. Guest right was sacred, yes—but the road back to King's Landing remained fraught with danger. His survival, as always, depended on cunning words, careful observation, and the subtle art of negotiation.
The gates of Twin River City closed behind them, and the negotiation began in earnest, a delicate dance between the Lannister lion and the Karstark sun. Tyrion knew one misstep could cost lives—perhaps even his own. But for now, he had to appear confident, diplomatic, and, above all, unafraid.
The banquet awaited, and with it, the first moves in a dangerous game where the stakes were nothing less than survival, honor, and the future of the North.
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