262 AC
Riverlands, Riverrun
Hoster POV
The screams echo through the halls, sharp and relentless. Every fiber of me wants to burst through that door, to pull my son from the world myself, but my brother's hand on my arm holds me back. Time stretches and warps and what feels like hours is only minutes.
Finally, the maester emerges, wiping his hands, a smile on his face. "My lord, come meet your son."
I rush past him, heart hammering, to where my wife lies. Minisa, pale but radiant in her exhaustion, smiles faintly. "Husband… come meet your heir."
She places the baby in my arms, and I feel a warmth so profound it seems to anchor the entire world. Red hair gleams like fire, eyes bright blue, and I cannot imagine a moment happier in all my life.
"What will his name be?" Minisa asks softly.
I pause, searching for words that could carry the weight I already feel for this child. In my mind, I see the tales I read as a boy of Daeron Targaryen, the Young Dragon who was daring, brilliant and destined for greatness. And somehow, holding him now, I know… this boy is meant to shape the Riverlands.
"Deron Tully," I say. Minisa's smile brightens, and I sense she understands the depth of my hope for him.
Deron gazes up at me with those brilliant eyes, unafraid, calm, already seeming to measure the world. I feel a surge of both pride and purpose. He will change the Riverlands and I am certain of it. And I will do everything in my power to guide him… even if it brings conflict, hardship, or heartache along the way.
For now, though, I simply hold my son. And for a single, perfect moment, the world is nothing but his bright blue eyes and the fire of red hair cradled in my arms.
Timeskip
268 AC
Riverlands, Riverrun
Brayden POV
It is a strange thing, watching a six-year-old handle steel with more grace than half the squires in Riverrun. Three moons of training, that's all Deron has had, and yet he moves as though the sword belongs to him already.
Usually, my brother would be here, hovering with pride, but since Minisa's death in birthing Edmure, Hoster has locked himself away in his solar. Three days now, and still he has not come out. So it falls to me to watch the boy.
Deron faces older squires in the yard under Ser Aric Vance's eye. At first, it is clumsy play with boys hacking at one another with blunted steel. But then… Deron shifts. His stance changes, feet sliding light and sure across the dirt. He flows, not like a child, but like water itself.
A squire lunges. Too wide, too slow. Deron sidesteps, smooth as a shadow, reading the strike before the boy's arm had even lifted. The squire stumbles, off balance and Deron strikes. One clean tap to the chest.
The yard falls silent.
I nearly lose my footing, and when I glance at Ser Aric, his eyes are wide. He looks at me as if to ask whether I saw the same miracle he did. And I did. Gods help us, I did.
I must tell Hoster. His grief has kept him blind these past days… but today, I think we have seen the making of the finest swordsman in the realm.
Hoster POV
Minisa, I will always miss you. These last three days without you have been a torment. I thought I was a strong man, yet I have done nothing but lock myself away in my solar, staring at parchments until my eyes ache. But I cannot drown in sorrow. Your death has made something clear to me that my legacy must endure.
So I pore over maps and names, bannermen and bloodlines, searching for matches. Catelyn must be wed well, Lysa too. Already, I see the Starks of the North Brandon, the firstborn son, close in age to my girl. A union of Riverlands and North… yes, that could secure us against the storms that will surely come.
But my thoughts are interrupted when the door bursts open. My brother Brayden enters, his face pale, his eyes wide with something between fear and wonder. My heart seizes.
"Hoster," he says, breathless. "It's Deron."
The words strike me like a spear. Not my son too. Grief crashes in all over again, raw and fresh. Not my boy.
But Brayden shakes his head quickly, and what he says next steals the breath from me.
"Deron… he might be a prodigy with a sword. Perhaps even…." he hesitates, as though afraid to sound a fool, "perhaps even the finest swordsman the realm will ever see."
For a moment, I cannot speak. I had hoped my son might be strong, clever, dutiful but this? Six years old, and already spoken of like that?
Slowly, pride swells in my chest, washing away the fear. My son. Our son, Minisa. You gave me an heir who could lift House Tully higher than it has ever stood.
I stand, and for the first time since you left me, I feel purpose burn brighter than grief. Deron will change the Riverlands. I will see to it.
And gods help the man who dares stand in his way.
270 AC
Hoster POV
It has been two years since Minisa's passing. Two years since I first learned the truth of my son's gift. Word has spread beyond Riverrun's walls now. Deron is only eight, yet he has beaten every squire his age and even bloodied those years older. The ones he cannot overcome, he troubles enough that they come away sweating and humbled. It is extraordinary. Gods, if he is so skilled as a boy, what sort of man will he become?
But swords are only one part of what a lord must know. A blade cannot win every battle. And so today, I begin another kind of training.
I sit in my solar, parchments scattered across the table of accounts of bannermen, letters from the Vale, whispers of marriage pacts in the Reach. My thoughts of legacy, of alliances, are constant companions now. Minisa would have tempered me. Without her, I see only the weight of duty.
The door opens. Deron enters, calm as ever. He wears the same unreadable expression he always does which is a face that reveals nothing, save for the rare moments when Catelyn or Lysa manage to draw a smile from him.
"Sit, my son," I say. He obeys silently, his dark eyes studying me, not the floor like most boys his age would.
"We have sharpened your sword. Now we sharpen your mind. A lord must know men as well as steel. Today, we speak of politics."
He tilts his head slightly. "Politics?"
"Yes. Alliances, marriages, the ties of blood and oaths. These are the weapons that win kingdoms as surely as any sword."
There is a pause. Then, for the first time, Deron speaks at length. His voice is quiet, but steady.
"Father… why do wars happen? Why do people fight?"
The question stills me. From another boy, it might sound childish. From Deron, it feels heavier, as if he expects the truth.
I fold my hands. "Men fight because of pride. Because one lord desires what another will not give. Because old slights fester, or because ambition drives them to grasp more. Sometimes they fight for love, or for faith, or for vengeance. But at the root of it all is that men fight because they believe the world will be better once they've won."
He listens in silence, unblinking. A flicker of something maybe doubt, or perhaps disappointment passes through his eyes, but it is gone as quickly as it came.
"Then war never ends," he says simply.
The words cut deeper than he knows. I see in him not only a prodigy with the sword, but a boy who already thinks beyond it. Perhaps that will make him a greater lord than I ever was. Or perhaps it will set him against me one day.
For now, I place a hand on his shoulder. "That is why you must be strong, Deron. Strong enough that war never dares come to us."
I sit back down and spread a map across the table. "The Riverlands sit between lions, wolves, and storms. If we stand alone, we are torn apart. If we make bonds, we endure. That is why your sister Catelyn may wed a Stark. Such a match gives us strength."
Deron studies the map for a long moment, then asks quietly:
"Why should the Riverlands always need protection from others? Why do we not make ourselves so strong that the others must seek our favor?"
The question stuns me. It is the sort of thought I might have chewed over with Brynden, not a boy of eight. "Because, my son, our land is rich, but open. Armies can march through it from any side. Alone, we are too easily crushed."
Deron nods, but presses further. "Then should we not control the roads and rivers so completely that no army can march without our leave? If we held every crossing, every ford, would the realm not have to bow to us?"
I hesitate. He is thinking not of defense, but of domination. Ambition flickers there, quiet but sharp. "Perhaps one day," I answer carefully, "but to build such strength takes more than one lifetime. We must be clever with what power we do have."
He leans back slightly, his eyes narrowing with thought. "And what if allies turn on us? If the Starks wed Catelyn, what stops them from treating us as lesser? Does marriage make us equal, or do we simply give them our blood?"
His words make me shift uncomfortably. "Trust, my son. Oaths and trust."
"Then why do men break oaths?"
The question hangs in the air like a blade. My mind turns to the Blackfyres, to every false promise I've seen in council. Why indeed? I cannot give him the whole truth. "Because men are weak," I say at last. "They are ruled by pride, greed, and fear."
Deron studies me with those piercing eyes, too calm for his age. "Then shouldn't we prepare as if every oath will one day be broken?"
For a moment, I have no answer. He is only eight, but in his words I glimpse the man he may become sharper than I ever was, more dangerous, perhaps even more ruthless.
At last, I place a hand on his shoulder. "Remember this, Deron: the greatest lords hold both the sword and the word. One wins battles, the other wins kingdoms. You must master both."
Deron simply inclines his head. He accepts my words, but I see it in his eyes that he will think on them, weigh them, perhaps twist them to his own designs.
And for the first time, I wonder if my son may not only protect the Riverlands… but reshape them.