Once the battlefield had stabilized and the last echoes of steel faded into the evening air, the attendants moved swiftly to carry Lord Hoster Tully from the ruins of the Lannister western encampment. The old lord lay frail upon a low bed, his once-commanding presence diminished by illness and exhaustion. Carefully, they bore him across the drawbridge toward Riverrun.
The reinforcements had wasted no time claiming the warm crimson tents once belonging to the Lannisters. It would have been foolish to leave them standing empty. War demanded practicality, not sentiment. The defeated prisoners, who only days before had lorded over their captives, now found themselves under guard. Though Gendry had strictly forbidden torture or cruelty, captivity itself was punishment enough. Their comforts had vanished along with their pride.
Gendry walked beside the litter bearing Lord Hoster. With him were Anguy, Ser Barristan Selmy, Ser Edmure Tully, Bronze Yohn Royce, Count Tytos Blackwood, Lord Jason Mallister of Seagard, Count Jason of the Claw, and Ser Boros Blount, along with several trusted attendants. Together, they crossed back into Riverrun.
Riverrun rose proudly from the meeting of the Red Fork and the Tumblestone. Its sandstone walls seemed to grow directly from the waters themselves, crowned with battlements and arrow slits. Towers stood positioned so that their archers could command the opposite banks. It was not as awe-inspiring as the sky-piercing Eyrie, nor as impregnable as Casterly Rock or Storm's End, yet it possessed a resilient strength befitting the heart of the Riverlands.
The citizens and soldiers gathered along the walls as the party entered. Their voices rang out in celebration.
"Long live the storm!"
"Long live the liberator!"
Banners bearing the silver trout of House Tully snapped in the wind from every bastion. Gendry removed his twin-pronged greathelm and carried it beneath his arm, allowing himself a rare moment to absorb the cheers. Victory in war was fleeting. He would not forget this moment.
"Under normal circumstances, Riverrun can sustain both men and horses for nearly two years," Count Tytos remarked as they crossed the drawbridge. "More than two hundred men defending it would be excessive."
Gendry nodded. Though Riverrun lacked the grandeur of certain legendary strongholds, it was no minor holdfast. It was compact, defensible, and sturdy—qualities far more valuable than ornamentation in times of war.
They passed through the lower courtyard, where years ago Brandon Stark had dueled Petyr Baelish for Catelyn Tully's hand. History lingered in these stones.
Ser Edmure pushed open the heavy doors to the main keep, guarded by men wearing helmets adorned with the trout sigil. The keep itself mirrored the castle's triangular design. Slowly, the attendants carried Lord Hoster up the spiral staircase to his study.
The study overlooked the confluence of rivers, its eastern balcony jutting outward like the prow of a great sandstone ship. From there, Lord Hoster had often watched his lands and contemplated the shifting currents of politics and war. His bed had been placed upon that balcony so he could feel the sun and breathe the river air.
Now the chamber filled with Riverrun's most prominent lords. The doors were secured. What was to be discussed would not leave this room.
Lord Hoster lay pale but alert. "Forgive me," he said weakly. "Age weighs heavily upon me. Yet I must trouble you all to endure this with an old man."
"Father, I will summon the maester," Edmure said anxiously.
"No. Not yet." A tremor of pain crossed Hoster's face. "Master Wymann once gave me dreamwine and milk of the poppy. I slept too much. Now I must remain awake. I must see clearly."
He motioned for Edmure to come closer.
"I need to write."
With trembling hands, Hoster took up a quill. Though his handwriting wavered, the intent behind the words was firm. Three letters were written, each brief, each heavy with consequence.
When he finished, he handed them to Edmure.
"Do you understand?"
"Yes, Father."
"Read them aloud. Let these men bear witness."
Edmure swallowed and opened the first letter.
It declared the severing of ties between House Tully and Lysa Arryn. Hoster formally disowned his daughter, citing her dishonor and her refusal to aid the Riverlands. He invoked both the old gods and the new in dissolving their bond.
A heavy silence followed.
Count Tytos spoke carefully. "My lord, this will offend Lady Lysa deeply. The Vale's support may yet be needed."
Hoster's eyes sharpened with rare fire. "This is not a discussion. It is my will. I know my daughter better than any man here. Whatever her past, her present choices are her own."
Bronze Yohn's face darkened. Rumors already plagued the Vale—about Jon Arryn's death, about Lysa's paranoia, about her association with Petyr Baelish. The Riverlands' suffering while the Vale stood idle had not gone unnoticed.
Edmure then read the second letter.
It declared House Frey in rebellion. Walder Frey had ignored his liege's call, disrespected House Tully, and colluded with the Lannisters. The Freys were no longer vassals—they were traitors.
This time, no one objected.
The Freys had delayed, hedged, and maneuvered for advantage while the Riverlands burned. Their inaction had cost countless lives.
Finally came the third letter—a plea for aid. Written in Hoster's hand but signed in Walder Frey's name, it claimed Riverrun stood on the brink of collapse and urgently requested assistance.
"A deception," Hoster said faintly. "Old Walder still sees well enough to read it. Perhaps it will lure him."
Afterward, Hoster's strength faltered. He dismissed them gently, urging Edmure to heed Gendry's counsel.
"You are not skilled in war," the old lord said softly to his son. "Listen."
Soon after, they gathered in Riverrun's Great Hall.
Gendry took the high seat beneath the trout banners. Ser Barristan and Anguy stood at either side. The Riverlords assembled below.
"Send the raven immediately," Gendry ordered. "Inform the Twins that Riverrun is in dire need. Seal the castle. No scouts or messages are to pass unmonitored."
The lords nodded.
Gendry turned to Lord Jason Mallister of Seagard.
"The Twins."
Mallister spoke evenly. "The Twins consist of two castles straddling the Green Fork, joined by a stone bridge. The River Gate Tower stands in the middle. It is the only crossing for hundreds of miles."
Bronze Yohn frowned. "So we must attack from two sides?"
"Not entirely," Mallister replied. "Four thousand Frey soldiers cannot occupy both castles fully at once. Many are mercenaries camped outside the eastern walls. The true elite—perhaps two thousand—remain within the castles."
"Four thousand is no small force," Bronze Yohn muttered.
"They are untested," Gendry said. "An army that has not bled is easily broken."
Ser Barristan nodded. "Still, the Twins are formidable. A direct assault would be costly."
Gendry leaned forward.
"Then we do not assault directly."
He outlined the plan.
First, Hoster's raven would fly, spreading news of Riverrun's supposed desperation. Second, Ser Marq Piper—leader of Riverlands guerrillas—would ride to the Twins bearing the plea for aid. His small force would not arouse suspicion.
Meanwhile, Gendry's main host would move to Seagard. There, ships would be transported overland to reach the Green Fork upstream of the Twins. It would be difficult, but possible.
Under cover of night, fire crossbows and ships would strike the river defenses while Piper's presence within the western castle created confusion.
"A two-pronged assault," Ser Barristan said thoughtfully.
"Speed is everything," Gendry replied. "The Westermen are shaken. If we allow Frey to consolidate, we lose momentum."
Count Tytos nodded slowly. "It is bold."
"War rewards boldness," Gendry answered.
Mallister agreed to ready Seagard's fleet. Fire arrows and siege materials would be prepared. Piper would serve as envoy and infiltrator.
Bronze Yohn crossed his arms. "Daring. Perhaps mad."
Ser Barristan smiled faintly. "Sometimes the line between daring and madness decides victory."
The hall quieted.
Gendry rose.
"Walder Frey has played both sides long enough. He profits while others bleed. That ends now."
The lords murmured their agreement.
Outside, the rivers flowed as they always had—silent witnesses to ambition and betrayal. Soon, those waters would reflect fire.
The art of war was not merely strength of arms. It was deception, timing, and the courage to strike when others hesitated.
And Gendry intended to strike hard.
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