King's Landing did not ease its grip just because I'd decided to leave.
If anything, it tightened it.
By late morning, the Copper Gull had returned to its careful rhythm—too clean, too orderly, the sort of calm that only came after something loud had happened and people were waiting to see what followed. I was halfway through tightening the straps on my vambrace when a knock came at the door.
Not loud.
Not timid.
Measured.
I opened it to find a woman standing alone in the hall. She wore travel-stained wool in muted river-blue, cut simply but well. No sigil. No jewelry. Her posture was straight in a way that spoke of discipline rather than pride.
"Garen Storm," she said.
"Yes."
"I speak for House Tully," she continued. "More precisely, for Edmure Tully."
That made me pause.
Not because of the name alone—but because of the timing.
"Come in," I said.
She did, closing the door behind her, eyes flicking briefly to the sword leaning against the wall before returning to my face.
"My lord regrets he cannot speak to you personally," she said. "He is occupied with matters at home."
"Riverrun," I said.
Her eyebrows lifted a fraction. "You keep yourself informed."
"Enough."
She nodded once, accepting that. "Then I won't waste your time."
She produced a sealed letter and placed it on the table between us. This one bore a sigil: a leaping trout in silver and red.
I did not touch it yet.
"Speak," I said.
"The Riverlands are bleeding," she said plainly. "Bandits, deserters, broken men from old wars and new skirmishes. Roads unsafe. Villages burned. Caravans taken. My lord's banners answer when they can—but they are stretched thin."
That matched what I knew.
The Riverlands always paid first when the realm grew careless.
"Hoster Tully is old," she continued. "Ill. Rule has begun to pass to his son in practice, if not yet in name."
Edmure, then.
Young. Earnest. And already shouldering a realm that expected strength it no longer had.
"My lord seeks men who are not tied to old grudges," she said. "Men without banners of their own. Men who can act decisively, without dragging the Riverlands into feuds it cannot afford."
"And he thinks that's me," I said.
She met my eyes. "He watched the melee. He asked questions afterward."
That explained the speed of it.
"What's the offer?" I asked.
"Patronage," she said, without dressing the word up. "Coin now. Authority later. You would ride under Tully protection, answer directly to my lord, and be tasked with suppressing banditry where our levies cannot respond fast enough."
"And in return?"
She hesitated—not long, but enough to matter.
"In return," she said carefully, "my lord would remember you."
I let out a quiet breath. "That's vague."
"Because the future is," she replied. "But there is talk of land. Not a castle. Not yet. A keep, perhaps. Or stewardship over reclaimed holdings, once the roads are safe again."
Once.
Always that word.
"And if the roads are never safe?" I asked.
"Then the Riverlands will continue to burn," she said simply. "With or without you."
I picked up the letter then and broke the seal.
The terms were written cleanly. No florid promises. No exaggeration. Coin sufficient to raise men of my own. Authority limited but real. And one line, near the end, that mattered more than the rest:
Service shall be judged by results, not by birth.
A bastard's clause.
I folded the letter and set it down.
"Why me?" I asked.
She didn't answer immediately.
"Because you fought like a man who could kill everyone in that pit," she said at last, "and chose not to."
That was the truth of it.
I thought of the other offers waiting beyond this door. Quiet work in King's Landing shadows. Escort contracts with men who wanted muscle, not judgment. Coin without consequence.
This was different.
This was risk.
This was responsibility.
This was a river pulling at your legs, daring you to step in.
"I won't kneel," I said.
"No one asked you to."
"I won't be leashed," I continued.
"My lord prefers men who don't need one."
"And when the nobles complain?" I asked. "When I crack heads belonging to men with cousins in keeps?"
She smiled thinly. "Then my lord will learn very quickly whether he chose well."
That was Edmure Tully all over, if the stories were true. Trying to do right in a world that punished hesitation.
I nodded slowly.
"I'll ride for the Riverlands," I said. "But I choose my men. And I choose how the work gets done."
She inclined her head. "Agreed."
"When do I leave?"
"Tomorrow," she said. "If you accept."
I looked down at the letter one last time.
King's Landing had offered me comfort.
The Riverlands were offering me a problem.
I reached out and pressed my thumb into the wax seal, smearing the trout just enough to mark it as handled.
"I accept," I said.
She let out a breath she'd been holding and straightened. "Then welcome, Garen Storm."
"To what?" I asked.
She considered that.
"To a river that doesn't forgive weakness," she said. "But rewards men who stand in its way."
After she left, I sat alone for a long moment, listening to the inn settle around me.
When I went downstairs, Marra was behind the bar as usual. She didn't look up until I set a single silver on the counter.
"Riverlands," I said.
She nodded. "Figures."
No drama. No farewell worth writing songs about.
I stepped out into the street and turned my face toward the gates.
King's Landing had made me visible.
The Riverlands would make me necessary.
Author's Note:
Hey TinyStitch here! I decided to settle on Riverlands. Currently, the Riverlands are a mess with banditry going crazy; this would be an opportunity for Garen to make his mark. If he went somewhere like Stromsland or the Reach, realistically, he wouldn't be given the time of day. Pushed aside for those with connections. Yes, in the Riverlands, he would essentially be a glorified mercenary, but he will have opportunities, given that he can provide results.