Dawn did not break gently over Millford.
It crept in, pale and uncertain, mist rising from the stream and clinging low to the ground like something unwilling to leave. The village stood silent, doors shut, shutters barred, fear pressed tight behind wood and stone.
No one slept.
Garen stood at the ash line where it cut across the road, boots planted, cloak damp with dew. Behind him, his men waited in positions chosen carefully in the dark—not hidden, but present. Enough to be seen. Enough to be counted.
Tom stood to his right, jaw set, knuckles white around his spear.
"You said dawn," Tom murmured. "They'll come."
"Yes," Garen replied. "And not the same way."
The first sound was hooves.
Not many. Controlled. Disciplined.
That alone set Garen's instincts humming.
Bandits didn't ride like that.
Shapes emerged from the mist—men in patched mail and leather, cloaks dirty, helms mismatched. At first glance, they looked no different from the broken men they'd already faced.
At first glance.
There were twelve of them now. Twice the number from the night before. They stopped short of the ash line, spreading slightly, forming a loose crescent.
Not a mob.
A formation.
Their leader stepped forward again, same man as before, confidence intact.
"You had your night," he called. "Dawn's here."
Garen didn't answer immediately. He let the silence stretch, eyes moving—not over faces, but over posture. Weight distribution. Spacing. The way hands rested near hilts.
To orderly.
Not bandits. Definitely not bandits.
Poorly trained, but definitely not bandits.
"You didn't bring fire," Garen said at last.
The leader smiled. "Didn't need it."
He raised a hand.
Two men behind him shoved something forward.
A body.
The miller's nephew—one of the boys they'd demanded as a porter—was thrown onto the road like discarded cargo. He was alive. Barely. Blood streaked his face, one eye swollen shut.
A collective gasp rippled through the village.
Tom took a step forward.
Garen's hand snapped out, stopping him without looking.
"This is your mercy," the leader said. "Pay. Or next time, we don't bring him back breathing."
The boy coughed weakly.
Garen felt something settle into place.
Not anger.
Clarity.
"You're not here for grain," Garen said calmly. "And you're not here for fear."
The leader's smile faltered.
"You're mapping response times," Garen continued. "Testing how quickly Riverrun answers. How far patrols ride. Who resists."
Silence.
One of the men shifted—just a fraction too late.
"You lost scouts yesterday," Garen said. "You escalated today. Not because you were angry—because the loss was acceptable."
Tom stared at him, realization dawning.
"You're not bandits," Garen said. "You're measuring the Riverlands."
The leader laughed again, but it was thinner now. "You talk too much."
"Do I?" Garen asked. "Tell me—what banner do you really answer to?"
That did it.
Steel cleared leather.
Not all at once—but enough.
Garen stepped forward.
The greatsword slid free with a sound that cut through the morning air.
"This ends now," he said. "You leave the boy and ride west. Or you die here."
The leader's eyes hardened. "You think eight men can stop—"
Garen moved.
Not in a spin.
Not yet.
He closed the distance in long, brutal strides, blade coming up in a precise, crushing arc. The leader barely raised his sword before it was knocked aside and his chest caved inward by the flat of Garen's blade. He hit the ground like a felled ox, air blasted from his lungs.
The rest broke.
Not routed—engaged.
Tom surged forward with a shout, spear leveled, courage burning bright. This time, he didn't overextend. He kept distance. Thrust. Withdraw. Again.
Good.
Garen became the center of the fight.
Steel rang. Men fell. One tried to flank—Garen pivoted and dropped him with a single, efficient strike. Another went down screaming between the combination of Merrick and Calder. Lewin moved like a ghost, silent and precise.
It was over quickly.
Too quickly for a true bandit fight.
When the last of them fled into the mist, three lay dead. Two more crawled away bleeding, leaving armor behind.
Soldiers abandoning gear.
That confirmed it.
Garen knelt beside one of the fallen men and tore open his cloak.
Beneath the grime and mud, the stitching was still visible.
Red thread.
Careful. Precise.
Lion-work.
The world went very still.
Memories surfaced—not of Westeros, but of books, timelines, causes masquerading as chaos.
This was before the Mountain.
Before open war.
Before fields burned openly under banners.
This was the beginning.
Testing.
Destabilizing.
Creating justification.
And there was only one man in the Seven Kingdoms who played wars like ledgers.
Tywin Lannister.
The Hand behind the knife.
Garen stood slowly.
Tom looked at him, breathless. "Captain… who were they?"
Garen stared west, toward lands rich with gold and ambition.
"They're the start," he said. "And if we don't stop this now, the Riverlands will drown first."
Tom swallowed. "Can we stop them?"
Garen tightened his grip on the sword.
"We can delay them," he said. "Expose them. Make it costly."
And that might be enough.
Because once this became visible—once Edmure understood who was really probing his borders—everything would change.
The villagers emerged cautiously now, helping the injured boy, whispering prayers and thanks in equal measure.
They thought this was over.
Garen knew better.
The war hadn't started yet.
But it had just introduced itself.