The displeasure found him before breakfast.
It always did.
Garen had just finished assigning patrol routes in the lower yard—quiet rotations, staggered watches, men instructed to observe without engaging—when the sound of boots announced themselves with deliberate emphasis.
Three men approached from the direction of the inner keep.
Not guards.Not soldiers.
Nobles.
Minor ones, judging by the cut of their cloaks and the way they looked around as they walked, as if the castle ought to part for them out of habit. One wore a ring bearing a trout twisted just enough to suggest cadet blood. Another had the soft hands of a man who inherited land rather than defended it.
The third did not bother hiding his contempt.
"So," he said, stopping a pace too close, "this is the captain."
Garen did not turn immediately. He finished speaking to Merrick first, low and precise.
"Swap the dusk patrol with the midnight one," he said. "They're getting predictable."
Merrick nodded and moved off.
Only then did Garen face the men.
"Yes," he said. "It is."
The one with contempt stepped forward. "I am Ser Alren Vypren. My lands border the Tumblestone road."
"I know," Garen replied. "Your patrols stopped riding it three months ago."
A flicker of anger crossed the man's face. "I will not be lectured by a bastard—"
"Captain," Garen corrected calmly.
That earned him two sharp intakes of breath and one muttered curse.
"You wear no banner," another noble said. "You answer to no house."
"I answer to Riverrun," Garen said. "By writ."
Ser Alren sneered. "By Edmure's indulgence."
Garen stepped closer.
He did not raise his voice. He did not reach for his sword.
He simply occupied space.
"Your lands are still standing," he said. "Your people are still alive. That's not indulgence. That's results."
"You presume much," the third noble said stiffly. "Some of us question whether granting authority to a man without name or lineage is wise."
Garen looked at him evenly.
"Some of you stopped riding your own roads," he said. "Wisdom isn't inherited."
Silence fell hard.
Ser Alren's face reddened. "You will answer for this tone."
"No," Garen said. "I won't."
That stopped them cold.
"I won't bend because your pride is bruised," he continued. "And I won't apologize for doing what you wouldn't. If you want authority back, earn it. Until then, stay out of my way."
For a heartbeat, it looked like Ser Alren might draw steel.
He didn't.
Because around them, men had stopped working.
Soldiers.Levies.Men who'd ridden the roads Garen reopened.
They were watching.
Ser Alren took a step back, face tight. "This isn't over."
"It is for now," Garen said. "And for now is all that keeps people alive."
They turned and left without another word.
Garen exhaled slowly.
Standing water broke first—but it always made noise when it did.
By midday, the shadow net began to take shape.
Not a formal structure—nothing that could be counted or traced easily—but a living thing built from habits and quiet agreements. Carters paid in coin and protection to mention unfamiliar faces. Millers instructed to notice who crossed bridges after dark. Innkeepers promised discretion in exchange for patrols that actually arrived.
Information flowed sideways, not upward.
Exactly as it should.
Tom trained between duties.
Not drills.Not forms.
Survival.
Garen worked him in the practice yard with a blunted spear and no armor beyond a padded jack.
"Again," Garen said.
Tom lunged, corrected his footing mid-stride, and withdrew cleanly.
Better.
"You're still watching the blade," Garen said. "Watch the hips. Steel follows intention."
Tom nodded, breathing hard. Sweat streaked his brow, but his eyes stayed sharp.
"Captain," he said between breaths, "if I'd done that yesterday—"
"You'd still have overextended," Garen replied. "But you'd have lived longer."
"That's… comforting," Tom muttered.
Garen allowed himself a faint smile.
They were interrupted by a runner—one of the shadow watchers, not a castle page.
"Captain," the man said quietly, "they're adapting."
Garen wiped his hands and listened.
"Two nights now," the runner continued. "No ash. No threats. Just men passing through villages, asking questions. Paying for food."
"West," Garen said.
"Yes."
"Professional," Tom added.
"Exactly," Garen replied.
That night, the counter-move came.
Not at Millford.
At a crossroads village three leagues east—one Garen had deliberately not reinforced, letting it appear soft.
The choice presented itself immediately.
Protect the village and reveal his response patterns.
Or let the bandits expose more of their network.
Garen chose the third option.
He split his force.
Merrick led a visible patrol toward the village—enough to be seen. Garen took Tom and two others through the woods, moving hard and fast, cutting ahead of the bandits instead of meeting them head-on.
They didn't fight.
They listened.
From the treeline, Garen watched six men meet at the crossroads—no torches, quiet voices, efficient exchange of information. One unrolled a scrap of parchment.
"Route's compromised," one said. "Captain Storm is moving faster than expected."
That name landed like a thrown knife.
Garen felt the weight of it settle.
They knew him.
Not just his actions.
Him.
The men dispersed quickly after that, leaving no trace but footprints carefully brushed away.
Tom looked at Garen, eyes wide but steady. "They're afraid of you."
"No," Garen said softly. "They're accounting for me."
Which was worse.
He straightened, eyes on the darkened road.
This had moved beyond bandits.
Beyond testing.
The west had begun to plan around him.
And that meant the river was rising faster than Edmure realized.