The name did not travel politely.
It moved like water forced through a narrowed channel—fast, loud, and impossible to ignore.
Within days of the Dauntless Vanguard being spoken aloud in camps and villages, it reached Riverrun not as a report, but as an irritation. Letters arrived first, their phrasing careful and offended in equal measure. Then riders followed, their spurs ringing a little too loudly in the courtyards, their cloaks worn as if to remind everyone that blood still mattered.
Garen Storm felt it before he saw it.
The looks changed.
Not among his men—there the name settled like a standard planted firmly into the earth—but among the castle's fringes. Stewards paused a beat longer when he passed. Knights who had once nodded now measured him, weighing what the name implied rather than the man who bore it.
A named force was a claim.
Not of land.
Of relevance.
The first open challenge came at a river crossing near Stonebridge, where the road narrowed between water and rock. Garen had posted a rotating patrol there three days earlier—not to provoke, but to signal continuity. The patrol returned late in the afternoon with news that carried more heat than danger.
"Ser Halmon Vyre," Merrick reported, jaw tight. "Eight mounted retainers. He ordered our men off the bridge."
Garen did not look up from the map he was studying. "And?"
"They refused," Merrick said. "Politely. Referred him to Riverrun."
Garen nodded once. "Good."
"And he waited," Merrick added. "On the far bank. Watching."
That was escalation.
Garen folded the map and stood. "No engagement. No movement. We hold."
Merrick hesitated. "He's baiting."
"Yes," Garen agreed. "Which means he's already decided to lose something. I won't choose what."
The second challenge was louder.
It arrived at Riverrun's gates in daylight, announced by trumpets that had no business sounding there. Three minor lords rode in together—Ser Vyre among them—faces set in the practiced indignation of men who believed their outrage was a public service.
They demanded audience.
Edmure Tully did not grant it immediately.
That delay was not an accident.
Garen understood it the moment word reached him. He felt it settle into his bones like a familiar weight—one he had known in another life, under other banners, when command meant understanding not just what was done, but when it was allowed to happen.
Edmure was letting the pressure build.
Not to punish Garen.
To measure him.
Garen said nothing.
That silence unsettled the lords more than resistance would have. They prowled the castle, speaking loudly in corners, ensuring their displeasure was noticed. They spoke of tradition. Of overreach. Of "armed men without proper sanction."
They did not speak of roads reopened, or villages unburned.
When the audience finally came, it was held in the great hall—not the solar. Public. Witnessed.
Garen stood with Merrick and Tom at his side, not at the center, not elevated. He wore blue over his mail, clean but unadorned. The men behind him were not many—just enough to be present.
The lords spoke first.
"This so-called Vanguard," Ser Vyre began, voice carrying, "has overstepped its authority. It levies men from lands not its own, patrols roads without leave, and now bears a name as if it were a bannered house."
Murmurs followed.
Garen watched Edmure.
The young lord listened without interruption, expression composed, hands resting lightly on the table. He did not look at Garen. Not yet.
Another lord spoke. "We will not have private armies dictating order in the Riverlands."
That word—private—was chosen carefully.
Garen waited.
Edmure inclined his head. "Your concerns are noted."
That was all.
No rebuttal. No defense. No decree.
The lords stared, uncertain whether they had been dismissed or delayed. Eventually, pride forced them to withdraw, loudly promising that this was "not the end of the matter."
They were right.
That night, Garen stood alone near the river, listening to the current speak its endless language. Tom approached quietly, stopping a respectful distance away.
"They wanted him to stop it," Tom said.
"Yes," Garen replied.
"And he didn't."
"No."
Tom frowned. "Is that… good?"
Garen considered the question carefully.
"It means," he said at last, "that Edmure is willing to let this test me before he tests them."
Tom's eyes widened slightly. "That doesn't seem fair."
"It's not," Garen said. "But it is instructive."
Tom hesitated. "Should we—"
"No," Garen interrupted gently. "We don't ask for backing. We act as if we don't have it."
Tom absorbed that, jaw tightening. "Then if it goes wrong—"
"It will be on us," Garen finished.
Tom nodded once. "I understand."
Garen watched him go and felt a familiar clarity sharpen his thoughts.
Backing that had to be invoked was already compromised.
The days that followed were deliberately hard.
Petitions stalled. Supplies arrived late. A patrol was challenged twice in one day by different banners claiming jurisdiction. No violence—just pressure, layered and persistent.
Garen responded with consistency.
He rotated patrols without announcement. He posted men where lords complained most loudly and withdrew them where cooperation appeared. He documented every interaction, not for accusation, but for pattern.
Merrick handled discipline with a steady hand. Tom took to command under friction with surprising calm, refusing to be drawn into arguments, insisting on procedure even when insulted.
The Dauntless Vanguard did not bend.
That mattered.
By the end of the week, something unexpected happened.
Merchants began petitioning Edmure directly—not against Garen, but for him. Village elders followed. Even a few minor knights—quiet ones, practical ones—sent word that their lands had improved since the Vanguard's patrols began.
Pressure shifted.
Edmure called for Garen again, this time privately.
"You feel it," Edmure said, not as a question.
"Yes," Garen replied.
Edmure nodded. "Good. You're supposed to."
He poured wine but did not drink. "If I intervene too early, they resent me. If I intervene too late, they fracture."
"And if you don't intervene at all," Garen said.
Edmure met his gaze. "Then you become the thing they fear."
Silence stretched.
"You're walking a narrow line," Edmure continued. "So am I."
Garen inclined his head. "I won't force your hand."
"I know," Edmure said. "That's why this works."
He leaned back. "Whispers of knighthood have started."
Garen did not react.
"Not from me," Edmure clarified. "From them. They want to cage you with a title or break you before you earn one."
Garen's voice remained even. "Titles don't change what I do."
"No," Edmure agreed. "They change who feels threatened by it."
Outside the chamber, the castle hummed with restrained tension. The Riverlands were watching—not for a fight, but for a decision.
Garen stood to leave.
"Whatever you choose," he said, "I'll hold the roads."
Edmure smiled, tired but resolute. "I know."
As Garen walked back toward the camp, the system surfaced—not as warning, not as comfort, but as record.
[SYSTEM UPDATE — POLITICAL PRESSURE]
Force Visibility: High
Legitimacy: Contested (Rising Support)
Opposition: Fragmented (Minor Lords)
Patron Backing: Delayed (Intentional)
Autonomy Reliance: Total
The ledger faded.
Garen looked out over the blue-clad men drilling in the failing light and felt the full weight of command settle—not as pride, but as solitude.
He had known this moment would come.
When backing existed, but could not yet be spent.
When reliance narrowed to a single certainty.
He could only rely on himself.
And so he did—without complaint, without demand, holding the line until the river itself decided which stones would remain.