Blood.

Everywhere Hoster looked, there was blood. Blood on his torn tunic, blood on his ripped trousers, blood on his hands…

Blood on his hands.

Shaking as if he was ill, Hoster stared at the palms of his hands. Blood…he saw blood…blood smeared on his hands…

Not anymore.

Breathing heavily, Hoster wiped sweat from his forehead. I am safe here. There are no Dornishmen sneaking around, killing us off one by one. It was a lie; a sneaky ambush could occur at any time. Right this minute, the false dragon's army could descend upon the resting men and kill them all. No, Hoster told himself, standing up and leaving his tent. There are sentries everywhere and Father had sent scouts out to inspect nearby forests and lands. We are safe here. In need of water, Hoster quietly walked to the stream. He sat down on a large, smooth rock half-buried in the grassy bank. Leaning over, he cupped water in his hands and drank it. Licking his parched lips, he raised his head and stared at the trees, his back turned to the camp of resting soldiers.

Every night Hoster dreamt the same dream: the deaths of Edmund Blackwood, Hoster Frey, Rylan Roote, Lord Blackwood and the other Blackwood men. It was months ago yet the memory of Dornishmen – and Dornishwomen – killing all the Blackwood men and Hoster's fellow squires in a few short seconds stayed at the back of Hoster's thoughts. Lord Blackwood was escorting the queen mother into the inn at the crossroads when he was speared in the back by a Dornish lady; the rest of them with the exception of Hoster himself and Ser Lucas Blackwood, Lord Blackwood's second son, were ambushed by Dornishmen when they were taking care of the horses. The Dornishmen did not care who they killed whether it was a common Blackwood soldier or a potentially valuable hostage.

All they wanted was blood.

For months, Ser Lucas and Hoster hid during the day and crept through fields and passing villages during the night. To villagers, they were two brothers who'd escaped from King's Landing and was on their way to Riverrun. Half-brothers. Ser Lucas had brown hair whilst Hoster's was auburn. The only commonality the two of them had was blue eyes. It was purely by luck when Ser Lucas and Hoster met his father leading an army on River Road. Hoster winced as he felt his heart sink. It wasn't the happy reunion he had envisioned. His father did not believe he was his son when he presented himself to him. "My son's dead!" Father had said, livid tears in his eyes. "Murdered by the Dornish! You…you are not my son." He'd then turned away, leaving Hoster gaping at him.

"You despise singers!" Hoster remembered yelling at his father. "You've hated them for almost all your life! When a singer – Tom of Sevenstreams – travelled to Riverrun to sing a few songs for my eighth name day celebrations, you grew red in the face and ordered him thrown out! Do you remember that, Father?"

Father had.

Hoster smiled faintly. After that, all went smoothly. He insisted on marching to King's Landing with the army though Father wished him to return to Riverrun to rule in his stead.

Breathing deeply, Hoster closed his eyes. The fresh scent of the stream helped bring him to his senses. Policies. Think of the peace policies. Think of Grandfather's schemes to bring allies to the Riverlands. Father secured us Oldtown; Aunt Catelyn the Crownlands and a strong relationship with the royal House; and Aunt Lysa the Vale. Will I continue my grandfather and namesake's policies or reinforce the once customary policies pursued by my Tully ancestors?

"Hos." Ser Lucas's shadow loomed over Hoster. Hoster looked up at him. Over time, Lucas had began calling him 'Hos', a shortened version of his name. Hoster wasn't certain if he liked it yet. "You well? Ready for battle?"

Hoster hesitated. Was it better to lie and prove he was a man grown, ready to face anything? No. "Not at all," Hoster confided softly. "I still dream of your father and brother's deaths. The deaths of the others as well."

"It happens."

"What of you, Lucas? Do you sleep well at night?"

The Blackwood knight paused. "Not every night," he admitted, scratching his chin thoughtfully. "I've fought in tourneys before, but never in a real battle. I am willing to fight and draw blood in the name of the true king Orys, but in truth, we are both green boys who've never fought in a war before. Did you hear the songs of war sung last night? Glory, bloodlust, honourable death…" He shook his head. "Exciting songs and stories, but far from the truth. My younger brothers still like listening to them as I did when I was their age." He hesitated again. "You are Lord Tully's heir," he stated, his blue eyes meeting Hoster's. "I will be honoured if you desire for me to be your sworn shield."

"I have no need for one," said Hoster impulsively. "Not currently," he added to be polite. "I can still swing a sword and I'm not a sickly child."

"It's no shame having a sworn shield. We'll be marching into battle by noon – I will defend you from those who want you as a hostage, my lord." The tone in Ser Lucas's voice had changed from friend to knight. My father will want me safe from harm, thought Hoster. I am his son and heir. If Ser Lucas wishes to be my shield, I cannot refuse him. He nodded at Ser Lucas. "Very well."

Ser Lucas knelt, unsheathed his rather plain sword that had already tasted the blood of Dornish traitors. "Then I am yours, my lord. I will shield your back and I will keep your counsel and give my life for yours, if need be. I, Ser Lucas of House Blackwood of Raventree Hall, swear it by the old gods and the new."

"I vow that you shall always have a place by my hearth and meat and mead at my table," Hoster responded, reciting the lines he recalled from a book he read a while ago about the history of sworn shields, "and pledge to ask no service of you that might bring you into dishonour. I Hoster of House Tully, heir of Riverrun and squire to the late Lord Blackwood, swear it by the old gods and new. Arise."

Ser Lucas Blackwood rose, his expression serious. He sheathed his sword. "I'll protect you with my life," he promised. "I already think of you as a brother, Hos. I have thought that since you started squiring for my father." He smiled.

"As do I." Did Ser Lucas speak the truth or did he hope for a Tully good-sister – or a Tully wife? Hoster decided to follow the former thought. "Let's return to the camp, Lucas. The others must be awake by now."


The quiet murmurs in the host of rivermen and northmen ceased the moment they reached the borders of Duskendale. The smell of burning wafted closer and Hoster wrinkled his nose. It was a bitter smell.

There was sudden shouting ahead. "Attack!" From every direction, men pelted out, some with swords and some without weapons. Hoster pulled his horse into a halt and stared at them. His heart pounded fast. What was happening? He quickly drew his sword.

"They are the false dragon's men!" Ser Edmyn Mallister, son of Father's closest friend Ser Patrek Mallister, yelled at Hoster and nearby rivermen. "In the name of King Orys, attack!" With an animalistic snarl uncharacteristic of a knight, Edmyn urged his horse to gallop towards the fleeing soldiers. Hoster watched as he cut a few down with his gleaming sword. The rivermen around him swarmed towards the running soldiers like a school of vicious fish followed Ser Edmyn's example in slaying their foes.

Taking a deep breath, Hoster urged his horse into a gallop. His heart pounded rapidly, almost twice as fast as its normal rate. His hand shook as he advanced on a soldier who had the dragon badge blazing from his right breast.

"Mercy!" the man begged, falling to his knees.

Hoster hesitated.

Before he could even think, an arrow zoomed past him and was lodged deeply in the man's neck. Blood trickled from the wound and he fell forward, flat on his face. Hoster looked around wildly.

"This is a war, Tully!" shouted an irritating, familiar voice. Greyjoy. "Don't just sit there on your horse like a simpleton!"

He's right. Hoster hardened his expression and galloped closer to the tall walls of Duskendale. He swiftly dismounted from his horse and was instantly engaged in battle by three men wearing chain mail hauberks. Instead of swords, they had spears in their grasps. Remembering Ser Desmond Grell's instructions in one-on-three close combat, Hoster jumped to the left. He inwardly sighed, relieved, when he heard a rough curse. One of his opponents had slammed his spear against his ally, not his intended target: Hoster.

Seizing his chance, Hoster spun around and kicked the second man in the back, knocking him to the ground. Gripping his sword with both hands, he drove it into the man's back, grinding his teeth to hold back a flinch. He yanked his sword out of the now dead man's back…only to fall to the ground as another soldier kicked him savagely in the ribs.

Hoster groaned in pain and attempted to crawl to his knees. Why didn't I train a little harder with Ser Desmond Grell and Lord Blackwood? He managed to grab his sword and scramble up to his feet and with a surge of strength, slammed his sword against the soldier's spear. Sweat drenched Hoster's face and back as both he and the soldier struggled against each other, both eager to win the advantage and to maim or kill the other. Blinking away droplets of sweat, Hoster uttered an animalistic growl. Keeping his eyes locked on the soldier's angry brown eyes, he stomped on the soldier's right foot. The soldier spat out a string of curses, giving Hoster the advantage he desperately craved.

With a grunt, Hoster pierced his sword into the soldier's stomach. He pressed it deeper and twisted it, causing the soldier to scream in distress, blood spraying out from his mouth.

Before Hoster could wrench his sword from the dying soldier, he felt a blow to the back of his head. Feeling faint, he staggered to the ground. He felt something heavy on his back and deep breathing close to his ear.

"You killed my brother!" a voice snarled. Hoster cried out in alarm as his right arm was forcibly moved from his side to the front. "You will fucking pay for this, you son of a bitch!"

Hoster wished he'd closed his eyes – he lifted his head and saw blood dripping from the steel of a sword.

"We have a family custom," the voice went on. "You spill our blood, you'll lose your life in the most painful manner ever. Fair don't you think?" More red blood trickled down from the man's sword. Hoster frantically struggled to escape – he was held down too tightly.

The last slimmer of the afternoon sun ran silver along the edge of the sword as it came shivering down, almost too fast to see.

Hoster screamed.


"You think he'll live?"

"All that pain…"

"He's only a boy…"

"Ssh! He's waking up."

Groggy and confused, Hoster opened his eyes. He shifted his weight and with a frown, looked around. Father, Ser Lucas, Robb Stark, Theon Greyjoy and a couple of other prominent lords and knights stared back at him. Hoster pushed himself to a more comfortable position on the unfamiliar soft bed. He hadn't slept or laid on a bed in over a month. He opened his mouth to croak.

That was when the pain started.

Hoster gasped in pain and looked down at his hand, where the agonising burn seemed to occur.

Only…he had no hand.

What remained was a stump, wrapped in clear linen bandages.

Hoster stared at the stump, his heart hammering thrice as fast. The pain…back when he fought the three men…

His breathing grew shallow when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He looked up. Father gave him a sympathetic look as he squeezed his shoulder. "You fainted in the midst of battle," he explained gently. "Loss of blood according to Maester Leo. He's the maester at Dun Fort," he added, glimpsing Hoster's confused look. "You were beaten pretty badly, and your hand…" He winced. "One of the false dragon's more loyal men swore revenge and…cut off your hand. Apparently you killed his brother mere seconds before."

Hoster continued staring at what remained of his hand, unable to respond. His dreams…his plans…all shattered now. All Tully lords had been knighted at some stage of their lives. He had planned to follow in their footsteps.

But now…

"If it wasn't for Ser Lucas Blackwood, Ser Olyvar Frey and Theon Greyjoy, you wouldn't be alive," Father continued, turning and inclining his head at Theon. "It was Theon here who wounded your attacker with a well-aimed arrow whilst Ser Lucas and Ser Olyvar carried you to safety. Theon Greyjoy elected to capture that traitor as a prisoner. The Rykkers expected help from the mummer's dragon, but the false king's men never came. They were unprepared for us, hence our victory. The city guards put up a good fight, but our troops overwhelmed them."

Hoster remained silent, his eyes glued to the bandaged stump. Father's words bounced from his ears to the back of his thoughts. He only half-listened as Father described the battle that led to the capture of Duskendale.

"…and Lord Rykker and his family are our prisoners," Father finished, a smile appearing on his face. "Are you interested in the prisoner pact, Hoster?" Like one of the puppets used in a mummer's show, Hoster automatically nodded. Father's new policy was tempting…but it did not hold Hoster's interest for very long. "The eldest son and one of the daughters will be sent to Riverrun," Father revealed. "It will be Casterly Rock for Lord Rykker and his remaining children. His wife will be here as a warning to the Mannings."

"The king's plan worked," spoke Robb Stark. "He attacked the Crownlands and drew the false dragon and his troops to Duskendale. King Orys knew the dragon pretender would send aid to Duskendale after all the help Lord Rykker provided upon his arrival." He grinned triumphantly. "When we attacked Duskendale from the south, loyal Crownlands Houses attacked from the west and the king's forces attacked from the east. As Lord Tully said, easy victory. The Rykkers' unprepared state contributed to our victory as well."

"Stupid of them not to prepare," scoffed Greyjoy, crossing his arms. Though he had bruises and cuts on his face, his familiar smirk remained. "Only cowards are unprepared for a battle."

Father nodded in agreement.

Hoster felt his lips move. "H-how?" he croaked like a wizened toad. "H-how do you know the king's plans?"

"The king is here," Father answered, delight illuminating his eyes when Hoster spoke. "He brought prisoners. Do you wish for him to come and see you?"

Hoster shook his head. He clumsily pushed the quilt away. "I would like to go and see him, Father."

"You shouldn't be out of bed," reprimanded Father.

"It's my hand that is now lost, not my legs, Father. I can still walk." The other men moved back as Hoster stood up. "I'd like to go and see the king alone. With Ser Lucas," he amended quickly, realising he had no idea where the king was.

Father nodded. "Very well. Do not strain yourself, Son." Was that a flash of pity in Father's eyes? Hoster grinded his teeth. He didn't want his father's pity! He did not want anyone's pity!

"What do I do now?" Hoster couldn't help saying recklessly. His father arched an eyebrow, baffled. "When I do I relinquish my place as heir of Riverrun to my brother Bryndon? I'm a cripple now, am I not? Cripples can't fight in battles. I am unfit to be your heir, Father." Without waiting for a response, Hoster stalked out the bedchamber like a sulky, angry child. As he walked aimlessly in the corridors of the Dun Fort, he glanced at his bandaged stump every few seconds.

"Looking at it wouldn't bring your hand back my lord." Ser Lucas was striding at Hoster's side. His expression was marked with sorrow and shame. "I fear I am at fault, my lord. If I was fighting at your side earlier, you wouldn't have lost your hand. Or so much blood."

"It's not your fault," muttered Hoster. "You were fighting other soldiers. I lost my hand and I can only blame myself. I thought I could handle fighting against all three men on foot. Stupid decision."

"Those three weren't ordinary soldiers of House Rykker my lord. After asking Theon's prisoner – more like interrogating – questions, we discovered that three of them are the bastard sons of the Lord Goodbrook who stayed loyal to the Mad King in the late King Robert's war. That Lord Goodbrook was slain and two of his villages destroyed. The three bastards joined the guards loyal to the Rykkers and when they saw you riding into Duskendale, they wanted revenge. They knew you are a Tully and wanted you dead for something your grandfather did."

"For something my grandfather did?" Hoster repeated, dumbfounded.

"Yes," Ser Lucas confirmed. "They hated your family."

"Is that bastard still alive?"

"Your father sentenced him to a painful death my lord. He also lost his hand – he is currently languishing in one of the cells. He will be hung in a few days, if he is still alive and conscious."

Hoster nodded. "You don't have to keep calling me 'my lord'," he informed Ser Lucas. "We are still friends are we not?"

Ser Lucas smiled as they approached a weirwood door guarded by four men in Baratheon colours. "This is the solar," he told Hoster. "Your father Lord Tully had use of it until yesterday afternoon when the king arrived."

"How long was I unconscious for?"

"Two days. You were awake for a few hours yesterday morning but when the maester started burning your uh, stump to seal it, you fell unconscious again. It's a good thing," he added swiftly. "You would not want to be aware of that painful, agonising process." Hoster nodded. He remembered naught about the maester or a torch. One of the four guards pushed open the door for Hoster and Ser Lucas as they walked closer. The Dun Fort solar looked similar to the Riverrun solar; large and spacious with a stone balcony outside. Inside, there was a table littered with maps and parchments surrounded by a circle of chairs. Hanging proudly on one of the walls was a banner of the Rykker sigil: two black warhammers crossed on a white saltire on blue. On the wall opposite was a banner of House Targaryen. It was an old banner adorned with tiny holes. It'd been clearly put up very hastily – an hour before the false dragon used the Dun Fort for his war council?

Hoster's attention drifted away from the slightly tattered Targaryen banner to his cousin King Orys who occupied one of the chairs in front of the table. It'd felt like years since he last saw his royal cousin.

"Cousin Hoster," said the king, concern flooding his expression. "I heard you'd been grievously injured."

"Your Grace." Hoster bowed. He raised his stump. "I was robbed of a hand in a battle. It's good to see you. I heard your victory is close?"

"Our victory," the king corrected, gesturing for him to sit. "We have control of almost all of the Crownlands. It took a month at least, but it was worth it. Some of the Crownlands lords yielded instantly; others fought and lost. We lured the false king's men to the woods between Follard, Rykker and Pyle lands. Unfortunately, the false dragon did not come. Oberyn Martell did though. It was a long battle – it lasted a few days. We had the upper hand but Martell's men – including a host of soldiers from House Stokeworth – chased us for half a day. The Dornishmen that were there had poisoned spears with them, the Red Viper's idea no doubt."

"You won though."

The king's expression looked grave. "We lost many lives. Many good men died, fighting for my cause. Valemen, rivermen…so many lives. By the end of the battle, we captured many prisoners, including Ser Manmore Stokeworth, Lord Warryn Beesbury, Ser Jon Fossoway and Monterys Velaryon."

"And the Red Viper?"

"Escaped like the snake he is." The king curled his fingers into a fist. "He won't escape from us for long. Chances are he went back to meet the false dragon near King's Landing." His eyes gleamed. "We'll catch them soon."


I decided to write it in Hoster's perspective to update what happened to him and any other survivors that were with Catelyn twenty two chapters ago and his thoughts on war. War isn't glorious and not every person recovers from killing people or witnessing murder straight away. I also chose for Hoster to lose a hand to illustrate that even though the Baratheon side won the battle and gained control of Duskendale, soldiers - even those of noble blood - can suffer from loss of limb and pain can come with victory.