Nine iron blades glimmered under the candlelight. Their hilts had been masterfully embedded into a bronze circlet, on which were etched runes as archaic as the line of kings and queens who wore the crown. Robb Stark may have died, but the Kingdom of the North and Trident had not died with him.
And neither had Ryman Frey. The knight's sallow face was dotted with bruises, not unlike the blueberry muffin Andrea baked for Rick last month, but smelling not nearly as nice. Even from the raised dais, Rick nearly retched from the stench of shit drifting from the trembling Frey's soiled clothes.
"Keep your head for now, Frey. But not the Young Wolf's crown," the Blackfish growled. "I am sure you will find your new lodgings every bit as comfortable as what you gave my nephew."
Two burly guards wearing fish-helms stepped forward and dragged Ryman Frey away.
"Did you feel its weight, Grimes?" The Blackfish asked when Rick handed the crown back to him. "It's a fine thing, forged by our smiths here at Riverrun. And your grandson will wear it one day. But we shall first deal with the Westerlings, whom I've heard have plans of their own."
The greying knight rang a small bell and the doors opened. A stern-faced woman dragged a girl into the solar with one hand, and grabbed a younger boy by the cuff with the other.
"Glad to have you join us, Lady Sybell. This is Lord Rickard Grimes of Alexandria, who lifted the siege with his men. Lord Rickard, this is Lady Sybell Spicer, mother of Jeyne Westerling -" the Blackfish gestured at the girl with reddened eyes. "- late King Robb's widow. The boy is Rollam Westerling, Lady Sybell's younger son."
Lady Sybell nodded. "I saw the battle. And heard about the betrothal at the feast." The older woman's hands fidgeted with her seashell necklace. "Ser Brynden, I'm certain you are aware of the sacrifices we made for King Robb's war." She gently adjusted the small crown on her daughter's head as she spoke. "I had the fortune to speak with some of the brave Alexandrians before breaking fast this morning. They say Lord Rickard's son would not inherit his lands after him. Is this true, Lord Rickard?"
The Blackfish spoke before Rick could answer. "Surely the Alexandrians would have also told you how Lord Rickard's son killed the Mountain. Those who are left of the Brave Companions tell the same tale. Nonetheless your House's great sacrifices in the war are remembered." He placed a piece of parchment on the table and started writing. "What do you want? Betrothals? I'm taking Rollam as my squire and will wed him to a girl of good upbringing. Matches will be made for Raynald and your daughters as well. Lands? House Westerling will be given more lands, and House Spicer will have Tarbeck Hall and its lands when we win the war. Wealth? The Crag and Tarbeck Hall shall be repaired with gold from Casterly Rock. If you want more, perhaps the Alexandrians are willing to trade with your merchant kin."
"Lords and heirs," Lady Sybell replied. "My children are worthy of kings, after all."
The Blackfish rang his bell again. The doors opened once more. "I will make matches as I see fit, but I now have a war to fight. So does Lord Rickard. Rollam, go see your mother and sister out, and make sure nobody comes in."
"What?" Sybell exclaimed. "We will not be so easily dismissed with uncertain promises."
"I did say I am taking your son as my squire," the Blackfish reminded her. Sybelle, seemingly appeased, retreated from the chamber along with Jeyne.
After they had left, the Blackfish pulled over a map of the Trident and unrolled it on the table. The 'Isle of Faces' at the God's Eye had been crossed off, replaced by a hastily scrawled 'Alexandria'. By now Rick had learnt that the Blackfish was not a man to dawdle.
Luckily the Blackfish had not only agreed with Rick's plan, but had decided to involve his own rivermen in it. The Westerlands itself was spent, the knight explained. With both Lannister and Frey armies destroyed, the western approaches to Riverrun could be held by a skeleton force. Vance, Piper, and what remained of the Brave Companions could hold the West easily. The main threat lay in the east. Tywin remained at King's Landing, as did the Tyrells and the army that won the Blackwater.
"How large is the army at King's Landing?" Rick asked.
"Tens of thousands," the Blackfish said, his voice hoarse. "I do not know how many lions are there, but some say there are as many as fifty thousand roses. Or sixty."
"That's quite the garden they got there," Rick observed. As quickly as Eugene's ammunition factory was working, Rick did not know if the Alexandrians even had fifty thousand bullets.
"A garden with too many thorns. And the Tyrells have some of the best horsemen in all Westeros. How many of your Alexandrians ride as well as they say your son does?"
Rick grimaced. A dozen perhaps, or two at most, and it was only thanks to the Negan war they even had that many in the first place. "Not enough," he muttered, shaking his head.
"Then it will be harder for us to recreate Fishfeed. At least the Iron Throne won't be sending its whole army to Harrenhal. Much as the Lannisters might wish the Roses to do so, and I do not think the roses wish to die for the lions. There is little left to forage east of the God's Eye and their wagon train would stretch all the way from Hayford to Harrenhal. I suppose they could try sailing those barges from King's Landing, but it's far harder to move supplies upstream." The Blackfish tapped at the map. "Lord Grimes, I hope you have enough boats to blockade the entrance to the lake?"
"We'll need more, but we don't have to build from scratch," Rick answered. Three boats could do only so much against a deluge of barges. "What's a Fishfeed?"
"It was a battle on the western shore of the God's Eye nearly two hundred years ago, which ended in the Lannisters driven into the God's Eye after they were surrounded on three sides. We could try landing an army on the eastern shore after they start sieging Harrenhal. But we then need more boats."
At the end of the day, the Riverlanders had only so many men, and the Alexandrians had even fewer, as fierce as their weapons were. Though they discussed various strategies through the night, neither of the two leaders had come much closer to a complete plan when the sun rose again. "Mayhap we will plan better at Harrenhal, or even Alexandria itself," the Blackfish suggested.
Before they left Riverrun, Rick asked for a piece of parchment. He furrowed his eyebrows as he wrote the letter back home. While the Tullys could seemingly be trusted, it only takes a careless or rogue servant, and anything could happen between Riverrun and Harrenhal. After two hours of hard work, he finally finished his message.
"fvhfoffofnzuisfbujttfsjpvtxfoffebtnbozcvmmfutbtqpttjcmfxfbsfeftqfsbufmztipsubtlqfufboepdfbotjefstupsftupsftijqtbtbquisfbunbzbssjwfgspntpvuipgmblftubsuqbuspmmjohxifogmffusfbez" was not really a word, but that would do for now. Rick carefully rolled up the parchment and handed it over to Riverrun's maester. "Please send this to Harrenhal."
Two hours for a letter? Seriously? Rick pondered. But better safe than sorry. Even the letter ending up in a Westerosi ally's hands would be bad enough, much less those who had cause to wish the Alexandrians harm.
They headed back east along a different route. Passing through village after ruined village, the war-torn Riverlands was eerily similar to the broken world Rick and his Alexandrians left, with its scant population and unroofed buildings. Vines were already starting to creep up the walls of some deserted houses. Far too many had been put to the torch, and for what?
Two days later they arrived at High Heart, a tall hill jutting above miles of rolling plains. "They say this hill is haunted, after an Andal warlord cut down all these weirwoods." the Blackfish mused after an exhausting climb. "Haunted or not, we would see any enemy approaching from miles away. I fear living warriors more than dead ghosts."
"We do not underestimate the dead after seeing them rise again." Rick said, his voice cold.
"Undoubtedly you have your reasons. But not all ghosts are dead. Some say a living one haunts this hill, with her ways of telling the future. The Ghost of High Heart, they call her."
Rick considered for a moment. "Won't hurt to see if she's around. Even if she can't tell the future, maybe she could tell the past, and that could be just as useful." He beckoned towards Dwight. "You got anything that can record what she says?"
"Here." Dwight pulled out his pen and notebook. "But we need to be very careful."
It took a few hours to finally find the Ghost, for the locals avoided her for the most part and only knew her general location. It was late in the day when they finally came upon her, sitting on a weirwood stump. A small woman she was, strands of white hair crudely plopped onto her pale skin.
"You!" the shrivelled crone suddenly cried, turning toward Rick, pushing herself up on a knotted black cane half the size of his. "The Old Gods stir again, whispering promises of the ancient dawn. I dreamt of a man in blue robes, blue sword shimmering as he hacked at a red eye right here, here at this hill. Ah! How righteous the man was, vanquishing his foe as surely as good triumphed over evil. And the eye glowed, its dark rays shone upon the bloodied child this man trod on as he clambered towards the sun."
"And I dreamt of the boy ensnared in a web of silk, one hand clawing at his own hollow eye as he shrieked in terror, the other clutching at a burning torch, setting the world aflame before two icy hands closed around him. Begone, Rick the Prick!" the little woman suddenly snarled. "Repent while you still can! And never return if you value your life!"
Rick did not have a mirror, but if he did, he was sure his face would be as red as someone who just downed a bottle of hot sauce. What was this woman on about!
"Dwight, Not. A. Word." Rick reached into his pocket, fishing out a one dollar bill from a time when the dead stayed dead. The locals had said some sort of offering was customary. "Here! Have your due. This money will be as useful as your words!"
The old crone reached towards the bill with a leathery hand. Rick's eyes grew as wide as saucers when the green bill turned a deep blue, inky lines slowly morphing throughout the paper. For a fleeting moment he saw his own face where George Washington's portrait would be, wise and serene. Then the face blurred, and grew sharp again, a bit different this time. He suddenly realised what was, what is, and what will be. But the crone folded the bill, and the knowledge left him.
"Visions and soothsaying!" The Blackfish laughed, patting Rick on his shoulder. "They are often fulfilled in the strangest ways." He offered the crone his wineskin. "Words are wind, but I'd sooner hear the news of the day than dreams of the night. What can you tell me of our Kingdom?"
The Ghost's bony hands stretched out and grasped the wineskin. She took a few sips. "I see a field of roses grow where the river meets the sea, growing around a grove of stone. But the blue star shines just too bright along the river, and the roses wither when the storm comes. I cannot see the lions through the grey, but they howl all the same."
"Do you see, smell, or feel any white?" The Blackfish asked. "Saltpans or White Harbor if she says yes," he whispered to Rick. "But White Harbor's too far from here, and not all roses bloom in winter."
"No," the crone answered. "Blue and grey, but no white."
"Maidenpool," the Blackfish stated with confidence. "We may just arrive in time to lift the siege."