Chapter XIII
Riverrun
Yara Greyjoy awoke to the sounds of knocking on her chamber door. An insistent, urgent knock, sounding like it was from a mailed fist. One of the guards, she quickly thought.
"My lord, there is a message for you," said the guard. She recognized the voice. It was Roland, one of the household guards of the Tullys.
"Wake up my lord," she said to the man sleeping at her side, putting on a voice of exaggerated deferential courtesy. The lump of sheets and pillows next to her did not move.
"My lord, you must awaken," she continued in a cloyingly sweet tone.
"Ughhh," grunted the lump.
"Edmure, wake up," she demanded, pushing at his shoulder. He groaned again. She balled a fist and punched him.
"You're so rough on me," Edmure Tully replied, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. She grinned at him.
"You never complained about that before," Yara said. He smiled back at her through his fierce reddish beard.
"My lord?" came the questioning voice of Roland.
"What is it Roland?" Edmure said.
"There was a message for you, a rider from Lady Whent, he says it is urgent," replied the guard.
"Ugh, fine, show him to the great hall, I'll be there shortly," Edmure replied.
Outside their window, the sky was grey and the world was full of a gray half-light. It was the early hours of the morning and a cool breeze brushed over Yara's bare skin. She stretched out on the four-poster bed she had shared with Edmure the previous night. Rolling over to her side and drumming her fingers on a bare thigh, Yara observed her lover dressing.
When she had come to Riverrun as a girl, Edmure had been a boy only a few years older than her, with a gawky build and lanky limbs. As he had grown, he had filled out, till he had the stocky, muscular build of a riverman. His hair was reddish-brown and his eyes a bright blue and his face smiled easily and his beard lent him a rugged handsomeness. Edmure noticed her watching him and he waggled his eyebrows at her. She sighed and shook her head.
She could not say she loved him. No, Yara Greyjoy did not think she could love, not after how she had come to be the ward of Riverrun. She did not love Edmure, yet he was kind to her and not an unskilled lover and the feeling of his arms around her did not displease her.
And he will make a good match for my house someday, she reflected. If she had to wed someone she did not love, at least it would be one whom she chose for herself.
When Edmure had dressed, he went over to her and kissed her, then winked. She pulled up the bedsheets to cover herself just as Edmure opened the door. Roland glanced in but saw that she was covered. Yara hated being leered at.
When the sounds of footsteps down the hallway had disappeared, she tossed the sheets back and got out of bed. Yara rolled her eyes at the wall hangings in her chamber. They were tapestries of the usual Riverlands scenes of farmers and fishermen and the Tully salmon swimming in swift rivers. She had always wondered why the Tullys insisted on a fish as their sigil when their lands had so many fishermen.
She dressed herself in riding leathers, as was her custom. The kraken of her house was worked in gold thread upon the sleeve of her jerkin. Her unorthodox dress habits for a woman had caused many her septa unending headaches when she was a younger girl, but as she grew up and Lord Hoster had grown elderly, gradually Riverrun had come to accept that she would dress that way.
"As long as she dresses properly for sept and visiting lords," Hoster Tully had admitted at last. She smiled at the memory. Yara had always thought the Tullys were fools, but they were kindly fools at the least. She tried to think of the gowns and dresses she had to wear on those occasions as a sort of armour, worn for a purpose. That made it easier.
When she was dressed, she sheathed a dagger at her belt. That too had caused many arguments at Riverrun, but with promises and compromises and no small amount of flattery she had finally won the right to go armed without the men of Riverrun thinking her strange, though many were still uneasy about it. Yara Greyjoy would never let herself be helpless again, not after what happened.
There was a knock at the door.
"Enter," said Yara. A young lady with dark hair and dark eyes walked in, dressed in the plain dress of a handmaiden, head bowed in deference.
"Good morning milady, Lord Edmure ordered that I attend to you," the girl said. Her name was Jeyne Rivers, the bastard daughter of one of Lord Tully's bannermen, sent to Riverrun to make her living as a handmaid. Yara thought she was a silly girl when she was younger, but she became Yara's own handmaid, and she appreciated that Jeyne never looked on her strangely for wearing what she did or acting as she pleased.
"I will wear my hair in a braid today, I think," Yara commanded, sitting down at a desk by the western window. Obligingly, Jeyne came over and started to brush out her hair. Yara's hair was long, thick, and black. When she was a girl she had kept it short like a boy, but she had worn it longer and longer ever since. Now it reached down to the small of her back, and she usually wore it in a braid to keep it out of her way.
In the courtyard beneath her window, the guards were filing out for their morning drill, shivering and rubbing their arms in the dawn chill. Others kept a watch from the towers and the battlements, and above the gatehouse flew the salmon of House Tully, Lords of the Riverlands and, for the last nine years, the foster-family of Yara Greyjoy.
God, nine years already, nearly ten, she thought, staring out the window towards the west.
Riverrun was a castle unlike any other. It was a three-sided castle, built roughly in the shape of a triangle, built at the point where the Red Fork and the Tumblehome met. Most of its buildings, including the tall stone keep, and even many of its rooms, were also triangular to fit inside this unusual shape. Two sides of Riverrun were covered by water, and the western side faced a deep, wide ditch. If foes came upon Riverrun, a sluice gate could be opened to the rivers, turning that ditch into a moat. The stronghold of the Tullys was not especially large as castles went, but it was a formidable fortress in its own right.
Almost ten years had Yara spent in this place, with old Lord Hoster and gallant Edmure, wise Maester Vyman, her long-suffering Septa Sigrid, fat-bellied Ser Desmond and bald Ser Robin Ryger who were always arguing, and all the rest of the household of the Tullys. Often she thought them stupid, or foolish, or weak, and yet they were not cruel or unkind to her. After all these years, she could almost call Riverrun a second home. Almost, but it was not her home and these people were not her people, and that she never forgot.
Somewhere to the west, across blue rivers and green plains and grey mountains, and across the wine-dark sea, her home still waited for her. There, rising upon pinnacles of storm-weathered rock, was the castle of her fathers and her house. Yara could still see it in her mind. Broken walls and tumbled towers. The gate shattered, the hearth cold and the halls abandoned. In her dreams sometimes she still saw it as it was before, full of family and happiness and the salt-smell of the sea. And sometimes she saw it still smoking from the fires that consumed it, with the courtyards strewn with corpses and her father dead upon his own throne. Yet it was still her home, it would always be her home, and she had promised herself that one day she would take it back. Pyke was her home, not Riverrun, and Pyke still called to her from across the waves.
Her lands were not these green lands. They were the Iron Islands, land of rock and salt. The names of those islands lived in her memory. When she was young she would repeat them to herself, like a prayer, so she would not forget where she came from. Pyke, Great Wyk, Old Wyk, Blacktyde, Saltcliffe, Orkmont and Harlaw. Those islands jutted up from the waters like the ridges on the back of some monstrous sea-dragon. The islands were stony and craggy, and the grass there was short and sparse, and lichen clung to the rocks, and the ocean jutted into the land in deep fjords and inlets. The people, it was said, were just as hard and cruel and stubborn as the land itself. Yet the Ironborn were her people, and the Iron Islands were her lands, and the sea was in her blood and she did not forget how it was taken away from her
The Iron Fleet had sailed away to meet the foe. Well did she remember how brave and how strong it had looked, hundreds of longships with their high prows carved into serpents and dragons and strange beasts, and their oars sweeping at the water rhythmically. The men were all in burnished mail and high helms, with their painted shields hung over the side of their ships, and their arms glinted in the sun. In the centre of the fleet was the flagship; The Great Kraken, hulking and massive, its huge ram wrought in the shape of a fierce kraken with many arms clinging to the bow of the ship. Balon Greyjoy was her father, he was Son of the Sea Wind, Lord Reaper of Pyke, High King of the Isles. He was mighty and she knew he could never be defeated. How wrong she had been.
Only the Great Kraken returned after the battle. Her Uncle Aeron had died in the fighting off the coast of Harlaw, and Uncle Euron who had abandoned their father. Her father's bannermen had been sent down to the Drowned God or else scattered to the four winds before the onslaught of the foe.
She remembered seeing the white ships appear on the horizon, coming from the north. Pale as death they were. Their prows were carven like the heads of swans and eagles and seabirds. Cruel rams glided beneath the waves at the bow of every ship. Their sails were black as the night, and each mainsail displayed a silver star of many rays. On every mast flew the banner of the enemy: The cursed white tree and seven stars and the crescent moon. Yara remembered it well. And she remembered what manner of men they were: Tall they were and fell they seemed, as if they had sailed out of the ancient mists of time.
Three days. That was all it took from the moment they landed to the moment their ram broke open the gates. They did not wait for starvation or time to take its course, and though Yara's mother begged her father to sue for peace, he knew and she knew in their hearts that the tall men of the sea would not listen. There would be no quarter. There would be no peace with Gondor.
Her older brothers died holding the gate for as long as they could. Uncle Victarion perished holding the bridges against the enemy. Her father was slain upon his own throne, with Isildur's sword in his heart. Her mother was the next victim of the Lord of Minas Ithil's blade. Yara had taken her brother, Theon, the last family in all the world she had, and she hid with him in their room. For a day and a night they sat and listened to the screams as everyone they had ever known was butchered in the halls around them.
One of the Dunedain finally found them. His mail had rattled with every step he took. His sword was dark with blood. He looked wearier than any man Yara had ever seen. His face was stern and lean and grey eyes looked at them as if they were not there. His helm was tall, gleaming bright, and tall wings rose from its crest. Yara was sure she and her brother would be slain; she held Theon tight and wept and prepared herself to meet the Drowned God.
Yet he sheathed his sword, and pulled off his helm, and kneeled before them. His eyes were kindlier then. He didn't say anything, he just held out his hand. Somehow Yara understood. She took his hand, and the Dunadan picked up her brother as if he were light as a feather, and he led them away from there.
Five days on one of the white ships. Those were the saddest days of all. Five days amongst the people who had slaughtered her family, and they never saw the Dunadan who spared them again. They were given to the King, who was marshaling his forces at Lannisport, and the King decided to separate them. Yara was given to old Lord Hoster Tully, and Theon to Lord Eddard Stark. For nine years she had not seen the sea or her home or her brother.
She had a new prayer now though, and she kept it in her mind always:
What is dead may never die, but rises again, harder and stronger.
"I am finished milady," said Jeyne.
"Thank you Jeyne," replied Yara. She stood up. A long black braid, expertly done by the handmaiden, extended to the middle of her back.
"Shall I bring you your breakfast, milady?" asked Jeyne. Yara rolled her eyes. In Riverrun, handmaidens were forever acting as if didn't even have legs to walk with.
"No Jeyne, I can go to the hall myself, I'm not a cripple you know," said Yara with a grin. Her handmaiden nodded and followed along as Yara Greyjoy left the chamber.
Outside, the morning air was cool and fresh and smelled of the rushing waters of the Tumblehome. Riverrun always smelled of running river waters. It was not the sea, but better than to be in Winterfell.
It is cruel to keep an Ironborn so far from the sea, Yara thought, not just of herself but of Theon. She had not been allowed to write her brother, nor had he ever written her. She wondered if he ever thought of her, what he looked like, how the Starks had treated him. She wondered if he too missed the sea.
As she crossed the triangular courtyard of Riverrun, she noticed leering eyes amongst the training men. It was a new guard, barely a man grown, watching the movement of her legs and her hips as if he had never seen a woman before. She was used to it by now, but by now only men new to Riverrun still looked on her like that.
"Don't leer at Lady Yara that way you little cunt!" swore Lew, one of the older guards. "Long Lew" he was known around Riverrun, for his long legs.
"And why shouldn't I look at whoever I please, Longshanks?" replied the younger guard, sneering.
"Cause if she don't cut off your little cock and stuff it in your mouth, then I will," growled out Long Lew. Yara smiled at that. Lew had always known what she wanted to hear.
Servants opened heavy iron doors before her. The great hall was not as large as some of the other halls of great houses, yet its roof was high-vaulted, and from its walls hung rich tapestries depicting scenes of the lives of the Riverlanders; farming, fishing, hunting, village festivals, and poling boats along peaceful rivers beneath boughs of green leaves. In a hearth, the remnants of the last night's fire still crackled lowly. Long trestle tables stretched out, enough to seat two hundred men at need. At the high table, plates of sausages, bread, cheese and smoked fish were laid out, but they were untouched.
The black bat of House Whent of Harrenhal spread its wings on the surcoat of the errand-rider. His hair was dark with sweat, matted to his head, and he had the look of a man who had ridden till exhaustion. He swayed where he stood. Around him stood Edmure, Maester Vyman and Utherydes Wayn, the grey-haired steward of the Tullys. Their faces were grave. Edmure held in his hand a letter and the others looked over his shoulder to read it.
"What news?" asked Yara. She took her accustomed seat and reached for a mug of ale.
"My lord?" said the errand-rider. His mouth said no more, but his face said "Is it wise to discuss these matters around a Greyjoy?" She had seen that look many times.
"Riverrun is as much Yara's home as it is ours, she ought to know," said Edmure. He rubbed his eyes, and then handed her the parchment.
She held it in one hand and quickly scanned the letter. It was written in Lady Whent's spidery hand and bore her own personal seal at the bottom. Dark eyes widened when she realized what the letter told her.
"Your sister has taken a Lannister captive?" said Yara. Edmure sat down across from her, head in his hands.
"Why would she do such a thing? With Father ill and Riverrun so close to the Westerlands," Edmure said.
Yara had remembered hearing something about Edmure's nephew being injured falling from a tower at Winterfell, and that Lord Stark had gone south to court as the Marshal of the new King's Host, but neither of those things seemed to have anything to do with the Lannisters. And Lord Tywin Lannister was not one to let his sons be captured without reprisals.
The letter seemed heavy in her fingers. A chill ran down her neck.
"A better question is what business she had in the Riverlands in the first place? Why was she not in the North?" Yara said. The Whent messenger was looking from her to the Maester and Steward with wide eyes. It seemed that no one had told him about the order of things in Riverrun.
"We ought to send a raven to Casterly Rock, to assure Lord Tywin of our peaceful intentions," cautioned Maester Vyman.
"I will not abandon my sister!" declared Edmure bravely.
"And Tywin Lannister wipes his arse with peaceful intentions," added Yara. Septa Sigrid had always hated her manner of speech, but Yara wasn't about to let that stop her. Edmure turned to the messenger.
"Do you know where Cat took her prisoner?" he asked.
"I was told Winterfell, milord, she was riding to the north," the errand-rider replied. Edmure cursed lowly.
"Utherydes, send for Ser Robin," he commanded. The steward nodded and rushed from the hall, robes billowing.
"We have to go stop her, we have to stop this," Edmure said, running a hand through his hair.
"Edmure, your riders won't make it in time, the distance is too far even as the raven flies," Yara replied. In her mind, she could see all the miles stretching out from Riverrun to the Neck, she could see the long route west to the Ruby Ford any riders would have to take to get across the Green Fork, or else north all the way to the Twins. Casterly Rock was much closer, that threat much direr.
"You should call the banners," she said. He looked at her, his face pale, and said nothing.
Ser Robin Ryger came striding into the great hall with plate and mail rattling with every step. The Captain of the Guard of Riverrun was a big, red-faced man with jowls and a wide, heavyset neck. His head was bald but for a few strands of hair he kept cut short around the sides. One of his huge fists was planted on the pommel of the longsword he wore.
"What is your command my lord?" asked Ser Robin.
"Ser Robin, assemble fifteen men and send them riding for the Neck with our fastest horses. They are to find Lady Catelyn Stark, she is on the Kingsroad," Edmure said. He stood up from the table and took the letter from Yara's hand to give it to Ser Robin. The Captain of the Guard read it over quickly, face turning white as he did.
He didn't say anything, he didn't ask any questions, Ser Robin Ryger just rolled up the letter into a tight scroll and handed it back to Edmure. His face was drawn, ashen and drained of colour
"It shall be done, my lord," the Captain said.
"And the bannermen my lord? Shall I send the ravens?" asked Maester Vyman. His brow was beaded with sweat and he wiped it away with one of his voluminous long sleeves.
All eyes fell upon Edmure. Yara stared at him intently. He opened his mouth as if to speak, and then closed it again. He stood up from his seat, his shoulders slumped like he bore some tremendous weight.
Say it, you bastard, you know what must be done, thought Yara. She knew he was no coward, but the prospect of war with Tywin Lannister and all the might of Casterly Rock seemed to daunt him. Edmure loved to joust and spar, and sing and drink and boast with friends, but he had never drawn his sword in anger.
"My lord?" said the Maester.
"I shall speak to Father," Edmure replied.
Yara quickly got up and followed him from the hall. He led her down a long stone corridor, and then up a winding stair. The keep of Riverrun was shaped as a triangle, following the shape of the castle itself. It took up the eastern corner of Riverrun, where the two curtain walls met and the rivers joined beneath them. From its highest towers, one could watch the Red Fork meandering away for miles, and in all its history no foe had yet set foot in the keep of Riverrun.
At the end of the corridor, they came to the ironshod oaken door of Lord Tully's bedchamber. Edmure quietly turned the latch and opened it.
Dawn sunlight was streaming into the room through the open windows. The Lord's bedchamber was a triangular room at the eastern corner of the keep. Its broad window faced east and every day the morning sun would shine through it. The room was richly furnished, the light of the sun falling upon the four poster bed. Tapestries decorated the walls. In the corner sat the fighting harness of Lord Tully upon its rack, the outer surface of the plates cunningly wrought to resemble the silver scales of a salmon.
Yet despite the open window and the morning breeze, the chamber smelled of sickness.
Lord Hoster Tully sat up in his bed, head propped up by pillows and backboard. When Yara had come to Riverrun, he had been tall, broad, and bulky, with bright blue eyes and a loud laugh. Even then, his reddish-brown hair had been shot through with strands of grey and the wrinkles of age were beginning to appear at the corners of his lips and eyes.
Now though, another nine years lay heavily upon him. Four of those years had been spent in a gradually worsening sickness. All the luster had gone out of his eyes, they were a pale, watery blue. His hair was white and had thinned out unevenly across his head. His arms were frail, all the muscle and strength gone out of them. His breathing was ragged and he was often taken by horrible fits of coughing, sometimes mixed with blood.
Edmure's face was pained, looking down on his father in such a state. For a moment Yara considered taking his hand in hers, to comfort him. She discarded the notion though. That was one lie too many.
"Edmure, my boy," Hoster Tully said in a thin, weak voice. The sun fell upon the face of the Lord of Riverrun and, for a moment as he smiled at his son, the years and the sickness fell away. For that moment, he looked almost as he once had, with happy eyes and a warm smile. Then he coughed, a deep, painful-sounding cough, and he was a sick old man once more.
"Father, how do you feel?" asked Edmure quietly.
"Sick of this bed," said Lord Hoster with a trace of his old fierceness "But the sun is warm and the day is beautiful. In my younger days, I never learned to appreciate the beautiful view from this window as I do now," He chuckled ruefully.
When Yara first came to Riverrun, it had seemed like Lord Tully would never spend more than a fortnight in his own halls. He was always riding off to this village or that holdfast. Often he would take Edmure with him, so that his heir could learn the names, the faces and the personalities of the bannermen that would one day be sworn to him. He continued to travel even into his later years, until the illness had confined him to Riverrun and usually to his bedchamber.
At first Yara had almost resented the absences, leaving her alone with only Septa Sigrid and Jeyne Waters for company. Eventually she learned: Few in the Riverlands were friends to the Ironborn, and many grumbled about a Greyjoy being fostered in Riverrun. She cared not though. Yara had made sure that one day she, a Greyjoy, would be the lady wife of Edmure Tully, Lord of the Riverlands. Let the lords grumble then when the next generation of Tullys were half Greyjoy. She was sure that some of the bannermen of the North and the Vale had grumbled when their lords chose Tully wives instead of the sisters and daughters of their vassals as was tradition. They had learned, and so would the Rivermen.
"Lady Yara," said Hoster Tully, seeing her. "How are you on this fine morning? I trust you are keeping my fool son in line?" His eyes twinkled merrily, despite the paleness of his face and the shallowness of his breath.
"Your son is a foolhardy jackarse, my lord, but he rules well, with the counsel of the wise," Yara replied.
"My son listen to those who know more than him? I must have been in this bed for longer than I thought," Lord Hoster said, laughing weakly.
Edmure pulled up a chair next to his father's bed. He clutched the letter in his hands. His father's laughter ended quickly.
"Come now, my son, your face is grave. What troubles you?" Hoster said.
"It's my sister, father," Edmure rubbed his brow, troubled.
"What has Lysa done?" Lord Hoster's voice was stern and yet weary, very weary. It sounded to Yara like this would not be the first time that Lysa Tully had troubled her father.
"No father, not Lysa… It was Catelyn," replied Edmure.
"Catelyn? My little Cat? What's she done?" said Hoster Tully. Edmure unrolled the letter regretfully and handed it to his father.
"It's Tyrion Lannister, father. She's taken him captive," said Edmure. Lord Hoster read the letter in total silence, then slowly let it slip from his fingers when he had done so. He raised a shaking hand to his forehead.
"Holy Father Above. Oh Cat, my Cat, why would you do this to us?" Lord Tully said softly. "Lady Whent sent this to you?"
"Yes father, the messenger rode from Harrenhal bearing this, but there are riders on the road for the Westerlands as well," replied Edmure gravely.
"Ravens will be flying as well my lord. Lord Tywin has many eyes and ears I would bet," said Yara, crossing her arms.
"Aye Yara, you are right. Have you sent anyone after Cat?" asked Hoster.
"Ser Ryger is assembling fifteen men to ride out. They'll make for the Kingsroad to try to catch up with her before she reaches the Neck," said Edmure.
"That is good. If we can reach her, we might be able to negotiate with Lord Tywin. If not… Damn this sickness, damn it to Seven Hells," said Lord Tully, and his voice failed him as he went into another fit of coughing. It was so violent it brought tears to his pale eyes.
"Father…" Edmure's voice was somber "I think I should call the banners,"
"No!" said Hoster Tully hoarsely. "No we must not appear to be the aggressors," He was caught up in another coughing fit before continuing. "If we call our banners now, Lord Tywin will only call upon the King and use that as proof that we intended to invade his lands and attack his family. Catelyn taking Tyrion captive will already look vile in the eyes of the Council, we must not make it appear any worse,"
"Father, if we don't call our banners, Lord Tywin will bring his armies and march upon us before we have a chance to unite our forces. He will set our lands ablaze for what Cat has done!" said Edmure urgently.
"He could sweep through the Riverlands, overwhelming each castle and holdfast one by one, with all your lords put to rout individually, unless the Host of the Riverlands is rallied to meet him," said Yara. They had to make him see. With the threat of war with the Westerlands on the horizon, Riverrun would need every bannerman and their levies to meet Lord Tywin in the field. If they did not, Yara knew they could only wait at Riverrun to be besieged.
"The King cannot see us as the wrongdoers in this matter, and calling our banners will weaken our credibility. If we tell the King that this business with the Imp was a misunderstanding, but he sees us raising our hosts and preparing for war, it will look as if we were plotting against the Lannisters. We must allow the Crown to sort this out, and we must have a strong position to stand upon before the court," said Lord Tully firmly despite the weakness of his voice. "Does the Council know of this?"
"If they don't already, they soon will. I shall send a raven," said Edmure.
Yara had little faith in the ability of the King or the Small Council to stop Tywin Lannister bringing fire and death to the Riverlands, but she kept her silence.
"Good, good, we must wait for the Crown to act, we must not move too quickly or too rashly," Lord Tully's voice became thin and mournful "Oh Catelyn, what have you done? Gods protect us,"
"I shall send for Maester Vyman, my lord," said Yara.
"Thank you Yara. You watch my son, make sure he doesn't do any damn fool things," Hoster Tully smiled weakly.
When they were in the corridor, Yara whirled on Edmure and shoved him back against the wall. He grunted at the suddenness of being knocked into the cold stones.
"You will have to call the banners. Fuck the Council and fuck the King, Tywin Lannister will want your sister's head on a pike for this, and your head too. Call the banners before it's too late," she said, grasping the front of his doublet. Riverrun may not have been her home, but it had fostered her for nine years, she would not see it put to the torch by the Lannisters or anyone. She had not found her way into Edmure's bed and planted the idea of a marriage alliance in his head just to see the Riverlands burn. Edmure grimaced at her words.
"Father is Lord of the Riverlands still, I cannot call the banners without his bidding," he said, strong hands grasping her thin arms. He pushed himself off the wall and took her hands in his, staring at her with deep blue eyes.
"You are frightened, my lady?" he asked gently. Yara lowered her gaze. Her black eyes were defiant.
"I fear nothing, but I know the pain of war. I know how it would pain you to see any evil befall your lands or your people, my love," she said, raising hand to caress his face, running fingers through his beard. Her words were only half a lie. He leaned forward, kissing her forehead and breathing in the scent of her hair.
"Do not be troubled Yara, our men will find my sister and learn the truth of this. If Catelyn saw need to take him captive, I'm sure that Imp has done something wicked, and if Lord Tywin wants to march upon us, we will not stand alone, we still have allies," Edmure said.
"Allies?" replied Yara.
"Lysa will bring the knights of the Vale over the mountains if the Lannisters march. Ned Stark is my brother-in-law, he's a good man, he will not let his wife's family be threatened, and the Northerners have allies as well…" he said, but he left the last words unsaid.
Gondor. They bore no love for the Lannisters, it was true. They may be friends of the Northmen, but Yara would never forget what was done at Pyke. She could never forget, even if Riverrun were besieged by all the hosts of the West and Isildur himself rode to their rescue.
"Tywin Lannister is no fool, he will not risk fighting half the Realm for his imp of a son," Edmure said with a shaky confidence.
"But they are far, my love, and Casterly Rock is near," she told him. Yara pulled her hands away from his and left in search of the Maester.
Several days passed slowly, and a tension dwelt over Riverrun. The hours and days went by, and Yara felt as if she were waiting for something. She couldn't stand waiting. Maester Vyman and the guards kept up a constant watch on the horizon for other messengers, be they riders or ravens. There was no word, there was silence from both east and west, and somehow that made the waiting worse.
A heavy, oppressive heat lay upon the castle, with clear skies and a mercilessly hot sun shining down upon them. The rivermen called it the "late summer swelter", and the green of grass and leaves was gilded with golden light every morning and evening. Yet if the Riverlands truly stood on the brink of war, rarely had they ever looked fairer or more worth fighting for. A harvest was being brought in, and farmers from leagues away brought carts stacked high with wheat to be ground at Riverrun's watermill. Standing upon the battlements one evening, Yara looked out and saw the nearby homesteads of the Tullys' smallfolk stretched out in the lands between the Tumblehome and the Red Fork, broad fertile fields surrounding each tiny house or hut. Wheat and barley swayed in the breeze, rippling like the windswept surface of a calm lake. Herds of sheep grazed peacefully, oblivious to the world, whilst shepherd boys dozed beneath shady trees. Birds sung and the leaves of the trees rustled in the wind.
Suddenly there was a harsh cawing that cut through the air. Yara looked up to see a black bird fly swiftly up from the east. It circled above the keep once, twice, then alighted upon the Maester's tower. A raven.
Dark wings, dark words, she thought with some strange sense of foreboding. Yara turned away from the battlements and rushed down the stairs towards the courtyard.
"My lady?" said Jeyne Rivers, confused, but Yara was already at the bottom and walking quickly towards the keep.
She found Edmure in the great hall just as Maester Vyman came down from the tower. The hall was full of the deep shadows of dusk. The letter in the Maester's hand was unopened, and it was covered in wax seals. Yara spotted the sigil of an open hand impressed upon the seal.
"My lord, there was a raven. From King's Landing," Maester Vyman said.
Edmure sat in the lord's seat at the high table. Before him he had spread out maps of the Riverlands. Ser Robin Ryger sat across from his lord. Flagons of ale were untouched. Wordlessly, Edmure held out his hand for the letter. Yara leaned forward and rested her hands on the table.
"That is the Hand of the King's seal of office," said the Maester.
Isildur, Yara thought, blood running cold.
"I know," said Edmure, then he broke it and opened the letter. His blue eyes scanned it quickly.
"What news?" asked Yara. Edmure sighed and rubbed his eyes.
"By the authority of Isildur Elendilion, Hand of the King, we are ordered to keep our armies at home, to not call our banners, and that any who do not obey this command will be considered to have broken the King's Peace and will likewise be considered traitors to the Realm and enemies of the Crown," he said wearily.
Bastard, blind bastard, thought Yara angrily.
"It says that identical commands have been sent to the Lannisters, Arryns and Starks, and that the peace will be maintained whilst Lord Isildur resolves the situation with Cat and Tyrion Lannister," Edmure added. Yara snorted derisively.
"You think Tywin Lannister will listen to that?" she said.
"He must, it is a royal command," said Maester Vyman.
"Tywin Lannister has never given a damn about the commands of anyone but himself," said Ser Robin Ryger.
"If we delay, he'll use that to steal the first march on us, and be at Riverrun's doorstep before your lords raise their levies," Yara urged Edmure.
"My lord, it would not be wise to ignore a command from Lord Isildur, he is the King's Hand," said Vyman.
"Lord Isildur has no concern for you or any of your people, he's a Numenorean, they care only for their own," Yara snapped. She stared at Edmure hard. "Piss on his 'royal commands', you have an obligation to defend your lands,"
"There has been no acts of war," the Maester said.
"For how long though? Yara is right, Tywin will not be held back by that. Every day that Lady Catelyn holds the Imp captive brings war closer," Ser Robin's face was grave.
"Yet I think there is wisdom in my father's counsel, we cannot appear to have broken the King's Peace first when the King judges this affair," said Edmure. No longer was he bright-eyed Edmure Tully, quick to laugh and jest. He had put on the face of Lord Edmure of Riverrun. "Ser Robin, I want you to send riders out to the west, to scout. I especially desire news of the Pass of the Golden Tooth,"
A start, at least, Yara thought and she resolved to speak more of this to Edmure in private.
Night by night, the moon slowly waned as the days passed and the month's end approached.
The scouts were long away on the western marches. It was nearly a fortnight before they returned. They brought with them ominous tidings. The rumblings of war were beginning to be heard in the mountains. The scouts carried rumours of a powerful host rallying by the Golden Tooth, and even got close enough to see the smoke of the camp-fires rising. There was talk amongst the smallfolk of strong companies and regiments of sellswords marching up from the south to offer their services to Tywin Lannister. Whole villages along the border were fleeing east, fearful of the power of Casterly Rock now gathering. The storm clouds were gathering, waiting to burst upon the Riverlands.
All these things the scouts reported to Edmure, whilst he sat in his father's high seat and Yara stood beside him. They were flanked by Maester Vyman and Steward Wayn. The scout's formerly green cloak was gray with dust and travel stains. He stood with the slumped, tired shoulders of a man who had ridden hard.
"You returned with only half of the band I sent with you, where is the other half, captain?" asked Edmure.
"We left 'em by the pass, milord, to keep an eye on the Golden Tooth. If they see any sign of a march, they are to ride back here and report it, milord," the scout answered.
"Good man," Edmure said with a smile. "See that you and your men rest, you deserve it for bringing us these tidings,"
In that moment, there arose a cry from the battlements.
"There's a column on the road!" echoed the shouting voice of a guard.
Edmure arose, exchanging a glance with Yara. Side by side they quickly hurried across the hall and out into the bailey. Their steward and master followed them. The courtyard was a bustle of activity as guards and archers hurried up to the walls, stringing bows and seizing spears. The talk of war had put them all on edge.
"What is it Lew? Do you see a banner?" Edmure called up to the gatehouse.
"Aye milord, a pink lady on blue, it's the Pipers!" cried Long Lew.
"The Pipers? What are they doing here?" wondered Edmure, as if to himself. "Open the gates!" he commanded.
The heavy portcullis groaned and its chains creaked in protest. Slowly it raised, hundreds of pounds of wood and iron winched up within the gatehouse.
Three men rode into the bailey on tired-looking rounceys. All wore the blue livery of House Piper, and the man on the right bore their banner: A dancing maiden carrying a white bit of silk, on a field of blue. Their leader was tall and well-built, with a thick head of red hair.
"Marq!" cried Edmure in surprise.
"Edmure! Gods, it is good to see you," said Ser Marq Piper, leaping down from the saddle. He caught Edmure in a tight hug. When he released him though, his look was not of happiness.
"What tidings Marq? You look as though you bring ill news," said Edmure.
"Ill news is an ill guest, I am afraid," said Ser Marq.
Behind him, a ragged column of men, women and children were trudging into the courtyard. Their faces were worn and haggard. The children stared aimlessly, holding hands with their parents but looking like their minds were gone out of them. Yara remembered that look well. It was the look she had seen on Theon's face. It was the look she had given to Lord Hoster Tully when he took her from the Dunedain. They were the faces of children who had seen too much.
"Pinkmaiden was burned Edmure, these folk are all that's left," Marq Piper said sadly. The colour drained out of Edmure's face.
"What? How? When?" he stammered in shock. Marq nodded to one of the villagers, an elderly woman.
"Is true milord, our good town is burned and ruined now," she said weakly. Another elderly man put a comforting hand on her shoulder when her voice cracked with grief.
"What has happened?" asked Edmure sternly.
"Raiders, milord, from the west," said the old woman.
"They came at us at dawn, five days ago. These people are the only ones we managed to save, the rest of the village was slaughtered," Marq explained, a mournful look on his face.
"Marq, your father?" Edmure's voice was worried.
"He is safe. We got as many of our folk into the holdfast as we could and then barred the gates. It was a raid, not a siege," said Marq Piper.
"They was riders from the west, milord, by the hunnerds," said the old woman.
"Ain't never seen the like. No thievin' or stealin', just burnin' and killin," said her old husband.
"Their leader, biggest man I ever saw, he swung around a sword as tall as I am!" added a younger man.
Edmure's knuckles were white, he clenched his fists so hard.
"Who?" was the only thing he said.
"It was the Troll, Gregor Clegane. I saw him, and he was flying his standard," said Ser Marq Piper.
All eyes turned to Edmure. Yara, Maester Vyman, Steward Wayn, Ser Marq Piper, the survivors of the Pinkmaiden, all the guards of Riverrun, everyone stared at the young Tully lord. Ser Gregor Clegane burning villages in the Riverlands could mean only one thing.
"My father sent me here to ask for Lord Tully's aid. They have murdered our people, burned their homes and fields, and laid our lands to waste. We need your help, we beg for your help, my lord," Marq Piper's voice was one of desperation.
Edmure Tully stared hard at his childhood friend. In Yara's eyes, he had the look of a man who stood upon the brink of a precipice above icy waters, knowing he must dive in but hesitating at the last. Then he spoke, and his voice was strong and did not shake.
"And you shall have it,"
He locked eyes with Yara for a moment, and where once she had seen uncertainty now there was only a steely resolve. Then he turned to Maester Vyman and called out in a voice loud and clear enough for all to hear his words:
"Call the banners!"