Riverlands , Bandit Camp 270 AC,
The woods were shrouded in mist, the morning chill clinging to cloaks and blades. When the signal came—a low, throaty caw from the trees—every man in Brynden Tully's company went still.
Then they moved.
The bandits' camp sat nestled in a natural hollow between old oaks, their makeshift shelters cloaked in dew. Smoke from a dying fire snaked lazily into the morning air. Some of the raiders were still abed, others bleary-eyed and slow to react. Perfect.
Tristifer gripped the hilt of his short sword tightly, the leather slick with sweat despite the cold. This wasn't a sparring yard. There were no maesters watching, no safety in failure. Behind him, Ser Fenton grunted and moved ahead, his bulk clearing a path.
The Tully men charged, silent as wolves, falling upon the camp with brutal efficiency. Tristifer kept close, swinging wide around a fallen log—just as Brynden had taught him—eyes sharp for movement.
He barely saw the bandit before he struck.
A ragged blur surged from behind a broken cart, slamming into Tristifer with the force of a runaway ox. They tumbled to the ground. Tristifer's head hit dirt and moss, stars flashing across his vision.
The man was filthy, wild-eyed, with a knife already raised. His breath stank of sour ale and rotted teeth.
"Soft little lord," he spat. "Bet you die quiet."
The knife plunged down.
Tristifer twisted, the blade slicing shallow across his ribs. Pain flared. He screamed and threw up his arms, catching the man's wrist. They struggled, the knife inching closer, closer…
Edgar.
His mind screamed outward—not with words, but raw instinct.
And Edgar was there.
Through his second sight, Tristifer saw the world shift—felt wings catch air, the rush of height and momentum. Edgar circled once, then dove.
With a sharp kraaw!, the raven descended, talons raking across the attacker's face. The bandit shrieked, staggering back, swatting blindly.
Tristifer surged up, heart pounding, hand on his sword.
And struck.
The blade drove into the man's side—awkwardly angled, not clean—but it hit true. The bandit groaned, staggered, and collapsed.
Tristifer stumbled back, chest heaving. His hands trembled. The dead man lay still.
He'd done it.
He'd killed a man.
"Tristifer!" came Brynden's voice. Then the Blackfish appeared, sword still wet with blood. He took in the body, the boy's bloody tunic, the wide eyes.
"You're not dead," Brynden said. "Good."
Tristifer gave a weak nod, clutching his side.
"Didn't expect that one," he murmured. "He wasn't part of the initial scout."
"Bandits breed like rats. Always more than they seem," Brynden said grimly, then glanced skyward. Edgar was circling again.
"That raven saved your life?"
Tristifer hesitated… then nodded. "Yes. I… I reached out to him."
He clapped Tristifer on the shoulder, careful of the wound.
"We'll see to that cut. And then you'll sit. You've earned a rest. First kill's the hardest. Not the messiest—but the hardest."
As they walked back toward the smoking camp, Tristifer looked again at Edgar, who croaked once and followed silently above.
The world felt different now.
Sharper.
Bloodier.
Real.
Riverlands , Bandit Camp 270 AC,
The fire crackled low in the woods, embers spitting into the night. Around the camp, the men of Riverrun murmured quietly, eating cold bread and stringy rabbit. The raid was over, but the tension still clung to the air like smoke.
Tristifer sat apart, not by command, but by instinct. He rested against the trunk of an old elm, his tunic bloodstained and half-peeled back. The knife wound wasn't deep, but it stung like hell and had bled enough to soak through the linen.
The pain was sharp. The weight of what he had done—killed a man—pressed even sharper. Not because he regretted it. Not exactly. But because it had been real. Fast. Brutal. Unclean.
He closed his eyes.
The bandit's last breath still rasped in his ears. His final expression—twisted, pained, so human—was burned into his thoughts.
He didn't weep. Not here. Not where the other men might see and weigh him against what a young lord should be.
Instead, he breathed. Measured. Calm.
And then he got to work.
From the bottom of his satchel, he pulled what little he'd packed—dried herbs, a scrap of old bandage, a needle. The needle had been meant for mending his cloak. It would do. He didn't need a full apothecary kit, just resourcefulness—and he had that in spades.
He washed the wound with water warmed near the fire, mixing a small portion of ground willowbark and mint into the rag—pain relievers and disinfectants, rudimentary but effective. He bit down on a strip of leather, then sewed the shallow wound closed himself, gritting his teeth, not making a sound.
Every stitch was fire.
But he finished it.
When he looked up again, he saw Brynden, watching him from the edge of the firelight.
"You stitched yourself," the Blackfish said after a pause.
"Seemed quicker than waiting for a maester I don't have," Tristifer replied, voice strained but steady.
Brynden's lips twitched, not quite a smile. "I've seen grown men whimper and faint from less."
Tristifer leaned back against the tree, face pale but calm. "Well, I'm not most men."
A small laugh escaped Brynden. "So I'm beginning to see."
Tristifer pulled out the remainder of his salve and bandages and glanced at the group. "Some of the others are hurt. Not bad, but enough that infection could make a mess of things."
"You offering to patch them?"
"I'm no healer," Tristifer said, "but I know enough. Burn the blade before cutting, clean wounds with vinegar or hot water, pack them with garlic and moss if need be. The old ways work."
Brynden studied him, brow raised. "And where'd a boy of ten learn all that?"
"I read. I listen. I plan ahead," Tristifer said smoothly. "And maybe the gods gave me a few extra thoughts."
Brynden stepped aside and waved a hand. "Do what you can. Fenton's got a cut on his calf. Ser Morden's limping."
By the time the fire had burned down and the stars grew sharper in the sky, Tristifer had dressed three wounds, stitched one, and given advice on bruises and blisters to two of the squires. He worked in silence, precise and focused.
Brynden watched all of it with that same quiet expression—an appraisal, not of a boy, but of something being forged.
When Tristifer finally sat back down, exhausted, Edgar fluttered down beside him and croaked once. He scratched the raven under the chin, then let his head fall back against the tree.
He still felt it all. The fear. The pain. The knowledge of what he'd done.
But he wasn't broken.
He was tempered.
Riverlands , Unkonwn 270 AC,
The glade was silent—eerily so. Even Edgar, high above in the swaying trees, didn't caw or flap. The party had slowed to a crawl, tense from the journey and the bandits trailing in chains behind them.
Then the earth moved.
Not like a quake. Not quite. But a deliberate, heavy rhythm. Thoom. Thoom.
Tristifer felt it in his boots before he saw it.
And when it came through the underbrush, it was not just a beast. It was an event.
The auroch emerged like a mountain that had grown tired of standing still.
It had to be fifteen hands at the shoulder—easily as tall as two men standing on each other's shoulders, and nearly as wide. Its legs were the thickness of old oaks, hooves like black stone plates cracking the earth. Its fur was a deep, stormy slate-gray, but streaked across one flank was a bold, jagged stripe of crimson, as if painted by a mad artist. Its horns curled like ship anchors—thick, chipped, and stained with moss and mud. And its face…
Its face had seen things.
One eye was blind and cloudy, but the other shone a golden amber, intelligent and slightly annoyed.
"By the Seven," Ser Fenton whispered. "That's not an auroch. That's a walking castle."
"That's a bloody god," someone else muttered.
To Tristifer, it was… perfect.
"A wild beast appeared," he thought, pulse quickening—not from fear but excitement.
"This is it. This is my chance. Pokémon number two."
He was already imagining the name in flashing font:
Grayhorn, the Ancient Auroch Pokémon. Type: Ground / Noble. Ability: Unshakeable.
"Soon I'll have a whole team," Tristifer thought, stepping down from his horse, utterly ignoring Brynden's warning shout. "Edgar is flying-type. Grayhorn is tanky, heavy-hitter support. Now I just need a sneaky type. Maybe a cat?"
The beast grunted.
It sounded like thunder being poured into a barrel.
Tristifer took a step forward. Then another.
Behind him, the soldiers were praying, gasping, and one definitely bet his boots it was going to gore the boy.
But it didn't.
The auroch lowered its head—slowly, ponderously—as if considering this tiny, unarmed human daring to approach.
"I choose you," Tristifer whispered dramatically, and held out his hand.
The auroch exhaled hard enough to make his hair ruffle… then nudged its gigantic head forward, touching his palm with the smooth flat between its horns.
Silence. Shock.
And then, chaos.
"Seven bloody Hells—!"
"Did you see that?!"
"It just… listened to him!"
"I owe Darron a silver stag—he said the thing would crush him."
Brynden watched the whole thing unfold with a strange, weary patience, like a man whose world kept getting rewritten by a ten-year-old boy with too much imagination and not enough self-preservation.
Tristifer scratched behind one of the beast's mossy ears. "Good boy," he said, completely deadpan. "You're on the team now."
"Team?" Brynden asked, walking up slowly, as if still half-convinced the beast might wake from its brief nap and explode.
"I'll explain later," Tristifer replied.
"Will you?"
"Probably not."
They named the beast Grayhorn before sundown, and somehow the name stuck. It followed their party the rest of the way like a slightly confused oversized dog, occasionally snorting at the prisoners and glaring balefully at a few who'd once been poachers.
The men rode in awed silence. Occasionally, someone would lean over and whisper, "That thing obeys the boy."
By the time they were two miles from Riverrun, stories were already growing.
Some said Tristifer spoke to it in the Old Tongue.
One even insisted he stared it down into submission—and would probably repeat that tale until the end of his days, preferably with a mug in hand and a captive audience.
Tristifer, meanwhile, just walked beside it humming to himself, mentally ranking his Pokémon team.
1. Edgar – Intelligent, loyal, excellent scout.
2. Grayhorn – Ridiculously strong, great visual impact.
3. ? – To be recruited. Maybe something fast. A cat. A fox. Or a goose.
He smirked.
This world didn't know it yet—but the team was forming.
And Grayhorn was only the beginning.
Riverrun , Castle courtyard 270 AC,
The late afternoon sun slanted low over Riverrun as the returning riders crossed the drawbridge. Guards stood straight, squinting at the curious sight of the captured bandits… and the enormous gray beast trailing behind, hoofs thudding like distant drums.
In the courtyard, Hoster and Minisa stood flanked by household retainers. Catelyn darted forward as soon as she spotted her brother, only to be held gently back by her mother, whose eyes were wide—half in relief, half in disbelief.
For riding just behind Ser Brynden, battered but proud, was Tristifer, shoulders squared, and beside him walked the giant auroch, Grayhorn, head lowered, its massive nostrils flaring as it sniffed the stones of Riverrun like a creature returning from some myth.
Catelyn gasped and pulled at Minisa's skirts. "Mama! That's not a horse, is it?"
"No, love," Minisa murmured, watching the creature with a flicker of both reverence and caution. "That is something else entirely."
As the procession halted, Tristifer slid from his saddle, grunting slightly as his healing wound twinged. Minisa was at his side in a moment, checking him over with hands that betrayed the days of anxiety she'd hidden behind composure. She said nothing of the beast for now—only pulled him into a brief, fierce hug.
Brynden swung down and clasped arms with Hoster.
"All safe," the Blackfish said. "Bandits broken. Your son proved himself."
Hoster's gaze swept past his brother, past the prisoners, until it landed fully on the hulking, horned silhouette of Grayhorn.
He exhaled slowly. "What in the seven hells is that?"
Brynden grinned. "Ask the boy. He's the one who tamed it."
Later at the lord's solar
The hearth flickered low in the dim light of the solar, casting gold across the carved beams. Hoster stood at the table, still in his lord's tunic, hands resting atop a wine goblet he had yet to drink from. Minisa sat on a nearby bench, eyes distant, fingers absently smoothing the folds of her skirt.
Brynden leaned against the mantel, arms folded.
"He was brave," he said. "Fought well. But what you need to know—what we didn't expect—is that he's a warg."
Hoster's brows drew together. "You're sure?"
Brynden nodded. "I made him prove it. He used that raven of his—Edgar—to scout the bandit camp. Saw through its eyes. Could even feel what it felt. He didn't tell me at first. I pressed him."
Hoster turned to Minisa, but she said nothing yet. Her expression had changed—more reflective now.
"I thought that blood ran through my line," Hoster muttered. "From our mother. She was a Blackwood, aye. She claimed descent from the First Men, even the greenseers of old."
Brynden gave a sharp nod. "And it seems the stories weren't all idle."
Hoster downed half the goblet, the wine warm but unsatisfying. "You've told no one else?"
"No. Best it stays that way. Some lords would burn a child for less."
Minisa finally spoke, her voice low but steady.
"When I was a girl," she said, "my septa used to whisper of Harrenhal, of the curse that haunts it. They said the land twisted beneath its towers. But my father—he told different stories. Of the trees that remember. Of men who walked in dreams. Wargs, skinchangers, greenseers… They were real, he said, once."
She looked up at her husband. "And maybe still are."
Brynden crossed the room slowly and set a small object on the table: a strip of cloth, bloodied and carefully sewn. "He stitched his own wound. And mine. With steady hands. He's got something rare, Hoster. Not just magic—sense. Nerve. Resolve."
Hoster looked down at the cloth, then toward the window where the silhouette of the beast—Grayhorn—lay curled beneath the moonlight in the courtyard. The creature had followed Tristifer like a loyal dog, and it hadn't so much as grunted at a soul since its arrival.
Hoster's shoulders rose and fell. "He's only ten."
"He's not like other boys," Brynden said. "He thinks beyond the yard and the feast table. He's got something old in him. And something new."
Minisa's voice turned soft. "He's beginning to walk paths we don't know. But I believe he's meant for them."
Silence followed. The crackle of firewood filled the space. Then Hoster exhaled.
"We'll keep it quiet," he said at last. "No talk of ravens or dreams. Not yet. He'll need guidance."
Brynden nodded. "I'll give him what I can."
"And the beast?" Hoster asked with a trace of humor. "Shall we let it share his chambers?"
Minisa chuckled softly. "Only if it promises not to flatten the tower stairs."
They laughed together, briefly—parents and brother—still trying to reconcile the boy they knew with the boy who had returned. Outside, Edgar cawed once from the ramparts, and the firelight swayed gently across the ancient stone.
And from the courtyard below, Grayhorn huffed in his sleep—more mountain than beast—dreaming whatever strange dreams such a creature might have… and bound now to the quiet legend of a boy named Tristifer.
Riverrun sometime later,
It was a golden morning in Riverrun, the kind where the air smelled of river mist and late spring blooms, and the castle's flagstones still held the coolness of the night. Tristifer stood in the courtyard, hands on his hips, staring up at Grayhorn.
The auroch towered over him like a living mountain. Grayhorn had settled into life at Riverrun with shocking ease, now tethered loosely near the stables, chewing cud with the serene indifference of a noble lord being mildly inconvenienced. His enormous horns curled like crescent moons, and his coat—an uncanny dappled storm-grey shot with streaks of silvery-white—glistened in the light.
Behind Tristifer, Catelyn, all of six and nearly bursting with curiosity, clutched her younger sister's hand and whispered, "He looks like a walking boulder."
"Or a furry hill," Lysa piped up, blinking wide-eyed. She was only just three and more interested in Grayhorn's tail than his horns.
Tristifer turned to them with an overly serious expression. "Ladies of Riverrun, may I present to you... Grayhorn the Thunderous, Beast of the Tumblestone, Lord of the Grasses, Devourer of Entire Apple Baskets."
Catelyn snorted, half-laughing. "You're making titles up."
"I am," Tristifer agreed solemnly, "but he does eat an alarming number of apples."
Lysa toddled forward a few steps and waved at the creature. "Hullo cow."
Grayhorn blinked, snorted a gust of hot air that fluttered the little girl's dress, and flicked an ear the size of a dinner plate.
Tristifer stepped toward the creature's massive flank and patted it affectionately. "I've decided to try riding him."
"Riding him?" Catelyn repeated, eyes widening. "He's not a horse. He's... he's like tower!"
"Exactly," Tristifer said, grinning. "Think of the vantage point!"
Catelyn folded her arms. "You're going to fall off."
"I won't," he assured them. "I'm a Tully. Our house words are 'Family, Duty, Balance.'"
"That's not how it goes!" she laughed.
Tristifer grabbed the makeshift rope halter and hauled himself up onto a crate beside Grayhorn. The auroch turned his massive head, watching him with a suspicious eye as if to say Really? Again?
"Don't do it," Catelyn warned, now covering Lysa's eyes.
But Tristifer was committed. With a heroic grunt, he lunged upward, threw a leg over the creature's wide back—and promptly slid halfway down the other side, legs kicking wildly.
"Grayhorn! Hold still—"
The beast gave a huff that sounded suspiciously like a chuckle and swiveled slightly. Tristifer scrambled, clutching a thick tuft of hair, and ended up seated at last, slightly lopsided but triumphant.
"See? Tamed. Totally docile," he declared.
Grayhorn chose that moment to take a lazy step sideways, and Tristifer pitched over his shoulder with all the dignity of a sack of turnips. He landed on the straw-strewn ground with a thud and an "oof!"
Catelyn was doubled over, laughing so hard she had to lean on the stable wall. Lysa clapped delightedly and cheered, "Do it again!"
Tristifer groaned, rubbing his back. "I meant to dismount like that."
"I'm sure you did," Catelyn teased. "All knights dismount by hurling themselves into hay."
Grayhorn chewed slowly, unbothered, his tail swishing like a lazy pendulum.
"Perhaps he needs a saddle," Tristifer muttered, getting to his feet. "Or a ladder. Or a siege tower."
"Or sense," Catelyn said with a smirk.
But even she couldn't hide the gleam of admiration in her eyes as she looked between her brother and the beast that now seemed as much a part of Riverrun as the red trout sigil itself.
"Come on," Tristifer said, brushing straw from his tunic. "Let's see if we can get him to follow us to the river."
"Why?"
"I want to see if he can swim."
Catelyn's jaw dropped. "Tristifer Tully, don't you dare drown the auroch!"
Grayhorn, hearing his name, gave an indignant grunt—as if offended by the very notion.
Lysa just giggled. "He float like boat?"
And so, the siblings marched off—two girls trailing after their slightly bruised, highly ambitious older brother, and behind them the thunderous tread of Grayhorn, who followed with the mild resignation of a creature who had realized, far too late, that he was now a part of something profoundly ridiculous.