Riverrun – Nursery Tower, Night of Lysa's Birth – 268 AC
The storm had arrived with dusk, the kind that stirred the godswood and slammed against the stones like it meant to test their strength. The rain came down in sheets, lashing the castle walls, and thunder rolled over the Riverlands in long, shuddering peals.
But inside, it was not the storm that frightened Catelyn.
It was the sound from upstairs.
Their mother was crying out again, her voice muffled behind thick wooden doors, but it still reached the nursery tower. High and strained, like something being pulled too tight.
Catelyn pressed herself into the corner of the bench seat beside the window, her little fingers knotted in her nightdress, lips trembling. "Why is it taking so long?"
Tristifer sat beside her, eight years old now and trying very hard to look older. He had wrapped a woolen shawl around her shoulders earlier, one of their mother's—the scent of lilac still clinging faintly to the fabric. His hand rested gently over hers now, quiet and grounding.
"Babies are slow," he said softly. "And stubborn. Like Tullys."
Catelyn blinked at him, almost a smile flickering across her face before worry overtook it again.
"What if something goes wrong?" she whispered. "What if… what if Mama doesn't come back?"
"She will."
"You don't know that."
"No," Tristifer admitted. "But I believe it. And sometimes… that's enough."
Catelyn turned her face away. A tear slipped down her cheek.
Tristifer didn't tell her not to cry. Instead, he pulled her closer, gently tucking her head under his chin. Her red hair was warm against his neck, her shoulders still shaking just slightly.
"She's strong," he murmured. "Stronger than anyone thinks. Do you remember how she rode in the harvest festival when it rained?"
"You mean when she wore the blue gown?"
"The one with the silver stitching, yes. She didn't flinch when the thunder started. Everyone else fled under the awnings, but she just laughed."
"She did," Catelyn whispered.
"She'll laugh again. And she'll hold the baby, and she'll say it was nothing. Like always."
For a long moment, neither of them spoke.
And then—footsteps.
Heavy ones, unfamiliar in that part of the keep.
The door creaked open.
Lord Hoster Tully stepped in.
He was pale and unslept, his usually precise beard a little uneven, as if he'd trimmed it with shaking hands. His eyes fell on them both—his children huddled together under a shawl, their candle guttering low between them.
Tristifer stood at once.
"She's alive," Hoster said hoarsely. "And the child. A girl."
He didn't smile, not yet. There was still too much storm in his voice.
Catelyn let out a little gasp, half joy, half disbelief. "A girl?"
Tristifer stepped forward, watching his father's face carefully.
"You should go to her," he said gently. "She'll want to see you first."
Hoster blinked down at him, as if seeing his son anew.
"You're too young to speak like that," he muttered.
"I know," Tristifer replied. "I say things older than I am. But someone has to."
The corner of Hoster's mouth twitched.
"I worried for you," the lord confessed, eyes on the boy. "You never cried when you were born. Just opened your eyes and stared, like you were studying the world for weakness."
"And did I find any?"
"Too many."
Tristifer hesitated, then stepped forward and reached for his father's hand—small fingers against broad calloused ones. "You don't have to be strong all the time," he said. "Mama told me that once. Just you and me and Cat. Do you remember?"
Hoster didn't answer for a moment.
Then he nodded.
Slowly, as if just remembering the boy in front of him was his own.
He dropped to one knee, wrapping him into a firm embrace, the kind that didn't tremble even when he did.
Tristifer kept one hand on his father's shoulder, the other curled around his back.
Later, after Hoster had gone upstairs, Tristifer walked to the window. The storm had passed. The moonlight shimmered on the Tumblestone below, quiet at last.
He looked out toward the east, where the sun would rise.
"A girl," he whispered.
Then, under his breath, as if naming something delicate and dangerous:
"Lysa."
Riverrun, 268 AC – The Inner Yard
The clang of wood on wood rang like a bell through Riverrun's keep, steady as a heartbeat. Over and over again, the rhythm of effort and discipline echoed off the walls, drawing more than a few passing glances from retainers, guards, and squires alike.
At the center of the yard, barefoot and sweat-dampened, young Tristifer Tully moved with quiet purpose. His brow was creased in concentration, his feet placed with care, his arms straining against the length of a wooden waster almost half his own height. Each motion—parry, sidestep, riposte—was studied and practiced, not just the thrill of mimicry but the work of intention.
Above him, from a stone terrace just off the main keep, Lord Jason Mallister looked on in silence.
He had arrived scarcely an hour past, traveling with only a small escort—purple and silver cloaks swirling in the wind—but his presence was unmistakable. He stood tall and proud, a hawkish figure with salt-kissed curls and a lord's bearing, arms folded behind his back as he watched his liege lord's heir carve arcs through the morning air.
"That's the boy, then," Jason said quietly to Ser Elric Mornay, one of his trusted knights, who stood just behind.
"Aye, my lord. Tristifer Tully. Eight years, but I'd wager he thinks himself older."
Jason did not smile. He nodded, faintly.
"Discipline in the sword arm at that age," he murmured, "is rare. But what impresses me is the silence. No boasting. No dramatics. Just sweat and will."
Ser Desmond Grell, hearing their approach, offered a bow from the sidelines.
"My lords. The young master has taken well to the blade. I've taught boys thrice his age with half his steel."
Jason made no reply at first. His gaze remained on the boy.
When at last Tristifer noticed the company, he lowered his blade, turned, and bowed—not a child's awkward curtsy, but the formal tilt of the head and posture of a young lord in the making.
"My lord Mallister," he said, voice clear but respectful. "Welcome to Riverrun."
Jason descended the steps toward the training yard. "I ought to say the same, young lord—for you've made a strong case to meet me out here rather than in your father's hall."
"You caught me in practice," Tristifer said. "It would be discourteous to pretend I hadn't noticed."
Jason stepped closer, eyeing the boy's stance.
"You hold the sword well," he said. "Have you been training long?"
"Not so long in years," Tristifer replied. "But I take it seriously. A sword is the last voice a lord has when diplomacy fails. It should not stammer."
That gave Jason pause. He studied the boy again, more thoughtfully now.
"Well said," he murmured. "And what would you say a lord's first voice is?"
Tristifer didn't hesitate.
"Trade," he said. "Ports. Grain and goods, not banners and boasts. A ship laden with timber will cross more borders than a sword can pierce—and open more doors besides."
Jason blinked.
"Ports?" he repeated.
Tristifer wiped his brow with his sleeve, then nodded toward the Tumblestone. "We are a river stronghold, and you a lord of the western sea. Seagard's harbor is strong, but it could be made smarter."
"Smarter."
"With tide markers. Pier spacing adjusted for heavier cargo-hauls, bulk goods like saltfish and grain. And better warehousing. Raised stone granaries to weather rain and rot. You lose coin every year to spoilage."
Jason arched a brow, not in offense—but in consideration.
"And how would you know of granary loss, young lord?"
"I watch. I listen. I ask."
"You're eight."
"I'll be nine soon," Tristifer said, with just enough dryness to suggest he knew how precocious he sounded.
Jason chuckled.
"You are your father's son. But there is something else in you."
"I hope so," Tristifer said.
Jason looked back at the yard, where the wooden dummy still stood.
"You'll have to show me those port plans sometime," he said. "The Riverlands is too rich to act poor. Perhaps Seagard has grown… complacent."
Tristifer smiled, a little. "The Ironborn haven't. Nor have Oldtown's merchants. One must always plan for the tide before it turns."
Jason let out a low hum of approval.
"I'll speak with your father this evening. Perhaps we'll revisit old alliances with new eyes."
He extended a hand.
Tristifer took it, clasped it firmly, and bowed his head.
When Jason left the yard, his retinue behind him, his thoughts were not of swords or heraldry.
They were of ships. And what might be built—if one listened to a boy with the eyes of a statesman and the soul of a river.
Riverrun, Lord Hoster Tully's Solar — Evening, 268 AC
The chamber was warm, lit by the soft flicker of candlelight and the gentle crackling of the hearth. Stone walls muffled the noise of the keep beyond—servants setting for supper, the faint clatter of hooves in the courtyard. Here, in the solar above the Great Hall, it was quiet enough for lords to speak plainly.
Lord Hoster Tully poured two cups of strong red from the Arbour, his sleeves rolled to the elbows and his hair showing more grey than flame beneath the soft light.
Jason Mallister accepted his goblet with a nod, but his eyes wandered briefly toward the window—where the Tumblestone shimmered like black glass under the moonlight.
"You keep a fine vintage," Jason said, swirling the wine with care.
"Minisa insists," Hoster replied. "She says I ought to entertain my bannermen in style, lest they think I've gone soft."
Jason offered a dry smile. "And have you?"
Hoster's reply was swift: "No. But I've grown… patient. Which, some say, is worse."
They drank. Silence stretched, comfortable between old allies. It was Jason who broke it first.
"There's been trouble along the Red Fork," he said, setting down his cup. "North of Fairmarket, two merchant caravans struck. Men slain, coin stolen. The goods—gone."
Hoster frowned. "Bandits?"
"So it seems," Jason said. "But well-armed. Too precise for mere deserters or hungry peasants. One of my outriders thinks they've taken shelter in the hills beyond Vance lands."
"I've had similar reports," Hoster admitted, leaning back in his chair. "Three complaints from Darry in the last moon. A miller's boy murdered near Harrentown. The roads are not as safe as they once were."
Jason nodded. "The war was long ago, but the hunger for chaos lingers."
"Aye," Hoster said. "Peace is harder to feed than war."
Jason studied him for a moment, then said, carefully, "Which is why we must prepare for the future… and guard the next generation better than our own."
Hoster's brow lifted slightly. "You speak as a father or a lord?"
Jason allowed a small smile. "Tonight, both."
He paused. Then continued, his tone shifting toward formality.
"Your son is… remarkable. I watched him train this morning. Steady hand, clear eyes. And he speaks with a mind far older than his years."
Hoster tilted his head. "He speaks too much, some say."
"Perhaps," Jason agreed. "But there's wisdom in it. And vision. I have not seen such hunger in a boy since I was one myself."
He set his cup down firmly.
"I would make an offer, Hoster. One not made lightly. Let Tristifer come to Seagard. Foster with my house. I would see to his training—sword and court both—and grant him a view of the western shore. Let him learn the sea as well as the river."
The fire crackled.
Hoster said nothing for a time, running a finger along the rim of his goblet.
"It's a generous offer," he said at last. "And a rare one. A Mallister taking a fosterling from his liege lord is not the usual way of things."
"No," Jason said. "But your son is not a usual boy."
Hoster's face was unreadable. He turned his gaze toward the hearth.
"His mother would weep at the thought," he said, half to himself. "He is her first joy. And Catelyn clings to him like a shadow."
Jason gave a respectful nod. "Then I do not press it. Only offer it. He would be well-treated—and learn much."
Hoster drummed his fingers on the table, then stilled them.
"He would be far from home. From me."
"But closer to the future," Jason said gently.
There it was—the balance, the weighing of duty and affection, of legacy and love. A noble lord's dilemma in every age.
Hoster drank deeply, then sighed.
"I will speak to Minisa," he said. "And to the boy himself, in time."
"That is all I ask."
Jason rose then, bowing slightly. "You've much to be proud of, Hoster. Let us make sure the realm sees it as clearly as I have."
As the Lord of Seagard departed, the solar grew quiet again. Hoster remained seated, staring into the fire.
A fosterling.
Far from the Red Fork, far from Riverrun's stones and his mother's songs.
Would he come back stronger? Wiser? Changed?
Hoster did not fear change.
But he feared time. And how quickly boys became men.
Riverrun Godswood, 268 AC — Late Afternoon
The godswood smelled of wet bark, moss, and that strange scent Tristifer could only describe as "old magic and bird droppings." Autumn had settled in, scattering red leaves across the grass like confetti at a somber feast.
He knelt beneath the tallest tree—a brooding old weirwood with roots like sleeping serpents—and exhaled loudly.
"So. Let's talk about the dreams," he muttered, mostly to himself. "Either I'm going mad early—which, given my father's stress levels, seems likely—or... I'm a warg."
A raven squawked above him. Loudly. Judgily.
"Oh, shut it," he said, glancing up. "Don't act like you're not part of this."
The raven tilted its head.
Tristifer narrowed his eyes at it.
"Three nights in a row now, I've been flying. Not dreaming I'm flying—I am flying. Wind in my feathers, soaring over Riverrun like some sort of avian superhero. I see things. Smell felt too real to be metaphorical."
He pulled out a crust of bread from his doublet and tossed it up. The raven caught it mid-air like a trained performer.
"I should name you," Tristifer said. "You're clearly my first companion. Let's see… How about Beakachu?"
The raven let out a distinctly unimpressed noise.
"Fine. Edgar. Like Poe. Happy?"
It ruffled its feathers, which Tristifer took as a yes.
He leaned back against the oak and stared up through the branches. "Right. So if I am a warg, which let's be honest, I totally am—then I'm going to need a team. A crew. You know, a tactical animal squad. Pokémon-style."
He counted off on his fingers:
"One: Edgar the Raven. Scout, message delivery, general sarcasm."
"Two: I need a cat. Cats are stealthy. Possibly haunted. Perfect spy."
"Three: A hound. Big, loyal, terrifying. Like Sandor Clegane but cuddlier."
He paused, eyes wide. "Wait. I wonder if I can find a direwolf. Or maybe a bear? A bear! Hoster would love that."
"'Father, meet Fluffy. He'll be guarding the gate from now on. Also, he eats like four cows a week.'"
Edgar let out a soft kraaaah, as if encouraging this madness.
Tristifer, now fully spiraling, stood up and began pacing the godswood like a general preparing for war.
"Imagine the possibilities. Warg-trainer Tully. Bringing literacy, swordsmanship, and beast-taming to the Riverlands. The Maesters would lose their minds. Septon Yarrow would probably call me a heretic. Perfect."
He stopped, mid-step. "I wonder if I can warg into a fish."
A beat.
"No, that's dumb. I'd just flop around and drown. Don't be stupid, Tristifer."
The raven cawed again. A low, amused sound. Like a laugh.
He looked up at it, serious now. "But if I can control animals, even a few… I could protect people. I could—change things."
His voice dropped. "It's not just about playing magical zookeeper. If I can make people safer—smarter—more free, even a little… it's worth chasing."
A gust of wind rustled the leaves. The heart tree seemed to listen.
Then a loud voice echoed across the yard.
"Tristifer! Are you talking to a bird again?!"
It was Catelyn. Tiny, red-haired, and full of older-sister energy despite being half his size.
"I was praying," he called back, straightening like a guilty child.
"To a crow?"
"Raven. Totally different genus."
She crossed her arms, unimpressed. "Mother says if you bring another squirrel into the castle, she'll have Maester Linley sedate you."
"That was one time!"
"You tried to make it wear a tunic."
"It looked dashing!"
Edgar cawed, as if offering support.
Tristifer sighed, adjusting his cloak. "Come on then, Cat. Let's go. But I'm telling you, one day, when I'm riding into battle on a massive eagle, you'll all regret your mockery."
"I'll be sure to write a song about it," she said dryly, taking his hand as they walked back toward the keep.
Behind them, Edgar fluttered down and perched lightly on Tristifer's shoulder, as if already claiming his spot as first of the flock.
Lord's Solar, Riverrun — Late Evening, 269 AC
The fire crackled softly in the hearth of the solar, painting the stone walls with gold and shadow. Hoster Tully sat in his high-backed chair, fingers steepled under his chin, his brow furrowed not from age—though the first grey hairs had begun to thread his temples—but from the ever-growing burdens of lordship.
Across from him, Minisa Whent stood by the window, silhouetted by moonlight. Her gaze drifted beyond the riverbanks, lost in thought, until Hoster broke the silence.
"Jason made an offer," he said simply.
Minisa turned. "Fostering?"
Hoster gave a curt nod. "He was impressed with Tristifer. Saw him training in the yard. Said he shows promise—strength, balance, discipline. But more than that, he said Tristifer speaks with the voice of a grown man. That he listens as much as he speaks. He sees… far."
Minisa smiled faintly. "That sounds like Tristifer."
"He proposed fostering him at Seagard," Hoster went on, his voice heavier now. "Said it would do the boy good. Teach him new perspectives. Harden him to the world."
Minisa walked to the fire, absently adjusting the kettle on the hook. "And you? Do you think he needs hardening?"
Hoster exhaled, rubbing his brow. "He is my heir, Minisa. One day he will be Lord of Riverrun. The Riverlands are no gentle garden. Banditry stirs in the east, and the Blackwoods and Brackens sniff at each other's throats like dogs. The Mallisters have always stood proud and loyal. Jason is sharp. Disciplined. He would sharpen Tristifer like a whetstone."
"But he is not a sword, Hoster."
Her voice was soft, but it rang through the room.
"He is a boy," she continued. "Our boy. Just turned nine. Curious, kind, strange in all the best ways. He speaks to ravens. He teaches scullery children their letters. He wants to tame animals like something from a song."
Hoster gave a small grunt, not unkindly. "Yes, I heard about his 'warg army' plans. He's already started naming birds, I believe."
Minisa stifled a laugh. "He named one Edgar."
Hoster allowed himself a smile, brief but genuine.
"I do not deny he is clever," he said. "Too clever, perhaps. He reads things he shouldn't. Talks like he's twice his age. Sometimes I wonder if he dreams things the rest of us will never understand."
Minisa looked into the flames. "So do I."
"But cleverness," Hoster added, "does not make a lord. Not on its own. He needs discipline. Hardship. Exposure to other courts. Men like Jason—measured, proven—can offer that."
Minisa sat beside him now, laying a hand gently atop his.
"And what of what we offer him?" she asked. "Love? Understanding? A home where he is not merely an heir, but a child? If he's to become a great lord, should he not grow from a place of strength within, not just strength wielded upon him?"
Hoster looked at her. In that moment, her face reminded him of Tristifer—soft yet fierce, gentle yet unyielding. He thought of how their son had comforted Catelyn during Lysa's birth. How he'd read aloud to old septas and taught squires to spell their names. How he'd once declared he wanted to "build a place where no one is too small to matter."
He sighed.
"There is no question he is special," he said.
"There never was," Minisa whispered.
They sat in silence again, the fire crackling between them. Finally, Hoster leaned back, closing his eyes.
"Perhaps not now," he murmured. "Not yet. Let him be strange a little longer. Let him be ours."
Minisa smiled, and the river outside flowed on.