ASOIAF/Game Of Thrones: Ruler of Batannia

The news struck the Riverlands like thunder rolling from every direction at once.

Cersei crowned herself in King’s Landing. House Tyrell withdrew to the Reach. Stannis failed and fled northward. Littlefinger seized the Vale. Arthur Greyoak completed his hold over the Westerlands. Each raven carried another wound wrapped in ink. The Riverlands had already been burned, betrayed, raided, and emptied. Now the world had the courtesy to inform them that matters could still worsen.

Riverrun stood like an island in a sea of suspicion.

Lord Edmure Tully sat in the chair that had once belonged to Hoster Tully and felt no glory in it. The table before him was covered in letters, petitions, border reports, crop tallies, pleas, accusations, and requests written by men who believed their own troubles urgent because they had not read the others. He had less than ten thousand men he could call quickly, and many of those were scattered, poorly armed, hungry, or still grieving brothers who would never answer another summons.

The North’s letters were the worst.

Bran Stark, writing through Maester Luwin, begged for aid. Stannis had not brought peace by retreating north. He had gathered remnants near Moat Cailin, drawing in Karstark resentment and men desperate enough to follow a defeated king. Roose Bolton was dead, but House Bolton had not died with him. The Dreadfort had sharpened under Ramsay. Ironborn still harried the western coast despite the new restraint caused by Arthur’s Sea Hunt. Euron’s main strength remained a terror along the North’s shores. The Wall sent darker rumors still.

The North had once been the Riverlands’ shield.

Now it was bleeding through its own fingers.

From the east came betrayal wearing a familiar smile. Petyr Baelish, once a small man Edmure had considered beneath great matters, now held the Vale. Lysa Arryn was dead in all but usefulness. The Vale had sworn support to Cersei. Along the eastern border, lesser Riverlords who had lost sons, grain, pride, or patience began corresponding with Vale agents. They spoke of protection. Aid. Stability. Words used by men preparing to sell something that was not theirs alone.

The south was no better.

The Reach had retreated from King’s Landing, but tens of thousands of Reach soldiers under Randyll Tarly remained near the border, watching the battered Riverlands with cold eyes. House Tyrell had failed in the Westerlands. Hungry powers often looked for easier meals afterward. The Riverlands were weak, fertile when healed, and placed between every road worth owning. Naturally, everyone wanted to save them. Preferably by possessing them.

And to the west sat Arthur Greyoak.

Edmure looked at the map, where the Westerlands were now marked in deep green.

Arthur had begun as a strange sellsword captain under northern and river banners. Now he held Casterly Rock, commanded Battanian armies, controlled Lannisport, made terms with the Ironborn, forced the Reach to withdraw, and sat on gold mines large enough to make honor sound negotiable. He had once told Edmure to hold the Riverlands while he took revenge west. He had done exactly that. This was not comforting. Men who kept impossible promises tended to become dangerous neighbors.

Was Arthur still an ally? Would he protect the Riverlands? Bind them? Use them? Annex them slowly with grain and roads? Edmure did not know. The question itself made him tired.

Inside the Riverlands, old wounds reopened because men preferred familiar hatred when new danger grew too large. Blackwood and Bracken complaints returned. House Piper requested tax relief. The Vances wanted guarantees. Darry lands were still ruined. Villages had no seed. Roads had bandits. Castles had widows ruling in the names of boys too young to understand inheritance. Edmure’s name held legitimacy, but little fear. Less love than he would have liked.

His maester read another letter with a face made old by more than years.

Find this and other great novels on the author's preferred platform. Support original creators!

“Lord Tytos Blackwood asks again for aid against Bracken incursions. Lady Marla Piper says Pinkmaiden has almost no harvest and requests tax relief. Lord Karyl Vance writes that if Queen Cersei offers protection and aid, some houses may consider re-swearing directly to the Iron Throne.”

Edmure closed his eyes.

“My lord?” the maester asked.

“I heard.”

He had no answer.

Then the guard announced an envoy from Casterly Rock.

Flio entered without armor, dressed as a respectable merchant, which was the most dangerous kind. He smiled softly, bowed with perfect courtesy, and looked entirely at ease in a hall that had begun to smell of desperation.

“Lord Edmure,” Flio said, hand over his chest, “I come on behalf of Lord Arthur Greyoak of Casterly Rock. He sends sincere greetings and deep sympathy for the suffering of the Riverlands.”

Edmure did not miss the formality. No Duke. No false title. Lord of Casterly Rock was enough. A man sitting in that castle did not need embroidery.

“Sit, Master Flio,” Edmure said. “What does Lord Arthur want?”

Flio sat and produced a roll of parchment. “My lord would say he wants the Riverlands to survive.”

That was a good opening. Too good.

Flio unrolled the list. Five thousand measures of grain. One thousand barrels of salted meat. Five hundred bolts of cloth. Medicines. Farm tools. Seed. The value was not small. In the hall, even the maester stopped breathing properly for a moment.

Edmure stared at the list and felt hunger answer before caution could.

“What are the terms?”

“None attached to this first gift,” Flio said. “Lord Arthur considers it the duty of an ally. But he also believes gifts solve hunger for a day, while roads solve it for longer.”

There it was.

Flio continued, “The Westerlands proposes the full reopening and joint maintenance of the River Road and the Golden Road on the western side. We can supply grain, ironware, salt, tools, and cloth at stable prices. We will purchase timber, furs, livestock, river goods, and other products from the Riverlands at favorable rates. Through Lannisport, those goods may reach the Narrow Sea and beyond.”

Edmure saw the shape of it at once. Trade meant food. Food meant taxes. Taxes meant soldiers paid, roads watched, fields sown, lords quieted. It also meant dependence on Casterly Rock.

Flio’s smile remained mild. “We also propose guarded waystations, joint caravan protection, and patrol agreements against bandits. Many roads are unsafe. Unsafe roads make poor allies of merchants.”

“And soldiers?” Edmure asked.

Flio inclined his head, as if appreciating that they had reached the part men pretended was not coming.

“The Riverlands faces pressure from the south, east, and within. Lord Arthur is willing to sell weapons and armor at favorable prices. He is also willing to send experienced officers to help train Riverlands levies. Under Riverlands command, of course.”

Of course.

Chains were always more polite when lined with velvet.

“What of Queen Cersei?” Edmure asked. “What of the North?”

“Queen Cersei has just taken power and has a damaged city to hold,” Flio said. “Normal trade and mutual aid between neighbors need not trouble the Iron Throne. A stable Riverlands benefits everyone.”

That was not an answer. It was better. It gave Edmure something to repeat.

“As for the North,” Flio said, his tone growing more earnest, “House Stark remains our common ally. Lord Arthur knows their plight. But forgive plain words, my lord: if the Riverlands marches north now, it will be like pouring a cup of water onto a burning cart. You may not save the North, and you may bring the fire here. The Riverlands must live first. Only a living ally can help later.”

Edmure hated that because it sounded reasonable.

He thought of Robb, Catelyn, Bran, the Red Wedding, and all the oaths broken until words themselves seemed tired. He thought of his father’s face. He thought of smallfolk eating bark in winter. He thought of Riverlords who might sell him for a cart of grain and a promise from the Vale.

He had wanted to restore his father’s strength.

Instead, he was being offered survival under another man’s shadow.

Was that shame? Yes.

Was it better than watching the Riverlands shatter into hungry pieces? Also yes. The gods enjoyed such choices. It must be why men prayed to them so often, hoping someone else might be blamed.

“I agree in principle to reopening trade routes and discussing commerce,” Edmure said at last. His voice sounded rough even to himself. “As for arms and instructors, I will consult my captains.”

Flio bowed as if Edmure had granted a favor rather than surrendered the first wall.

“Lord Arthur will be pleased by your wisdom. Our specialists will arrive within days to discuss details. May the friendship between the Westerlands and Riverlands run as long as the Trident.”

After Flio left, Edmure remained alone in the hall.

The late sun came through the windows, laying broken colors across the table. He looked west, toward Casterly Rock, though stone walls gave him nothing to see.

Arthur Greyoak had not sent soldiers.

He had sent grain, trade, weapons, and a man with a soft voice. It might prove more effective.

The Riverlands had not fallen. Not yet. But its river had begun turning toward the west, drawn by gold, food, and the cruel gravity of survival.