After the humiliating deal between Robb Stark and Tywin Lannister on the banks of the Red Fork, the allied forces of the North and The Riverlands disbanded.
Robb took the remaining northern army and hurried north to deal with the Ironborn attacks on the North.
The lords of The Riverlands, leading their newly ransomed and shaken families along with their remaining troops, left Riverrun to return to their war-torn fiefs, desperate for a moment of respite.
However, that respite never came.
Within a few days, some of the armies that had just departed were retracing their steps, dragging their exhausted feet back to the castle of Riverrun where the trout banner still flew.
Their banners were caked in dust, and the Soldiers' faces bore expressions of bewilderment and new-found terror.
The lords' faces were ashen, their eyes filled with a mixture of rage and helplessness.
The reason was cruelly simple: halfway home—some having only just sighted the towers of their own castles—they received word from scouts or fleeing smallfolk...
Their homes, their castles, had already been occupied by another army.
Black banners flew from the battlements, embroidered with a scarlet three-headed dragon.
The Targaryen army had flooded into The Riverlands like a rising tide.
Inside the Great Hall of Riverrun, the heavy stone walls could not contain the simmering resentment and anxiety.
The fire in the hearth blazed, casting light upon faces that were angry, miserable, or terrified.
The Riverlords who had returned were standing or sitting about, still covered in the dust of their travels.
Edmure Tully sat in the high seat; his sister Catelyn had already gone north with Robb, leaving him to face this group of agitated vassals alone.
He straightened his back, attempting to project the dignity befitting the head of House Tully and the Lord Paramount of the Trident.
"My lands are right next to Darry城! My scouts saw the Targaryen black flag flying over the walls with their own eyes! When my men tried to approach, they were immediately driven back by arrows!"
A middle-aged lord said, his face flushed and his voice cracking with emotion.
"Pinkmaiden as well! My wife and children were killed by the Lannisters—their bones aren't even cold yet—and now my home is being occupied by outsiders!"
"The news from Acorn Hall is even worse. They say a large unit of black-armored cavalry is operating there, and the few guards we left behind didn't resist at all..."
Complaints rose from all sides, and the hall was filled with a low buzz of voices.
Fear quickly turned into dissatisfaction with the present and worry for the future, and these emotions needed an outlet—or a hope for a solution.
Soon, the conversation turned toward the man who was not present.
"We must have the King in the North return!" a voice rang out loudly, cutting through the noise.
It was a landed knight of House Bracken, his face etched with the exhaustion of war.
"We bled for House Stark! It was because of his crowning that the lions of the West burned and pillaged our lands!"
"Because of our loyalty to him, our families were taken hostage by Tywin! Now that our castles are lost, Robb Stark is obligated to take them back for us! He owes us this!"
"Exactly! He was the one who summoned us; he was the one who wanted to be King of the North and The Riverlands! Now that The Riverlands are in trouble, he just pats his horse and heads back to the North? That's not right!"
"Lord Edmure, you must write a letter—no, send a rider at once! Ask the King in the North to return and give us justice, to demand an explanation from that Targaryen and take back our castles!"
The shouting grew louder and more heated, as if Robb Stark were their only savior at this moment.
They spoke with righteous indignation, even a hint of resentment for being abandoned.
No one mentioned seeking a final solution from Edmure Tully, their legal liege lord sitting in the high seat, as if he were merely a messenger or an obstacle to be overcome.
Edmure listened to these reckless discussions, the firelight dancing across his face as he forced down his rising resentment.
Did they only have eyes for Robb?
He was the Lord Paramount of The Riverlands, the Lord of Riverrun, their liege lord!
He sat here, listening to their laments over lost homes; could he not solve their problems for them?
Why was it that whenever a crisis arose, the first person they thought of was always his young, warrior nephew, rather than their rightful lord?
A fire, fueled by a mixture of shame, resentment, and the feeling of being slighted, quietly ignited in his chest.
The thought of having to write another letter, to humbly beg Robb to come south and help him deal with the mess in The Riverlands, to clean up after his uncle and liege lord...
The thought made his face burn with an unbearable sense of humiliation.
How incompetent it would make him look! How dependent on his nephew!
Besides, the North was under attack by the Ironborn, and Robb was desperate to return, already overwhelmed with his own troubles.
How could he have the face to ask Robb to set aside the crisis in the North and come south to fight for a few castles on his uncle's behalf?
Must the affairs of The Riverlands always be settled by Northern swords?
No.
This time, he had to do it himself.
He could also gather an army.
He could also negotiate.
Even if his opponent was that terrifying true dragon, he could at least try to secure an opportunity for his vassals to ransom their castles, rather than immediately resorting to war, which would likely bring even greater disaster.
This was his duty as their liege lord.
"Enough!"
Edmure spoke up suddenly, his voice louder than he had expected, instantly drowning out the noise in the hall.
Everyone fell silent, their gazes turning toward him in unison, filled with surprise and a faint, subtle... scrutiny.
Edmure took a breath, forcing himself to remain calm as he straightened his chest, his eyes scanning the vassals who had just been calling his nephew's name.
"The North is under attack, and King Robb has his own war to fight," he said, trying to make his voice sound steady and forceful, with the decisiveness of a lord. "The affairs of The Riverlands are for us Rivermen to handle ourselves."
"I am your liege lord, the Lord of Riverrun. I will resolve this matter."
The hall was silent, save for the crackling of the logs in the hearth.
The vassals looked at one another; some faces showed shock, while others held unconcealed doubt.
"You... will resolve it?" a voice asked hesitantly. It was the lord who had lost Pinkmaiden. "Lord Edmure, how do you intend to resolve it?"
"That Aegon Targaryen has dragons, and an army that just crushed twenty thousand Lannister troops."
"We..."
He swallowed, leaving the sentence unfinished, but the meaning was clear: we've just been crippled by the West; how can this band of remnants solve anything?
That blatant doubt was like a needle, pricking Edmure's newly bolstered courage and pride.
He felt his cheeks grow even hotter, but this time, it was mostly out of anger.
"How it is resolved is for me to decide!"
He raised his voice, adopting an unquestionable hardness, trying to use volume to suppress the unease in his heart. "I am the Lord Paramount of the Trident. It is my duty to protect my vassals and recover lost lands! There is no need to trouble the King in the North with every little thing!"
Looking at those faces still filled with distrust, a surge of impulse rose within him.
He could no longer back down; he could no longer be underestimated.
"Issue the orders at once!" Edmure stood abruptly, his hand on his sword hilt as his gaze swept over the crowd. "All lords who have returned to Riverrun, ready the Soldiers you brought! For those who have not yet returned, send ravens commanding them to bring their troops to join us immediately!"
He paused, saying each word deliberately:
"I will personally assemble the allied forces of The Riverlands and then go to negotiate with Aegon Targaryen. For us," he emphasized, "to take back the castles that belong to The Riverlands!"
The order was given.
Under his stern gaze, the vassals finally lowered their heads, either offering a hesitant "Yes, my lord" or bowing in silence—Tully was their liege, after all—and then filed out one by one, leaving the hall empty once more.
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