Outside Stone Hedge, the red and blue trout banner of House Tully fluttered weakly in the damp wind of The Riverlands.
Temporary camps stretched out, but their scale was far from grand, and morale was even more depressed.
Edmure Tully sat on his horse before the camp, gazing at the land to the east now covered by the black banners of Targaryen, his brow furrowed deeply.
He chose to station his army here, not daring to take another step forward.
He wasn't stupid.
That Aegon Targaryen possessed dragons, and his army had won victory after victory, earning a fearsome reputation.
The army under his command had just endured a bitter struggle against the Westerlands and had been hastily assembled; their morale and equipment were far from their peak, totaling no more than fifteen thousand men.
Perhaps a few thousand more would arrive later, but the total would never exceed twenty thousand. To challenge Aegon with such strength?
That would be seeking his own death.
His thinking was practical.
Show a certain amount of military force to demonstrate that The Riverlands still had the will to resist and remain united, then use that as a basis to conduct a 'dignified' negotiation with Aegon.
Use money, or certain conditions, to ransom back the occupied castles.
After all, he now owed fealty to Robb Stark, King in the North and the Riverlands, and had legally severed ties with the Baratheon Dynasty.
He believed this could be considered normal diplomatic mediation between two kingdoms.
Aegon's primary enemy was Tywin of the Westerlands; having just fought a major battle, he shouldn't want to open another front in The Riverlands.
Occupying the castles of The Riverlands might just be for the convenience of marching into the Westerlands; he might not want to make too many enemies at this moment.
If he provided a way out and practical benefits, the other party would likely go along with it.
It would solve the plight of his vassals, restore his dignity and prestige as their liege lord, and avoid a direct confrontation with the terrifying Targaryen army.
Edmure felt this was a plan that served both ends, even a wise one.
He could almost imagine the looks of newfound respect from his vassals after the successful negotiation.
He selectively forgot how House Tully had stood firmly by Robert's side during the War of the Usurper.
And how Hoster Tully had married his daughters to Eddard Stark and Jon Arryn—two of Robert Baratheon's staunchest supporters—making Riverrun a vital stronghold for the allied forces.
In his current self-persuasion, that was all in the past; they were now part of the 'Kingdom of the North' and had no direct blood feud with the Targaryens.
Soon, reality dealt him a heavy slap in the face.
The messenger he sent returned, face pale, bringing not the expected invitation to negotiate or a list of terms, but a cold, hard ultimatum filled with contempt and the scent of death.
After hearing the messenger's trembling recital, the lords of The Riverlands inside the command tent fell silent, followed by an explosion of panic, anger, and disbelieving clamor.
Edmure Tully sat in the high seat, the color drained from his face, feeling as though every word was a cold whip lashing his face, shattering all his wishful thinking, calculations, and pitiful dignity.
Disarm? Kneel and beg for forgiveness? Only two days given? Or else face destruction?
This wasn't a negotiation at all; it was blatant, merciless humiliation and a death threat!
Aegon Targaryen didn't respect him or The Riverlands at all, nor did he intend to engage in any so-called negotiations!
Edmure's whole body went stiff, his hands and feet cold.
Retreat? To yield without a fight before all his vassals and obey that humiliating command?
Then he, the Lord of Riverrun and Lord Paramount of the Riverlands, would become a complete laughingstock, with no authority left to speak of.
Advance? With this exhausted army, to face the Targaryen's ascendant forces and those legendary dragons?
He was being roasted over a fire.
He could neither advance nor retreat.
Outside the tent, the banners of the various lords fluttered chaotically in the wind; House Tully's trout banner looked exceptionally lonely.
Edmure Tully gripped the horse's reins tightly, his knuckles turning white and his face ashen. He stared toward Harrenhal, his chest heaving violently, yet he couldn't utter a single word.
A chill surged from the soles of his feet straight to the top of his head.
He felt a twinge of regret; perhaps he should have asked Robb to come...
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