Scene 1: The Leverage
Location: The Solar of Riverrun.
Time: One week after the Battle of the Bells.
The view from Hoster Tully's solar was usually one of tranquility—the Red Fork and the Tumblestone rivers merging in a gentle swirl of blue and mud.
Today, the view was steel.
From the window, Hoster could see the fields surrounding his ancestral castle. They were choked with tents. The direwolf banners of the North, the falcons of the Vale, and the crowned stags of the Stormlands stretched from the riverbank to the horizon.
Forty-five thousand men.
Hoster turned from the window. The air in the room was thick with the scent of polished wood and unspoken threats.
He sat at his high table. Opposite him sat the three leaders of the rebellion.
Jon Arryn, looking weary but relieved.
Eddard Stark, solemn and grieving.
And in the center, Robert Baratheon.
Robert didn't look like a petitioner. He sprawled in his chair, cleaning his fingernails with a dagger. He still wore his armor, the steel dented from the battle at Stoney Sept—a visual reminder that he had already beaten the Crown's best general without Hoster's help.
"The hospitality of Riverrun is yours," Hoster began, his voice smooth but cautious. "It gladdens my heart to see the hosts of the North and Vale united."
"United and hungry," Robert said, not looking up from his knife. "We need to cross the Trident, Hoster. And we need your banners to do it."
Hoster nodded slowly. He swirled his wine. "War against the Iron Throne is a heavy thing. Aerys is mad, yes. But he is still the King. If I call my banners, I risk fire and ruin. The Riverlands are always the first to burn."
He leaned forward, placing his hands on the table.
"If House Tully is to bleed, we must be bound to the cause by more than just words. We need blood."
Hoster looked directly at Ned Stark.
"My daughter, Catelyn, was betrothed to Brandon Stark. It was a match of Great Houses. Now Brandon is gone. I expect the contract to be honored. Eddard will take her to wife."
Ned remained silent, his jaw set. He knew the expectation. But before he could speak, the dagger thunked into the table.
"No," Robert said.
Hoster blinked. "My Lord?"
"I said no," Robert rumbled. He looked up, his eyes hard. "Ned has lost a father, a brother, and a sister in the span of a month. I will not force him into a marriage bed before he has buried his dead."
"The North needs an heir," Hoster pressed, his eyes narrowing. "And I need a Lord Paramount for my daughter. If not Stark, then who?"
"The Vale," Robert said calmly.
He gestured to Jon Arryn.
"Jon's nephew. Ser Denys Arryn. The Keeper of the Gates of the Moon."
Hoster scoffed. "A cousin? You offer me a landed knight for the eldest daughter of Riverrun?"
"I offer you the Heir to the Eyrie," Robert corrected sharply. "Jon has no children. Denys is young. He is a hero of Stoney Sept—I saw him drive a lance through the Griffin's vanguard myself. He will rule the Vale after Jon. That is a Lord Paramount's seat, Hoster. Just one with a longer wait."
"It is... less than promised," Hoster said coldly. "I was promised a Stark."
"And you were promised peace under the Dragons," Robert countered. "Promises change."
Hoster sat back, crossing his arms. "And if I refuse? If I say my swords stay sheathed unless I get the Wolf?"
Robert stood up. He didn't shout. He didn't flip the table. He simply walked to the map of Westeros hanging on the wall and tapped the Riverlands.
"Then you stay sheathed, Lord Tully. Close your gates. Hoard your harvest. We won't attack you. We are not Aerys. We don't burn our friends."
Hoster relaxed slightly, thinking the threat was gone.
"However," Robert continued, his voice dropping to a terrifyingly casual tone. "When I win... and I will win... do not expect a seat at the table."
He turned to face Hoster.
"When I distribute the lands of the loyalists... House Tully will get nothing. When trade rights are assigned... House Tully will be last in line. When the small council is formed... no Riverlord will sit on it."
Robert leaned over the desk, his massive frame casting a shadow over the Lord of Riverrun.
"You can stay neutral, Hoster. But understand what that means. It means when the new world is built, you will be on the outside looking in. You will be the Lord Paramount of Nothing."
"This is extortion," Hoster whispered.
"This is the price of admission," Robert said, pulling his dagger from the wood. "Denys Arryn for Catelyn. The Riverlands join the Rebellion. And when I take the Iron Throne, I remember who stood with me."
He sheathed the blade.
"Take the deal, Hoster. Or watch the history of Westeros happen without you."
[End of Scene]
Chapter 19: The Table of Equals
Scene 2: The Reveal
Location: The Solar of Riverrun.
Time: Moments later.
The silence in the solar stretched thin, broken only by the crackle of the hearth. Hoster Tully stared at Robert, then at Jon Arryn. He looked at the map where Robert's finger had crushed the Riverlands, then at the window where the sounds of forty-five thousand soldiers drilling provided a constant, thrumming background noise.
Hoster licked his dry lips. The threat of annihilation was real. But Hoster was a Riverlord; he knew how to swim in dangerous currents.
"Denys Arryn," Hoster said, testing the name, trying to salvage the wreck of his negotiation. "You would name him your heir? Formally?"
"He is my nephew," Jon Arryn said, his voice steady and grave. "He has the blood of the Falcon. He is a knight of proven valor. When I pass, he will rule the Vale. Catelyn would be the Lady of the Eyrie, in time. It is a good match, Hoster. Better than you likely deserve given your hesitation."
Hoster calculated. It wasn't the Stark alliance he had dreamed of, but a future Lord Paramount of the Vale was a high price. It was acceptable.
"Very well," Hoster conceded, though his eyes remained hungry. "Catelyn will wed Ser Denys. The Riverlands will march."
He turned his gaze back to Jon. He wasn't done. He still thought he saw an opening.
"But the matter of Lysa remains," Hoster pressed, leaning forward. "You are without a wife, Jon. You are alone. A man of your years needs comfort, and a House needs spares. Lysa is young. She is vibrant. She is... eager to please."
Hoster smiled, a salesman's smile.
"Why settle for one alliance when you can have two? Take Lysa. Secure your line twice over."
Robert snorted from the corner, a harsh, derisive sound.
Jon Arryn didn't smile. He looked at his old friend with a gaze that was heavy with disappointment.
"Hoster," Jon said softly. "We are friends of many years. Do not insult me."
Hoster frowned. "Insult? I offer you my own flesh and blood. A maiden of Riverrun."
"A maiden?" Jon repeated. The word hung in the air like smoke.
Jon leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. The "Wise Falcon" was gone; the cold politician remained.
"You offer me a girl whose virtue was left in the river mud with a boy from the Fingers," Jon said.
The color drained from Hoster Tully's face so fast he looked like a corpse. His mouth opened, but no sound came out.
"I... I do not know what rumors you have heard," Hoster stammered, his hands shaking slightly as he reached for his wine. "Petyr Baelish was a ward. Nothing more."
"The duel with Brandon was public," Jon Arryn said, his tone like dry parchment. "And the moon tea that followed was discreet, but apothecaries talk, Hoster. Especially when they travel through the Vale to buy their herbs."
Jon's eyes bore into Hoster's.
"I do not judge the girl. She is young and foolish. But to try and pawn her off on me? To present her as a pristine bride to the Lord of the Eyrie to secure a war pact?"
Jon shook his head slowly.
"That is not the act of an ally, Lord Tully. That is the act of a dishonest merchant trying to hide a crack in the vase."
Robert stepped forward, enjoying the sight of the proud Riverlord crumbling.
"You tried to cheat the bank, Hoster," Robert rumbled. "And you got caught."
Hoster sank back into his chair. He looked small. His great leverage—his daughters—had been dismantled. One sold for a nephew, the other rejected as "spoiled." The secret he had buried to save his House's honor was known by the very men he tried to extort.
His quiver was empty.
"One marriage," Jon Arryn stated firmly, dictating the terms now. "Denys and Catelyn. That is the offer. There will be no second union. And there will be no dowry demanded from the Vale. You will provide the swords, you will provide the supplies, and you will consider yourself fortunate that we do not speak of this outside this room."
Hoster looked at the three men. He saw the Iron General (Robert) ready to crush him, and the Diplomat (Jon) holding his reputation by a thread.
He had no moves left.
"Done," Hoster whispered, his voice hoarse. "Denys Arryn and Catelyn Tully. The Riverlands are yours."
"Good," Robert said, grabbing a pitcher of wine and pouring himself a cup. He didn't offer one to Hoster. "Now get your maps. We have a war to win."
[End of Scene]
Chapter 19: The Table of Equals
Scene 3: The Freedom
Location: The Solar of Riverrun.
Time: Late Evening.
The tension in the room broke with the pouring of wine.
It was not a celebratory drink, but a functional one. The deal was struck. The map was now the only thing that mattered.
Hoster Tully, looking ten years older than he had an hour ago, smoothed the parchment flat. He pointed a shaking finger at the crossing of the Trident.
"Rhaegar is marshaling at King's Landing," Hoster said, his voice stripped of its earlier arrogance. "My scouts report he has forty thousand men. The Dornish have sent ten thousand spears under Prince Lewyn. They will march up the Kingsroad."
"Let them come," Robert said, leaning over the map. "We have the numbers now. Forty-five thousand combined."
"We must move quickly," Jon Arryn advised, placing a marker on the Ruby Ford. "If Rhaegar crosses the Trident, he can flank us. We must hold the northern bank."
"We won't just hold it," Robert corrected. "We will cross it to meet him. I want the battle on open ground. I want him to see me coming."
He looked at Hoster.
"Call your banners, Lord Tully. I want every Mallister, Blackwood, and Bracken assembled within a week. We march for the Ford by the 2nd week's end."
Hoster nodded obediently, but a flicker of his old calculating nature surfaced. He looked at Ned Stark, then back at Robert.
"You took a risk, Robert," Hoster murmured. "Refusing the Stark marriage. You leave the North unbound to the Riverlands by blood. In war, one can never have too many knots to hold the net together."
Robert stopped. He looked at Hoster with eyes that were cold and absolutely clear.
"I have the North because Ned is my brother in everything but blood. I have the Vale because Jon is my father. I have the Stormlands because I am their Lord."
Robert straightened up, his armor creaking.
"I will not barter for swords I do not need."
The line hung in the air, final and absolute. It was the difference between a rebel leader scrounging for help and a King commanding his subjects.
"We are done with words," Jon Arryn said, standing up. "Call the Septon. We wed Denys and Catelyn tonight."
[Perspective: Eddard Stark]
Location: The Sept of Riverrun.
Time: One hour later.
The Sept was dimly lit by seven candles. There were no singers. There were no guests, save for the commanders of the rebellion.
Ned stood in the shadows of the gallery, watching.
At the altar stood Ser Denys Arryn. The Darling of the Vale looked every inch the hero Robert had claimed he was. He wore his silver plate, the Falcon of Arryn etched into the breastplate, his face solemn and proud.
Beside him stood Catelyn Tully. She was pale, her face composed in a mask of perfect duty. She had worn mourning clothes for Brandon only weeks ago. Now, she wore the maiden's cloak of House Tully, heavy with blue and red wool.
"I, Denys, of House Arryn, take thee, Catelyn, of House Tully..."
Ned listened to the vows. They were ancient words, binding two Great Houses together to secure an army for the rebellion.
He watched as Denys removed the Tully cloak from Catelyn's shoulders and replaced it with the sky-blue cloak of the Eyrie.
It is done, Ned thought.
The contract that had belonged to Brandon—the duty that had fallen to Ned like a stone after his brother's death—was fulfilled. But it was fulfilled by another man.
Ned felt a sensation he hadn't expected. It wasn't jealousy. It was a profound, dizzying lightness.
For weeks, he had prepared himself to marry a stranger. He had prepared to bed a woman who had loved his dead brother, simply to buy the loyalty of the Riverlords. He had resigned himself to a life of cold duty.
But Robert had cut the knot.
Ned looked away from the altar. The smell of the incense—heavy and sweet—suddenly reminded him of a different place. A place of heat, and stars, and lavender.
Harrenhal.
He closed his eyes and saw her.
He saw the haunting violet eyes of Ashara Dayne. He saw the way she had laughed when he asked her to dance, shy and stumbling. He saw the white towers of Starfall rising from the sea, a place she had whispered about in the quiet moments before the tourney turned to tragedy.
She is waiting, Ned thought. The hope was a sharp, sudden pain in his chest. She is in the South. Waiting for the war to end.
He wasn't just fighting for vengeance anymore. He wasn't just fighting to survive.
He was fighting for a road that led to her.
"Ned?"
Robert's voice snapped him back to the moment. The ceremony was over. Denys was kissing his new bride, a polite, formal kiss to seal the pact.
Robert was standing beside Ned, a knowing smirk playing on his lips.
"You look like a man who just dodged an arrow, Ned," Robert whispered.
Ned looked at the altar, then at his friend.
"I look like a man who is ready to march," Ned said quietly.
"Good," Robert grunted, clapping a heavy hand on Ned's shoulder. "Because the honeymoon is over. Tomorrow, we hunt dragons."
[End of Chapter 19]