Inside the castle of Riverrun, a middle-aged man sat at the head of a long table, surrounded by lords and bannermen.
This was Hoster Tully — the Paramount Lord of the Trident, Lord of Riverrun, and head of House Tully.
His presence commanded respect without effort: blue eyes, brown hair streaked with gray, and a posture that carried both authority and years of heavy decisions.
Around him, hushed murmurs and the rustle of parchment hinted that urgent matters were about to unfold.
Suddenly, a guard rushed in.
"My lord! A group of merchants is requesting an audience!"
Hoster looked up, frowning. "What is this about, captain? And what do you mean by 'merchants'?"
"They're at the gates, my lord. They claim to have been attacked by bandits last night, not far from the city."
"Bandits?" Hoster repeated, narrowing his eyes. "And what else?"
"They report that the bandits were… slain by some kind of creature. I didn't fully understand their story — something about a monstrous being appearing at midnight. It makes no sense, my lord. I suspect they're exaggerating to attract attention — perhaps seeking protection or favors."
One of the seated lords snorted. "Lord Hoster, I beg you not to waste time with peasants' tales. They're schemers — surely trying to earn your favor or milk some protection from your good will."
Hoster rubbed his chin, considering. "Perhaps you're right. If it's something serious, we'll deal with it later. For now, there are more pressing concerns in the Riverlands." He turned to the captain. "You're dismissed."
The captain hesitated. "As you command, my lord. But if they persist, how should I proceed?"
"Use your judgment," Hoster replied firmly. "Find out if there's any truth to their claims. If there is, report back. If not—" His gaze hardened. "Throw them in the dungeons. Let them learn not to waste a lord's time."
The matter dismissed, the meeting resumed. The hall quieted as Lord Tully raised his hand, returning to more practical affairs of his domain.
That same evening — the very day the merchants had tried to seek an audience — Lord Hoster dined with his family under the flickering light of torches in the great hall of Riverrun.
To his right sat Catelyn, ever attentive to her father's tone; to his left, Lysa, restless and tapping her fingers on her cup; further down, Edmure, young and eager, trying hard to appear composed.
They ate in silence until the doors opened with a heavy sound of boots.
"Hoster," said a deep voice.
Hoster looked up. "Brynden, my brother. What's happened?"
It was Ser Brynden Tully, known throughout the realm as The Blackfish. The younger brother of the Lord of Riverrun bowed his head briefly before speaking.
"Something did happen in those woods, brother — or so the scouts report."
Hoster frowned. "Explain."
"You remember the merchants who came earlier, demanding audience? The ones we dismissed because their tale sounded absurd?"
Hoster nodded.
"Well," Brynden continued, "some of our patrols returned at sunset. They came by the same route — and what they described is… troubling."
"Troubling how?" Hoster pressed.
"They found a slaughter. A massacre. Corpses everywhere — charred, torn apart. Burn marks across the trees. The signs of destruction were… extensive."
The younger Tullys at the table exchanged anxious glances, but Hoster's face remained grave.
"What do you think it was, Brynden? A large bandit group? An invading force from another House?"
"I can't say," Blackfish admitted. "The scouts didn't stay long enough to investigate thoroughly — it wasn't part of their orders. At dawn, I'll ride there myself. I want to see it with my own eyes."
Hoster nodded slowly. "Good. Bring me answers, not rumors."
Brynden bowed. "You will have them, brother."
As he turned to leave, Catelyn's voice broke the silence. "Father… what happened? Was it an attack? Against our lands?"
Seeing her worried face, Hoster reached across the table and took her hand.
"Do not trouble yourself, Catelyn. Whatever it is, it's nothing your father can't handle."
He cast a reassuring look at his other children. "None of you need to fear."
The next morning, Blackfish departed westward with a small escort, following the trail marked by the scouts.
Near midday, a captain of the guard intercepted Lord Tully as he crossed the courtyard.
"My lord," the man said with a bow. "I bring information that may concern you."
"Go on, captain."
"Yesterday, a strange merchant — possibly a spy — entered Riverrun. I ordered him watched. He bought three horses in the merchants' district and left before sunrise."
Hoster frowned. "And what's suspicious about that? Merchants come and go every day."
"It's not just that, my lord. He overpaid for everything — tolls, services, maybe the horses themselves. We tracked him the entire time. And now, the horse seller is requesting an audience. He claims to have learned something important about that man."
"A spy?" Hoster's expression hardened. "You think you found one here, in my city?"
"I can't confirm it, my lord. But the coincidence is odd. The same man we were watching is now the subject of a merchant's report. It may be nothing — or something worth your attention."
"Hmm…" Hoster tapped his finger on the armrest. "Bring the man to me. The smaller chamber will do."
Not long after, the old horse trader stood nervously before Lord Tully. The room was modest, but to the simple man it looked like a hall of kings.
"My lord," he said, bowing deeply, "I have something to tell you."
"Your name first," said Hoster.
"Roderick, my lord."
"Very well, Roderick. Speak."
"Yesterday, a merchant came to my stables and bought three horses."
"Yes, I've heard. What of it?"
"He paid me with an emerald."
"An emerald?" Hoster raised his brows.
"This one, my lord." Roderick carefully drew a green stone from his coat — clean, luminous, perfectly cut.
Hoster and the guards leaned forward in astonishment. He gestured. "Let me see it."
The gem gleamed deep green under the candlelight.
"To pay for three horses with something like this…" Hoster murmured. "That man is either mad or hiding something."
"How much did you charge?"
"One hundred and twenty silver coins, my lord. He said he lacked the silver and offered this instead."
Silence hung thick in the air.
"You're saying he gave away a fortune because he ran short on coin?" Hoster said, half incredulous, half wary. "Guards — fetch the Maester. I want this examined."
Moments later, the Maester entered — a man in gray robes and chains that clinked softly as he bowed.
"Maester," Hoster said, handing him the gem. "Tell me what you see."
The Maester studied the emerald carefully under the light.
"My lord, this is no trinket. The craftsmanship is exquisite, the color immaculate. I'd value it at—"
Hoster interrupted him. "Never mind that." He turned back to Roderick. "I'll pay you five hundred silvers for the stone. Fair enough?"
The old man hesitated. "My lord, forgive my boldness… but such a gem may be worth much more." Realizing his mistake, he bowed quickly. "I mean— I accept your offer, my lord."
Hoster's lips curved faintly. "You're right to speak honestly. Five hundred is too little. Here's what we'll do: you'll get your payment, and from now on you're the official horse supplier of House Tully. You'll be paid properly for your service."
Roderick's eyes filled with tears. "Thank you, my lord! I won't fail your trust."
"Guards, escort Roderick. See that he's paid and recorded."
When the old man left, Hoster turned back to the Maester.
"I want a written report," he said, still gazing at the emerald. "Include your analysis — and any plausible theory about its origin. A merchant who trades horses for this…" He shook his head. "There's something I'm not seeing."
"As you command, my lord," the Maester replied.
"Make sure that report is for my eyes only. Understood?"
The Maester bowed again. "Perfectly, my lord."
Left alone, Hoster walked to the window. The Trident shimmered under the midday sun, flowing strong and calm beyond the castle walls.
A spy wouldn't act like that, he thought. He wouldn't waltz into the very city he's watching, pay a fortune, and vanish at dawn.
He frowned. None of this makes sense.
After a long silence, he turned back to his desk. "For now… there's nothing to be done."
But the doubt lingered, quiet as the river beneath his walls.
By sunset, Brynden Tully returned. He entered the hall, face grim.
"You're not going to like this, brother," he said. "I bring no good news."
Hoster straightened in his chair. "Speak."
"We reached the site. The merchants weren't lying. It was a massacre — bodies torn apart, burned, scattered. Not the work of soldiers or brigands. Something else."
Hoster's eyes narrowed. "What do you mean, something else?"
"There were no tracks," said Brynden. "No hoofprints, no blade marks, no armor fragments. Whatever did it left nothing of itself behind. But it burned men alive. Some were half-charred, others torn limb from limb."
As they spoke, the captain of the guard entered again. "My lords — one of the merchants who survived requests audience. Says he saw everything."
"Bring him in," Hoster ordered.
Moments later, a nervous man in decent but plain clothing stepped forward.
"My lords," he said, bowing.
"Your name?" Hoster asked.
"Geisel, my lord."
"Well then, Geisel. Speak."
"My lords, I swear on all the gods — what I saw was no lie. I wasn't drunk, and I didn't hit my head. I saw it with my own eyes, and others did too."
Brynden folded his arms. "Then say it quickly."
Geisel told his tale — the ambush, the panic, and the monstrous being that descended from the trees. He spoke of fire, of a spear that returned to its master's hand, of death that came too swiftly to comprehend.
When he finished, silence filled the room.
Hoster exchanged a look with his brother. "You're certain of this?"
"I am, my lord. I wish I weren't. But I saw it."
"Enough," said Hoster. "Take this man away. He's delirious."
As the guards led him out, Geisel's desperate voice echoed through the corridor. "Please, my lord! I'm not lying! I swear it's true!"
When the door shut, Blackfish sighed. "Are you going to lock him up, Hoster?"
"No," Hoster said quietly. "But I don't want him near me either. If what he said is true, then something's out there. And it's not human."
"You really believe that? A monster wandering our lands?"
Hoster's gaze was cold. "Do you have a better explanation?"
Hoster leaned back, weary. "If word of this reaches the king, it'll cause more trouble than the creature itself."
"The king?" Brynden asked.
"Yes. After Duskendale, the letters I've received say he's… unstable. If he hears that fire's been seen in the Riverlands, he'll think it's a dragon — or something tied to the Targaryens."
The weight of those words filled the room.
Neither man spoke again.
There was nothing more to say — only the uneasy silence of two lords who knew too well how dangerous a rumor could become.