The banners of Marrowford hung limp in the morning haze, damp with mist from the river below. The keep sat upon a long, low rise of stone, its walls old and pitted, its towers bristling like the ribs of some half-sunken beast. Beneath it, the confluence of the Greenfork and the Redstream churned grey and cold, carrying the detritus of half a kingdom—barrels, dead reeds, driftwood, and rumor.
Lord Varron Ruskyn watched the water from the gallery window. It moved the way men did, he thought—swirling, colliding, merging, dividing. Nothing stayed whole in the river's course, not even truth.
Behind him, the hall stirred to life. Pages hurried across the flagstones with platters of fruit and trenchers of honeyed bread. The smell of roasted duck and wet wool mingled beneath the timber beams. Soon the River King would descend from his solar, and the real work would begin.
"Your tongue's sharp today," murmured Ser Corwyn Myre from behind him. The knight leaned one shoulder against the doorway, helm tucked beneath his arm. "You mean to cut throats with it or kiss them?"
Varron smiled faintly. "One follows the other, often enough."
He turned from the window, smoothing the front of his doublet—black wool trimmed with fox-fur, his sigil stitched in silver thread. The color made him seem both solemn and predatory, which suited him fine. The men of the rivers liked their lords to wear their beasts honestly.
"Theran's cautious," Corwyn said. "He'll not leap at your bait."
"Then I'll make him think it was his idea to bite," Varron replied.
---
When the King entered, the room quieted as though a door had shut on the world outside. Theran of Marrowford was grey of beard, thick of shoulder, his crown plain iron set with river-stones dull from age. His eyes, pale and steady, saw much and said little. The air bent to his silence.
"Lord Ruskyn," the King said, taking his seat. "You've stirred a great many men to my hall. I hope the fish is worth the net you've cast."
Varron bowed deeply. "Only if Your Grace finds the catch to his liking."
A low chuckle rippled among the gathered lords. Theran's hand waved it away. "Speak then. What current brings you upriver from Harlowe Heath?"
"Concern, Your Grace," Varron said smoothly. "The same current that touches all your shores. Banditry grows bold along the Crownlands border. Wagons bound for the Trident vanish. Ships go missing between Maidenpool and Saltpans. The King's men look the other way—or perhaps their eyes are paid to look elsewhere."
Theran drummed his fingers on the table. "I've heard such tales. Tales have teeth when told often enough. But you would not ride to Marrowford for bandits."
"No," said Varron, his tone lowering. "I rode for opportunity."
That word drew a murmur. Lord Benric Tullwater leaned forward, wine on his breath. "Opportunity for whom, Fox? You never share the meat unless the bone's rotten."
Varron's smile flickered like torchlight. "For us all, my lord. For the rivers. The Crown grows weak. Its lords quarrel and its stewards line their purses. The fields go untended in the south, and men whisper that a new power rises in the west. But the rivers—our rivers—remain the lifeblood of trade. We feed the east, arm the north, and drown the careless. If the King in his stone keep cannot protect his roads, should not those who can?"
Theran's gaze was unreadable. "You would have us take his burden."
"I would have us take what he cannot hold," Varron said simply.
---
Silence followed, long and taut. Then Lady Ceryn Harrowfen's voice, low and precise: "You mean to carve the Crownlands."
Varron inclined his head slightly. "To guard them. The border marches are neglected. Their people starve while their lords dine. I would see the Trident's reach extended, not in conquest, but in stewardship. Men will follow a banner that feeds them."
King Theran rose, slow and deliberate. "And if I were to believe you, what would you have me do?"
Varron approached the map laid across the council table—an old parchment, edges curling, its rivers drawn in blue ink faded to grey. He placed a finger near the borderlands. "Here, the King's levy grows thin. Here, his roads are broken. From the Duskwood to the Rosemere, the ground lies unclaimed by strength. If Marrowford names protectorship over these routes, trade will flow through your ports and coffers once more."
He paused. "But such a move must seem lawful. It must bear the River King's seal."
Theran stared at him for a long moment. "You would make me a thief with a crown."
"A restorer, Your Grace," Varron corrected gently. "And the realm will thank you for it."
---
The council broke for the midday meal. Roasted pike and barley stew were served, but conversation drowned the taste. Lords leaned close to whisper in corners, their voices carrying fragments of greed and fear. Lady Ceryn toyed with her goblet, watching Varron from across the table. Lord Benric demanded more wine, laughing too loudly at nothing.
Theran ate little. His eyes never left the map.
When the meal ended, he summoned Varron to his solar.
---
The chamber was smaller than the hall, warmer, lit by riverlight pouring through narrow glass panes. The walls were lined with weapons dulled by time—maces, axes, shields bearing sigils of houses long drowned or absorbed. The air smelled faintly of oil and iron.
Theran stood before the hearth, crown in hand. "You speak well, Fox. Too well. I've ruled half my life, and never has one man come to me with charity in his mouth and gain in his eyes."
Varron bowed. "I'd not insult Your Grace with charity."
"Then what do you want?"
Varron looked up. "A chance to serve the river as you once did. To keep it from bleeding into the sea."
Theran's lips twitched into something that was almost a smile. "Pretty words. Yet I see your tail behind them."
"Every fox has one, Your Grace. Better a tail than a leash."
That earned a low laugh. "If I grant this 'protectorate,' what happens when the Crown sends its banners east?"
"Then they'll meet men who fight for coin in their purses and bread in their bowls," Varron said. "Not for distant kings, but for you."
Theran turned back to the fire. For a long moment, the only sound was the crackle of burning oak. Then he said, "Bring me names. Lords who will swear to this. If I am to be drawn into your game, I'll not stand alone."
"As you command, Your Grace."
---
By evening, the hall blazed with torchlight once more. Varron moved through it like a shadow in silk, whispering here, smiling there. Promises traded like coins: a new ferry for Benric's lands, grain for Lady Ceryn's ports, silver from the tolls of Duskwood Road for those who pledged their men. One by one, hands clasped his, warm and eager.
Ser Corwyn watched from the steps. "You've netted half the Trident in a day."
Varron sipped his wine. "The other half will swim to avoid the net."
"And the King?"
"He'll sign. Pride forbids silence, and silence makes him seem weak. He'll sign, and when he does, the rivers will belong to me."
Corwyn tilted his head. "To you, or to the Trident?"
Varron smiled thinly. "What difference is there?"
---
When all the lords had gone and the torches guttered low, Varron stood again at the gallery window, the river glinting like black glass beneath the moon.
In the dark water, he saw reflections: Theran's iron crown, Benric's fat hand, Ceryn's narrow smile, the road to Duskwood, and somewhere beyond it, a small keep in the Crownlands where a quiet lord named Meryn Elric would soon ride to parley.
The Fox raised his cup to the river. "Let them all come," he whispered. "The tide's with me now."
The river gave no answer, only the slow whisper of its endless, hungry flow.