Mist rolled low over the marshes surrounding Harlowe Heath, veiling the keep's sharp towers until they seemed to float above the fens. The river below hissed over stones, carrying reeds, driftwood, and the faint detritus of the lands beyond. From the high windows of his solar, Varron Ruskyn observed the shifting waters as he would a chessboard: currents, confluences, and the faintest hint of turbulence foretelling opportunity.
Inside the hall, servants scurried along the flagstones, carrying platters of cold meats, trenchers of bread, and flagons of wine. The scent of roasted duck mingled with damp wool, smoke curling from the hearth, filling the space with a comfortable, deceptive warmth. The room would soon swell with men whose ambitions could match the river itself.
Varron adjusted the silver fox embroidered on his doublet, straightened the hem of his cloak, and let his eyes wander to the long oak table. At one end sat King Theran of Marrowford, broad shoulders draped in a cloak of grey river-wolf fur. He brought few attendants, preferring authority to ostentation. To Varron's careful eye, the King was both a threat and a tool, a stone in the river's path that could be shifted if pressed just so.
To his left, Lord Meryn of Erydonel — the MC's father — sat with a posture of deliberate calm. A man of measured speech and unwavering duty, Meryn's presence was like a rock: visible, immovable, and occasionally sharp enough to break the current. Beside him, Lady Ceryn Harrowfen watched with the quiet precision of a hawk, lips pressed, eyes calculating. Lord Benric Tullwater of Greenflow slouched slightly, wine already claiming his tongue, while Ser Rorik Vypren's restless energy kept one hand brushing against the hilt of his sword, though none expected him to draw it here.
The Fox's guests — river lords and border lords alike — had come for an invitation tinged with promise. None doubted that "mutual prosperity" would be tempered by Varron's cunning. He smiled faintly to himself: power was less a thing seized than a tide allowed to carry one.
---
"Your hall smells of secrets, Ruskyn," King Theran said, voice low, each word a stone tossed into still water. "Tell us one."
Varron inclined his head slightly, voice smooth, precise. "If secrets could be eaten, Your Grace, my table would be bare. I serve something finer — opportunity."
A ripple moved through the hall, subtle but perceptible. Eyes darted. Lips twitched. Opportunity, like a blade, cut differently for each man.
"Opportunity for whom?" Meryn asked evenly. His tone held the calm authority of a man who measured every word against duty, against the welfare of those who looked to him.
Varron's gaze shifted toward the old map spread across the table — rivers and lands drawn in faded blue ink, borders of influence only faintly marked. "For those with the wit to take it," he said. "The Storm King's gaze rests southward. The western lords quarrel. The borderlands are neglected. Roads crumble. Fields lie fallow. Yet trade passes through all the same. Gold flows to distant coffers while those who guard the fords see little for themselves."
He let the words linger. A careful pause, as if the map itself were whispering, the parchment soft under his fingertips. "These lands could thrive under hands willing to act. The River King need only lend his name, and the people will follow those who feed them."
"Stewardship or seizure?" Lord Jonos Mooton interrupted sharply from across the table, eyes narrowed.
Theran's hand lifted, a slow, measured gesture. "Let him speak," the River King said, voice deep, his silence folding the room into stillness.
Varron's lips curved. "I counsel no theft, Your Grace. I speak only of guidance, protection, provision. Men already look to Marrowford when raiders take their daughters or their grain fails. They seek a steady hand. Shall we deny it to them?"
Lady Ceryn's lips twitched in the faintest of smiles. "And whose hand guides this stewardship?"
"The river's," Varron said softly. "And through it, all of ours."
---
The room fell into a tense silence. Torches cracked softly, the sound underscoring the pause. The river lords whispered among themselves — plotting, testing the air. The border lords leaned in, cautious, weighing threats against loyalty, the unknown weight of the Storm King pressing somewhere south, beyond the marshes and the horizon.
Meryn of Erydonel finally leaned forward, fingers clasped on the table, hazel eyes steady. "And if the Storm King turns his gaze upon us? We plant banners where he claims none, and yet we provoke his wrath?"
Varron's voice dropped, quiet, almost conspiratorial. "The Storm King's eyes are cast south, and his heart rests with those he knows. His shadow does not reach every ford. Besides — flags need not be planted. We offer aid, fair trade, grain for those who cannot feed themselves, and men will pledge freely to those who shelter them. Who can deny the hand that feeds?"
Benric Tullwater laughed, wet and loud. "And when they do, we'll find the Storm King's horns at our gates."
"Only if we fear him," Varron replied smoothly. A few murmurs, restrained laughter, the first current of his influence weaving through the hall.
Theran remained impassive, fingers drumming lightly against the arm of his chair. Varron studied him — slow, measured, always measuring. Every pause, every subtle breath, every glance: leverage.
---
By midday, alliances and intentions began to ripple beneath the surface. The river lords — Mooton, Vypren, Tullwater — murmured their assent in quiet tones, observing the map and the Fox's posture. The border lords — Meryn most prominent — spoke of caution, of honor, of the danger inherent in empowering outsiders even with promises of guidance.
Varron watched the currents form, smiling inwardly. Division was his ally. When two sides cannot trust one another, they are easier to guide than any united front. He sipped wine, eyes shifting from face to face. Every twitch of an eye, every stiffening of a back, every careful hand resting on a sword hilt or folded over a map was a sign, a key to the lock he was about to turn.
"My friends," he said, voice carrying just above the murmur, "fear prospers for no man. Courage has shaped our rivers and lands. Stand together, and no distant king, no shadow in the south, can dam our course."
A quiet assent rose from the river lords' side, measured, almost imperceptible. Even Mooton's lips pressed into a thin line of agreement.
Meryn rose, voice calm, deliberate. "And what of the Storm King's justice? Will it bend to your rivers, or will it break them against our banks?"
Varron's eyes gleamed faintly, a fox in the reeds. "A river that does not flood," he said softly, "soon dries."
The words hung over the hall, sharp and quiet as a blade.
---
By nightfall, the council had not yielded final oaths. Lines were drawn. The river lords had been tempered, their ambition drawn toward the Fox's currents; the border lords, Meryn foremost, remained wary. The River King had spoken little, yet every word he did not speak lent weight to Varron's tide.
When the hall emptied, only Corwyn Myre lingered by the door. "You've stirred a hornet's nest," he said.
Varron poured himself a cup of wine, holding it to the torchlight. "Let them sting each other while I build the hive."
"And Meryn?"
The Fox's smile was small, private, predatory. "A righteous man, a dangerous one. He will hold his honor and his lands until one of us breaks first. But he has done exactly what I intended."
Corwyn frowned. "Which is?"
"Division," said Varron. "The first sign that the rivers are rising."
He moved to the window, eyes sweeping over the moonlit fens. Reflections of torchlight glimmered in the waters, silver and dark as shadow and intention. Somewhere beyond the marshes, a quiet lord would ponder his next move. Somewhere, the game had begun.
Varron's cup tilted slightly, catching the moonlight. "Let them come," he whispered. "The tide is with me now."