King's Landing did not mark departures.
It only marked arrivals.
No horns sounded when I passed through the gates at dawn, no curious crowd gathered to watch the man from the melee leave the city that had briefly claimed him. A pair of Gold Cloaks glanced at my armor, noted the small scrap of river-blue cloth tied discreetly to my saddle strap, and waved me through without comment.
That alone told me the offer from House Tully was already known.
Power in Westeros moved faster than horses ever could.
The road north bent gently at first, climbing out of the sprawl and stink of the capital into open country that still pretended the world was orderly. Fields stretched wide and green, dotted with farmsteads that looked whole from a distance.
Up close, the lie unraveled.
Fences lay broken, trampled inward rather than out. Doors hung crooked on their hinges. Smoke stains darkened the thatch of buildings that had been repaired in haste, if at all. I passed a farmhouse where someone had tried to rebuild a wall using whatever stones they could find, mortar uneven, hands inexperienced.
This wasn't a land at peace.
It was a land holding its breath.
The farther I rode into the Riverlands, the more people I met on the road—families with carts piled high in ways that spoke of flight rather than trade, old men walking with staffs they leaned on too hard, women watching the hedgerows instead of the sky.
They looked at me with eyes sharpened by experience.
Not hope.
Not fear.
Calculation.
A sword could be protection.
Or it could be the reason trouble followed.
By midday, I understood the problem Edmure Tully was inheriting far better than any letter could explain.
The Riverlands were too open.
Too many roads. Too many rivers. Too many places for men to vanish after doing something unforgivable. Armies marched through here every time the realm shook, and they never put things back the way they found them.
Broken men didn't leave.
They stayed.
I stopped at a crossroads marked by a weathered stone carved with a faded trout. The road toward Riverrun bent eastward, following the river. Another path led south, narrower, less traveled.
That was the one the refugees had come from.
I didn't need a system prompt to know which road mattered more.
I turned south.
An hour later, I found the first sign of active trouble.
A wagon lay on its side in a shallow ditch, one wheel splintered clean through. The canvas cover had been slashed open, grain spilling into the dirt like it had been poured out deliberately. No bodies. No blood.
Recent.
I dismounted and rested a hand on the sword, scanning the treeline.
This wasn't an ambush site.
It was a warning.
Someone wanted travelers to turn back.
Voices carried ahead—low, rough, careless in the way men got when they believed no one stronger was nearby. I followed the sound without rushing, keeping my steps measured, letting my presence announce itself only when I wanted it to.
The road curved.
Six men stood ahead, arguing over a sack of grain beside another cart—this one still upright, its owner nowhere in sight. Their armor was a patchwork of old mail, leather, and stolen pieces that didn't fit right. One wore a faded tabard that might once have belonged to a knight.
Broken men.
"Oi," one of them said, spotting me at last. "Road's closed."
"Didn't hear a lord declare it," I replied.
They laughed. One spat.
"Then you're deaf," the same man said. "Turn around."
I stepped closer instead.
The sword stayed sheathed.
That unsettled them more than if I'd drawn it.
"Who do you answer to?" I asked.
Another laugh, sharper this time. "We answer to whoever bleeds."
That told me everything.
I let my gaze pass over them slowly, deliberately—counting, judging distance, noting the way their grips tightened when they realized how calm I was.
"This road answers to House Tully now," I said. "And so do you."
Their laughter died.
One man reached for his blade.
I didn't spin.
I didn't need to.
I stepped forward, closed the distance in two long strides, and drove my shoulder into him hard enough to knock the breath from his lungs. Before the others could react, my sword was out—fast, clean, controlled.
The flat struck one man across the face and dropped him screaming.
The pommel broke another's nose.
Steel rang once, twice, as a third tried to test me and learned better.
The rest scattered.
Not fled—broke.
They ran into the trees without looking back, leaving grain, wagon, and pride behind them.
I stood alone on the road again, breathing steady.
This was the problem.
Not armies.
Not banners.
Men who knew the land better than the law ever could.
I righted the wagon, dragged it back onto the road, and waited.
It took less than an hour for the owner to return—a farmer no older than thirty, eyes hollowed out by exhaustion. When he saw me standing there, sword planted in the dirt beside the wagon, he froze.
"They gone?" he asked.
"Yes."
He swallowed. "For good?"
"No," I said honestly. "But they'll think twice."
That was enough.
As he loaded what grain he could salvage, I looked north again, toward Riverrun.
Edmure Tully wanted results.
This was what results looked like here—not glory, not cheers, but one road made passable for a single day.
I mounted up and rode on.
The Riverlands were already testing me.
And I had the feeling they would not stop.