The Riverlands did not erupt into celebration when the roads stayed open.
They adapted.
That, Garen Storm learned, was the truest measure of stability—when people stopped reacting and started planning. Markets began posting predictable days again. River barges timed their runs without armed escorts stacked shoulder to shoulder. Farmers planted further from their homes, trusting that someone would notice if strangers lingered too long near a hedge line.
The work shifted accordingly.
Garen no longer rode from fire to fire. He rode to maintain—to inspect patrol intervals, to audit supply points, to correct small deviations before they became habits. It was quieter work, and in many ways more dangerous. The enemy here was complacency, not steel.
By the end of the second month, the count crossed eighty.
Eighty-two men stood on the practice field one morning, lined up by height and reach rather than seniority. It wasn't a perfect formation—mail and leather mixed, helms mismatched, shields of different shapes—but it was unmistakably one thing. They moved when called. They stopped when ordered. They listened.
Garen walked the line with Merrick at his shoulder.
"Too many at once," Merrick murmured, low enough that only Garen could hear. "We're stretching food and sleep."
"I know," Garen replied. "We pause recruitment after this week."
Merrick nodded, relieved. "Good."
They reached the far end of the line where Tom Rivers stood with a cluster of newer recruits—men who still glanced around for permission when spoken to. Tom's posture had changed. He stood relaxed but ready, spear grounded, eyes alert without being frantic.
Garen stopped.
"Tom," he said.
Tom snapped to attention. "Captain."
"Take them," Garen said, gesturing to the cluster. "Three drills. Formation advance, controlled retreat, and casualty carry. You decide the order."
A test.
Tom's eyes flicked to the recruits, then back to Garen. "Yes, Captain."
Garen stepped away.
He did not watch at first.
That was the hardest part—learning when not to be present. Command was not a collection of perfect moments; it was the sum of imperfect ones endured without collapse.
Merrick watched instead. "He'll make mistakes."
"He should," Garen said.
The morning wore on. Shields thumped. Boots scuffed. Men cursed under their breath and learned to stop doing so when it cost them breath. When Garen finally looked back, Tom's group was moving as a unit—slow, uneven, but intact. One man stumbled during the retreat, and Tom halted the line immediately, repositioned them, and resumed without shouting.
Better.
By midday, word came in from the eastern road.
A village—Lowbank—had turned back a group of armed men without incident. Not a patrol. Not a fight. The villagers themselves had closed gates, sent a runner, and waited.
That was new.
Garen mounted within minutes, taking a small escort—visible, deliberate, non-threatening. When they arrived, Lowbank's headman met them at the edge of the green with a ledger under his arm.
"They asked for coin," the man said, voice steady. "Said it was a toll."
"And you?" Garen asked.
"We told them the toll was paid to Riverrun now," the headman replied. "And that the men in blue would hear of it."
The would-be collectors had left without argument.
No blood.
No chase.
Garen nodded once. "You did well."
The headman hesitated, then offered the ledger. "Trade's up. We'd like to contribute to the patrol fund."
"Keep it," Garen said. "Repair your bridge."
The man blinked. "Captain—"
"Ser," Garen corrected gently. The title felt strange in his mouth, still unofficial, still implied rather than spoken aloud. "If the bridge stands, the road stands. That helps everyone."
They rode back as dusk settled, campfires appearing in predictable places. Predictability was the point now.
That night, the system surfaced with the quiet weight of a ledger closing.
[SYSTEM REVIEW — CONSOLIDATION PHASE]
Command Strength: 82 (Active)
Recruitment Rate: High → Paused (Intentional)
Force Cohesion: Moderate (Upward Trend)
Training Outcomes:
• Formation Integrity: Improving
• Casualty Discipline: Developing
• Independent Leadership: Emerging
Regional Stability: Sustained (Multi-Route)
Civilian Initiative: Increasing (Self-Reporting Observed)
Leadership Node — Tom Rivers:
• Decision-Making Under Pressure: Acceptable
• Command Presence: Developing
• Error Rate: Elevated (Correctable)
Garen let the ledger fade and stared at the fire.
Eighty-two men.
Enough to frighten a bandit chief. Enough to irritate a minor lord. Enough to force conversations that had been avoided for months.
Those conversations began the following week.
They did not start with Edmure.
They started with letters.
Polite ones, mostly. Requests to "coordinate jurisdiction." Invitations to dine. Suggestions that certain roads would be better "managed locally." Garen answered each the same way—briefly, respectfully, and without yielding authority he did not intend to relinquish.
Merrick handled the logistics of it with the patience of a man who had learned how easily paper wars turned into real ones. He organized supply contracts that favored villages providing information. He rotated patrols so no single lord could claim favoritism. He enforced pay schedules down to the copper.
The men noticed.
Pay on time mattered more than speeches.
Tom's first independent command test came sooner than Garen would have liked.
A runner arrived at dawn with news of movement along the willow flats—armed men, ten or twelve, testing farms but not yet pressing. Garen was two hours away, overseeing a bridge reinforcement. The choice was simple and cruel.
Wait.
Or let Tom act.
Garen handed the decision to Merrick.
Merrick did not hesitate. "He's ready enough," he said. "And he'll never be ready if we keep pulling him back."
Garen nodded once. "Then give him the parameters."
No pursuit. No engagement unless forced. Presence only.
Tom took fifteen men and rode.
Garen waited.
The hours dragged. He busied himself with inspections he'd already completed once, listening for hoofbeats that did not come. When Tom finally returned near dusk, his face was smeared with dust, eyes tired but focused.
"They withdrew," Tom reported. "No contact. We showed strength and stayed visible."
"Losses?" Garen asked.
"None," Tom said. Then, after a breath, "I almost chased them."
Garen met his gaze. "And?"
"And I didn't," Tom said. "Because I remembered what you said about winning."
That mattered more than the outcome.
"Well done," Garen said.
Tom exhaled like a man who had been holding his breath all day.
The political pressure crested soon after.
Edmure summoned Garen in the late afternoon, not to the hall, but to a smaller chamber overlooking the river. The tone was measured, the wine poured but untouched.
"They're forcing my hand," Edmure said plainly. "Not all of them. Enough."
Garen remained silent.
"They say an informal force of this size can't exist indefinitely," Edmure continued. "They're right, in a way."
"Yes," Garen agreed. "It needs structure."
Edmure studied him. "And a name."
"Eventually," Garen said.
Edmure's mouth curved into a faint smile. "You always choose 'eventually' when others choose 'now.' It's infuriating."
"It keeps men alive," Garen replied.
Edmure leaned forward. "I will back you publicly. But when I do, there will be no retreat. Titles follow recognition. Land follows titles. And once that happens—"
"I'm tied here," Garen finished.
"Yes," Edmure said. "And so are your enemies."
Garen thought of blue cloaks on the roads. Of villagers closing gates without fear. Of men who drilled until their legs shook because they believed the shaking would stop.
"I understand," he said.
Edmure nodded, satisfied. "Then we proceed carefully. One more season of consolidation. One more demonstration that this isn't a passing thing."
Outside, the river flowed as it always had—patient, relentless, shaped by what stood firm against it.
Back at camp, the men gathered without being called. Someone had started a cookfire early. Someone else had mended a torn tabard with blue thread scavenged from old banners. The color was spreading, unspoken and deliberate.
Tom sat with his unit, laughing softly at something Hugh had said. Merrick reviewed a supply list with Orren, arguing about boot leather.
Garen watched them and felt the shape of what was coming.
Not glory.
Responsibility.
The system surfaced one last time that night, brief and unadorned.
[SYSTEM UPDATE — THRESHOLD APPROACHING]
Force Size: Approaching Critical Mass
Political Attention: Elevated
Formalization Pressure: Increasing
Garen closed his eyes and let it fade.
He had wanted time.
Time to train. Time to harden habits. Time to make mistakes small and survivable.
Time was nearly spent.
Soon, the Riverlands would demand a banner to rally beneath—or an excuse to tear one down.
And when that moment came, Garen Storm intended to be ready to carry the weight of blue without letting it drown him.