The air in Riverrun's council hall was so heavy it felt wrung full of water.
Hoster Tully, the Warden of the Riverlands, sat slumped in his giant fish-carved lord's chair.
He had just forced out a furious shout with all the strength he had left. Now his body trembled uncontrollably. His cheeks had sunk deep, his cloudy eyes were bloodshot, and the lord's cloak that marked him as master of Riverrun hung loose over his skeletal frame. He could barely carry it anymore.
His voice was hoarse as he repeated the same question, pounding against everyone's ears.
"Why?"
"Tell me why two or three thousand Ironborn could slip through Seagard like they were strolling through their own back garden and stab straight into our heart."
All the vassals and knights in the hall, including Riverrun's steward Ser Desmond Grel and Ser Robin Lege, kept their heads bowed so low it seemed they had found some fascinating pattern in the floor.
No one could answer.
No one dared answer.
They did not want to believe that many Ironborn existed. But the refugees who had survived them swore they had seen it with their own eyes. There was no choice but to believe.
Silence pressed down on the room like a stone.
In that suffocating stillness, Hoster felt a familiar helplessness rise in him. He thought suddenly of his brother. The man who always disobeyed him, who was rebellious and impossible, and yet somehow always stepped in at the worst possible moments and fixed what no one else could.
The thought flashed by, then became another ragged sigh he could not hold back.
This sudden disaster felt like it had shaved another big chunk off what little life remained to him.
He braced himself on the armrest and tried to sit a little straighter.
"How many men can Riverrun raise?"
Desmond and Robin exchanged a look.
Robin stepped forward and answered in a dry voice.
"Lord Hoster, about two thousand."
"Perhaps we can draw troops from Seagard..."
Hoster stood up. His voice carried a force that made him sound years younger.
"Send my order! Mobilize them!"
"Call the Blackwoods, the Brackens, and House Frey at once! I want four thousand men! Find those damned Ironborn and crush them!"
He paused, then added, "Remember this. Not a single soldier can be taken from Seagard!"
"Yes, my lord."
They answered softly and filed out one by one.
But everyone who left knew how hard that order would be to carry out.
And all of their worst fears, like those of the old lord straining against death itself, pointed to the same place.
Seagard.
At the same time, in Deddington Castle, the atmosphere in the solar was no less tense.
Lady Roslin, the castle lady who had been holding the whole domain together alone since her husband Baran Deddington had ridden off to war, felt dizziness wash over her again and again.
Her desk was piled high with dreadful reports. Beside her, the old Maester Walder wore a deep frown and said nothing.
News of the Ironborn invasion had spread through the land like a plague.
And the rumors among the smallfolk had become more and more unhinged.
And more and more dangerous.
"Did you hear? Seagard has already fallen!"
"The lords are getting ready to run! They want to leave us behind for the Ironborn so they can buy themselves time to escape!"
"They say the Ironborn are ten thousand strong! If we don't run now, it'll be too late!"
The rumors grew darker by the hour, and they drove mass panic among the farmers.
At night, people abandoned their fields, dragged their families along, and fled inland in every direction.
The order of Deddington Castle was collapsing before their eyes.
Or rather, all the smaller powers in the Riverlands were facing the same disaster.
Maester Walder handed her a rolled sheet of parchment, his voice flat.
"Lady, Lord Bel has replied."
Roslin snatched it open and read quickly.
The language was polite enough. Full of loyalty. But the meaning was as cold as ice.
"Our lands are close to the river and require defense. We are truly unable to send troops."
"In this time of tension, we have dispatched fifty elite soldiers to protect Lord Baran's castle."
She crushed the parchment into a ball and hurled it to the ground.
This was the third such letter she had received.
Every one of them was full of words about loyalty and sacrifice, but each time only a few dozen men were sent.
Elite soldiers?
What a load of shit.
They were nothing but refugees given a farm tool and pushed along to look respectable.
She had asked for help in her husband's name from lords who had sworn loyalty at banquets over and over again, pounding their chests and promising they would be Deddington's most faithful bannermen.
And this was what came back.
The coldness. The evasion. The outright fraud.
For the first time, she understood with real clarity that a lord could not afford to be weak and generous.
How she wished her husband could be like that young man...
If he were, would these people dare humiliate their liege lord like this?
Maester Walder hesitated.
"Lady..."
"There are only eight hundred people left in the castle. Everyone is frightened..."
"We need to think of something..."
Roslin closed her eyes and said nothing. Her body trembled slightly.
Then came the sound of hurried, disordered footsteps outside the door.
A guard did not even wait to knock. He shoved the door open and rushed in, panting hard.
"Lady! Lady!"
Roslin opened her eyes sharply.
Was her rule really that poor? Even the soldiers were this undisciplined?
She snapped, "What is it that has you so panicked?"
The guard no longer cared for etiquette. He dropped to one knee and blurted out with excitement and disbelief.
"Lady! A relief force has arrived outside the castle!"
Roslin shot to her feet.
"Relief force? How many?"
Then her expression dimmed a little as she sat back down.
It was probably just another few dozen men.
The guard looked up, his face strange with emotion.
"Reporting, lady! More than four hundred!"
Roslin's eyes went wide. The light returned at once. She sprang to her feet again.
"Banners? Whose banners?"
"Lady! Lord Solomon's banner!"
The answer turned the whole solar into silence.
"They say they came under Lord Solomon's orders to assist the lady in defending the castle!"
In Roslin's mind, the image of that young man from months ago surfaced at once. The boy who had stood before her in tears and misery.
And she had gone after him again and again.
Yet he had gone on to win great merit, build a fearsome name, and rise on his own.
Meanwhile, when she was being deceived by bannermen who kept repeating their loyalty like a prayer, that same boy, the one she had not even bothered to write to, had sent help on his own.
The contrast hit like a hammer.
So did the shame.
So did the gratitude.
Roslin's eyes went red without warning.
She turned quickly, putting her back to the guard and the maester so no one could see her lose her composure.
How could she have treated him like that?
She pressed a hand to the corner of her eye, but a few hot tears still slipped between her fingers and fell onto the cold floor.
Even the steady Maester Walder fell silent for a long time.
He looked at Roslin's trembling back and let out a tired, emotional breath.
Who would have thought that when disaster came, the truest oath-breakers would be exposed, and the truest oath-keepers would stand revealed.
Roslin drew in a deep breath and forced herself back under control.
When she turned around again, the authority of a castle lady had returned to her face.
Only her voice still shook a little.
"Open the gates!"
Then she paused and looked toward the gate.
"No."
"I will go myself."
"Let me personally go and welcome the army of my house's most faithful bannermen."
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