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Chapter Text

The Great Hall at Riverrun was cold. Rain drizzled beyond the windows, and the river mists coiled at the base of the walls. Around the long oaken table sat half a dozen grim-faced men, their cloaks still damp with road-water and sweat.

Edmure Tully, the youngest of the lot, sat at the head, doing his best not to pass out. An hour ago, he had been dead. Or rather, Edward Turner had been dead. Then, by the will of whatever divine powers involved in the affair, his spirit had found itself taking up new lodging in the body of sixteen-year-old Edmure Tully – heir to Riverrun and future Lord Paramount of the Trident. As if that wasn’t disorienting enough, he had woken to the sound of horns and bells, and found himself being dragged out of bed to the Great Hall, with the news of a large Tyrell host advancing towards Riverrun.

He could still barely believe he was here, literally here. Not in a dream – or so he thought. Not hallucinating. In a castle. In Westeros. In charge. Expected to organize the castle’s defences ahead of potentially a long siege, for he was the acting Lord of Riverrun in the absence of his father and uncle, who were both off fighting in the rebellion. He looked at the men in front of him. Among them, two dark-haired captains of the Tully vassal House Blackwood – Sers Ryman and Lymond – whose men comprised the bulk of the castle’s current defenders, Riverrun’s own master-at-arms Ser Robin, the sour-faced steward Utherydes Wayn, and the old maester Vyman.

He straightened as Ser Ryman cleared his throat.

“The Reach host has entered the Riverlands, my lord. Some six thousand foot and two thousand on horseback, advancing along the River Road from the west.”

“Light baggage train, but they’re also taking from the land,” added Ser Lymond, the other Blackwood captain. “They’re moving roughly seven leagues a day. They’ll be here in a week.”

“Have we... no other defences along the River Road?” Edmure asked, rubbing his forehead in a vain attempt to ease the pain.

Lymond and Ryman looked at each other, then the former spoke, “My lord, we had a force at the town of Fieldstone, right on the border with the Westerlands. Lord Tully stationed it there to guard the west, in case the Lannisters declared for the Mad King. Four thousand men of House Frey and fifteen hundred of our own under Lord Tytos. Lord Walder ordered his men to retreat after only an hour, leaving us behind. We lost Lord Tytos, along with many others, and fell back here. The town was sacked.”

“That must have been a bloody hour indeed,” Ser Robin spoke sharply, exchanging glances with the maester, “for the Freys to have incurred such losses that they were forced to retreat.”

Even through his splitting headache, Edmure was able to pick up the insinuation. Walder Frey may or not have been up to something fishy at the battle of Fieldstone. He was after all, notoriously unreliable. This recollection of a canon fact started bringing about other memories – Edmure’s ones from this world and Edward’s from the other. Things slowly set into place, calming Edmure down enough for him to be able to focus on the crisis at hand. He tried mustering all knowledge of Game of Thrones/A Song of Ice and Fire as he could.

Currently there was a Tyrell army marching on Riverrun. That didn’t happen in the canonical Robert’s Rebellion. There shouldn’t be a Reach force here at all – Mace Tyrell would have taken his men to besiege Storm’s End hundreds of miles south. Then again, the Reach had plenty of men, so it was possible he had broken off a chunk of his army to go northwards. The Battle of the Bells at Stoney Sept had been a rebel victory, meaning the southern Riverlands would be secure and a Reach host of 8,000 men wouldn’t be able to get far from there. So, they looped around through the Westerlands which explained why they were coming from the River Road... the fact that Tywin Lannister allowed them to march through the Westerlands didn’t bode well either...

As much as he felt like throwing up, Edmure collected himself. The other men at the table were more experienced than he was. He had them to guide him. As long as he didn’t do anything totally idiotic, they might stand a chance.

“Right,” he muttered. “So, we need to — uh — prepare. Let’s begin by taking inventory.”

That got a grunt from the steward, old Utherydes, who scratched at a wax tablet.

“We have stores enough for forty days on strict rations,” he said. “Salted pork, beans, oats, and five casks of smoked trout. The well is clean. The cellars are dry. But the river…” He looked at Edmure. “If they poison it, we’ll be trapped.”

Edmure swallowed. Right. They could do that. Of course they could do that. He rattled his brains for any way they could prevent that. As Edmure and Edward’s memories settled into place, a vague concept he remembered from high school chemistry resurfaced in his mind. “If they poison the river we could filter the water, maybe? Use, uh… sand and charcoal.”

The older man blinked.

“Charcoal…?”

“I read it... somewhere. I’ll help design it.”

Maester Vyman raised an eyebrow. “That’s an... unorthodox idea, my lord, but if it helps… we’ll try it.”

They moved on. Slowly, as more and more of Edmure’s memories and what he had been taught settled into his head, and guided by the advice of his captains and maester, a plan took shape. Ravens dispatched east to warn his father Lord Hoster Tully of the impending siege, settlements in the vicinity to be evacuated, food and supplies gathered at the castle, outer defences set up and Riverrun’s western wall to be reinforced, as that was the castle’s weakest side and unfortunately also the side most exposed to the advancing Reachmen.

“We can fell trees near the Tumblestone,” said Ser Lymond. “Make a killing field.”

“Right,” said Edmure. “Flatten the field, remove all obstacles, so our archers have a clear view. And dig pits. Cover them with twigs and leaves. Fill the bottom with dung and spears.”

“Aye,” said Ryman. “Like we did at Stone Hedge during the last feud with the Brackens. The bastards won’t charge twice.”

When the council ended, the lords filed out into the courtyard, voices already shouting for messengers, builders, quartermasters.

Edmure got up and walked over to the window. Outside he could already see the castle’s inhabitants busying themselves in work, running across the courtyard, some heading out the gate on various tasks. For the first time since the morning, the full weight of the situation – the absurdity, the sheer fact that he had... died, been reborn in fucking Westeros in the middle of a fucking war – finally hit him, and he threw up. He puked his brains out and leaned against the wall, taking deep breaths and trying to prevent himself from passing out.

Of all the fictional universes he just had to get this one. And he couldn’t have been born in some nice quaint town in the Reach, far away from war, it just had to be the goddamned Riverlands didn’t it? And right during the damn rebellion, too.

Edmure steadied himself, and felt a hand on his shoulder.

“M’lord? Are you alright?” came the voice of Ser Robin.

“Huh-? Oh, yes... yes, I’m fine Ser Robin, I was just...”

“Throwing up?” he finished. “That’s good.”

“No, it means I’m scared shitless.”

“I’d consider you a fool otherwise. Any man who says he wasn’t scared shitless before his first battle is a bloody liar. And the fact that you’re afraid means you’re aware of what can go wrong – that alone puts you ahead of half the Reach.”

Edmure looked at the man, but words failed him. Ser Robin went on, “The odds aren’t as steep as they seem, my lord. Once all the preparations are made, we’ll have enough supplies to last months. A garrison of three hundred men can defend Riverrun well, and we have that many plus hundreds from House Blackwood. The ravens will soon reach your father, and he’ll arrive to break the siege as soon as he can. We just have to hold out till then.”

Edmure took a deep breath. Ser Robin’s words had done the trick – he felt somewhat lighter. The knot in his stomach eased.

“Alright, Ser Robin,” he said with newfound determination. “Let’s get to work, shall we?”

“Right away, my lord.”

[...]

The first two days of preparation were hectic and exhausting, and Edmure found little time to rest. He had spent much of the two days working with Maester Vyman on the filters. He had had the old ones hauled out of the cellars – cracked wine casks, salted fish tubs, even a few broken raincatchers. He explained the layering: gravel at the base, then clean sand, and a thick layer of charcoal ash from the hearth fires. The first few attempts were clumsy – charcoal too fine, sand too wet — but by midday on day two, they had something functional.

He stood in the courtyard with the latest and most promising model. He nodded to the steward Utherydes, who brought forward a bucket of murky ditch water. Maester Vyman eyed him sceptically as he poured the water at the top of the filter.

“Erm... where exactly did you learn this, my lord?”

Edmure hesitated.

“I uh... read it. In a book. Said the Free Cities used a similar method during a plague.”

Vyman arched an eyebrow. “Did they now?”

“Yep,” Edmure said. Bluffing a maester in such matters probably wasn’t the smartest move, but the older man seemed to buy it.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

The water came out slow but clearer than Edmure had dared hope. It wasn’t perfect, but no visible filth at least.

“Well?” Edmure asked.

Vyman sniffed it. Dipped a finger. Dabbed it on his tongue.

He made a face. “It’s terrible.”

“Is it drinkable?”

A pause. The old man took another, longer sip.

“…Yes.”

“There we go, then.”

By the third day, the castle reached its limit in terms of refugees. Incoming smallfolk were directed north to Fairmarket – the closest thing the Riverlands had to a major city, and one of the largest settlements in Westeros after the so-called Great Cities.

Edmure sat in Riverrun’s Great Hall, accompanied by Vyman and Utherydes, who were finalizing the rations plan now that the castle was full. Ser Robin entered and rushed over to the table.

“My lord, our scouts report that the pace of the Reach army is as expected. They bypassed Pinkmaiden.”

Edmure rubbed his chin, where stubble was beginning to grow. Pinkmaiden was the seat of House Piper – a prominent House in the Riverlands. It was not directly on the River Road, but rather some distance south-east and to besiege it the Tyrells would first have to cross the Red Fork at Mummer’s Ford. While not on the warpath, it would have still been a major threat to the Reachmen and a strong line of defence for Edmure had it been fully manned.

“Unfortunate that Pinkmaiden’s garrison is so depleted – we could have utilized them as raiders to harass the Tyrell supply lines,” Edmure mused.

“In any case, this is good news for us – if the Tyrells were serious about capturing territory they would have tried taking Pinkmaiden first to consolidate their grip.”

“I don’t follow – if they weren’t serious then why would they send eight thousand men here?” then it clicked to Edmure. He remembered reading about why Mace Tyrell besieged Storm’s End in the first place. It was important enough to convince the crown he was really on their side, but not so important strategically that he may suffer severe punishment in the case the rebels prevailed. It’s possible that this Tyrell campaign in the Riverlands may have a similar purpose.

“Unless they’re just posturing.” Edmure said. “To show the crown they’re loyal. Either that or incompetence.”

“Mace Tyrell is a cunning man,” Maester Vyman said, stroking his beard. “It is entirely possible this may be his plan – but nonetheless we must prepare for the worst.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Edmure said.

“One more thing,” Ser Robin said. “Our scouts could find no signs of siege engines among their forces.”

“If that is indeed true then it’s excellent news,” Edmure said. It also supported his theory that the Tyrells weren’t fully committing to taking the castle. “Also, did you count our strength as I asked, Ser Robin?”

“Yes, m’lord. The castle’s own garrison stands at 231 men, Sers Ryman and Lymond have gathered 474 fighting men from their ranks and we’ve recruited 266 men and strong lads from the smallfolk. 971 in total.”

“We’ve employed the smallfolk in assisting with preparations,” the steward said. “Every man and lad is being put to work according to their trade. Those without a trade have been distributed as per the need. Arrows, javelins and other weaponry are being produced day and night.”

“Good,” Edmure nodded. “What’s the status on the western wall?”

“The wall is being strengthened as we speak. We’re digging ditches and driving pikes into the slope on that side too.”

Edmure nodded again. “Alright. If that’s all, my lords...”

The men took their leave, leaving only Edmure at the head of the table. He let out a groan and rubbed his temple in a vain attempt to relieve some pain. He’d grown almost accustomed to it, but it was in those rare moments that he was alone in silence that he really started to feel it. Perhaps he should ask Vyman for something for the pain.

This rare stretch of silence was broken by the sound of doors opening.

“What do you think you’re doing exactly?” his older sister Catelyn’s voice cut through his ears and rattled inside his skull, worsening his headache.

‘Ah, this bitch,’ Edmure thought, annoyed.

“Flooding this castle with people? More useless mouths to feed? Have you gone mad?” Catelyn snapped.

“Cat,” Edmure said, with the air of an adult explaining something to a small child despite her being two years older than him, “one of a castle’s many purposes is to protect its smallfolk from being massacred by invading armies. This is a castle, these are our people. You can figure the rest.”

“You won’t be able to feed them all.”

“Because I can’t feed all of them, I should feed none?” Edmure asked. “In any case, Vyman and Utherydes have put together a ration plan. We’ll be able to last long enough, till... father gets here.”

It still felt weird referring to Hoster Tully as ‘father’, and had he not been so preoccupied with other matters, he would have ruminated on the subject a bit more, but such deep thoughts were not possible when a teenage Catelyn Tully was eating your ear out.

“And what is this nonsense with the barrels outside?” she said.

“Those are filters, for cleaning filthy water,” Edmure said simply.

“How exactly is sand in a barrel supposed to clean water? Have you gone mad?”

“You can go and ask the maester, it works,” Edmure said, irritation bubbling up, but he tried to calm himself. Catelyn wasn’t lashing out for no reason; she was afraid too. Just like he was. He stood up and walked over to her, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Look, I know it’s frightening. You’re on edge, you’re stressed, I understand that. But... I need you to trust me, please. How can I lead so many men when my own sister does not have faith in me? I know I’m not father or uncle Brynden, I know I don’t exactly inspire confidence but... please.”

The last word came out as a plea, his voice cracked slightly as he said it, a reminder to both Edmure and Catelyn that he was but a boy of six-and-ten. Catelyn looked into his eyes, then nodded solemnly, expression softening.

“Thank you,” Edmure said.

Catelyn turned to leave, then said, “You should talk to Lysa... I’ve tried, but she wouldn’t come out of her room. You two always were closer – having shared the womb.”

“I’ll speak with her,” Edmure nodded, and watched his older sister leave. Edmure sunk back into the chair and sighed. He had started that convo meaning to simply... appease Cat enough to send her away so he could focus – but his request by the end had been fully sincere. He had to talk to Lysa now... he felt a pang of guilt when he realized he had barely seen, let alone spoken, to his twin sister the past few days. His composure had cracked slightly when talking to Cat, he couldn’t let that happen again now. He had to reassure her as best he could.

The corridor outside Lysa’s chambers was dim, lit only by a single torch. Edmure stood there for a moment, hesitant. He raised a hand, and knocked gently.

No answer.

He tried again.

Still nothing.

“Lysa?” he called, softly this time.

A moment later, a faint rustle came from behind the door. Then, slowly, it creaked open.

She stood there in her nightclothes, hair messy, eyes rimmed with red. She looked like she hadn’t slept in days.

“I don’t want visitors,” she said, though her voice carried no heat.

“I know,” Edmure said gently. “But I’m not a visitor. I’m your brother.”

She hesitated, then stepped aside.

The room was cold. The shutters were half-open, letting in a sliver of grey light and a view of the western side, where workers reinforcing the wall could be seen. Edmure closed the door behind him and looked around. Her food tray was untouched. Her covers were still folded at the foot of the bed.

“You haven’t been eating.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“You need to be. If this siege drags on, we’ll all be weaker for it. I need you strong, Lysa.”

She sat down in the window seat; arms folded across her chest. “Strong for what? There’s nothing for me to do. I’m not a soldier.”

“No,” Edmure said, sitting opposite her. “But you’re still a Tully. That means something.”

That earned a soft, bitter smile.

“I haven’t felt much like a Tully lately.”

He let that hang for a moment. Then she continued, voice low, almost ashamed:

“They’ve married me off... wrote me away like a ledger entry. A girl barely bled, and they’ve sent me to the Vale like a gift no one asked for. Jon Arryn is a good man, but he’s old. He doesn't know who I am.”

Edmure said nothing. He hadn't expected this. What words of comfort could he offer her for being married off to a lord thrice her age? Whom she’d never even met prior to her wedding?

Her fingers tightened around the window’s edge. “Petyr would have known what to say. He always knew how to speak to me. He made me feel seen.”

Edmure tensed at that name but kept his voice calm.

“Petyr was good with words. Honesty, not so much.”

Lysa’s lips trembled. “We loved each other – it was honest and pure love. And father... hated me for it. Punished me for it.”

Edmure let out a quiet breath. He moved to her side and knelt slightly so they were at eye level.

“I don’t know what it was like, Lysa. I won’t pretend I do. But I do know what it’s like to feel alone. To feel small in a world of older men making all the decisions, with no room for softness or honesty.”

He reached out and took her hand. Her fingers were ice.

“But we don’t have to be alone now. Not anymore. We’re here. Together. And no matter how broken the world feels, I’ll stand for you. I’ll stand for everyone in these walls. Because we’re Tullys. And that means something.”

Lysa blinked, and tears slipped down her cheeks, quick and quiet. Her breath hitched, but she nodded – just once. She didn’t speak again, didn’t move much, but when Edmure made to rise, she didn’t let go of his hand.

He stayed seated with her, letting the silence settle between them. Outside, the murmur of labor and preparation continued. Somewhere, a hammer rang against stone. Rain tapped gently against the windowpanes.

Eventually, her grip loosened.

“Don’t let them take Riverrun,” she whispered, eyes closed.

“I won’t,” he promised. “Even if the gods want it, they’ll have to come through me.”

He kissed the top of her hand gently, then rose and quietly let himself out, unsure from where those last words had come.

[...]

Over the following days, preparations continued. Training the men, reinforcing the walls, consolidating as many supplies they could in the limited time they had. On the end of the fifth day, the sluice gates were raised, diverting water from the Tumblestone and Red Fork to fill the moat to the west of the castle, turning it into an island. Two more days went by, the final preparations were made.

Then came the dreaded day.

Row upon row, upon row, of Reach soldiers, marching over the hills and approaching Riverrun. Thousands of spears and banners – green emblazoned with a golden rose. Slowly they approached, and surrounded the castle. Edmure stood on the western wall with his commanders, and their men. He had quite misjudged just how much eight thousand men really were. His knees felt like jelly, but he steadied himself against the wall.

“How’re you feeling?” Ser Robin whispered in his ear, speaking low so as not to be overheard.

“Should’ve worn the brown pants,” Edmure muttered back.

Ser Robin chuckled softly. “You’re not the only one on this wall thinking that.”

“Is that supposed to be reassuring?”

“As close as we can dare hope for.”

As the Reach army made their formation, three horses rode forward, approaching the western wall. At the centre was a grey horse – a fat, older lord sitting atop it, on his side a younger knight in lavishly designed armour that clearly had not yet seen combat, and a third knight carrying the Tyrell banner.

“They’ve come for a parley – they mean to negotiate our surrender,” Ser Robin said. “That,” he gestured to the lord in the middle, “is Garth Tyrell, uncle of Lord Mace.”

Edmure watched the trio approach with baited breath, waiting for them to say something, but they didn’t. Garth Tyrell merely nodded to the young knight besides him, who raised a bow and swiftly fired an arrow. The men on the wall tensed, but the arrow sailed way overhead, posing no danger, and struck a wooden panel on the keep wall behind them. Attached to the arrow seemed to be a small roll of parchment. An archer dislodged the arrow and brought it to Edmure, who read it aloud.

“Surrender boy, spare your people the hunger and death.”

Edmure blinked, then slowly, rage bubbled up inside him. The... sheer arrogance behind it. Not even bothering to use their own tongues – just sending a bloody note on an arrow ordering him to give up the castle, his castle, his home. Edmure crumpled up the note in his fist and stormed off, ignoring Ser Robin calling after him. He descended from the wall and walked to the nearby garden that bore the name of Minisa Whent, his late mother. From the nearest rosebush, he plucked a white rose and returned to the wall. He impaled an arrow through the flower and fired it back, falling well short of the fat lord but making his reply loud and clear.

There was stunned silence on the wall, then the men erupted into cheers and laughter.

Garth Tyrell scoffed and turned back, returning to his army.

The siege of Riverrun had begun.

Chapter Text

At first, the Tyrells did nothing – no feints, no skirmishes, no assaults. They had brought no siege towers. They just set up camp, surrounded the castle, and waited. The first two days passed in uneasy quietness.

Inside the castle, the plans were put into motion. The rationing was strictly followed. The watches were rotated. Everyone was nervous, of course they were, but morale held firm. The Blackwood men were split in two forces, each led by one of the captains, defending the northern and southern faces of the castle, while Riverrun’s own garrison, led by Edmure and Ser Robin, were positioned along the vulnerable western wall.

On the third day, the first combat occurred. About three hundred Reachmen tried assaulting the western wall, holding a large wooden makeshift bridge over their heads while the men on the front held their shields up – effectively protecting them from Edmure’s archers. The Reach’s own archers fired back to give the assaulting force some cover, but the upgrades to the western wall provided cover from the arrows.

The Reachmen continued their charge but ran headfirst into one of the ditches – at least fifteen or twenty men fell in and the force became disorganized. With the front now exposed, Edmure ordered his archers to fire again, with the arrows hitting their targets this time. Chaos broke out among the attackers, causing them to lose balance of the bridge and drop it, before retreating back under arrow fire.

Once the attack was repelled, a minute of silence fell on the wall, then some of the men – recruits from the smallfolk – began to cheer. Then the rest joined in. Edmure himself let out a laugh in spite of himself.

“Well done, my lord,” Ser Robin said from besides him.

“The ditches worked like a charm,” Edmure said, wiping sweat from his brow.

“Yes, but they’ll probe for others now, most likely.”

“They will,” Edmure said. “But still... this will be a good confidence boost for the men.”

The rest of the day was without fighting. The defenders had lost only three men to arrows. A couple more had been mildly injured and were being tended to. As for the attackers, Edmure himself personally counted thirty-three Reachmen bodies on the field with arrows sticking out of them. Add the bodies that were lying dead in the ditch and the count was probably close to fifty – a sixth of the attacker unit.

Word of the first successful defence spread across the castle, the mood was lighter that evening, the smallfolk slightly more optimistic.

That night, as food was distributed, Edmure strolled in the castle’s godswood, eating an apple. The Tullys followed the Faith of the Seven, so the godswood of Riverrun was more for relaxation than prayer. Since the arrival of the Blackwood men, who still held the Old Gods it had become busier, but right now it seemed empty.

The young lord walked between the trees, staying out of sight of the heart tree. The face carved into the tree’s white bark had frightened Edmure as a boy, and as a man – reincarnated with greater knowledge of this world than most if not all – he was wary of what may or not be watching from the tree.

He found a nice large rock at the base of a tree and sat down by it. He looked up at the sky and saw more stars than he’d ever seen in his previous life. Countless stars with billion of worlds up there, and here he was. For some reason. Faced with a task no one his age should ever have to face. Ideally no one of any age should. But this world, Planetos if it really was called that, was as far from a perfect world as possible. Even if he could get through this siege, that would hardly be the end of his troubles. A realm shattering civil war and an invasion of frost demons awaited him in a couple decades.

A couple decades. Even that seemed hard to wrap his head around.

He knew what was going to happen. What he didn’t know was how to prevent it from happening, or change the way it played out. He didn’t know if he’d have the intelligence or competence to pull off anything.

But then again... twenty years was a long time. There would be time to figure things out... hopefully.

Right now, he had other, more urgent worries.  A castle to protect.

A twig snapped. Edmure sat up straighter, hand instinctively going to the sword. A young man, dressed in poorly fitted chain armour came walking from the direction of the heart tree. He paused when he saw Edmure.

“M-m’lord,” he said and gave an awkward bow.

“At ease,” Edmure said. “What’re you doing out here?”

“Oh, me, I was just prayin’,” he said. “My watch starts in an hour so, y’know, getting all the luck I can.”

“What’s your name?”

“Beric, m’lord, from the Blackwood Vale.”

“Beric from the Blackwood Vale,” Edmure repeated. “Have you done much fighting?”

“Oh no, not really, m’lord,” he said. “I was at the rear in Fieldstone you see. Didn’t even know what was happening till it was time to retreat. And before that I was learnin’ to be a brewer by my father, he’s a brewer as well you see, finest wine in the Blackwood Vale.”

“Well, when we get through this siege, I’ll have to try some,” Edmure said with a hollow smile.

“Do... d’you really think we’ll make it through?”

Edmure looked at him. It hit him, this youth, the brewer’s son, didn’t know what Edmure did. He had no knowledge of the future, no idea of the outcome of the rebellion. He didn’t know for sure that the battle of the Trident would be won and that Hoster would soon come to relieve the siege.

For that matter, neither did Edmure for certain, but that was something he was choosing not to focus on.

Edmure looked Beric in the eye, then with as much assurance as he could muster, said, “Yes. Yes, we will.”

[...]

As Ser Robin had predicted, the Tyrells spent the next few days probing for any more ditches or pits. Arrow fire was exchanged. Some Reach soldiers were killed, the defenders suffered no losses. Inside the castle was a different story though. As the first week of the siege drew to a close, some of the smallfolk were getting tense. It was the first real conflict in this part of the Riverlands in decades, first siege for many. With the rationing being strictly followed, the castle had plenty of stores for the foreseeable future, so Edmure hoped the unrest was just the people getting used to siege conditions, and would settle down a bit eventually.

By the eighth day, the Tyrells had abandoned their lazy probing. Over the next few days, fighting stopped, and sounds of music and laughing rang from the Reach camp day and night. This was of course an attempt to weaken morale, which Edmure made sure to repeatedly remind his men of.

A few days of relative peace went by. Edmure welcomed it at first, but the anxiety began to creep up on him. He avoided being around Catelyn unless necessary, for which he did feel some guilt, but Cat’s nagging stressed him out. Lysa was still keeping herself confined to her room, though she let Edmure visit her from time to time. To his own surprise, he preferred her company to Cat. She didn’t talk to him much, didn’t ask many questions, didn’t say much of anything really. Just sat in silence on her bed, sometimes singing to herself in a low voice. It was a nice occasional relieve, brief as it may be, from the bustling of soldiers and captains barking orders.

On the morning of the twelfth day, Edmure visited Lysa again, having missed the chance to do so the prior day. With him he carried two bowls of stew for breakfast.

“Come in,” she said in response to his knock. Edmure entered and found her seated by the window knitting.

“You’re up already,” he said.

Lysa smiled back faintly. “I was feeling a bit better.”

“That’s good to hear,” Edmure said kindly. “Here, I brought breakfast.”

She accepted the bowl as Edmure sat down across from her and the two began to eat.

“Well, erm... how are things out there?” said Lysa abruptly.

Edmure blinked. “It’s... quiet, still.”

“Any word from father?”

“As per the last raven, father and the other rebellion leaders have mustered their strength near the Trident. Prince Rhaegar has gathered a host opposite them. Once they route Rhaegar, father will make for Riverrun, rest assured.”

“You don’t know that they’ll win...”

“Lysa, it’s father. And Uncle Brynden. And Robert Baratheon, Eddard Stark, and Jon Arryn. And forty thousand battle hardened men behind them. Nothing short of dragons can stop an army like that. They will win.”

Silence fell again. Not the comfortable one Edmure had been expecting like his usual visits with Lysa, but he couldn’t bring himself to blame her for it. She, like himself, was much too young for anything like this. She could only go so long without needing reassurance.

A few minutes went by before Lysa spoke again. “I was thinking...”

“Mhmm?” Edmure replied through a mouthful of stew.

“If we make it through – when we make it through. I’ll go to the Eyrie... they say it’s the most beautiful castle in all the Seven Kingdoms.”

“And you’ve always loved mountains.”

“Yes, and...” she hesitated. “And... Petyr’s from the Vale too... perhaps Jon Arryn could find a use for him in the Eyrie.”

Edmure suppressed a sigh of exasperation and looked Lysa square in the eye, trying to figure out his next words. What in the seven hells was he supposed to say here? Lysa was a wreck right now, she was depressed, miserable because of a war on her front door, and the knowledge that even if she survived the war she would be sent off with a stranger to a strange land. She didn’t know what Petyr was, what he would grow to be. Edmure looked at Lysa and saw a sweet innocent girl who loved someone who would take advantage of her, who didn’t care for her – but she didn’t know that. To her, Petyr was someone she could trust, someone who would be a little piece of home when she went to the Vale.

“Lysa... listen, Petyr is... not who you think he is. He is not to be trusted.”

“He’s the only one I can trust!”

“The only one?” Edmure whispered.

Lysa looked away. “That’s... not what I meant.”

Once more, silence befell, worse than before. The seconds turned to minutes. The minutes seemed like hours. Neither said anything, nor did Lysa meet her brother’s gaze. Edmure let out a defeated sigh and got up, grabbing his and Lysa’s empty bowls and leaving without saying anything more.

He needed to clear his head, so he began to head to the godswood, but before he could reach the grove, horns began blaring outside the castle walls.

“They’re coming!” he heard one of the watchmen on the nearest tower call.

Edmure cursed and rushed to the western wall. He saw Ser Robin on the way, who was barking orders to the men.

“There you are, my lord!” he said upon his arrival.

“What’s going on?” Edmure asked.

“The Tyrells are attacking the wall, at least a thousand!”

The two men hurried to the western wall, droves of men accompanying them to take up their positions.

Sure enough, three columns of Reachmen, each as large as the one that had first attacked over a week ago, were advancing towards the moat. Each carried a bridge overhead, the same shielded formation. Riverrun’s archers could do little to stop their advance up till they reached the moat.

“Archers, ready!” Edmure shouted as the Reach soldiers began laying down the bridges, temporarily exposing themselves. “FIRE!”

A cloud of arrows shot towards the now-vulnerable attackers, killing and wounding many.

“FIRE!” Edmure shouted again, and another volley of arrows fired. Then another, and another.

Many of the attackers fell, but the bridges were in place and more Reach soldiers were charging towards the moat. At the same time, bells began ringing in Riverrun, signalling attack from the south.

Edmure cursed under his breath. “Archers to the south wall!” he barked to a few dozen new arrivals rushing towards them, who promptly changed direction and began running to the under-manned southern wall.

Edmure turned his attention back to the incoming Reachmen in front of him. Hundreds were crossing the moat and began charging towards the wall, holding ladders overhead. The defenders fired wave upon wave of arrows at them, killing and wounding dozens but failing to stop the advance.

On the southern wall, the Tyrells were already at the ladders, having taken advantage of the defenders’ focus on the west. Ser Lymond led the defense there, roaring defiance as men hurled stones and pots of scalding pitch down upon the climbers. A dozen Reachmen fell, but more took their place, pushing grimly upward. More bells indicated a third assault on the northern wall, meaning they were now under attack from every side.

Back at the western gate, Edmure reached the battlements just as the Tyrell vanguard reached the base of the wall. Hidden stakes impaled many; those behind stumbled, breaking formation. “FIRE!” Edmure shouted. A cloud of Riverlander arrows fell, cutting down the front ranks, but the ladders were erected. The defenders fired arrows, threw pottery shards and rocks, and used poles to push the ladders back, doing everything they could to ensure no attackers made it to the top.

A ladder toppled, another splintered under the weight of falling men – but three others held, and soon Reachmen were making it to the top.

“On the wall!” Ser Robin bellowed.

Edmure’s sword was in his hand before he had time to think. A Reachman vaulted onto the walkway, shield raised, blade hacking, very close to where Edmure was standing. With terrifying speed, he struck down the nearest defender, who fell with blood spurting from his neck. He slammed his shield against a second defender, who fell over the wall. He then saw Edmure and charged at him.

Edmure lunged, parrying a wild slash that jarred his arm to the shoulder. The Reachman was taller, broader, his face hidden behind a visored helm. He pressed forward with brutal strength, forcing Edmure back against the merlon.

In a flash of instinct, Edmure ducked under a backswing and drove his sword up under the rim of the man’s helmet. Hot blood sprayed all over his face and knuckles as the soldier stiffened, then fell back dead. He wrenched his blade free, heart hammering, head spinning. Another Reachman charged, but Ser Robin cut him down with a sweeping blow, kicking the corpse back over the wall.

“Hold the wall!” He roared, then turned to Edmure. “Are you alright?”

Edmure staggered upright, nodding weakly. Around him, more ladders fell, the attackers tumbling with them.

Breathing hard, Edmure glanced at the body at his feet, the man’s blood seeping between the stones. He swallowed hard, trying not to throw up.

From below, the battering ram boomed against the gate, once, twice, the timbers shuddering with each impact.

“Boiling oil!” Ser Robin commanded. Black liquid rained down, pouring all over the battering ram, and igniting instantly as flaming arrows struck; screams filled the air as fire licked up the ram’s shaft and sent men scattering.

The battering ram was dealt with, the ladders were toppled, and the attackers were falling back... the western wall was secure, and Ser Robin, taking charge, sent some reinforcements to the southern and northern walls to assist. It seemed that the main push had still been on the western front, and with the repulsion of that, the other two prongs seemed to lose steam.

At last, as the sun reached its zenith, horns sounded the retreat. The Tyrell forces fell back in good order, leaving behind the smoking wreck of their ram, broken ladders, and scores of dead soldiers.

On the walls, Edmure’s men leaned against the parapets, panting, some laughing hysterically, others weeping silently. Ser Robin joined him, face smeared with grime and blood. “They’ll not try that again lightly.”

Edmure merely nodded, the image of the dead Reachman still burned into his mind – the spray of hot blood, the horrible gurgling noise. Ser Robin put a hand on his shoulder.

“Don’t worry, everyone feels like puking after their first kill. In fact, I’m surprised you haven’t yet,” he said.

“I’m fairly certain... I shat myself...”

“Everyone shits themselves too.”

By the end of the day, the repairs were made, the wounded were tended to, and the dead were buried. In total, Riverrun had lost sixty defenders, while the Tyrells had lost two hundred and eighteen. More Reachmen had died, but the blow was heavier for the defenders. Nonetheless, they had lived to fight another day.

[...]

The sixteenth day of the siege dawned grey and sullen, the castle quiet. The repulsion of the Reach assault had, for a couple days, improved Riverrun’s morale but soon it returned to its quiet gloomy state. Outside the castle’s walls, the Reach army, despite their failed attacks, remained as festive as ever. Music and feasts were held nightly. And so the next few days had passed, until on the sixteenth morning when Edmure was pacing the western wall, a single raven came flying from the east, received by Ser Robin.

“My lord!” the master at arms called and Edmure hurried down the steps to meet him. The grizzled knight was clutching the scroll tightly, eyes wide and voice shaking slightly as he spoke.

“My lord... the Trident! The battle is won! Rhaegar Targaryen lies dead, crushed by Robert Baratheon’s hammer. The Crown’s strength is shattered.”

For a moment, the world seemed to still. Then the yard erupted. Shouts, laughter, weeping—all blending into one deafening roar. Even grim Ser Ryman allowed himself a bark of laughter.

“Gods be good,” Robin muttered, gripping Edmure’s shoulder. “Your father lives, your uncle too. The crown’s power is vanquished.”

The captains pressed for details, but the small scroll could only tell them so much: Rhaegar slain by the ford, thousands dead, the royal host scattered, and the bulk of the rebel forces would make for King’s Landing once reinforced.

Edmure let the words wash over him. His knees felt weak, but his chest swelled with something dangerously close to hope. The Mad King’s days were numbered. He had known this would happen, but the nagging worry about otherwise that had taken root at the back of his mind was finally laid to rest for good.

Now it was time to tell his sisters. Edmure ran into the castle, making a beeline for Lysa’s chambers. The door to the chambers was unlocked, mercifully so, as Edmure had all but thrown himself against the door and would have dislocated a shoulder or two had it been locked.

The room was dim and smelled faintly of lavender and old smoke. Lysa was perched on her window seat, knitting half-done in her lap, staring at her panting brother. Cat stood by the hearth, arms folded, and expression sharp.

“You might have knocked,” she said.

“No time for that,” Edmure said, then looked between them and a smile broke across his face. “I’ve news. Good news.”

That caught both their attention.

“Word has come from the east. Robert Baratheon and his allies met the full strength of the Targaryens at the Trident, and crushed them. Rhaegar lies dead in the river.”

For a heartbeat there was silence. Then Lysa whispered, dropping her needles to the floor. “Won? Truly? It’s over?”

“Yes, dear sister,” Edmure said. “Almost. Soon father and uncle will return and send the Tyrells back to Highgarden with their tails between their legs. The siege is all but over now, rest assured.”

Lysa pressed her hands to her face, shoulders shaking. “Thank the gods!” she exclaimed.

Cat’s gaze lingered on her sister, then turned to Edmure, cooler, more measured. “It is a great victory. But wars do not end in a single day. The Iron Throne still sits in King’s Landing, and Aerys still breathes.”

Edmure nodded, though he felt the relief surging through him as much as Lysa did. “The bulk of the rebel forces make for the city. And the crown’s forces, what little they have left, will be demoralized by the news. The rebellion is ending. Tonight, it is our turn to feast.”

Cat finally allowed herself a thin smile, though her eyes still burned with worry. “Let us just hope the Seven grant Robert the same fortune in King’s Landing that they did upon the Trident.”

The chamber fell into a fragile silence – Lysa quietly weeping with something like relief, Cat staring into the fire as if already calculating what came next, and Edmure standing between them. Even now his euphoria was starting to wear off, and knew that some of the rebellion’s darkest events – the sack of King’s Landing – would soon follow.

But in that moment, the smile on Lysa’s face, one of the precious few she’d had lately, overshadowed all that. For that moment, he let the worries go, and with one last smile at his sisters, he left the chambers.

It was only a matter of time now before his lord father returned to break the siege, and the Tyrells knew it too. Sure enough, that night, there were no songs in their camp, nor the following night. Nor the three.

On the twenty-first morning, Edmure stood on the western wall, watching the camp, as he had done almost every day for the past three weeks.

“They must know there’s no winning for them,” Edmure said to Ser Robin. “Why do they linger still?”

Ser Robin stroked his chin. “Perhaps... retreating now may seem cowardly, as opposed to a dignified, negotiated surrender. Perhaps a retreat may even be construed as the Tyrells preserving strength to fight another day.”

Edmure cocked his head. He hadn’t thought of it quite like that, but it made sense. He had to remember – the Tyrells weren’t fools. Not even Garth the Gross.

“If you need me Ser Robin, I’ll be in the godswood,” Edmure said, and he began descending from the wall. Just as he reached the bottom of the stairs however, the blaring of horns came from beyond the walls.

Edmure paused, then looked back up at Ser Robin.

“Father?” Edmure asked. This was strange – Hoster should still be a couple days away at the very least.

The master-at-arms shook his head. “No, it’s from the west... seven hells!”

Edmure jogged back up the stairs two at a time and squinted over the battlements. Beyond the Tyrell camp, over the rolling green hills, another host was arriving. A red host.

The Lannisters had come.

Edmure’s stomach tightened. The Lannisters had, till now, been ambiguous in their allegiance, but while now they were almost definitely siding with the rebels, their presence here was a source of anxiety regardless. The implications may be messy...

The men gathered on the wall, watching with baited breath as the Lannister army – considerably bigger than the Tyrells – approached over the horizon, blocking the way for the besieging army to retreat.

As the red army assembled into formation, Garth Tyrell himself rode out with a small company, his girth spilling over the saddle. A hush spread across the walls as all eyes followed the portly Reach lord.

By noon, the matter seemed settled. From the western rise, Edmure saw the green and gold banners being lowered one by one, replaced by the lion standard. The Reach host, nearly eight thousand, laid down its arms.

“They surrendered without a fight,” Ser Ryman the Blackwood captain muttered in disbelief.

“They never meant to fight,” Ser Robin said quietly. “They were posturing for the crown. And now that Tywin Lannister has come, they’ve bent the knee to him rather than be crushed.”

Not long after, a rider with a red cloak approached the western wall under a flag of truce. He carried Tywin’s words.

“The siege is broken. The Tyrell host departs under Lannister escort. Lord Tywin marches for King’s Landing with all haste. Hold your walls and trouble not with lions, lest you wish for their claws.”

Edmure merely rolled his eyes. A lot of Tywin’s lion-based lines sounded corny indeed when it wasn’t Charles Dance delivering them. And this message meant Tywin wasn’t going to stick around. That was fine by Edmure, who sent the rider on his way. The knight looked as though he had been insulted as he rode back to the Lannister camp.

“M’lord,” Ser Robin said apprehensively. “Perhaps you could have sent a message of thanks to Lord Tywin.”

Edmure cocked his head at the grizzled master-at-arms. “I don’t think that’s particularly necessary ser. The siege had lost all steam and would have ended in a few days in any case.”

“Lost all steam?” Ser Robin asked in a bemused tone.

“Ah, it’s been a long three weeks ser, I’m tired,” Edmure said. “Now, come on. We have a victory to celebrate.”