At twilight, the golden glow of the setting sun bathed the walls of Riverrun, painting the ancient fortress in the hues of the sun. Yet even under such splendor, the mottled bloodstains and blackened scorch marks on the stone remained as visible as old scars on a veteran's hide.
The sentries atop the battlements leaned lazily against the merlons, casting occasional glances at the empty lands beyond—though the effort felt redundant. The Westermen had withdrawn days ago. According to Maester Vyman, Lord Tywin was currently engaged with Lord Stannis for control of King's Landing, though the outcome remained a mystery to the river lords.
Let them fight, the veteran Durwin thought privately. Let them all kill each other. Otherwise, whichever side wins will just march back here in a king's name and put us under iron again.
As he mused, a long shadow appeared in the waning light. A lone rider approached the walls, his expression cold and grim. When he reached the base of the gatehouse, he called out.
"Open the gates, veteran! I seek an audience with Robb Stark, His Grace the Young Wolf!"
Durwin barked back, "Who are you? I don't know your face! Give your name and your master!"
"I am Jon Snow, a veteran of the North," the youth replied. "I serve no lord, but my teacher is Aldric of the East, former commander of the Silver Hand."
A veteran? A sellsword? Looking for coin, no doubt, Durwin calculated. "We've no need of sellswords here! Cursed crows, every one of—"
A sharp smack to the back of his head cut him off. His childhood friend and fellow sentry, Brant, glared at him. Brant was always the quicker of the two.
"What was that for?" Durwin grumbled, rubbing his skull.
"That's the Lightbringer's student!" Brant hissed, leaning over the merlon to squint at the rider. "I'm sure of it. Back when we were refugees outside the walls, he was the one who walked the camps with the Master, mending the broken."
"Him?" Durwin's eyes went wide. "Then open the gates!"
"Wait," Brant cautioned. "You know the rules. No gate opens without Ser Brynden's word. Run to the hall and report it!"
A short time later, the heavy gates groaned open just enough for a single horse to pass. Brant stood behind the wood, nodding respectfully. "Enter, my Lord."
Jon offered his thanks, dismounted, and led his horse into the courtyard. A servant took the reins while another led him through the winding halls of the keep to a sun-drenched solar. However, the man waiting behind the heavy oak desk was not his brother Robb, but Catelyn Stark's uncle—Ser Brynden Tully, the Blackfish.
Jon pressed his hand to his chest and bowed. "Ser Brynden. It is an honor."
The Blackfish was focused on a small whetstone, meticulously honing the edge of his longsword. At Jon's greeting, he set the stone aside. "Sit, lad."
Once Jon was settled, Brynden swept a hand across the room. "This solar has witnessed generations of Tully lords ruling the Trident. As a boy, I used to sneak in here to 'borrow' books from my father's shelves. He rarely noticed, but when he did, the lash was swift. He believed this room belonged to my brother, Hoster, and that I had no business within its walls."
Brynden glanced at Jon, noting the boy's steady gaze. "Eventually, my father died. Hoster inherited the room. It was here he commanded me to accept a marriage I could not stomach. I refused him, of course, and fled to the Vale. A few days ago, that stubborn old man finally passed. May he find his rest. His son, my foolish nephew Edmure, has inherited this desk now. And now, it is Edmure's turn to march toward a marriage he did not choose—though this one was arranged by his nephew, not his father. They left me in charge of Riverrun as castellan. Do you know why?"
"Because you are Lord Edmure's blood?" Jon replied.
"Precisely. In this world, only blood can be trusted. Is that not right, Jon Snow?" The old knight's gaze was sharp, piercing through Jon's stoicism. Jon knew then that his true identity was no secret to the Blackfish.
Jon didn't bother with a lie. "Lady Catelyn never saw it that way. She would have preferred I died quietly in a ditch."
Brynden shook his head. "Women think too much of the 'why.' Men only need to consider the 'should.' Do you still love your brother?"
Jon's jaw tightened. "Robb, Bran, Rickon, Sansa, Arya... they are my heart. They will always have a place there."
"Then you should never have left him after Oxcross," Brynden said, his voice laced with a trace of rebuke. "If you had stayed at his side, he wouldn't have spent his recovery in the Crag. He wouldn't have let his heart grow soft in his loneliness, and he wouldn't have tumbled into a passion that should never have happened."
Jon went silent. The old man's blame was harsh—Robb was a king, a man grown, responsible for his own choices. Yet Jon couldn't deny the "what if." If he had stayed, perhaps the host would still be united. Perhaps the Karstarks and Freys wouldn't be looking for the exit.
"I do not believe leaving was a mistake, Ser," Jon said quietly. "But I will not argue with you. I vowed to follow my teacher and his cause. I have broken that vow to come here, simply to do my duty as a brother. Just as you are doing yours."
"Aye," Brynden nodded. "Which is why I'm speaking to you. I take it Commander Aldric didn't come with you?"
"No. My teacher has heavy burdens of his own. I came alone when I heard the Freys had turned their backs."
Brynden looked disappointed. "A pity. Robb has many wounded in his train. If the Master were here, many of our boys would be walking instead of rotting."
"Where is Robb now?" Jon asked urgently.
"He and Edmure took the host to the Twins," Brynden replied. "To win back the Freys with a wedding. They've been gone for days, but if you ride hard, you might catch the feast."
"Then permit me to—"
"It's too late for the road tonight," the Blackfish interrupted. "Rest. Eat. Tomorrow I'll send guides to lead you. But before you sleep... I have men in the infirmary who need a different kind of mercy."
The Trident had never lacked for brave men, but healers were a rare treasure. Maester Vyman was a man of needles and poppy-milk, but he couldn't mend a gut-wound or knit a shattered bone in a heartbeat. He could only watch as his patients slowly succumbed to the rot.
Jon brought the Light back to Riverrun. Guided by Brynden, he moved through the noble quarters first.
"Ser Zachery Waters—captain of the Mallister horse. A lion in the field," Brynden introduced. A pulse of Solar Grace followed, and Zachery stood up, blinking in shock.
"Deter Fraser, Lord Bracken's man. Took a spear to the belly holding the breach." Another flash, and the veteran Deter was whole.
"Ser Aven Rost. A vassal of Harrenhal who answered the call, only to lose his entire company in a scout's trap. He alone crawled back." Jon's pulse quickened at the name. He cast a Solar Grace followed by a Blessing of Might. "May the Light shine on you always, Ser Aven."
By the time Jon finished the noble wing, his mana was spent. But the hallway was crowded with lower-born knights and commoners, their eyes wide with a desperate, silent plea. Seeing the men who had bled for Robb staring at him with such hope, Jon couldn't bring himself to say he was dry.
What did the Teacher do?
He remembered. Before Aldric began granting the Solar Seed, he relied on the crystal vials. Heart-Sap.
"Ser Brynden, is there a Godswood in Riverrun?"
"Of course," the knight replied. "The Tullys are of the First Men. Our woods are small, but sacred."
"Lead me there. Bring the wounded."
In the small, misty Godswood of Riverrun, several high-born ladies were kneeling before the Heart Tree. Ser Brynden leaned in. "That is Queen Jeyne. The girl who stole your brother's crown. I'll ask them to leave."
Jon looked at her with curiosity. She was a slender, heart-faced girl with chestnut curls and soulful brown eyes. In a single glance, Jon understood why Robb had faltered. He felt a pang of joy for his brother, and a deeper pang of dread.
Jeyne approached, curtsying low. Jon returned a stiff, formal bow.
"Lord Jon," she said softly. "Robb's men speak of you and your master often. They say you brought life to the dying. In the Crag, I prayed I had such power, to save Robb from his pain. Please... let me help. Perhaps I can learn."
Jon shook his head. "Your Grace, my strength is a gift of the heavens. It cannot be learned by sight. But I would be honored by your help, so long as you do not mind the blood on your silks."
"I would tell Robb that while he fought, I stained my hands to save his men," she replied firmly.
A good girl, Jon thought. Perhaps she is worth the cost.
He had the servants boil water. He made a small, respectful cut in the Heart Tree and filled the crystal vial he had kept since leaving Aldric. After the Queen and her ladies helped wash the grime from the soldiers' wounds, Jon drank the bitter sap. He felt the warmth return to his chest.
"Great Anshe, Source of the Old and the New... let your warmth drive out the cold. Let the Earth bloom in your wake!"
To his own men, Jon was efficient. To strangers, he followed Aldric's rule: give them a name to thank.
Under the canopy of the white tree and the rhythmic prayers, every wounded man in the woods was mended. The name of Anshe was etched into their minds alongside the miracle.
By the time the work was done, it was the dead of night. Queen Jeyne was still bright-eyed with wonder. "Lord Jon, you call Anshe the source of the Old Gods and the Seven... I have never heard such a thing. Tell me of this faith."
Jon's head throbbed. The repeated use of Heart-Sap had left him with a splitting migraine. He had no energy left for theology. "Forgive me, Your Grace... my head is a storm. I am not a scholar of the Word. If a friar with the Light passes your gates one day, ask him. He will be my brother."
He left the disappointed Queen in the woods and stumbled to his chambers, collapsing into bed without even pulling off his boots. He slept until the sun was high the next day.
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