TSOTWR - Chapter VI

Chapter VI

Jon

He waited patiently as Rickard Stark paced back and forth in front of the fireplace in his solar, the man pondering his next words carefully. Jon had never seen him look so distinctly uncomfortable, or perhaps it was unease.

When the Lord of Winterfell took his seat behind the desk, he released a deep breath.

“I will not lie to you, Jon,” he sighed tiredly. “The very thought of so many Northerners heading south is not something I relish, even less so that my own children are amongst them.”

Jon remained silent as Rickard contended with his warring thoughts.

“With that being said, I cannot deprive them of the experience. That means Lyanna will be given permission to attend.”

“Which means I will be going with her.”

Rickard offered him a smile.

“Aye,” he murmured. “I know I need not ask, but as a father, I would be remiss in my duties if I did not. Watch over her, Jon. I am putting more faith in you than I ever have any other. And my boys,” he added. “Keep them all safe.”

Jon nodded.

“I will,” he vowed, his own unease on travelling south for the very tournament where it all began for him surfacing once more.

He would sooner remain in the North but knew he could not. As much as he wished it was not necessary, he needed to be there to prevent the same series of unfortunate occurrences from happening again.

He stood from where he had been kneeling in front of the Weirwood, a rare sight south of the neck.

They’d been travelling for close to a fortnight now and would be reaching Riverrun in the coming hours. Close to five thousand Northerners, most of whom would merely be spectators.

Amongst them was two thousand fighting men, with around half of them determined to compete. How Whent was going to facilitate such numbers, Jon didn’t know, but that was not his problem.

His focus was on his duty to Lyanna, keeping the young woman out of trouble and observing the rest of Westeros. Of course, he’d been given an abridged version of the Tourney of Harrenhal, but it wouldn’t be the same as experiencing it for himself.

The very thought filled him the same unease Rickard had exhibited, even if he did feel he was finally doing something to prepare for the eventual war that would come for them all.

He needed to understand the Lords of the land, what barriers he would need to contend with, and figure out a way of bringing them all together.

On the surface, it seemed as simple as preventing Robert’s Rebellion, but that would only be the start.

Jon had no doubt other things would arise, and though he could not prepare for all eventualities, he had some knowledge he could rely on at the very least. How useful it would prove to be, however, was another matter entirely.

Preventing Robert Baratheon taking up arms against the crown was just one of many problems he knew he would face.

Lyanna offered him a smile as he returned to her side where Ghost had been watching over her.

“Do you feel better now?” she asked.

Jon nodded.

He always felt a sense of comfort having convened with the Old Gods. He couldn’t explain it to anyone, but they had become important to him, despite their seeming determination to place such a burden upon his shoulders.

Without them, even the Lord of the Light, he would not be here. He would have died several years prior, though he could not help but think that would have been a mercy.

No, Jon had not been granted peace even in death. He’d been dragged back to the land of the living and passed between the Gods to do their bidding.

“We’ll be reaching Riverrun soon,” Brandon declared, nodding towards the imposing keep in the distance.

The young man was nervous, and Jon couldn’t blame him.

It was his first time meeting a Lord Paramount, and one that was interested in seeing him married to his daughter.

Brandon was not keen on the idea.

Jon had been present when Rickard had mentioned it to his heir, and Brandon had vocalised his reservations.

‘The Lord of Winterfell should be married to a Northern woman. It is our way, Father. No southern woman will be truly accepted.’

Rickard had agreed, as had Jon.

He’d lived through Catelyn Tully as the Lady of Winterfell and she’d done her utmost to turn her children away from the Gods of their people.

He remembered the Sept Ned had built for her, how Catelyn had spoken disparagingly of the Old Gods, and had referred to those he followed them as savages.

Ned had made too many allowances for the woman, all because he could not bring himself to tell her the truth of Jon. Instead, he opted to live a lie, to give his wife too much liberty when it came to besmirching the North and its traditions.

Those in Winterfell had been respectful of the woman, but it had never been lost on Jon that only Catelyn and those he’d believed were his siblings had been the only people to visit the Sept and pray to the Seven.

He snorted derisively at the influx of memories of how he’d been made to feel by Catelyn Stark.

Were it not for the single ounce of strength Ned seemed to show towards his wife, Jon had no doubt she would have had him sent away to the wall the moment she’d laid eyes upon him as a babe.

“You’ll be fine, Brandon,” Jon said encouragingly. “You are going to be the Warden of the North. Be respectful but expect the same in return. You are the future Lord of Winterfell. The only people you need to kneel to do not bear the name Tully.”

Brandon offered him an appreciative nod and sat straighter on his horse.

“Aye,” he said confidently. “I won’t be intimidated by a fucking fish.”

“Aye,” the other Northern lords riding at the front of the procession agreed.

Jon’s gaze shifted towards Roose Bolton, remembering vividly the calibre of man he had proven to be. Jon would be watching him closely for any sign of deception.

He had considered disposing of him and had yet to completely decide against such drastic action.

For now, however, he would observe him, as he would with many others he remembered un-fondly. If the need did arise, he would kill him without hesitation, but would hold off for now.

There was something to be said for facing a known enemy to one he wasn’t familiar with. Roose would not act unless he was certain of success, and with the entire North firmly behind House Stark, he would not.

Nonetheless, Jon would not forget what he’d done when the opportunity had presented itself.

Should the thought even cross his mind, Jon would remove his head.

“Ghost, you can hunt,” he instructed, deciding against arriving with the wolf.

Ghost did not need a second invitation and bounded into the nearby woods where he would likely find a few rabbits for himself and perhaps a deer.

At least he would be well-fed when he arrived at Riverrun.

Brandon

He glanced behind at the column of men, women, and children he was leading towards Riverrun. From Winterfell, they had passed through the rest of the North, the partially restored Moat Calin, and the Neck into the Riverlands.

Brandon had never been so far south. It was unsettling, but no more than the prospect of meeting Hoster Tully.

He would sooner continue on to avoid doing so, though his father had insisted he avoided slighting the man.

‘He will attempt to charm you, I’m sure. Tully seems to be keen to see a union between our houses, Brandon. He would have you marry his eldest.”

‘The Northerners would not like that.’

‘They would not,’ his father had agreed. ‘I do not wish for you to offend him. Humour him if you must and extend a hand of friendship, but nothing more.’

The thought of marrying a southerner was not something he had even considered until it had been mentioned by his father. No, Brandon as the heir to the North was to marry one of his own kind.

Inevitably, his gaze drifted towards Barbery Ryswell whom he’d become fond of during his fostering at Barrowtown. He frequented the nearby Rills where he’d met the girl with the two of them sneaking away to meet up.

In truth, he’d not thought much of it since returning to Winterfell, but having been reunited, Brandon realised just how much he’d missed Barbery and they’d been catching up whilst on the road.

“You’re staring at her again,” Benjen said with a grimace.

“Shut up,” Brandon grumbled, a slight grin tugging at the corner of his lips.

If all went as he hoped, he would speak with his father of the prospect of marrying the Ryswell girl. She was a Northerner, a beauty in her own right, and would make a fine Lady of Winterfell.

He grinned at the prospect, though he schooled his features as crossed the last dozen or so feet to the moat of Riverrun.

“Who goes there?” the guard called from above the portcullis.

The question seemed to be moot. Behind Brandon was the sigil of almost every house of the North, the one belonging to the Starks standing most prominently. Still, he understood the necessity of the pomp and circumstance of such a greeting.

“Brandon Stark of Winterfell,” he returned, his Northern burr so very different from the southern accent that had greeted him.

“OPEN THE GATES!”

The lowering of the drawbridge was accompanied by the sound of clattering chains.

Brandon could not deny that Riverrun seemed to be an impressive fortress, though it was nothing like his own home which he already missed so dearly. Winterfell was cold and imposing, but equally welcoming to the Northerners.

Riverrun seemed to lack that same warmth despite being much further south.

Nevertheless, he urged his horse onwards through the gates where are large gathering of men and women were waiting to greet him and his own.

The first to step forward as Brandon dismounted was a man several years older than his father, sporting a benign smile and intelligent blue eyes with a crop of red hair tinted with the early signs of greying.

“Lord Brandon,” he said enthusiastically, taking his hand in a surprisingly strong grip. “I am Hoster Tully, Lord Paramount of the Riverlands and Lord of Riverrun. The hospitality of my home is yours.”

“Thank you, Lord Tully,” Brandon offered. “I am humbled by your kindness and grateful for you opening your home to me and my people.”

The man’s smile widened as he beckoned for a slew of others, his family to step forward.

“May I introduce to you my son and heir, Edmure,” he began proudly.

Edmure looked very much like the man that had sired him; blue-eyed, red-haired, and something of the intelligence possessed by his father, though this was not apparent.

Nevertheless, Brandon afforded the boy the respect expected to one of his station.

“My brother, Ser Brynden Tully, better known as the Blackfish,” he added distastefully.

Brandon had heard of the Blackfish, his reputation for being an exceptional warrior having reached even the ears of his father in the North. He was said to be an excellent swordsman, something he had proven during the War of the Ninepenny Kings.

“Ser Brynden,” Brandon greeted the man clad in black armour.

The Blackfish nodded, his hand remaining on the pommel of his sword.

“And my two daughters,” Hoster announced proudly. “My eldest, Catelyn, and the younger of the two is Lysa.”

Both girls followed the trend of the rest of the family in looks, though their features were much softer than the men. Too soft for the North Brandon decided, despite the demure smile Catelyn offered him.

“My Lady,” he greeted her gently, brushing his lips across her extended hand before following suit with Lysa, not missing the expectant look of his host. “Ah, where are my own manners, please, allow me to introduce my own family.”

Lyanna

She did not like the way the Riverlanders were looking at them as though they were a sideshow of sorts. The Northerners were clad in their preferred and necessary furs, the men bearded and gruff, and all of the women armed as was their way.

Those residing within Riverrun wore plated armour, were mostly clean shaven, and the women wore the southern dresses with their hair styled elaborately.

Lyanna could not help but think they were looking down on the Northerners, and though she had no doubt Brandon noticed it too, he continued to smile politely as he gestured to her.

“This is my sister, Lyanna.”

Hoster Tully stepped forward with his heir in tow.

It was almost with a sense of reluctance that he accepted her hand, and even more obvious from Edmure.

“My youngest brother, Benjen,” Brandon continued, his brow furrowed now.

The Tullys shook hand with the youngest sibling, and Hoster’s attention shifted to Jon.

“And this must be Eddard,” he declared as he stepped forward.

Jon did not raise his hand in response.

“No,” Brandon denied. “This is Lyanna’s Sworn Sword, Jon Snow.”

“Snow?” Hoster questioned, his lip curling in distaste.

It was only Jon’s hand coming to rest on the small of her back that prevented Lyanna from speaking up for him.

“Aye, Jon is…”

“As fucking Northern as any one of us,” Lord Umber interjected in his booming voice.

“Jon!” the other Jon chastised sharply, offering the enormous man a shake of his head.

Lord Umber opened his mouth to speak but chose not to at Jon’s behest.

“I must also warn you that there is a wolf in the forest nearby,” Brandon spoke once more. “He is no danger to your men, but they will not miss him. He is white, as large as a horse, with red eyes. He is Jon’s wolf and Lyanna’s other guard. I would ask that none attempt to harm him.”

Hoster Tully recoiled as he looked at Brandon, missing the glares aimed his way by the Northerners.

“A w-wolf?”

“Ghost,” Brandon replied with a grin. “Now, I’m sure you understand that my people are tired. It has been a long journey here. I would see them settled into their camps and rooms.”

Hoster Tully was simply dumbfounded, and it was his brother who stepped forward.

“Of course,” he complied with a respectful bow. “Some of the men will show you suitable grounds for those camping, and I will take you to the rooms that have been allocated to you. Come.”

Brandon nodded appreciatively and began barking orders to the Northerners whilst the Tullys retreated back into the keep.

“Cunt,” the Greatjon muttered, still glaring at Hoster. “He thinks he’s better than us.”

He spat on the floor distastefully as he followed those that were camping outside of Riverrun.

“Can we camp?” Lyanna asked.

Jon shook his head.

“Hoster will be holding a feast and you will be expected to be there,” he explained.

“But he was..”

Jon cut her off with a wave of his hand.

“It’s nothing I’ve not dealt with before,” he assured her. “I’m certainly not bothered by the Tullys. Come on, let’s get you to a room. I think I’ll just have Ghost stay in the campsite. We don’t really need him mauling any of the Riverlanders.”

“They deserve it,” Lyanna grumbled as she looped her arm through Jon’s, ignoring the stares of the Riverlanders who continued to watch them.

Catelyn

“Why would they bring a bastard with them?” Lysa asked, her nose wrinkled as though she had smelled something unpleasant.

Catelyn shrugged as she watched Brandon Stark tether his horse in one of the stables.

“It is an insult to you,” Petyr answered. “The Northerners are heathens. They follow the gods of the trees. They are not like us.”

Catelyn frowned as she continued to watch the Stark heir who was speaking and laughing with the bastard.

They certainly were different, but she found them to be rather fascinating, in some ways. The men, although groomed, were much more rugged than those she was used to seeing, and as her gaze flitted towards Petr, she couldn’t help but think that was a good thing.

Brandon Stark was tall and broad with it, at least double the width of her father’s ward.

As much as he tried to hide it through a veil of superiority, Petr Baelish was undoubtedly intimidated by the Northerners.

“What I am trying to figure out, is why the bastard looks so much like them,” Petyr mused aloud.

“He doesn’t, not really,” Catelyn denied as she took in the appearance of Jon Snow.

His hair was dark and curled like the Starks, and he even had the odd grey eyes, but he was built differently. His build was leaner, his features much more delicate.

On the surface, there were similarities, but oh so many differences.

“Do you think Father will let the bastard stay within the keep?” Lysa asked, standing a little too closely to Petr to be considered decent.

“What choice does he have? You heard Stark; he is the girl’s Sworn Sword. Wherever she goes, he goes.”

Catelyn frowned once more.

It would take considerable effort for her father to make such an allowance, though he would not wish to offend the Starks. He had spoken with her of his intentions to see her married to Brandon, and though Catelyn had been opposed to the idea, having seen the man for herself, she was warming to it.

Despite his rough appearance, Brandon was good looking, clearly strong, and would one day the Warden of the largest of the Seven Kingdoms. Such a position would be better than simply being a Lady of the Riverlands, married to one of her father’s vassal houses, after all.

The Blackfish

He had spent so little time with anyone from the North throughout his life. Even during the war of the Ninepenny Kings, those from above the Neck were few and far between.

With a sizable contingent visiting Riverrun, Brynden was keen to see how they lived, how they were different, and now, along with his brother’s foolishness, why they seemingly thought so much of a bastard that would be ostracised here in the Riverlands.

What Brynden had learned was as surprising as it was farfetched, for the most part.

Having spent the day in the campsite helping the Northerners pitch their tents and learning all he could, he returned to Riverrun with the intention of speaking with Hoster, who had undoubtedly displeased many of their guests.

Some of the Lords and Ladies had even declared their intention to boycott the upcoming feast.

That was how much they thought of Jon Snow, a man who Brynden had yet to speak with.

He had, however, seen the wolf, and having done so, it made him question just how exaggerated it was the way the Northerners spoke of Snow.

Brandon Stark certainly had not when he’d described the beast he’d spotted slinking between the tents. He hadn’t gotten so close to it, but even from such a distance, it’s size could not be denied.

Brynden released a deep breath as he walked towards the keep, pausing as he caught sight of Jon Snow and Lyanna Stark walking towards him.

From what he’d heard of his fellow countrymen, Jon Snow was deeply respected amongst them, and Hoster had done himself no favours with his slight against the young man.

Out of his own curiosity, Brynden watched Snow from afar.

The man carried himself like a warrior, one who had seen battle upon battle. His gaze never remained in one place for more than a few passing seconds, and his hand rested on the pommel of his sword.

He spotted Brynden, and they locked eyes momentarily.

“Jon Snow,” the Blackfish greeted him with a nod. “I fear we already owe you an apology. My brother…”

“Has a disliking of bastards,” Snow broke in bluntly. “There is nothing to apologise for. It is something I am used to. You have your gods and we have our own. Neither would look upon me favourably, but the Seven less so. It is just the way of the world, Lord Brynden.”

The Blackfish nodded.

“It is,” he sighed, “but for what it is worth, you have my own apology. I have fought side by side with bastards, some of them good men, and others amongst the worst I have met. Your people speak highly of you, and that means more to me than the gods.”

Jon Snow merely offered him an appreciative nod before taking his leave of the keep with Lyanna Stark who had said nothing, though it was clear she too was rather displeased.

Hoster really had made quite the error if he truly wished to endear the Starks to him.

With that in mind, Brynden made his way towards his brother’s solar, not even knocking before he entered to find the man himself seated behind his desk, surrounded by his nephew and nieces.

“Brynden,” Hoster greeted him. “How are our guests settling in.”

“Well enough,” the Blackfish answered. “You can count on a few notable absences at the feast.”

“Absences?” Hoster asked with a frown.

“You offended many of them, brother,” Brynden huffed.

“Because of a bastard?”

Brynden shook his head.

“Because of what the bastard is to them,” he explained. “Jon Snow is the Sworn Sword of Lyanna Stark. How that came to be, I am unsure, but the Ironborn raided the North some moons ago. Jon Snow became their saviour. I spoke with men who were there. They say he killed more than a dozen by himself, that he took Lord Drumm’s hand and claimed his sword. It now hangs above his bed.”

Hoster waved the claims away dismissively and Brynden shook his head.

“He slayed Andrik the Unsmiling in single combat, and the wolf Stark mentioned, I’ve seen it. It is a true monster, brother. More than all of it, I spoke with him, I looked into his eyes and what I saw was enough for me to believe it all. I have been to war, fought with nobles and bastards alike. There is something about Jon Snow, something the Northerners see too. Would you like to know what they call him?”

Hoster frowned as he stared at his cup of wine.

“The White Wolf of the North.”

“And Stark allows that?”

Brynden nodded.

“That is how highly Rickard Stark thinks of him,” he confirmed. “A bastard he is, but Rickard Stark has given him a place of honour within his own family, a place that Snow has earned. You may as well have spat in Brandon Stark’s face upon greeting him.”

Hoster deflated as he leaned back in his chair.

“I do not understand these Northerners,” he murmured.

“They value strength and integrity,” Brynden replied. “They value men, even bastards, if they prove they’re worthy of such admiration. You saw for yourself how respected Snow is. He told Lord Umber to be quiet, and he listened.”

“I am surprised Lord Umber didn’t put him in his place,” Lysa interjected, a look of distaste marring her features.

Brynden shook his head.

He was a follower of the Seven, but what he had seen in the world was enough for him to know that not even his Gods were always right when it came to the men that walked it.

“Lord Umber respects Snow, perhaps as much as he does Lord Stark himself. Besides, from what they say about him, few would wish to cross blades with Jon Snow. They say he has the strength of several men, is fast and incredibly skilled with his blade. They say that he won the allegiance of his wolf through conquest, that he fought it into submission using only his hands.”

“Ridiculous,” Hoster snorted.

“Perhaps,” Brynden conceded with a nod,” but it is what they believe that matters. I suppose I will get a measure for him myself. I expect the Riverlanders will head south with the Northerners.”

“That was the plan,” Hoster confirmed. “It is still my intention to forge an alliance with them. It could be most useful in the coming years. You know as well as I do that the Targaryen hold over the Kingdoms is weakening. All it takes is for one Lord to decide they want the power for themselves and we will be plunged into war. Aerys is proving to be more unfit.”

“Rhaegar is not,” Brynden said firmly. “The only one who would dare would be…”

“Tywin,” Hoster sighed. “He is sore that his own daughter was passed over in favour of a Dornish marriage, and the Stormlands, the Iron Islands, and even the Vale have dissenters amongst them.”

“That is why you want the North. You wish to remain loyal to the Targaryens.”

“I wish only to not see our people suffer,” Hoster corrected. “The North are the most neutral amongst the other Kingdoms. They do not involve themselves in the affairs of the rest of us.”

“But if you had a strong enough familial connection…”

“Then they would be inclined to support our causes.”

Brynden’s eyes narrowed towards his brother.

Hoster was not being entirely truthful with him. As was his way, he gave only enough information to satisfy curiosity, but Brynden knew him better than any. Hoster had already decided what he would do in every possible scenario the Riverlands could potentially face.

It was what made him a good leader, but also a poor one at times when he kept so much to himself.

“What of the Northerners?” Brynden pressed. “An apology is the least they will need.”

Hoster drained his cup as he nodded.

“They will have it, but I do not like it,” he grumbled. “Lysa, I would see that you spend some time with this Snow during the feast. Give the impression we are being accommodating and learn what you can.”

“Father, I will not spend time…”

“You will do as I have asked!” Hoster snapped.

Lysa glared at him but nodded her understanding.

“Cat, you will do as planned. You are to spend time with Brandon Stark and get a measure of him.”

“Yes, Father.”

“What about me?” Edmure asked.

“You are to shut up and do your best not to offend anyone,” Hoster commanded. “We do not need any further incidences.”

Edmure pouted and even Brynden offered him a look of disapproval.

He was to succeed his father as the Lord of Riverrun, and yet, he still acted like a petulant child.

“I will speak with Snow further,” the Blackfish decided. “If nothing else, to satisfy my own curiosity.”

“Do as you will, you always have,” Hoster said dismissively.

Choosing not to argue with his brother, Brynden left the solar, ignoring the barb.

Hoster had always been bitter that he’d refused any marriage the man had tried to arrange for him. It simply was not in his nature. Brynden had no desire for children of his own, nor to come home to a small holdfast after spending the day farming his land to a wife.

Brynden did not want that. He liked to travel at a whim, to go wherever he wished with nothing to drag him back when he was not ready to leave.

That was the life he had chosen, and even Hoster’s disappointment would not change that.

Jon

“Can’t we just skip the feast?” Lyanna whined.

Jon shook his head.

“You know we can’t.”

“But he was so rude to you,” Lyanna pointed out.

“And us showing them the same rudeness will solve nothing. Sometimes, you have to rise above these things. It is exactly what your father would say.”

Lyanna rolled her eyes at him and Jon chuckled as she checked her reflection in the looking glass.

“He’s still a shit,” the girl muttered.

“You’ve been spending too much time around the Greatjon.”

“If that was true, I’d call Tully a c-…”

Jon silenced her with a look of warning.

“You shouldn’t use that language he sighed.

“You do it.”

“But I’m just a lowly bastard,” Jon returned with a grin. “Nobody expects anything better.”

“You know, you’re quite annoying.”

“The feeling is mutual.”

Lyanna scowled at him.

“I’m not annoying!”

Jon merely hummed in response as he fastened his sword around his waist.

“How do I look?” Lyanna asked.

“Like a Lady of House Stark,” Jon assured her.

“Good,” Lyanna declared, offering her arm. “You will not treat our relationship any differently just because we are here. If Tully doesn’t like it, it’s tough,” she added when Jon hesitated to take it.

“Fine,” he agreed. “I suppose someone has to keep an eye on you. Brandon will be too busy trying to avoid Tully’s daughter, and the less time you spend with the Umbers and Mormonts, the better.”

“Do you really think she’s interested in Brandon?”

Jon shrugged as he opened the door and began leading Lyanna towards the Great Hall of the keep.

“Even if she isn’t, her father is,” he murmured. “Now, be quiet. The walls have ears in places like this.”

Lyanna nodded and the two said nothing else as they walked through the walls of Riverrun, reaching the Great Hall only a few moments later where they were met by Brandon, Benjen, and Barbery Ryswell whom the former was escorting.

Jon couldn’t help but smirk.

Brandon was clearly sending a message to Hoster Tully by arriving with Barbery, one the man would likely not appreciate.

The Stark heir merely shrugged at Jon’s questioning look, and he offered Brandon a nod of appreciation.

As much as he would have wanted to attend the feast with Barbery on his arm, Jon suspected the way Hoster had treated him had only spurred Brandon on.

“Is that wise?” he asked.

“I couldn’t give a shite,” Brandon said defiantly. “I made my mind up before I came here what I wanted. Meeting this lot changed nothing.”

“You’d better hope it hasn’t,” Barbery broke in. “I would remind you that I am always armed, Stark.”

Brandon beamed at the young woman in a mixture of pride and affection.

Jon had heard that they’d once been lovers, and that Brandon had spoken of his intention to marry Barbery. Rickard, however, had already agreed to a match with Hoster Tully before the subject could be broached.

That certainly seemed to be quite the change already, though Jon was undecided whether or not that was a good thing.

Only time would tell, but he could not deny that Catelyn being in the North was not something he would miss.

“Shall we?” Brandon asked, standing taller as he led Barbery into the Great Hall.

Benjen followed with Jon leading Lyanna behind the youngest Stark sibling where he could see the reaction of those at the family table.

Hoster did little to hide the frown creasing his brow whilst his eldest daughter looked towards him, seemingly uncertain as to what she would do. Lysa, whom Jon was grateful he’d never had the displeasure of meeting, was looking at him with disdain, and he immediately took a disliking to her, though not as much as the boy standing next to her.

Baelish.

Jon’s fingers instinctively flexed towards the pommel of his sword at the sight of him. Baelish had been responsible for many of the ills of the world he had come from.

He was the reason Ned Stark had been killed and the reason the War of the Five Kings had started. The man’s crimes were numerous, and even though he appeared to be rather unassuming as he stood obediently at Hoster Tully’s side, Jon knew better.

Baelish was one of those that would have to be killed sooner rather than later.

“Lord Brandon, as you can see, a table has been made available for your men,” Hoster addressed the Heir of Winterfell. “Please, you and yours are welcome to join me at mine. You too, Jon Snow.”

He managed to hide his disgust well enough, but Jon had been around enough people to sense it.

“If it is all the same to you, Lord Tully, I have some things I must discuss with some of my father’s vassal houses,” Lyanna returned. “If you will excuse me and Jon.”

Tully nodded, seemingly relieved he would not have to share his table with Jon.

“You shouldn’t have slighted him.”

“He shouldn’t have slighted you,” Lyanna returned firmly. “If I was forced to sit at that table, it would have been worse.”

Jon conceded the point with a nod as the two of them sat with the other Northern Lords who had opted to attend.

“Couldn’t miss out on the food, Umber?” he asked he large man.

“I have a big belly to fill, Snow.”

“Aye, and a big mouth,” Lord Cerwyn quipped, much to Jon’s amusement.

“You think that is funny, Snow?” the Greatjon questioned.

Jon nodded as he talk the larger man’s tankard of ale and drank from it deeply.

“Aye, it was funny.”

The Greatjon cursed under his breath as he snatched his drink back and drained it, immediately refilling it.

“It’s going to be an interesting night, isn’t it?” Lyanna questioned as she nodded towards the top table.

Despite having arrived with Barbery, Catelyn found herself seated on the other side of Brandon whilst Lysa continued to look at Jon. Baelish was seated between the two Tully sisters, his focus on the older of the two, looking like a lovelorn puppy.

Jon could only shake his head.

For reasons known only to Hoster Tully, he had clearly instructed his youngest daughter to speak with Jon, something the girl had no desire to and yet, was preparing for, nonetheless.

“What does she want?” Lyanna asked irritably, having noticed the staring Lysa.

“To speak with me,” Jon sighed.

“Why?”

“Maybe I’m a backup in case the other one can’t win Brandon over,” Jon chuckled humourlessly, the very thought making him feel rather nauseous.

“I don’t think so!” Lyanna growled. “You will not marry a girl like her.”

Jon quirked an eyebrow at her, but Lyanna remained defiant.

“She’s not good enough for you.”

Jon simply shook his head as he looked towards the last two Tullys.

Edmure had perhaps been the most ineffective leader he’d ever met. The man had spent many moons locked in the Freys’ cells and had done nothing of use when being liberated.

By then, the Riverlands had been decimated by war and in truth, Edmure was nothing short of pathetic.

The man speaking with him, however, couldn’t be more different.

The Blackfish.

Brynden Tully was a fighting man, one that was deeply respected across the Seven Kingdoms, his reputation as a talented warrior having been earned by shedding the blood of his enemies.

He was, as it seemed to be, the exception amongst the fish.

Taking a sip of his ale to avoid the gaze of Lysa, Jon shifted his attention back to the Northerners he was seated with and shook his head.

The Greatjon was already deep into his cups and demanding more ale be brought to him, and many of the others were not far behind. Around the Great Hall of Riverrun, those gathered did not seem to be impressed by their Northern guests.

The atmosphere was oddly tense, though none spoke of it.

Still, with the wine and ale flowing, Jon could not help but think it was only a matter of time before something spilt over.