Under the untrusting gazes, subtle warnings, and silent pressure of The Riverlands lords, Edmure Tully finally cast aside his last bit of pathetic pride.
A letter of earnest appeal for help was tied to the leg of a raven flying north.
Under his command, The Riverlands coalition forces ultimately did not retreat or advance, remaining stalled in the fields outside Stone Hedge.
Like an ostrich burying its head, he neither showed weakness nor dared to truly show his claws.
In his heart, he still held a sliver of hope that he could stall until Robb brought the northern army south to take over this hot potato.
But this indecisive, vacillating behavior caused even more unrest among the coalition forces, whose morale was already low and who were confused about the future.
Soldiers whispered, and officers gathered to argue in low voices.
Complaints and doubts were often heard as the various vassals moved between the tents.
Edmure was overwhelmed but could only force himself to inspect the camp, speaking empty words that even he didn't quite believe to the Soldiers with shifting gazes, exhausted from dealing with pressure from all sides.
Just as he felt he was about to be completely crushed by this invisible, heavy pressure, the arrival of one person finally loosened his taut nerves slightly.
The newcomer was lean, dressed in a mixture of dark leather and chainmail for ease of movement, with a longsword hanging at his waist, looking travel-worn.
"Uncle?" Edmure's face was full of astonishment. "You... how did you get here? Weren't you always by Robb's side, serving as the Northern Scout Commander?"
Brynden Tully, known as the Blackfish, swept his sharp gaze across the slightly messy furnishings in the commander's tent and the exhaustion and panic Edmure couldn't hide.
He didn't answer Edmure's question immediately, but walked to the table, picked up a pitcher, poured himself a large cup of water, tilted his head back, and gulped it down, his Adam's apple bobbing.
Then, he wiped his mouth, his voice raspy from the long journey but still clear and powerful:
"Robb needs to prepare for the Ironborn invasion; the army is about to return to the North. I am a man of The Riverlands, not a vassal of the Starks."
"I have resigned from my post as the Northern Scout Commander and returned to Riverrun."
He set down the cup, his gaze fixed back on Edmure's face, his tone turning stern:
"I just got back to Riverrun, hadn't even had time to scrape the mud off my boots, before I heard about the mess you've made..."
"Rashly gathering an army and stationing them right under Aegon Targaryen's nose. And then? Standing here like a rabbit frozen by a hound, neither advancing nor retreating, waiting for someone to slaughter you?"
Edmure's cheeks instantly flushed a burning red.
Under the Blackfish's merciless accusations, the pathetic dignity and decorum of a liege lord that he had barely managed to maintain these past few days were torn to shreds.
He took a deep breath, puffing out his chest which wasn't particularly robust, trying to make his voice sound firmer, though it was still dry and shaky when he spoke:
"What else can be done now? I've already asked Robb for help! What we need to do now is hold our ground here and stall that Aegon Targaryen! When he arrives, he'll naturally have a way to solve this!"
"Stall?" The Blackfish sneered, the sound short and cold.
He turned, walked a few steps to the tent door, yanked open the heavy curtain, and pointed at the sprawling but disorganized and low-morale camp outside.
"With these? How will you stall? With the empty words you say during your daily inspections? Or with this group of Soldiers who were just crippled by the Westerlands and have now even lost their own castles?"
He turned back, his gaze like lightning: "Do you think Aegon Targaryen will play fair with you, or waste time on negotiation games?"
"He has a flying monster and an army that just crushed Jaime Lannister's twenty thousand elites! By putting on this 'waiting to be hit' act, do you think you're not dying fast enough, or that you haven't squandered The Riverlands' last assets thoroughly enough?"
Edmure was left speechless, his face turning from red to white, his lips trembling, unable to retort a single word.
The Blackfish's words were like cold daggers, precisely piercing all his self-deceptive fantasies.
The Blackfish stopped looking at him, as if another glance would be a waste of time.
He let go of the curtain, strode to the table, and tapped his rough finger on the map at the locations of Harrenhal and the current camp.
"Drop this childish act. Now, get the army in order; it's a hundred times more important than your pride."
In the time that followed, Brynden the Blackfish, with his vigorous style and unquestionable prestige, forcibly intervened and took over most of the daily management and defensive reorganization of the coalition.
He replaced several officers who were clearly lazy or incompetent, re-divided the defense zones, strengthened night patrols and sentries, and strictly ordered all units to enforce military discipline.
He ordered the limited cavalry to be concentrated into several scout teams, expanded the reconnaissance range, and strictly ordered that any enemy movement must be reported immediately without delay.
Although he couldn't fundamentally change the reality of the coalition's weak combat power and low morale, at least the aimless atmosphere of chaos and despair that seemed ready to collapse at any moment was temporarily suppressed.
The army regained a minimum of order and vigilance, like a heap of loose sand being barely pressed together; though still loose, it at least had a shape.
Watching his uncle's decisiveness in handling matters, Edmure's heart was filled with mixed emotions.
He was grateful to the Blackfish for stepping up at this critical moment to stabilize this mess that was nearly falling apart, making the heavy burden on his shoulders seem lighter.
At the same time, he felt deep shame and helplessness over his own embarrassment and incompetence before his uncle, and his current situation of being nearly "sidelined."
He could only watch silently, occasionally providing some information when the Blackfish asked about specific situations; most of the time, he was like an outsider, standing in the shadows of his own commander's tent, watching that lean but powerful figure move through the camp, issuing orders.
Two days passed quickly in the oppressive waiting and the Blackfish's high-pressure reorganization.
The deadline given by Aegon Targaryen had arrived.
There were no messengers from Harrenhal, no second letter, nor any repetition of the ultimatum. It was quiet, as if the two-day deadline had never been mentioned.
However, this silence was more heart-wrenching than any war drum or horn.
Just after noon, the scouts sent toward Harrenhal rushed back to the main camp one after another in panic, bringing news that shattered everyone's last sliver of fantasy:
The Targaryen army had moved.
Large numbers of black-armored Soldiers marched out of the grim gates of Harrenhal, along the Kingsroad, with a clear objective... exactly in the direction of Stone Hedge where they were currently stationed.
Their ranks were orderly, banners flying, and movement swift. The vanguard scouts had already had small-scale encounters with the coalition's outriders.
The other side didn't even deign to send someone to question or issue a final warning.
They directly showed their attitude with the clearest and coldest of actions: the deadline had passed; if you do not surrender, then fight.
There was no third path.
Edmure knew they could no longer stay stationed where they were.
Either turn around immediately and run back, completely exposing their defenseless backs to the pursuing enemy—which would be like personally handing over an inevitable defeat.
Or, they could only turn around and face that crushing iron torrent.
"Assemble the army! Order all units to gather and form ranks! Prepare... for battle!" Edmure issued the command hoarsely.
He had no choice.
The camp reorganized by the Blackfish at least gave him the confidence to issue this order, though that confidence was as thin as a cicada's wing.
The squires scrambled to help him don his armor.
It was a set of exceptionally magnificent, dazzling plate armor, with exquisite and complex red and blue trout sigils embossed on the breastplate.
A squire then fastened a brand-new, wide red and blue trout sigil cloak for him.
When he stood there fully armed, he looked majestic, enough to attract the gaze of all noble ladies and receive the cheers of the crowd at any grand Tournament.
But on Edmure's body, which was not particularly robust and even appeared somewhat frail and hunched due to days of anxiety and poor rest, the armor seemed a bit hollow and discordant.
The overly ornate decorations and dazzling reflections contrasted with the paleness of his face under the helmet and the unmistakable panic and confusion in his eyes.
This outfit, at this moment, did not look like armor for the battlefield, but more like an expensive and heavy costume, a fragile shell used to display the dignity of a lord.
Brynden the Blackfish had just finished inspecting the layout of the front lines and returned, lifting the tent flap.
Seeing Edmure surrounded by a crowd of squires, making final adjustments to the folds of his cloak, his grey eyebrows instantly knitted into a hard knot.
He strode over, his gaze like that of the most demanding weaponsmith inspecting a shoddy product, unceremoniously scanning Edmure's outfit from top to bottom.
"You're wearing that Tournament outfit to the battlefield," the Blackfish's voice rang out, with undisguised mockery as sharp as an icicle, "do you want to provide the enemy archers with a bullseye, telling them where to shoot?"
"Or do you want the Targaryen cavalry to recognize at a glance whose head they should cut off first to boost their morale when they charge?"
The surrounding squires instantly fell silent, their breathing shallow, their gazes lowered, not daring to look at Edmure's face, which had instantly turned the color of pig liver.
Edmure's face burned with shame, indignation, embarrassment, and a hint of anger at having his pretense exposed in public, making him want to tear off this magnificent armor that felt like such a burden.
But he couldn't.
This was the last bit of dignity belonging to the Lord of Riverrun and the Lord Paramount of the Trident that he could maintain at this moment.
He gritted his teeth hard, avoiding his uncle's gaze that seemed able to pierce through everything, and forced himself to straighten his back.
He didn't respond to the Blackfish's biting sarcasm, but merely repeated the order in a dry, raspy voice, as if to prove his determination:
"Pass the order... form ranks."
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