The Riverlands had never known peace for long. Where rivers crossed and roads met, armies always followed. The fields along the Trident had grown wheat and barley for generations, yet they had also grown graves. From the War of the Five Kings to the battles against the dead and the fall of King's Landing, the Riverlands had paid the price of every conflict in Westeros.
Now the land was quiet again.
But the quiet felt uneasy.
Morning mist rose slowly above the waters of the Red Fork as the towers of Riverrun reflected upon the calm river below. The castle stood where the rivers joined, surrounded by water on three sides like a stone island guarding the heart of the Riverlands.
Inside its great hall, the banners of the riverlords hung from the walls. The silver trout of House Tully stood above them all, its scales glimmering faintly in the light of the torches.
At the center of the chamber sat Edmure Tully.
Years earlier, he had been mocked as a weak lord. A prisoner. A pawn in greater games. But the wars had ended, and Riverrun had returned to him. Now he ruled the Riverlands once again, though the crown he served had changed.
The hall slowly filled with nobles and knights, their cloaks still damp from the morning mist as they took their seats around a wide wooden table.
Lord Bracken arrived first, his heavy boots echoing across the stone floor. Soon after came Lord Blackwood, his expression as stern as the ancient rivalry carried by his house. The two men avoided looking at one another as they sat on opposite sides of the table.
Some things in the Riverlands never changed.
Ser Desmond Grell leaned closer to Edmure and spoke quietly.
"The riverlords have come as you asked."
Edmure nodded slightly.
"They always come when trouble smells close."
Desmond glanced toward the open doors where the Trident flowed beyond the castle walls.
"And does it?"
Edmure looked at the water for a moment before answering.
"Yes."
When the murmuring quieted, Edmure rose slowly to his feet.
"My lords," he began, "you know why I have called you here."
A few men nodded while others watched silently.
"The realm divides," Edmure continued. "The Stormlands hesitate. Dorne waits. The Iron Islands sharpen their knives."
Lord Bracken leaned forward.
"And the North?"
Edmure's voice remained calm.
"The North follows the Queen of the North."
Several riverlords shifted uncomfortably.
The Riverlands had always stood between great powers. Between north and south. Between loyalty and survival.
Lord Blackwood spoke next.
"And the crown?"
Edmure hesitated slightly before answering.
"The crown watches."
Several men exchanged uneasy glances.
"The Watching King," Lord Bracken muttered.
A knight near the end of the table frowned.
"A king who sees everything makes some men nervous."
Another lord laughed quietly.
"A king who sees everything may not trust anyone."
The tension in the hall slowly grew.
Edmure raised his hand.
"Enough."
The room quieted again.
"There is another matter," he said.
This time the silence felt heavier.
Because everyone already knew what he would say.
"The dragon."
The word hung in the air like thunder waiting to strike.
Lord Blackwood spoke carefully.
"The rumors grow."
"Yes," Edmure replied. "Sailors claim they have seen Drogon flying above the Narrow Sea."
Lord Bracken snorted.
"Sailors claim many things."
"But merchants confirm it," another lord said.
"And captains from Braavos."
"Even traders from Pentos."
The room grew quiet again.
Because rumors repeated too often eventually became something else.
Possibility.
Lord Blackwood leaned forward.
"If the dragon lives…"
He stopped there.
No one needed the rest of the sentence.
Because if the dragon lived, then the question followed immediately.
Did the queen live as well?
Edmure looked around the table.
"Some rumors say she died. Some say the dragon carried her body away. And some say she lives."
A low murmur spread through the chamber.
Lord Bracken rubbed his beard.
"If Daenerys Targaryen lives, war will follow."
A younger knight spoke nervously.
"Unless she comes for peace."
Several men laughed bitterly.
"Dragons rarely bring peace."
Another lord spoke quietly.
"The Riverlands cannot survive another war."
The room fell silent.
Because everyone in that hall remembered the last ones.
Burned villages. Broken castles. Fields soaked with blood.
The Riverlands always suffered first.
Edmure walked slowly toward the great window overlooking the river. The Trident flowed peacefully beneath the castle walls. Children fished along the banks while farmers worked distant fields.
Life had returned.
Slowly.
Fragile.
He turned back toward the gathered lords.
"The Riverlands have burned for every king in Westeros," Edmure said quietly. "And I would rather not see them burn again."
Lord Blackwood nodded.
"Then what do you propose?"
Edmure rested his hands on the table.
"We remain cautious."
Lord Bracken frowned.
"You mean we wait?"
"Yes."
"And if the crown demands loyalty?"
"We will give it."
"And if the dragon returns?"
Edmure looked toward the window again, where the sunlight reflected across the moving water.
"Then we will listen."
The riverlords exchanged uneasy glances.
"That is dangerous ground," one of them said.
Edmure nodded slowly.
"Yes."
"But the Riverlands have always stood on dangerous ground."
Outside the castle, the waters of the Trident flowed quietly toward the sea. The same waters that had carried armies. The same waters that had reflected burning castles.
The same waters that might one day reflect dragonfire.
Lord Blackwood stood slowly.
"Then the Riverlands remember," he said.
Edmure looked at him.
"What do we remember?"
Blackwood's voice was calm.
"That war always finds us first."
The hall fell silent.
And somewhere far beyond the horizon…
A dragon flew across the sky.