The great hall of Riverrun glowed with firelight.
Torches flickered along the stone walls, their light dancing across banners of silver trout and rippling water. The sound of the rivers outside murmured faintly beneath it all—constant, steady, like the heartbeat of the land itself.
The feast had begun.
Michel Arryn sat beside his grandfather.
To his right, Hoster Tully leaned slightly forward, a goblet resting in his hand. Age had carved lines into his face, and weakness lingered in his body—but his mind…
His mind was sharp.
Alive.
Hoster turned his gaze toward Michel.
Long.
Measured.
Then—
He smiled.
"Boy…"
His voice carried both pride and something deeper.
"Your methods…"
He paused, as if weighing the words.
"…have changed everything."
The hall quieted slightly.
Not fully—
But enough.
Because when Hoster Tully spoke like this…
People listened.
"Our lands," he continued, gesturing faintly outward, "now produce as much wheat as the Reach itself."
A murmur passed among the lords present.
Even now—
Even after seeing the results—
It was hard to believe.
"Our granaries are full," Hoster said.
"Our incomes have risen."
"Our bannermen…"
His eyes hardened slightly.
"…are more loyal than they have ever been."
He leaned back, studying Michel with something close to wonder.
"And all because of knowledge you brought."
Michel remained calm.
Unmoved.
"This knowledge was always possible," he said quietly.
"I only showed the path."
Hoster let out a low chuckle.
"Spoken like a lord who understands power."
Across the table, Edmure Tully nodded eagerly.
"The changes are real," he said. "Farmers who once struggled now thrive. Even the smaller houses have begun to prosper."
Michel's gaze moved slowly across the hall.
He saw it.
The difference.
Not just in wealth—
But in confidence.
In stability.
Then he spoke again.
His voice steady.
Deliberate.
"If the Vale and the Riverlands are combined…"
A brief pause.
"…we now hold more grain than any region in the Seven Kingdoms."
Silence.
Heavy.
Meaningful.
Because everyone understood what that meant.
Food—
Was power.
Hoster's fingers tightened slightly around his goblet.
His eyes gleamed.
"Yes…" he murmured.
"Yes, we do."
Michel leaned forward just slightly.
"Grandfather…"
Hoster looked at him.
"You have abundance now."
"Food."
"Gold."
"Stability."
Michel's voice lowered.
Sharpened.
"It is time to strengthen your armies."
The words landed like a stone in still water.
Ripples spread instantly.
Edmure straightened.
Several lords exchanged glances.
Hoster did not speak immediately.
He watched Michel.
Carefully.
"Why?" he asked at last.
Michel met his gaze.
Unflinching.
"Because prosperity invites attention."
A pause.
"And attention invites war."
The hall grew colder.
Though the fires still burned.
Hoster leaned back slowly.
Thinking.
Weighing.
"You speak as if war is certain," he said.
Michel's voice did not change.
"It is."
No hesitation.
No doubt.
For a moment—
The only sound was the river.
Then—
Hoster Tully smiled.
Not wide.
Not soft.
But proud.
"Good."
He set his goblet down.
"Then we will be ready."
Edmure nodded firmly.
"Yes."
The lords began to murmur again—
But differently now.
Not just of harvests.
Not just of wealth.
But of soldiers.
Of strength.
Of preparation.
Michel sat back in his seat.
Calm.
Watching.
Another step.
Another piece in place.
The Vale.
The Riverlands.
Two powers.
One direction.
And though no one else in that hall fully understood it yet—
The feast carried on long into the night.
Laughter echoed beneath the vaulted stone.
Goblets clashed.
Voices rose and fell like the rivers outside—alive, constant, unending.
The lords of the Riverlands drank deeply, celebrating prosperity, unity… and the quiet pride of strength regained.
But Michel Arryn did not laugh.
He watched.
He listened.
He measured.
From his seat beside Hoster Tully, his eyes moved across the hall.
House after house.
Banner after banner.
Faces filled with loyalty.
Or at least—
The appearance of it.
Most are aligned, he thought.
Most are stable.
But not all.
Never all.
His gaze paused.
Once.
Then again.
Searching.
Counting.
Confirming.
One banner was missing.
One name unspoken.
Michel turned slightly toward his grandfather.
"Grandfather."
Hoster glanced at him.
"Yes?"
Michel's voice was calm.
Quiet.
But precise.
"Why is House Frey not present?"
For a moment—
Hoster said nothing.
Then—
A faint shadow crossed his face.
"They rarely come," he said at last.
His tone carried something heavier now.
Less warmth.
More truth.
"They are… ambitious."
Edmure shifted slightly in his seat.
Uncomfortable.
Hoster continued.
"They believe that one day…"
A pause.
"…they should rule the Riverlands."
A murmur of disdain flickered beneath his words.
"They do not always answer my summons."
"They do not always stand where they should."
His eyes hardened.
"They obey when it suits them."
Silence lingered between them.
Michel nodded once.
Slow.
Thoughtful.
"I see."
He said nothing more.
But his mind—
Moved.
Frey in the Riverlands.
Bolton in the North.
Two names.
Two shadows.
Two fractures waiting to break.
Unstable factors.
Michel leaned back slightly.
The feast continued.
But for him—
The celebration had already ended.
Because where others saw abundance—
He saw weakness.
Where others saw loyalty—
He saw cracks.
And cracks…
Always widened.
A week passed.
Quietly.
Productively.
Michel observed.
Spoke with lords.
Measured influence.
Strengthened bonds.
And when the time came—
He stood once more before Hoster Tully.
"I will not remain longer," Michel said.
"I am leaving for the North."
Hoster looked at him for a long moment.
Then—
A slow smile formed.
"Good."
Michel raised a brow slightly.
"You should go," Hoster said.
"See your aunt."
"See her children."
A softer tone entered his voice.
Rare.
"Family matters."
Michel inclined his head.
"Yes."
Edmure stepped forward, grinning faintly.
"Winterfell, hm?"
He chuckled.
"Colder than anything you've known."
Michel's expression remained steady.
"I will manage."
Hoster leaned back in his chair.
Watching his grandson.
Pride clear.
"You carry more than your name now," he said.
"You carry… direction."
Michel did not answer.
Because he knew.
The Riverlands had been one step.
The North—
Was the next.
And beyond that—
War.
Michel turned.
Walking toward the gates of Riverrun once more.