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GOT Chapter 75: Shadows over the Trident
🕑 Added 2025-08-15 23:56:55 +0000 UTCUp on the ridge, the quarrel reached its peak. “I’ll say this one last time—I will not let that boy from House Arryn become Warden of the Ea
Up on the ridge, the quarrel reached its peak.
“I’ll say this one last time—I will not let that boy from House Arryn become Warden of the East!”
“I know the child is your nephew, but with the Targaryens now in bed with the Dothraki, I’d have to be mad to hand command of a quarter of the realm’s armies to a sickly little boy!”
For the second time since he had first raised the subject in the Stark family crypts, the king flatly and forcefully rejected Eddard Stark’s proposal.
“But someone must take up the post of Warden of the East!”
As if expecting that answer, Eddard shifted the conversation, bringing forth the conclusion he had recently reached.
“If Robert Arryn is unfit, then let one of your brothers take the role."
“Stannis proved his capability during the siege of Storm’s End—I believe he could handle the task.”
At that name, Robert’s brow furrowed, and he stayed silent, his expression clouded with discomfort.
Eddard noticed the look and eased his tone, no longer pressing so hard. “Of course, if you’ve already promised the position to someone else, that would be different.”
Robert shot him an annoyed glance, then turned his head toward the foot of the ridge, where two boys stood talking about who-knew-what.
“What if I were to say—”
“That’s exactly how it is?”
...
No one knew exactly what the King and the Hand had quarreled over, or what words had been exchanged; all of it had been swallowed by the cold winds of the First Men’s desolate lands.
In fact, hardly anyone even knew about this brief excursion the King and the Hand had taken.
As for the Blackstone Mercenaries, once their captain, Kal, had expressed his silent opinion, everyone else acted as if they knew nothing.
So, when King Robert and Lord Eddard returned to camp, seemingly “in high spirits” after their talk, the army set out once again.
But the pace of a marching host was far from the nimble speed of a small detachment.
The Westerlands lay in the far west of Westeros. For the North to wage war against it, there was no way to sail south directly from White Harbor. The fastest route was to cross more than half the width of the continent.
That meant this campaign would be fought almost entirely by land, and the speed could be imagined.
Even so, the army still had to quicken its step.
Ahead of them lay the Neck, the most treacherous stretch along the continental boundary.
From the time the Northern host had been called to arms to when it actually set out, even at their fastest, nearly a month had passed.
And when King Robert Baratheon I’s order to march against the Lannisters of the Westerlands was issued in the North, it had already taken almost a week for the message to be fully delivered.
...
Riverrun — seat of House Tully. Built during the Andal invasion thousands of years ago, it was founded by Axell Tully of that era.
Since then, House Tully had ruled there for countless generations, holding it to this very day.
When Robert’s order of war arrived, the current Lord of House Tully, Lord of Riverrun and Governor of the Trident, Hoster Tully, happened to be gravely ill, bedridden and unable to rise.
Fortunately, though confined to bed, Lord Hoster’s mind remained clear.
So, upon receiving the King’s order, his first act was to seal off this critical news. At once, he sent a small party westward to secretly scout the situation.
The results were exactly as he had expected — the Lannisters were indeed on the move.
The Westerlands’ armies were gathering, with lords from all over answering Tywin Lannister’s call, mustering their forces near the Golden Tooth.
Faced with such urgency, Lord Hoster acted just as swiftly.
Using his authority as Governor of the Trident, he summoned the Riverland lords loyal to his house to assemble their troops.
In less than two weeks, Hoster Tully had mustered a force.
“Father!”
Summoned by the steward, Hoster Tully’s son — Edmure Tully, brother to Catelyn Tully and Lysa Tully — entered his father’s chambers.
Looking upon his bedridden father, Edmure’s brow was furrowed with unshakable worry.
Lord Hoster had been confined to his bed for more than three years, showing no sign of recovery. In fact, of late, his condition had worsened to a dangerous degree.
Now King Robert had suddenly declared war on the Lannisters — a conflict not only looming, but drawing closer by the day.
For Edmure Tully, heir to Riverrun, such an imminent crisis could only bring anxiety.
The frail Duke, whose very breathing seemed labored, heard his son’s voice and gestured for the servants to help him sit upright. They propped him against the headboard, placing two goose-feather pillows at his back before quietly leaving the room.
Lord Hoster gestured faintly, beckoning his son to come closer.
He no longer had the strength to speak to someone standing so far away.
Hearing the door close behind him, and seeing his father’s summons, Edmure Tully dragged a stool to the bedside and sat down, taking one of his father’s hands in his own.
He said nothing.
Yet, faced with his son’s silence, Hoster’s lips curved into a faint smile.
“Have the Lannister armies shown any new movements?” Hoster asked of his own accord, his voice visibly weakened.
Edmure answered, “More and more troops are gathering at the Golden Tooth. Our scouts can no longer get inside. I’d say the situation doesn’t look promising.”
“Father, from the way they’re arrayed, it doesn’t seem they intend to sit tight and hold their ground—” His tone was heavy with concern as he looked at his father, who could barely muster the strength to speak.
But Hoster showed no sign of alarm at his son’s words. His expression remained calm as he pressed on. “And the military report sent to the King—did you include our suspicions? Has there been a reply?”
“Yes. The only clear news so far is that Lord Eddard Stark’s Northern host has already set out, marching south at full speed—” Edmure paused, lifting his gaze to meet his father’s eyes.
“But, Father, we won’t be able to wait until they arrive.”
As heir to Riverrun, Edmure was hardly ignorant of the shifting tides of war. With his father bedridden, he had no choice but to weigh such matters more heavily.
Hearing this, Lord Hoster naturally understood both his son’s meaning and the pressure on his shoulders.
After all, most had assumed that once the King declared war on the Westerlands, the Lannisters would surely withdraw and fortify their own lands, using their terrain to withstand the royal host.
No one had expected Tywin Lannister to do the opposite.
In the face of a royal proclamation of war under the pretext of defending the realm, he not only refused to cower behind his borders, but even chose to strike first.
And from the look of things, his designs for the Riverlands seemed… unusual.
As their neighbor, Hoster Tully could sense this more keenly than anyone.
Yet he could not guess exactly what Tywin intended, nor what scheme he might be pursuing.
What he did know was this: if he wanted to keep the flames of war from reaching his own gates, he would have to act.
The Riverlands, lying in the very heart of Westeros, encompassed the many tributaries of the Trident and the fertile lands between them.
And because of its unique geography, this land had become a place of constant war — a land where blood had flowed so often it seemed to soak the very soil.
For as long as Westeros had recorded history, the Riverlands seemed bound to conflict, so much so that one might suspect its fertile fields had been watered with lives.
Yet, at his son’s question, Lord Hoster smiled.
“You’re right, Edmure. We cannot wait for help from others. For now, we can only rely on ourselves."
“As long as we overturn the Lannisters’ schemes and hold them off long enough, their downfall will come as a matter of course.”
At that, a faint light flickered in Hoster’s clouded, yellowed eyes.
He turned his grip, clasping Edmure’s hand and giving it a gentle squeeze.
“My son, you know well the state of our Riverlands. True, to the north we have the Trident — a natural barrier easy to defend — and though there are mountain ranges to the east and west, their positions benefit the Vale and the Westerlands more than us.
“Take the west, for instance. Guarding the border between the Riverlands and the Westerlands stands the Golden Tooth — solid as stone, easy to hold, hard to take — yet it has always been a stronghold of the Westerlands.”
Edmure frowned, not quite understanding his meaning.
Seeing the doubt in his son’s eyes, Hoster patiently went on.
“Your worries are not wrong, but they’re not the whole picture. You haven’t yet seen the broader field, my boy."
“Edmure, think — if we can make our mark in this war, we might greatly alter the very geopolitical balance of today’s Riverlands!"
“And the Westerlands would no longer be our great enemy!"
“So do not lose heart. Even if this moment appears to be a crisis for us, once we pass through it, could it not also be an opportunity?"
“What we must do now is make ourselves the King’s vanguard. Do you understand?”
Forcing his frail body upright, Lord Hoster delivered these words in a single breath. In that moment, a strange vitality rose in him, making him seem not like a man long bedridden and near death, but merely a somewhat thin, aging lord.
Hearing his father break down the current situation so clearly, Edmure’s expression shed its gloom at once.
“Father… you mean?!”
