Chapter Text
The Great Hall at Riverrun was cold. Rain drizzled beyond the windows, and the river mists coiled at the base of the walls. Around the long oaken table sat half a dozen grim-faced men, their cloaks still damp with road-water and sweat.
Edmure Tully, the youngest of the lot, sat at the head, doing his best not to pass out. An hour ago, he had been dead. Or rather, Edward Turner had been dead. Then, by the will of whatever divine powers involved in the affair, his spirit had found itself taking up new lodging in the body of sixteen-year-old Edmure Tully – heir to Riverrun and future Lord Paramount of the Trident. As if that wasn’t disorienting enough, he had woken to the sound of horns and bells, and found himself being dragged out of bed to the Great Hall, with the news of a large Tyrell host advancing towards Riverrun.
He could still barely believe he was here, literally here. Not in a dream – or so he thought. Not hallucinating. In a castle. In Westeros. In charge. Expected to organize the castle’s defences ahead of potentially a long siege, for he was the acting Lord of Riverrun in the absence of his father and uncle, who were both off fighting in the rebellion. He looked at the men in front of him. Among them, two dark-haired captains of the Tully vassal House Blackwood – Sers Ryman and Lymond – whose men comprised the bulk of the castle’s current defenders, Riverrun’s own master-at-arms Ser Robin, the sour-faced steward Utherydes Wayn, and the old maester Vyman.
He straightened as Ser Ryman cleared his throat.
“The Reach host has entered the Riverlands, my lord. Some six thousand foot and two thousand on horseback, advancing along the River Road from the west.”
“Light baggage train, but they’re also taking from the land,” added Ser Lymond, the other Blackwood captain. “They’re moving roughly seven leagues a day. They’ll be here in a week.”
“Have we... no other defences along the River Road?” Edmure asked, rubbing his forehead in a vain attempt to ease the pain.
Lymond and Ryman looked at each other, then the former spoke, “My lord, we had a force at the town of Fieldstone, right on the border with the Westerlands. Lord Tully stationed it there to guard the west, in case the Lannisters declared for the Mad King. Four thousand men of House Frey and fifteen hundred of our own under Lord Tytos. Lord Walder ordered his men to retreat after only an hour, leaving us behind. We lost Lord Tytos, along with many others, and fell back here. The town was sacked.”
“That must have been a bloody hour indeed,” Ser Robin spoke sharply, exchanging glances with the maester, “for the Freys to have incurred such losses that they were forced to retreat.”
Even through his splitting headache, Edmure was able to pick up the insinuation. Walder Frey may or not have been up to something fishy at the battle of Fieldstone. He was after all, notoriously unreliable. This recollection of a canon fact started bringing about other memories – Edmure’s ones from this world and Edward’s from the other. Things slowly set into place, calming Edmure down enough for him to be able to focus on the crisis at hand. He tried mustering all knowledge of Game of Thrones/A Song of Ice and Fire as he could.
Currently there was a Tyrell army marching on Riverrun. That didn’t happen in the canonical Robert’s Rebellion. There shouldn’t be a Reach force here at all – Mace Tyrell would have taken his men to besiege Storm’s End hundreds of miles south. Then again, the Reach had plenty of men, so it was possible he had broken off a chunk of his army to go northwards. The Battle of the Bells at Stoney Sept had been a rebel victory, meaning the southern Riverlands would be secure and a Reach host of 8,000 men wouldn’t be able to get far from there. So, they looped around through the Westerlands which explained why they were coming from the River Road... the fact that Tywin Lannister allowed them to march through the Westerlands didn’t bode well either...
As much as he felt like throwing up, Edmure collected himself. The other men at the table were more experienced than he was. He had them to guide him. As long as he didn’t do anything totally idiotic, they might stand a chance.
“Right,” he muttered. “So, we need to — uh — prepare. Let’s begin by taking inventory.”
That got a grunt from the steward, old Utherydes, who scratched at a wax tablet.
“We have stores enough for forty days on strict rations,” he said. “Salted pork, beans, oats, and five casks of smoked trout. The well is clean. The cellars are dry. But the river…” He looked at Edmure. “If they poison it, we’ll be trapped.”
Edmure swallowed. Right. They could do that. Of course they could do that. He rattled his brains for any way they could prevent that. As Edmure and Edward’s memories settled into place, a vague concept he remembered from high school chemistry resurfaced in his mind. “If they poison the river we could filter the water, maybe? Use, uh… sand and charcoal.”
The older man blinked.
“Charcoal…?”
“I read it... somewhere. I’ll help design it.”
Maester Vyman raised an eyebrow. “That’s an... unorthodox idea, my lord, but if it helps… we’ll try it.”
They moved on. Slowly, as more and more of Edmure’s memories and what he had been taught settled into his head, and guided by the advice of his captains and maester, a plan took shape. Ravens dispatched east to warn his father Lord Hoster Tully of the impending siege, settlements in the vicinity to be evacuated, food and supplies gathered at the castle, outer defences set up and Riverrun’s western wall to be reinforced, as that was the castle’s weakest side and unfortunately also the side most exposed to the advancing Reachmen.
“We can fell trees near the Tumblestone,” said Ser Lymond. “Make a killing field.”
“Right,” said Edmure. “Flatten the field, remove all obstacles, so our archers have a clear view. And dig pits. Cover them with twigs and leaves. Fill the bottom with dung and spears.”
“Aye,” said Ryman. “Like we did at Stone Hedge during the last feud with the Brackens. The bastards won’t charge twice.”
When the council ended, the lords filed out into the courtyard, voices already shouting for messengers, builders, quartermasters.
Edmure got up and walked over to the window. Outside he could already see the castle’s inhabitants busying themselves in work, running across the courtyard, some heading out the gate on various tasks. For the first time since the morning, the full weight of the situation – the absurdity, the sheer fact that he had... died, been reborn in fucking Westeros in the middle of a fucking war – finally hit him, and he threw up. He puked his brains out and leaned against the wall, taking deep breaths and trying to prevent himself from passing out.
Of all the fictional universes he just had to get this one. And he couldn’t have been born in some nice quaint town in the Reach, far away from war, it just had to be the goddamned Riverlands didn’t it? And right during the damn rebellion, too.
Edmure steadied himself, and felt a hand on his shoulder.
“M’lord? Are you alright?” came the voice of Ser Robin.
“Huh-? Oh, yes... yes, I’m fine Ser Robin, I was just...”
“Throwing up?” he finished. “That’s good.”
“No, it means I’m scared shitless.”
“I’d consider you a fool otherwise. Any man who says he wasn’t scared shitless before his first battle is a bloody liar. And the fact that you’re afraid means you’re aware of what can go wrong – that alone puts you ahead of half the Reach.”
Edmure looked at the man, but words failed him. Ser Robin went on, “The odds aren’t as steep as they seem, my lord. Once all the preparations are made, we’ll have enough supplies to last months. A garrison of three hundred men can defend Riverrun well, and we have that many plus hundreds from House Blackwood. The ravens will soon reach your father, and he’ll arrive to break the siege as soon as he can. We just have to hold out till then.”
Edmure took a deep breath. Ser Robin’s words had done the trick – he felt somewhat lighter. The knot in his stomach eased.
“Alright, Ser Robin,” he said with newfound determination. “Let’s get to work, shall we?”
“Right away, my lord.”
[...]
The first two days of preparation were hectic and exhausting, and Edmure found little time to rest. He had spent much of the two days working with Maester Vyman on the filters. He had had the old ones hauled out of the cellars – cracked wine casks, salted fish tubs, even a few broken raincatchers. He explained the layering: gravel at the base, then clean sand, and a thick layer of charcoal ash from the hearth fires. The first few attempts were clumsy – charcoal too fine, sand too wet — but by midday on day two, they had something functional.
He stood in the courtyard with the latest and most promising model. He nodded to the steward Utherydes, who brought forward a bucket of murky ditch water. Maester Vyman eyed him sceptically as he poured the water at the top of the filter.
“Erm... where exactly did you learn this, my lord?”
Edmure hesitated.
“I uh... read it. In a book. Said the Free Cities used a similar method during a plague.”
Vyman arched an eyebrow. “Did they now?”
“Yep,” Edmure said. Bluffing a maester in such matters probably wasn’t the smartest move, but the older man seemed to buy it.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
The water came out slow but clearer than Edmure had dared hope. It wasn’t perfect, but no visible filth at least.
“Well?” Edmure asked.
Vyman sniffed it. Dipped a finger. Dabbed it on his tongue.
He made a face. “It’s terrible.”
“Is it drinkable?”
A pause. The old man took another, longer sip.
“…Yes.”
“There we go, then.”
By the third day, the castle reached its limit in terms of refugees. Incoming smallfolk were directed north to Fairmarket – the closest thing the Riverlands had to a major city, and one of the largest settlements in Westeros after the so-called Great Cities.
Edmure sat in Riverrun’s Great Hall, accompanied by Vyman and Utherydes, who were finalizing the rations plan now that the castle was full. Ser Robin entered and rushed over to the table.
“My lord, our scouts report that the pace of the Reach army is as expected. They bypassed Pinkmaiden.”
Edmure rubbed his chin, where stubble was beginning to grow. Pinkmaiden was the seat of House Piper – a prominent House in the Riverlands. It was not directly on the River Road, but rather some distance south-east and to besiege it the Tyrells would first have to cross the Red Fork at Mummer’s Ford. While not on the warpath, it would have still been a major threat to the Reachmen and a strong line of defence for Edmure had it been fully manned.
“Unfortunate that Pinkmaiden’s garrison is so depleted – we could have utilized them as raiders to harass the Tyrell supply lines,” Edmure mused.
“In any case, this is good news for us – if the Tyrells were serious about capturing territory they would have tried taking Pinkmaiden first to consolidate their grip.”
“I don’t follow – if they weren’t serious then why would they send eight thousand men here?” then it clicked to Edmure. He remembered reading about why Mace Tyrell besieged Storm’s End in the first place. It was important enough to convince the crown he was really on their side, but not so important strategically that he may suffer severe punishment in the case the rebels prevailed. It’s possible that this Tyrell campaign in the Riverlands may have a similar purpose.
“Unless they’re just posturing.” Edmure said. “To show the crown they’re loyal. Either that or incompetence.”
“Mace Tyrell is a cunning man,” Maester Vyman said, stroking his beard. “It is entirely possible this may be his plan – but nonetheless we must prepare for the worst.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” Edmure said.
“One more thing,” Ser Robin said. “Our scouts could find no signs of siege engines among their forces.”
“If that is indeed true then it’s excellent news,” Edmure said. It also supported his theory that the Tyrells weren’t fully committing to taking the castle. “Also, did you count our strength as I asked, Ser Robin?”
“Yes, m’lord. The castle’s own garrison stands at 231 men, Sers Ryman and Lymond have gathered 474 fighting men from their ranks and we’ve recruited 266 men and strong lads from the smallfolk. 971 in total.”
“We’ve employed the smallfolk in assisting with preparations,” the steward said. “Every man and lad is being put to work according to their trade. Those without a trade have been distributed as per the need. Arrows, javelins and other weaponry are being produced day and night.”
“Good,” Edmure nodded. “What’s the status on the western wall?”
“The wall is being strengthened as we speak. We’re digging ditches and driving pikes into the slope on that side too.”
Edmure nodded again. “Alright. If that’s all, my lords...”
The men took their leave, leaving only Edmure at the head of the table. He let out a groan and rubbed his temple in a vain attempt to relieve some pain. He’d grown almost accustomed to it, but it was in those rare moments that he was alone in silence that he really started to feel it. Perhaps he should ask Vyman for something for the pain.
This rare stretch of silence was broken by the sound of doors opening.
“What do you think you’re doing exactly?” his older sister Catelyn’s voice cut through his ears and rattled inside his skull, worsening his headache.
‘Ah, this bitch,’ Edmure thought, annoyed.
“Flooding this castle with people? More useless mouths to feed? Have you gone mad?” Catelyn snapped.
“Cat,” Edmure said, with the air of an adult explaining something to a small child despite her being two years older than him, “one of a castle’s many purposes is to protect its smallfolk from being massacred by invading armies. This is a castle, these are our people. You can figure the rest.”
“You won’t be able to feed them all.”
“Because I can’t feed all of them, I should feed none?” Edmure asked. “In any case, Vyman and Utherydes have put together a ration plan. We’ll be able to last long enough, till... father gets here.”
It still felt weird referring to Hoster Tully as ‘father’, and had he not been so preoccupied with other matters, he would have ruminated on the subject a bit more, but such deep thoughts were not possible when a teenage Catelyn Tully was eating your ear out.
“And what is this nonsense with the barrels outside?” she said.
“Those are filters, for cleaning filthy water,” Edmure said simply.
“How exactly is sand in a barrel supposed to clean water? Have you gone mad?”
“You can go and ask the maester, it works,” Edmure said, irritation bubbling up, but he tried to calm himself. Catelyn wasn’t lashing out for no reason; she was afraid too. Just like he was. He stood up and walked over to her, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Look, I know it’s frightening. You’re on edge, you’re stressed, I understand that. But... I need you to trust me, please. How can I lead so many men when my own sister does not have faith in me? I know I’m not father or uncle Brynden, I know I don’t exactly inspire confidence but... please.”
The last word came out as a plea, his voice cracked slightly as he said it, a reminder to both Edmure and Catelyn that he was but a boy of six-and-ten. Catelyn looked into his eyes, then nodded solemnly, expression softening.
“Thank you,” Edmure said.
Catelyn turned to leave, then said, “You should talk to Lysa... I’ve tried, but she wouldn’t come out of her room. You two always were closer – having shared the womb.”
“I’ll speak with her,” Edmure nodded, and watched his older sister leave. Edmure sunk back into the chair and sighed. He had started that convo meaning to simply... appease Cat enough to send her away so he could focus – but his request by the end had been fully sincere. He had to talk to Lysa now... he felt a pang of guilt when he realized he had barely seen, let alone spoken, to his twin sister the past few days. His composure had cracked slightly when talking to Cat, he couldn’t let that happen again now. He had to reassure her as best he could.
The corridor outside Lysa’s chambers was dim, lit only by a single torch. Edmure stood there for a moment, hesitant. He raised a hand, and knocked gently.
No answer.
He tried again.
Still nothing.
“Lysa?” he called, softly this time.
A moment later, a faint rustle came from behind the door. Then, slowly, it creaked open.
She stood there in her nightclothes, hair messy, eyes rimmed with red. She looked like she hadn’t slept in days.
“I don’t want visitors,” she said, though her voice carried no heat.
“I know,” Edmure said gently. “But I’m not a visitor. I’m your brother.”
She hesitated, then stepped aside.
The room was cold. The shutters were half-open, letting in a sliver of grey light and a view of the western side, where workers reinforcing the wall could be seen. Edmure closed the door behind him and looked around. Her food tray was untouched. Her covers were still folded at the foot of the bed.
“You haven’t been eating.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You need to be. If this siege drags on, we’ll all be weaker for it. I need you strong, Lysa.”
She sat down in the window seat; arms folded across her chest. “Strong for what? There’s nothing for me to do. I’m not a soldier.”
“No,” Edmure said, sitting opposite her. “But you’re still a Tully. That means something.”
That earned a soft, bitter smile.
“I haven’t felt much like a Tully lately.”
He let that hang for a moment. Then she continued, voice low, almost ashamed:
“They’ve married me off... wrote me away like a ledger entry. A girl barely bled, and they’ve sent me to the Vale like a gift no one asked for. Jon Arryn is a good man, but he’s old. He doesn't know who I am.”
Edmure said nothing. He hadn't expected this. What words of comfort could he offer her for being married off to a lord thrice her age? Whom she’d never even met prior to her wedding?
Her fingers tightened around the window’s edge. “Petyr would have known what to say. He always knew how to speak to me. He made me feel seen.”
Edmure tensed at that name but kept his voice calm.
“Petyr was good with words. Honesty, not so much.”
Lysa’s lips trembled. “We loved each other – it was honest and pure love. And father... hated me for it. Punished me for it.”
Edmure let out a quiet breath. He moved to her side and knelt slightly so they were at eye level.
“I don’t know what it was like, Lysa. I won’t pretend I do. But I do know what it’s like to feel alone. To feel small in a world of older men making all the decisions, with no room for softness or honesty.”
He reached out and took her hand. Her fingers were ice.
“But we don’t have to be alone now. Not anymore. We’re here. Together. And no matter how broken the world feels, I’ll stand for you. I’ll stand for everyone in these walls. Because we’re Tullys. And that means something.”
Lysa blinked, and tears slipped down her cheeks, quick and quiet. Her breath hitched, but she nodded – just once. She didn’t speak again, didn’t move much, but when Edmure made to rise, she didn’t let go of his hand.
He stayed seated with her, letting the silence settle between them. Outside, the murmur of labor and preparation continued. Somewhere, a hammer rang against stone. Rain tapped gently against the windowpanes.
Eventually, her grip loosened.
“Don’t let them take Riverrun,” she whispered, eyes closed.
“I won’t,” he promised. “Even if the gods want it, they’ll have to come through me.”
He kissed the top of her hand gently, then rose and quietly let himself out, unsure from where those last words had come.
[...]
Over the following days, preparations continued. Training the men, reinforcing the walls, consolidating as many supplies they could in the limited time they had. On the end of the fifth day, the sluice gates were raised, diverting water from the Tumblestone and Red Fork to fill the moat to the west of the castle, turning it into an island. Two more days went by, the final preparations were made.
Then came the dreaded day.
Row upon row, upon row, of Reach soldiers, marching over the hills and approaching Riverrun. Thousands of spears and banners – green emblazoned with a golden rose. Slowly they approached, and surrounded the castle. Edmure stood on the western wall with his commanders, and their men. He had quite misjudged just how much eight thousand men really were. His knees felt like jelly, but he steadied himself against the wall.
“How’re you feeling?” Ser Robin whispered in his ear, speaking low so as not to be overheard.
“Should’ve worn the brown pants,” Edmure muttered back.
Ser Robin chuckled softly. “You’re not the only one on this wall thinking that.”
“Is that supposed to be reassuring?”
“As close as we can dare hope for.”
As the Reach army made their formation, three horses rode forward, approaching the western wall. At the centre was a grey horse – a fat, older lord sitting atop it, on his side a younger knight in lavishly designed armour that clearly had not yet seen combat, and a third knight carrying the Tyrell banner.
“They’ve come for a parley – they mean to negotiate our surrender,” Ser Robin said. “That,” he gestured to the lord in the middle, “is Garth Tyrell, uncle of Lord Mace.”
Edmure watched the trio approach with baited breath, waiting for them to say something, but they didn’t. Garth Tyrell merely nodded to the young knight besides him, who raised a bow and swiftly fired an arrow. The men on the wall tensed, but the arrow sailed way overhead, posing no danger, and struck a wooden panel on the keep wall behind them. Attached to the arrow seemed to be a small roll of parchment. An archer dislodged the arrow and brought it to Edmure, who read it aloud.
“Surrender boy, spare your people the hunger and death.”
Edmure blinked, then slowly, rage bubbled up inside him. The... sheer arrogance behind it. Not even bothering to use their own tongues – just sending a bloody note on an arrow ordering him to give up the castle, his castle, his home. Edmure crumpled up the note in his fist and stormed off, ignoring Ser Robin calling after him. He descended from the wall and walked to the nearby garden that bore the name of Minisa Whent, his late mother. From the nearest rosebush, he plucked a white rose and returned to the wall. He impaled an arrow through the flower and fired it back, falling well short of the fat lord but making his reply loud and clear.
There was stunned silence on the wall, then the men erupted into cheers and laughter.
Garth Tyrell scoffed and turned back, returning to his army.
The siege of Riverrun had begun.