Another month of hard marching brought us to Riverrun. We arrived with five thousand weary but disciplined men, a testament to the grueling journey. The sight that greeted us was a crude, vibrant patchwork of war. The fields around the castle were a sea of tents and banners—the direwolf of Stark, the falcon of Arryn, the trout of Tully, and a dozen other Riverlord sigils. Nearly thirty thousand men had gathered here, the heart of the rebellion beating strong.
We were met by Lords Arryn, Stark, and Tully themselves. I offered a respectful salute, which was returned with solemn nods.
"Ser Julius," Lord Arryn said, his voice warm with genuine relief. "Your ravens found us. To bring this many men through hostile lands is a feat. You have our thanks."
Lord Hoster Tully, his face a mask of pragmatic calculation, gestured to a cleared area near the river. "Your men may camp there. My stewards will see them fed. The Riverlands remembers its friends."
I thanked him for his generosity, my gratitude profound. My soldiers would eat hot food and sleep without fear of a Reachman charge for the first time in weeks.
I learned that Lord Tully had been forced to bloody his own lands to secure his rule, putting down loyalist bannermen to secure his flanks. Yet, problems remained. The name Walder Frey was muttered with particular disdain; the Lord of the Crossing was, as ever, waiting to see which way the wind blew.
After ensuring my men were settled under the capable command of Ser Claw, I was summoned to the castle. I was escorted by the famous Blackfish, Ser Brynden Tully. He was a man who carried his legend lightly, pointing out the strategic genius of Riverrun with a soldier's appreciation.
"See how the rivers guard the walls?" he said, gesturing to the confluence of the Tumblestone and the Red Fork. "In a siege, we can open the sluice gates and become an island. A thousand men could hold this castle against ten times their number."
It was a formidable fortress, a testament to Tully resilience. As we walked, Ser Brynden shifted from military history to more personal grounds.
"You made quite the impression on my niece at Harrenhal, Ser Julius," he remarked, his tone casual but his eyes sharp. "She spoke of your dancing for some time."
I kept my response neutral. "It was an honor to dance with the Lady Lysa, ser. The events of that tourney seem a lifetime ago now."
He studied me, and I saw a flicker of disappointment. I understood his game. With a marriage between Lysa and the much older Jon Arryn likely in the works, he was probing for an alternative, any alternative, to spare his niece that fate. My apparent lack of interest closed that door.
At the castle, I was given guest right and a room. The luxury of a real bed after months on the road was overwhelming, and I fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
I was woken by a firm knock. The door opened to reveal Catelyn Tully. Her posture was rigid, her expression cool.
"Ser Julius," she said, her voice devoid of warmth. "My lord father and the other commanders await you in the Great Hall. Please make yourself presentable." She gestured to servants waiting with water and fresh clothes before turning on her heel, her duty done.
Her coldness was a stark contrast to her uncle's probing. Perhaps she resented a foreign knight being brought into their war councils, or perhaps this was simply the steel that lay beneath the Tully courtesy.
I dressed quickly and followed. The Great Hall was filled with the leading lords of the rebellion. After a brief breakfast, Lord Arryn stood.
"Friends," he began, his voice carrying. "We are joined by Ser Julius Harlane, who has delivered five thousand Stormlander infantry to our cause through great peril. His service will not be forgotten." He looked directly at me. "When this war is won, the Crown will know how to reward such loyalty."
A promise of lordship. I bowed my head. "My lord is too kind. But first, we must win."
"Aye," Jon Arryn said, his face turning grim. "And the news is grave. A raven from Storm's End. Robert was defeated at Ashford by Randyll Tarly."
A murmur ran through the hall. Robert Baratheon, defeated. It was a sobering thought.
"Robert is in the wind, harried by Crown forces," Arryn continued. "Meanwhile, Mace Tyrell lays siege to Storm's End, and the Redwyne fleet blocks the sea. Stannis reports their supplies are low."
He then laid out our strength. He himself had brought only a third of the Vale's power; the rest guarded the Bloody Gate and Gulltown. Eddard Stark had marched with half the North's strength, leaving the rest with his brother Benjen to secure their homeland.
It was a cautious, defensive strategy. They were committed to the rebellion, but not recklessly so. They had ensured their kingdoms would survive even if this gathered host met disaster. As I looked around the hall at the solemn faces of the lords, the reality of our situation settled upon me. We were not an unstoppable wave, but a gamble. And the dice were about to be thrown.