The dispute between House Blackwood and House Bracken was the oldest song in the Riverlands, a tune played on blood and boundaries for thousands of years. The current verse was over the Widow's Mill, a dilapidated structure sitting on a muddy bend of the Red Fork, technically claimed by both Lord Tytos Blackwood and Lord Jonos Bracken.
Rykker rode south from the Twins with a modest escort: four Frey men-at-arms who looked bored and Ser Perwyn Frey. Perwyn was one of the few decent Freys, a younger son of Stevron who lacked the malice of his kin. Lothar had insisted on Perwyn's presence—a trueborn Frey was needed to give the mission official weight, even if the bastard was the one with the brain.
"You really think you can talk them down?" Perwyn asked, shifting in his saddle. The road was a slurpy mess of spring thaw mud. "Lord Hoster Tully tried last year. They just shouted about tree roots and ancient cairns until he left."
"Lord Hoster tried to appeal to their honor," Rykker said, checking the satchel at his side which contained maps and land surveys. "I'm going to appeal to their greed. Honor is expensive. Greed is profitable."
They arrived at the Mill two days later. It was a sorry sight. The water wheel was half-rotted, and the roof had collapsed on the eastern side. Yet, on either bank of the river, armed camps had been set up. Blackwood banners with the weirwood tree flew on the north bank; Bracken banners with the red stallion flew on the south.
Rykker didn't call a great council. He didn't set up a tent in the middle and invite the lords to shout at each other. Instead, he rode first to the Bracken camp.
Lord Jonos Bracken was a thick-necked man who looked like he wanted to punch the world. He sat in his command tent, eating a pear with a knife.
"A Frey bastard," Jonos grunted, not offering a seat. "And one of Stevron's boys. Did old Walder run out of trueborn envoys?"
"Lord Walder sends his regards," Rykker said smoothly, ignoring the slight. "He hears you are tired of this stalemate. Sitting in the mud costs coin, my lord. Feeding these men costs coin."
"It's my land," Jonos snapped. "The Blackwoods diverted the stream fifty years ago to undercut the foundation. The mill is mine."
"The mill is worthless," Rykker said bluntly.
Jonos paused, the knife hovering near his mouth. "What?"
"The mill grinds grain. But the grain from this valley is poor quality because the soil is too wet," Rykker lied with the confidence of a modern expert. He pulled out a survey map he had drawn himself. "However, the clay deposits on this riverbank? Specifically on the south side? That's high-grade red clay. Brick-making clay."
Rykker tapped the map. "You're fighting over a mill that grinds rot. If you tear the mill down, you clear the way for a brickworks. Bricks you can sell to the reconstruction efforts in King's Landing. The city is still rebuilding from the Sack, my lord. They are paying triple for good red brick."
Jonos narrowed his eyes. "And the Blackwoods?"
"The clay vein runs deep on your side," Rykker said. "But the best access to the road is on the Blackwood side. You need a bridge. Or... a partnership."
Jonos laughed, a harsh bark. "I'd sooner bed a pox-ridden whore than partner with Tytos."
"You don't have to partner with him," Rykker said softly. "You just have to let me build the brickworks. House Frey manages the operation. We pay you a lease for the clay, and we pay Blackwood a toll for the road access. You both get paid, you both go home, and neither of you has to admit the other won."
He let the silence stretch. "Or, you can stay in the mud until winter comes."