Author's Notes:
Hey TinyStitch here. Im going to speed up the story a little bit and consolidate Garen's influence. Given that all these events are occurring during a time of peace there isn't a reason for Tywin to invest so much in a probe and there is little for him to gain. Small bandit organizations should be easy work for someone of Garen's prowess. Also I want to step into the main story so that Garen can have more agency to flex his influence.
Okay Enjoy!
The Riverlands did not heal quickly.
They stopped bleeding first.
Garen Storm learned the difference in the weeks that followed Millford. Villages did not suddenly thrive, roads did not become safe by decree, and men who had learned to survive through fear did not forget those lessons overnight. What changed was subtler—and far more important.
Patterns broke.
Caravans that once traveled in clusters now dared to move alone. Farmers stopped sleeping in their fields with sickles at hand. Watchfires along the roads burned lower, not because people were careless, but because they no longer expected boots in the dark every night.
That kind of change did not announce itself.
It accumulated.
Garen rode constantly. Not as a lord. Not as a knight. Still as a captain with mud on his boots and a blade that showed honest wear. He made a point of being seen where it mattered most—on bridges, at crossroads, outside villages that had learned to expect demands rather than protection.
He did not stay long anywhere.
Staying invited dependency.
Instead, he left behind structure.
At Brindleford, he stationed four men for three days, rotated them out, and returned a week later with two different faces. At a mill town near the Red Fork, he coordinated patrol timings with local hunters who knew the land better than any levy ever would. Along the eastern road, he paid for messengers—boys with fast legs and sharp eyes—to carry word faster than fear could spread.
It was not heroic work.
It was effective.
The levies under his command began to change with the rhythm of it.
Hugh stopped grumbling and started teaching the younger men how to march without ruining their boots. Orren learned to keep his mouth shut on watch. Calder's limp faded as his strength returned, and he began volunteering for longer patrols without being asked.
And Tom Rivers—
Tom absorbed everything.
He rode beside Garen when allowed and behind him when not. He listened more than he spoke now, eyes constantly moving, cataloging terrain the way Garen had taught him—where an ambush could happen, where it wouldn't be worth the effort, where men might hide not to attack, but to observe.
They made camp one evening near a half-burned village that had not yet rebuilt. The houses stood like broken teeth against the sky, roofs patched with whatever could be found. The villagers did not flee when Garen's men arrived.
That alone was new.
A gray-haired woman approached with a basket of bread and salt, hands steady despite the years. She did not kneel.
"Road's been quiet," she said. "Three weeks now."
"That's good," Garen replied.
She studied his face, then nodded. "It is."
She left without waiting for thanks.
Tom watched her go. "They don't look at us like soldiers anymore," he said quietly.
"No," Garen agreed. "They look at us like weather."
Tom frowned. "That doesn't sound good."
"It is," Garen said. "Weather is expected. And when it's reliable, people plan around it."
They ate in silence, fire low. The men slept in shifts, but no alarms came. No scouts tested them. No ash marked the road in the morning.
The bandits were moving away.
Not fleeing.
Receding.
That distinction mattered.
Reports filtered in through Garen's growing web of watchers. Not organized raids, not challenges—just absence. Routes once plagued by trouble went quiet. Groups that had styled themselves as toll collectors melted back into forests farther west or south, where Riverlands patrols did not yet reach.
Garen did not pursue them blindly.
That would have been a mistake.
Instead, he pushed slowly, deliberately, always leaving behind enough presence that the ground stayed claimed. It meant he had to say no—to villages begging for permanent guards, to merchants asking for exclusive protection, to men eager to chase every rumor of bandits into the woods.
Discipline won more ground than swords.
That discipline came at a cost.
Fatigue set in.
Minor injuries accumulated. A twisted knee here. A cracked finger there. Nothing dramatic, but enough that Merrick began rotating men more aggressively, enforcing rest even when they protested.
"You run them too hard," Merrick told Garen one night, voice low as they stood over a map scratched into dirt.
"I run them just hard enough," Garen replied.
Merrick studied him. "And yourself?"
Garen did not answer.
The system stirred later that night, unbidden but not unwelcome.
[SYSTEM REVIEW — RIVERLANDS OPERATIONS]
Territorial Stability: Improving (Localized)
Bandit Activity: Fragmented (Retreating)
Civilian Compliance: Voluntary (Emerging Trust)
Command Force: 14 → 28 → 41 (Incremental Growth)
Force Quality: Uneven (Training Impact Observed)
Subordinate: Tom Rivers
• Courage: High
• Situational Awareness: Improving
• Command Readiness: Low (Projected Growth)
Garen let the ledger fade.
Forty-one men now.
Not by decree. By gravity.
Men joined because they wanted regular pay, because they believed they would not be thrown away, because word traveled faster than proclamations ever could. Garen accepted them slowly, never more than he could feed, arm, and train without losing cohesion.
That restraint frustrated some.
Especially the minor lords.
The confrontation came in daylight, in the open, as such things always did.
Three landed knights intercepted Garen near a river crossing where his men were rotating patrols. They wore fine cloaks and irritation in equal measure.
"This is becoming a problem," one said without greeting. "You recruiting men from our lands."
"They're volunteering," Garen replied.
"You're draining our levies," another snapped.
"You weren't using them," Garen said evenly.
That did not go over well.
"You forget your place," the first knight said. "You hold authority because Lord Edmure allows it. Don't mistake tolerance for—"
"For weakness?" Garen finished.
The men stiffened.
"I mistake neither," Garen said. "But I do measure results."
One knight gestured angrily toward the road. "You don't answer to us."
"No," Garen agreed. "I answer to Riverrun."
They left furious.
They also left their roads safer than they'd been in years.
Edmure summoned Garen two days later, not in anger, but in careful consideration. The hall was quieter than usual—fewer hangers-on, more men who actually mattered.
"They're pressing me," Edmure said frankly. "Complaints. Letters. Accusations."
"And?" Garen asked.
Edmure smiled thinly. "And trade is up. Taxes are paid on time. Villages that used to beg for patrols are now coordinating them."
He leaned back. "They don't like how you're doing this."
"They like the outcome," Garen said.
"Yes," Edmure agreed. "Which puts them in a difficult position."
He studied Garen for a long moment. "I need you to keep going."
"I will," Garen said.
"But," Edmure continued, "I also need you to start thinking bigger."
Garen did not interrupt.
"This won't hold forever without formal structure," Edmure said. "Men need identity. Clear command. A future."
Garen nodded slowly. He had been thinking the same thing.
"I'm not ready to formalize it yet," Garen said. "Not until I know what kind of force it's becoming."
Edmure considered that. "Fair. But understand this—once you cross that threshold, you won't be able to step back."
"I know," Garen said.
They parted with no ceremony.
The Riverlands continued to settle.
Not into peace.
Into order.
That was when the acknowledgment came.
Not as a threat. Not as a challenge.
As a fact.
A sealed message arrived from the west, carried by a merchant whose only instruction had been to deliver it and forget it. The parchment bore no sigil. Only a single line, written in a precise hand.
Competence is rare. Waste it carefully.
No signature.
None was needed.
Garen read it once, then burned it.
That night, the system recorded what he already understood.
[SYSTEM UPDATE — EXTERNAL AWARENESS]
Western Power: Observed
Engagement Level: Minimal
Assessment Status: Logged
Somewhere far away, Tywin Lannister had taken note—and then, just as importantly, chosen not to act.
Others noticed too.
Whispers reached King's Landing. A stabilizing force in the Riverlands. A bastard-born captain solving problems without banners or excess blood. Varys would have heard of it, cataloged it, and moved on—for now. Petyr Baelish would have noticed the gold flowing more predictably and wondered why.
And in the North, word would eventually reach Eddard Stark that his wife's homeland was, for once, quiet.
Not safe.
But quieter.
Garen Storm stood on a rise overlooking a road that no longer felt hostile and watched his men drill below—awkward, imperfect, improving. Tom corrected a recruit's stance with earnest seriousness. Merrick observed from the side, arms folded, already thinking three days ahead.
Stones had been set in the river.
The current had not stopped.
But now, it flowed where he allowed it to.