ASOIAF/Game Of Thrones: Ruler of Batannia

The first great gathering came to Casterly Rock soon after. Lord Jason Mallister arrived with the lords who had publicly pledged themselves, along with envoys from those who were not yet brave enough to kneel in person but wished very much to be counted if matters went well. The great hall of the Rock received them beneath golden stone and watchful western eyes. Diana was there. Alwin was there. Smith, still recovering, stood near the side with the expression of a man who trusted river politics only slightly more than rotten rope.

The river lords bent the knee one by one and offered their oaths. Arthur accepted them with courtesy and restraint. No feast followed, only bread, salt, and wine. It was not a day for celebration. It was a day for rearranging the bones of a kingdom while pretending the patient might live.

Then Jason Mallister rose again.

“My lord,” he said, speaking not only for himself but for the men gathered behind him, “you have restored order where others let it die. You have protected the Riverlands when our own liege could not. You fought in the north for all living men, and you returned to continue the work while others sharpen knives in the south. House Tully no longer has the strength, the trust, or the virtue needed to guide the Trident.”

The hall stilled.

Jason’s face was grave. “We ask you to accept the charge openly. Take up the title of Lord Paramount of the Trident and Protector of the Riverlands. Lead us. Judge us fairly. Defend our lands against lion, dragon, rose, kraken, or any other hungry beast that comes sniffing at our rivers.”

Even Alwin’s quill paused.

The title was no small courtesy. Lord Paramount of the Trident meant command over the Riverlands in war, highest justice among its sworn houses, the right to levy men and taxes, and authority to bind roads, markets, and castles into one will. In truth, Arthur already held much of that power. Men with soldiers, grain, and bridges often do. But truth without title invites argument, and lords are very fond of argument when it lets them keep coin.

To accept would make the break with House Tully plain. Cersei would never recognize it. King’s Landing would call it theft. Riverrun would call it betrayal. The Reach would watch uneasily. The Vale would calculate. Daenerys, wounded on Dragonstone and now at war with Cersei, would have to decide whether the rising power in the west was ally, rival, or future problem.

It would also give Arthur what he needed: depth, fields, rivers, men, roads, and legitimacy offered by the Riverlands themselves rather than seized by conquest. A broader base for the storms to come. A heavier burden, naturally, because the gods and politics both dislike giving gifts without tying stones to them.

Arthur sat in the high seat, fingers resting on the carved arm. He looked at the river lords below him. Expectation. Fear. Hope. Calculation. They had brought all the usual guests.

At last he stood.

“I am honored by the trust you place in me,” he said. His voice carried through the hall, steady and without flourish. “And I will not pretend the trust is light. The Riverlands have suffered too long from war, broken oaths, weak protection, and hungry neighbors. I have seen your burnt fields and empty halls. I have seen what happens when river men are left to drown alone.”

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He rested one hand on the hilt of the sword he had carried beneath the Wall.

“If my strength can bring order, peace, and bread to the Riverlands, then I cannot refuse the burden. You ask me to defend your lands, judge your disputes, command your swords, and bind your wounds. So be it.”

The hall held its breath.

“I, Arthur Greyoak, Lord of Casterly Rock and Warden of the West, accept the charge you offer. From this day, until lawful settlement is made by a crown strong enough and just enough to be obeyed, I will act as Lord Paramount of the Trident and Protector of the Riverlands. I will defend those who swear to me. I will judge fairly, punish treachery, protect trade, restore roads, and keep sword and law over these lands.”

His gaze moved across them, sharp now.

“This is not a license for old quarrels. Any man who uses my name to settle private grudges will learn that protection has teeth on both sides. House Tully will not be hunted in my name. Riverrun will not be sacked. Edmure Tully may be weak, but weakness is not a crime unless men make others bleed for it. Those who remain loyal to him may do so, provided they do not threaten the peace of the Riverlands.”

That surprised them. Good. Surprise is useful when it does not involve assassins.

“When stability returns, if House Tully produces a lord fit to bear this burden, or if the ruler of the Seven Kingdoms lawfully confirms another settlement that protects the Riverlands, I will answer law with law. Until then, the roads, rivers, swords, and judgments of the Trident will answer to me.”

He drew the blade a few inches, enough for steel to show.

“May the old gods and the new witness this oath.”

For one heartbeat, the hall was silent.

Then Jason Mallister knelt.

The others followed, some eagerly, some solemnly, some with the careful speed of men who had been waiting to see which way the wind would blow and now wished everyone to think they had always loved the breeze. Their oaths rose beneath the high roof of Casterly Rock, river voices swearing to a western lord.

The news ran faster than riders had any right to travel. By the time the first ravens reached Riverrun, three versions had already reached half the realm. Arthur Greyoak had been asked to protect the Riverlands. Arthur Greyoak had stolen the Riverlands. Arthur Greyoak had been crowned king of rivers. Arthur Greyoak had drowned Edmure Tully in a wine cup and married a trout. Rumor remains Westeros’s most tireless idiot.

The truth was dangerous enough.

The Lord of Casterly Rock now held not only the Westerlands, but most of the Riverlands by oath, garrison, trade, fear, and need. His lands stretched from gold mines and western ports to the forks of the Trident. His roads tied the North to the west and the west to the river towns. His armies, though battered, were being rebuilt. His granaries would feed more than one region. His enemies would have to think twice before marching through lands that had suddenly learned to answer with one voice.

Cersei would be furious. That was practically guaranteed, and therefore almost comforting. The Tyrells would become more cautious. Dorne would watch with half-lidded eyes. Littlefinger in the Vale would count chances and knives. Daenerys on Dragonstone would hear that the man who had fought beside her at the Wall had become something much larger in the south, and decide what that meant for her war.

The Dragon and the Lion had not yet truly begun their clash, but the rivers had shifted beneath them.

Arthur stood at a balcony of Casterly Rock that evening, looking east. Somewhere beyond the hills lay the Trident, wounded, rich, unruly, and now his responsibility. South lay Cersei and Daenerys, fire and crown and pride. North lay graves beneath grey snow. Beneath all of it lay the green pulse, faint but present, waiting to see whether men could build anything better after nearly losing everything.

Warden of the West. Lord Paramount of the Trident. Ard of the Bards, though few knew that last name and fewer would understand it. Titles piled up like debts, and he trusted debts more. Debts at least admitted they would demand payment.

“A new storm,” he murmured.

The wind off the sea gave no answer.

Arthur Greyoak had survived the Wall and returned with more power than he had ever held. That was the kind of fortune that usually came sharpened. The Riverlands had chosen him because they feared the wars to come. Now he would have to prove they had not merely exchanged one weakness for another danger.

The rivers were turning west.

And farther south, dragons and lions were beginning to move.