Shadows over the Riverlands

Lord Jason Mallister sat inside his command tent, the flickering light of an oil lamp casting long shadows across the heavy canvas walls. His desk was cluttered with reports, maps, and scattered parchment, each one a stark reminder of the dire situation he and his men faced. He leaned back in his chair, rubbing at the deep lines of exhaustion on his face, his mind weighed down by the week of setbacks that had followed the Lannisters' advance.

His fingers tapped against the edge of the desk as he reread the latest dispatches.

For seven days now, he and his force—what little remained of it—had tried and failed to break the siege of Riverrun. The initial defeat at the Battle of the Golden Tooth had been the first major blow, a catastrophe that had seen the Riverlords on the backfoot before they had even properly begun to resist. The combined force of House Vance and Piper—five thousand strong—had been meant to slow the Lannister invasion, to harass and delay their advance into the Riverlands. Instead, Lord Vance of Wayfarer's Rest had fallen in battle, his men scattered, while Lord Clement Piper, rather than perishing alongside him, had surrendered and withdrawn his remaining forces to his seat at Pinkmaiden.

It had been a disgrace, but one they had no choice but to endure.

Of those five thousand men, only three thousand had managed to flee north, commanded by Clement's eldest son and heir, Ser Marq Piper. They had joined with Ser Edmure Tully, who, with the aid of Lord Jonos Bracken and Lord Tytos Blackwood, had managed to raise an additional four thousand men. It had been a desperate gamble—one meant to push back Jaime Lannister and save Riverrun before the siege could fully take shape.

But it had failed.

Jaime had crushed them, his cavalry outmaneuvering and overwhelming their forces with ruthless efficiency.

Mallister exhaled sharply, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the armrests of his chair. Two thousand men had made it back to Riverrun under Tytos Blackwood's command, but the rest had been slaughtered or scattered to the winds.

Of the remnants that had managed to escape, only two thousand had been able to regroup—some under Lord Bracken, others under himself. They had tried to strike back, harassing the siege lines, launching skirmishes against the Lannister camps in the north, but every single attempt had ended in failure.

Jaime Lannister, arrogant as he was, was no fool on the battlefield.

Each time they moved, he responded with brutal speed, leading three thousand heavy cavalry to crush their attempts at disruption. Three times they had struck, and three times they had been driven back. Now, their numbers had been whittled away to less than a thousand, their once-scattered force reduced to mere scraps.

Lord Bracken, ever the pragmatist, had withdrawn his portion of their forces to the lands between the villages of Pennytree and Mudgrave, knowing full well that another head-on clash with the Kingslayer would only end in further disaster. Jason himself had taken what was left of his own men to the Whispering Woods, where they could regroup, rest, and plan their next move.

He had since spent the last few days considering every option, every possible way to turn the tide. But the truth remained the same—without reinforcements, without more men, they would never be able to break the siege.

His eyes flickered back to the map stretched across his table, his gaze tracing the borders of the Riverlands, searching for any avenue of support. The Lords of the Trident were hesitant, paralyzed by fear or unwilling to commit their forces while Riverrun still stood under siege. The Blackwoods were trapped behind Riverrun's walls, unable to sally out without exposing themselves.

As for Robb Stark, the boy was still marching south. If he could reach them, if he could bring his host down upon the Lannisters, then there might still be a chance. A chance to turn this war around. A chance to show the Kingslayer that the Riverlands would not fall so easily.

But for now, all he could do was wait. 'And waiting,' Jason Mallister thought bitterly, 'is beginning to feel like losing.'

Suddenly, Marq Piper entered Jason Mallister's tent, his boots squelching against the mud-caked ground. His armor, dulled by rain and smeared with blood and filth, bore the marks of a hard ride and a violent skirmish. He swept a hand through his soaked hair, exhaling sharply before stepping further inside, his sharp eyes meeting Jason's as he gave a curt nod.

The downpour outside had only worsened, the heavy drumming of rain against canvas filling the tent like the low, steady beat of war drums. The smell of damp wool and sweat clung to them both, a reminder of the constant battle against the elements as much as the enemy.

"We caught a group of Lannister scouts west of our position," Marq reported, his voice edged with exhaustion but steady. "Three men, all dead. We left their bodies in the stream so they'd wash away with the current."

Jason's lips pressed into a firm line. "They're spreading further out." His tone carried both frustration and concern. He had expected the Lannisters to begin expanding their patrols, but the speed at which they were doing so was troubling. Their position, already tenuous, was growing more precarious with each passing day.

Marq wiped a streak of mud from his gauntlet and nodded grimly. "It's only a matter of time before they find us."

Jason sighed and leaned over the map sprawled across his desk, tracing the river paths and dense clusters of trees that made up the Wolfswood. He had spent years hunting through these woods, tracking bandits, outlaws, and raiders. He knew them well—well enough to use them to their advantage—but even the best terrain meant little when outnumbered so severely.

"We'll gather the men and move deeper into the Wolfswood," Jason decided, his voice firm. "It's a temporary measure, but if we can keep shifting, we buy ourselves time." His eyes flicked back to Marq. "Time is all we need right now."

Marq frowned, his hands settling on the edge of the table. "Buying time for what? We don't have the men to face Jaime Lannister head-on. Even with Lord Bracken's forces combined, we'd still be outnumbered nearly fifteen to one."

Jason nodded, his expression thoughtful. "If we had the numbers, I would take full advantage of Jaime's impatience with siege warfare. He's arrogant, reckless. He rides out himself to chase down any scattered Riverlanders rather than delegating to his men. A commander of his standing shouldn't be leading those charges. If we could force him into a trap, into a proper engagement on our terms, we could turn this war on its head."

Marq's brow furrowed. "You think he's baiting us?"

"No," Jason said with certainty. "He's taking a risk because he doesn't see it as one. He believes no one in the Riverlands can match him. And the truth is, for now, he may be right." His fingers drummed against the table. "But Jaime Lannister is not invincible. If we capture him, the war changes entirely. The Kingslayer is Tywin's prized son, the uncle to King Joffrey. With him in chains, the Lannisters would be forced to bargain. And they would bargain dearly."

Marq inhaled sharply, the weight of such a possibility settling between them. Capturing Jaime would shift the war drastically. It would force Tywin's hand, perhaps even make the Lannisters reconsider their position entirely. But the odds of such a thing happening, especially with their dwindling numbers, were slim.

Jason shook his head. "Not that it matters right now. We don't have the men to pull it off, not yet. But that doesn't mean we stop moving."

Marq hesitated for a moment before speaking again. "Have you heard anything from Patrek?" There was a note of concern in his voice, one that Jason immediately recognized mirrored his own.

Jason's jaw tightened. His son had departed days ago, riding north toward Seagard to rally the Mallister forces and return with reinforcements. By all accounts, he should have reached Seagard by now and more importantly, should have sent word back to him.

But there had been nothing.

No raven, no messenger.

Only silence.

Jason's stomach churned, but he kept his voice even. "No."

Marq frowned. "Do you think the Freys have betrayed us?"

Jason considered the question carefully. Lord Walder Frey was a self-serving, opportunistic man, more likely to hold his gates shut and wait for the highest bidder rather than throw his lot in too early. The Twins had remained neutral thus far, playing both sides against each other. If they had betrayed the Riverlands already, there would have been more signs—Freys marching alongside Lannister banners, ravens arriving with demands.

"No," Jason finally answered. "Not yet. If the Freys were moving against us, we would know. They wouldn't give up the chance to negotiate with the Starks first. Walder Frey will sit on his bridge until he wrings every last advantage from this war."

Marq exhaled, nodding slowly. "Then what's keeping Patrek?"

Jason stared down at the map, his fingers curling into a fist.

That was the question that truly haunted him.

But he had no answer.