The King of Winters

The Blackfish

It seemed a thousand years ago that Brynden Tully had left Riverrun with his sword and mail, crossing the Tumblestone in a small boat to begin his journey east to the Eyrie with his niece. And it was across the Tumblestone that they came home now, though now they came back for the marriage of her daughter.

Brynden stood in the bow of the boat, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword as the rowers pulled at their oars. Lords Yohn Royce and Hunter was with him. His niece had gone in the first boat with her lord husband and their children, young Robert and sweet Alyssa. Lord Robert and his family set forth on the second boat and Brynden followed them in the third.

They shot down the Tumblestone, letting the strong current push them past the looming WheelTower. The splash and rumble of the great waterwheel within was a sound from his youth when he was still the same young knight who fought in the War of the Ninepenny Kings, who used to regale the tales to his sweet nieces and nephew. That brought a sad smile to Brynden's face. From the sandstone walls of the castle, soldiers and servants looked down on them. From every rampart waved the banner of House Tully: a leaping trout, silver, against a rippling blue-and-red field. Though it was a black trout which defined the legend Brynden Tully it was still a stirring sight, silver or black he is still a Tully. Yet the sight did not made him feel whole and home.

Below the WheelTower, they made a wide turn and knifed through the churning water. The men put their backs into it. The wide arch of the Water Gate came into view, and he heard the creak of heavy chains as the great iron portcullis was winched upward for the incoming boats. It rose slowly as they approached, and Brynden saw that the lower half of it was red with rust. The bottom foot dripped brown mud on them as they passed underneath, the barbed spikes mere inches above their heads. Brynden gazed up at the bars and wondered how deep the rust went and how well the portcullis would stand up to a ram and whether it ought to be replaced. Thoughts like that were seldom far from his mind these days.

They passed beneath the arch and under the walls, moving from sunlight to shadow and back into sunlight. Boats large and small were tied up all around them, secured to iron rings set in the stone. His brother waited with his son for them on the water stair surrounded by his guards. Lord Hoster Tully had always been a big man; tall and broad. His hair and beard had been brown and well streaked with grey the last time he'd seen him, now they had completely turned to white. Hoster looked lordly as ever, in a quilted doublet of red wool with a leaping trout embroidered on his chest. His boots were black, his breeches blue. His nephew was the one who surprised him the most. The small boy who used to pester him for the tales of glory had grown into a stocky young man with a shaggy head of auburn hair and a fiery beard. At his brother's side stood the Lord Tytos Blackwood, a hard pike of a man with close-cropped salt-and-pepper whiskers and a hook nose. His bright yellow armor was inlaid with jet in elaborate vine-and-leaf patterns, and a cloak sewn from raven feathers draped his thin shoulders. Half a dozen of his brother's lords were at his side as well and Brynden knew them all, Lord Jonos Bracken thick of arms and shoulders, with coarse brown hair and brown eyes, Lord Vance, Lord Jason Mallister, with his gaunt and chiseled face, his blue-grey eyes fierce as ever, Lord Clement Piper, short and fat with red hair thick as bush and Ser Desmond Grell and Ser Robin Ryger stood at the head of the guards.

"Bring them in," Lord Hoster commanded. Brynden could see the Lord who named him as the 'black goat of Tully flock', the man who made him as Brynden the Blackfish at that not the brother he'd thought to see. He was afraid that his brother would still hate him even now for refusing his orders to marry. He still remembered the quarrels they both had throughout his youth, all came with the talks of his marriage.

Three men scrambled down the stairs knee-deep in the water and pulled the boats close with long hooks.

Hoster came down the steps to receive them. "My lords," hesaid sternly. "Riverrun welcomes you."

"Lord Hoster," Lord Jon said nodding his head.

His brother moved to his younger daughter Lysa. Despite their fallout in the thing with the Baelish boy, both of them shared a strong embrace.

Brynden stayed back all the while his brother went on to greet the other lords. His brother greeted his grandchildren, hugging Robert Arryn the same way he used to hug Edmure when he was little, pausing a little while looking at Alyssa before hugging her as well, no doubt he remembered Catelyn by seeing her after all even Brynden remembered his oldest niece by looking at her. One by one his brother greeted his guests, Lord Robert Baratheon and his family gradually making his way to him. Brynden fought the urge to hide from him again, to jump into the river and to swim far away from him. But before he could do so his brother's eyes found him stopping his entire thoughts. Hoster walked towards him and stood right in front of him.