Under the distrustful looks, veiled admonitions, and even silent pressure of the Riverlands lords, Edmure Tully finally let go of the last pitiful scraps of his pride.
A letter earnestly pleading for aid was tied to the leg of a raven flying north.
On his orders, the Riverlands coalition neither retreated nor advanced. It simply remained stuck on the plains outside Stone Hedge and made camp.
Like an ostrich burying its head, it neither showed weakness nor dared truly bare its claws.
Deep down, he still clung to a sliver of hope. Perhaps he could stall like this until Robb marched south with the armies of the North and took this hot potato off his hands.
But this wavering indecision, this inability to advance or retreat, only made the coalition more restless when its morale was already crumbling and its future seemed uncertain.
Soldiers whispered among themselves, while officers gathered to argue in low voices.
As the various houses' vassals moved between the tents, complaints and doubts could often be heard.
Edmure was overwhelmed, yet he could only force himself to keep inspecting the camp, offering hollow reassurances he scarcely believed himself to soldiers with shifty eyes, exhausting himself trying to cope with pressure from every side.
Just when he felt that this invisible, crushing weight was about to break him completely, one man's arrival finally eased his taut nerves a little.
The newcomer was lean, clad in a practical combination of dark leather armor and mail, with a longsword at his waist. He was travel-worn.
"Uncle?" Edmure's face filled with astonishment. "You... what are you doing here? Weren't you serving beside Robb as commander of the scouts of the North?"
Brynden Tully, known as the Blackfish, swept his keen gaze over the somewhat disordered furnishings of the command tent,