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Chapter 7 by Merlin678 Merlin678

To Riverrun

The Young Wolf awaits.

The River Road, just south of Riverrun

The final leg of his journey took another few days, but it went quickly, and before long Garrick was within sight of Riverrun. He was on the south bank of the river, about half a mile from the castle. It sat in the middle of two merging rivers, the Red Fork, where Garrick was, and the Tumblestone. Riverrun itself was triangular, with a thick curtain wall surrounding every side, even the two facing the river. It had one bridge connecting it to land, but two gates to enter or leave by boat. The castle was impressive, but Garrick had lived his whole life in the shadow of the Red Keep, most castles were not likely to shock him, unless they were the size of Harrenhal.

What did surprise the sellsword, however, was the mass of tents outside the castle gates. They stretched on and on, punctuated only by the occasional plume of smoke from a campfire. He had heard rumours about how big Robb Stark's army was, but the numbers had varied. Some said it was ten thousand men, others twenty thousand, but all agreed he had enough soldiers to concern King Joffrey and his loyal bannermen. He watched the banners flying in the wind, trying to make out the sigils embroidered onto them, though he knew few of the northern houses. In the sprawling mass of tents, he saw a green banner with a black bear, a black banner with a white sunburst, a red banner with a grey fist and many more, but the one that truly drew his eye hung from the battlements of Riverrun. The head of a direwolf on a field of ice white. The banner of Robb Stark.

Garrick rode slowly as he approached the Stark camp. He had stopped to remove his chainmail, wanting to appear as unthreatening as possible. For the same reason, he kept his hands carefully far from the hilt of his sword. He approached the sentries on duty on the outskirts of the camp, still on horseback, and raised his head in greeting, radiating a condfidence he did not truly feel.

"Mornin'" One of the sentries greeted him, but it was clear he did not care enough to stop and check what Garrick was doing. Why would he, the sellsword thought, he was dressed in gambeson and had made no threats. Both sentries wore the blue and red colours of House Tully, who held Riverrun itself, though many of the men-at-arms further in the camp wore vastly different colours.

Garrick dismounted his nameless steed as he entered, taking the reins in his hand and leading the beast through the maze of tents. Nobody seemed to pay him much mind, warriors of each house likely assuming he was just another man-at-arms. His gambeson was a dull grey, but bore no insignia, but that did not stop his walk through the camp, at least not at first.

He had made it close enough to the riverbank that he could just about make out the faces of the men on the ramparts of Riverrun when it all went wrong. Garrick had no idea what he did, whether it was stare at the castle for too long or stop to try and work out where he was going, but someone had found him suspicious, and he was surrounded in an instant.

It looked as if every man wore a different uniform, but they all pointed equally sharp looking swords at him, and Garrick immediately raised his hands in surrender. A giant of a man **** his way through the crowd, his dark eyes narrowed at Garrick. The man was easily seven feet tall, with huge muscles obvious even under his chainmail and thick cloak. He had dark hair and a matching beard, and his mouth was twisted into a scowl. His hands were huge, and gripped in them was a massive greatsword that made Garrick's longsword look like a toothpick. When he spoke, his voice was a deep, bass rumble.

"A Lannister spy, eh?" He said.

Garrick's eyes widened when he released that was what the man thought he was. "No! No, I'm not!"

The man chuckled. "Aye, that's what they all say."

"I'm not! I came to swear loyalty to Lord Stark!" Garrick exclaimed frantically, the gravity of his position quickly dawning on him.

The huge man cocked his head to the side, staring at Garrick for a moment before he began to laugh. Or at least, the sellsword though he was laughing. The man made a deep, terrible roaring that felt as if it shook his very bones, but his scowl had become a smile, though a dangerous one. "Now that, lad, is a new one!"

"It's the truth!" Garrick was pleading, terrified of being executed as a spy. "I swear it, by the Old Gods and the New!"

"We only worship the Old ones, boy." He said, his scowl returning for a moment, before softening slightly when he saw the genuine fear in Garrick's eyes. "Alright, lad, alright. Let's go and see Lord Stark, see if he believes you." He turned back to his men. "Take his sword and bring him to the castle."

With that, two soldiers grabbed him and began to drag him towards Riverrun. Towards the Young Wolf. Towards his future, or his ****.

A meeting with Lord Stark?

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