I am 15 chapters ahead on my patreón, check it out if you are interested.
https://www.patréon.com/emperordragon
_________________________________________
Chapter Fifty: Oaths and Old Loyalties
The war camp at Moat Cailin was quiet under the night sky, the only sounds coming from the distant crackle of campfires and the murmur of soldiers preparing for the march south.
Ned Stark strode through the camp, his mind heavy with the weight of the past and the future.
He had received word that Ser Brynden Tully had arrived earlier, requesting an audience. Ned had expected the Blackfish to come sooner or later—Brynden had never been the kind of man to sit idle while his homeland burned.
But the conversation ahead would not be easy.
The truth about Daeron Targaryen, the boy who had been raised as Jon Snow, was spreading.
Now, all of Westeros would judge him for it.
Ned pushed those thoughts aside as he reached the guest tent and stepped inside.
Inside the tent, Robb was already there.
Ned's eldest son stood near the fire, speaking with Brynden Tully for the first time.
The old knight listened intently as Robb spoke, his sharp blue eyes studying his grandnephew carefully.
Greywind lay nearby, watching Brynden with silent curiosity.
Ned took a moment to observe the man who had once ridden beside his brother Brandon and fought in the Rebellion alongside Ned and his good father, Hoster Tully.
Ser Brynden looked tired.
The road from the Bloody Gate to Moat Cailin was long, and he must have ridden hard to reach them.
But when Brynden noticed Ned, the fatigue vanished from his face.
For a moment, the warmth of recognition flickered in his eyes.
Then, just as quickly, it was gone.
The smile Brynden had worn while speaking to Robb disappeared, and his expression turned grim.
He took a step forward, his posture rigid as he faced Ned directly.
"This madness," he said, his voice low but firm. "Tell me, Ned. Is it true?"
Ned held his gaze.
Then, he nodded once.
Brynden exhaled sharply, his jaw tightening.
He ran a hand through his graying beard, thinking.
Finally, he spoke again. "I know you, Ned. You would not lie about something like this. But… hiding Rhaegar's son as your own bastard?" He shook his head. "There are those who will call that treason."
Ned did not flinch.
"They can call it whatever they want," he said evenly. "I did what I had to do to protect my nephew. If I had not, he would have been murdered—just like his half-siblings, Aegon and Rhaenys."
Brynden fell silent.
The truth weighed heavily between them.
Ned could see it in the Blackfish's eyes—he understood.
Finally, Brynden gave a slow nod.
Before either man could say more, the tent flap shifted—
And Daeron Targaryen entered.
Ghost followed at his side, the direwolf's red eyes gleaming in the dim light.
Ned turned to his nephew and bowed his head slightly.
Robb did the same.
"Your Grace," Robb greeted.
Daeron gave them both a nod before turning his gaze toward Brynden.
The Blackfish did not bow.
Instead, he studied Daeron carefully, his sharp eyes taking in every detail—the Targaryen features buried beneath Stark coloring, the way he carried himself, the wolf and dragon intertwined in his blood.
Ned could feel the weight of the unspoken question.
Finally, Daeron broke the silence.
"Why are you here, Ser Brynden?"
Brynden took a deep breath, gathering his thoughts.
"My niece," he said, "refuses to see reason."
Ned felt a familiar sting of frustration.
Lysa Arryn had always been a difficult woman, but her inaction now was dangerous.
Brynden continued, his voice growing sharper.
"She refuses to send aid while the Lannisters invade her homeland. I tried to convince her, but she has locked herself inside the Eyrie and will not move."
Ned sighed. "She is afraid."
"She is a fool," Brynden corrected. "I could not stand idly by while the Riverlands burn. I rode here to offer my help, in any way I can."
Daeron nodded, his expression unreadable. "Then you are welcome, Ser Brynden. No one knows the Riverlands better than you."
Brynden inclined his head slightly in thanks.
But then, his sharp gaze returned to Daeron.
"And why should the Riverlands kneel to you, Targaryen?" he asked bluntly.
Robb stiffened beside Daeron, but Daeron smiled.
"You and the Riverlords are free to support whoever you wish," he said smoothly. "Let's look at your choices."
Daeron's voice was calm, but his words cut like steel.
"There is Joffrey," he said. "Sitting at ease on the Iron Throne while his grandfather burns your homeland to the ground."
"There is Renly Baratheon," he continued. "Feasting and holding tourneys in the Reach while his army slowly marches toward King's Landing."
"And there is Stannis," Daeron said. "Still sitting in Dragonstone, waiting—while the Riverlands bleeds."
The tent was silent.
Brynden's lips pressed into a thin line.
"While they wait," Daeron finished, "I am marching south to drive the Lannisters out of your homeland."
Brynden did not answer immediately.
But Ned could see the understanding in his eyes.
Even his niece, Lysa, refused to act when her father's land was under attack.
And yet, here was a Targaryen—a Stark, in all but name—who was willing to fight for the Riverlands before claiming a throne.
Slowly, Brynden exhaled.
Then, he knelt.
"I cannot speak for House Tully," he said, "but I can speak for myself."
He placed a fist over his chest.
"I fought for the Targaryens once," he said. "Then I fought against them."
His gaze met Daeron's.
"This time," he said firmly, "I will fight for you."
Daeron stepped forward and placed a hand on the old knight's shoulder.
"Then rise, Ser Brynden," he said.
Brynden stood.
Ned watched, feeling something shift in the air.
The Blackfish had sworn his loyalty.
And the Riverlands had just taken one step closer to following.
Daeron exhaled, then turned to Ned and Robb.
"We have a lot to do," he said.
The war was far from over.
But this was only the beginning.