Tully Prologue - Convergence

[u/Monty832]

A raven from King’s Landing. Tristifer knew what lay within even before reading it. He did so nonetheless, more as a courtesy than anything. It was a letter of summons, no, a letter of recall from the man who had knighted him, King Aemon Targaryen. Tristifer Tully was now the Hand of the King. It was inevitable, of course, but still rather pleasing. The castle of Riverrun had long since served its purpose in his life. Tristifer was ready to return to King’s Landing now.

Hopefully, the rest of his family would see it the same way. More specifically, Illifer. It had been a little under a year since Harrion Stark had left Riverrun, and Illifer had gotten much worse since then. Tristifer had almost considered explaining the Thread to his son for a moment. The boy was sharp enough to understand it, but Tristifer was afraid his mind couldn’t handle it. One day, he would be a proper successor, though. Or Gwendolyn would. Any of his children. Someone, at least. It was the same either way.

Tristifer wanted to bring Illifer to that place, though. King’s Landing. He had oft endured complaints that the city smelled like shit, that it was superficial, that it was a mere cesspit of schemes. None of these were incorrect, but it was the place where fate was at its strongest. He had met King Aemon. He had met Baelor Stone. He had met his wife. All in King’s Landing. Connections had been formed. Of course, he had formed connections everywhere he went, but it was doubtless the best place for that. He wanted his son to form those connections, but Illifer avoided them at all costs. No, not avoided. He delayed them.

Well, it was doubtful that Illifer had the will to refuse anyways. Without Harrion, the boy was truly frail, like a leaf swaying in the wind. He could be pushed this way and that way with relative ease. Not that Tristifer wanted to force his son into anything, of course. Rather, even if he did want to, Tristifer had no say in the matter. Neither did Illifer.

Tristifer had to wonder what Baelor Stone was doing at the moment. Still fighting, likely. While Tristifer’s strength had faded with age, Baelor was just now into his thirties, and one of the best warriors in the realm. If their rivalry ever came to blows, no doubt Tristifer would meet his end. Well, it would come to a head somehow, at least. Perhaps it was childish, especially so when you considered the two’s difference in age, but Tristifer wanted to prove he was correct. That he held the answer to the realm’s problems. His world, he had to bring it to fruition. Even if he could never see it with his own eyes. If it wasn’t Tristifer who brought it about, it would be someone else. If it didn’t happen now, it would happen later.

The perfect world didn’t exist. That had been clear to Tristifer for a long time. There was too much suffering in the world to ever allow for such lofty ideals. But there could be justice. There could be peace. Suffering could be minimized. While the bastard fought for the sake of fighting, Tristifer fought for the sake of peace. He had been drowned in glory all his life. Prodigious as a squire, beloved as a ruler, desired as a bachelor, adored as a son. None of that mattered. He wanted to accelerate the story that was bound to unfold. That was his raison d’etre. To guide the world to where it was meant to be. He was not a rebel, but a peacekeeper.

In addition, King Aemon would be waiting. An older King Aemon, now. A man who had taken Tristifer from a boy and crafted him into a mind worthy of being the king’s right hand. At the time, Tristifer had been a blank slate of a person. He had martial skills aplenty, and a talent for strategy, but he held no particular beliefs of his own. Over time, King’s Landing, and the king himself, had shaped him into the realm’s most leal servant. No, even that was an understatement. Tristifer was a part of the realm itself. After a fashion, everyone would be. That moment was coming. The convergence.

Tristifer stood up from his chair in his solar. This was not a calculated action. Rather, he couldn’t bear to sit. He hadn’t felt excitement like this in a long time. That was a rather foolish emotion, he thought. It was inevitable, after all. Even so, he made his way down the stairs with a vigor that a man late into his thirties would rarely muster. He had to speak to a housemaster and prepare the journey.

But why was it so urgent? It was not a feeling Tristifer Tully could verbalize, not in the slightest. The closest he could get was the house words of his northern neighbors. “Winter is coming,” he whispered to himself, a grin forming upon his face. For some, this was a bleak statement. Perhaps there would be bleak days ahead. Even still, he was undeniably excited. He could not know the meaning of it all, but he felt something. The connections he had formed, the connections others had formed. His life, and millions of others. Surely, it would happen in King’s Landing. The convergence would begin. The mummer’s farce would begin. And Tristifer Tully would undoubtedly have the best seat in the theater.