The evening air in Riverrun was cool, but the atmosphere inside the Great Hall was stifling. Lord Hoster Tully had called for a family dinner—a tradition that felt more like a strategic briefing than a domestic comfort.
At the head of the table sat Hoster, his face a mask of weathered steel, murmuring in low, urgent tones to Catelyn. It was a sight that reinforced the hierarchy of the house: the Lord and his groomed successor. Beside them sat the rest of the ensemble.
"Evenings, Young Master Edmure. It warms the heart to see you active and restored to us," said Petyr Baelish. Hoster's ward offered a shallow bow and a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. Even as a youth, Petyr's tongue was coated in a silver flattery that felt like a thin veil over a pit of vipers.
"Thank you, Petyr. Good evening, Lysa," Edmure replied, acknowledging his younger sister. Lysa was barely paying attention, her gaze flitting between Hoster and Catelyn with a shadow of resentment. She offered a curt nod before turning back to Petyr to whisper about poetry, her world seemingly bounded by the rhymes of the septons and the gossip of the court.
"I heard you are becoming quite proficient in the yard," Petyr continued as the servants began placing the first courses. "The castle is abuzz with how well the young master hides behind a shield. A remarkable achievement for one so young."
Lysa snickered, a forced smirk playing on her lips. Edmure kept his expression neutral. In the TV show, men much older and wiser than him thought they had Littlefinger figured out , right up until the moment his dagger found their ribs. Edmure had no intention of falling into his verbal snares.
"You jest, Petyr, but Ser Grell is a patient master," He said politely. "And Marq Piper has been an excellent partner in the groove."
"Unpleasant as his phrasing may be, Petyr has a point," Hoster interrupted, his voice cutting through the side-talk. He looked at his son with an intensity that suggested he was searching for a spark of the Tully trout. "When do you intend to start actual practice? I saw you today; you seem fit for more than just drills. Don't tell me you mean to hold a shield in one hand and a paintbrush in the other."
Lysa giggled again, but a single, sharp look from Hoster silenced her instantly.Edmure noticed Catelyn watching him with that same stern, expectant gaze. She truly had been the heir in all but name until he was born.
"I plan to begin my swordsmanship in a few days, Father," He answered. "My strength is still returning; a sword is useless if the arm behind it has no weight. Once I am competent with the blade, I intend to pick up the spear as well."
"A spear?" Hoster's eyebrows rose. "I won't forbid you from learning the reach of the Dornish, boy. But the sword is the soul of a knight. I don't expect you to be Ser Barristan or Arthur Dayne, but you must be competent enough to hold your own in a duel. And remember: mounted combat is supreme. I may not be the greatest duelist alive, but I can crush a Braavosi Water Dancer with a single charge. The only thing that stops a knight is the charge of another knight."
"Exactly my thought," Edmure agreed. "I will learn the spear on foot and in the saddle. Once I am proficient, I can even assist in training the levies."
"Training levies?" Hoster's voice rose, a familiar thunder in his chest. "Are you still dreaming of your private army? This morning I spoke of the limits of guards. The only nobles who keep more are those who sail for Essos to join the Golden Company or the Company of the Rose. I once feared my brother Brynden would go mad and set sail for the East in a fury. Are you trying to fulfill that nightmare in his place?"
"Nothing of the sort, Father. I like Riverrun. But the King's Peace leaves little room for a young man to prove himself. I want the guards I keep to be a deterrent—men who follow orders without a second thought. I've considered our talk; I will limit my guard to ten men. But I won't draw them from the current household list. They will serve a specific purpose, which I will explain in time."
Hoster grunted, seemingly somewhat appeased. "Suit yourself. If it's glory you want, why not the tourney? There is talk of a great one at Harrenhal this year. Your maternal kin, House Whent, would surely welcome the chance to see you shine. Barristan Selmy was unhorsing princes at your age; he was knighted at sixteen."
Edmure looked at my father. He was suggesting his son enter the bloody, high-stakes game of the tourney—the very event that would ignite the realm in a year's time.
"And Ser Barristan was made a Kingsguard," Edmure countered. "He was a marcher lord's son who rose through the ranks. I am the sole heir to the Trident. Maester Vyman has taught me well. If I shine too brightly at Harrenhal, I might become the second Jaime Lannister—a trophy heir destined to parade in white and scratch the King's backside in the Red Keep. A dignified natural heir to richest realm spends everyday breaking fights at taverns. No, thank you. If that is my fate, I truly might run off to find Uncle Brynden."
Hoster went quiet, a flicker of surprise—and perhaps a trace of pride—crossing his face. "Very well, smart boy. In a fortnight, I patrol the southern lands. You will ride with me. You aren't going as an heir or a knight, but as a boy whose father wishes to see if all those books have done any permanent harm."
Catelyn offered Edmure a faint, knowing smile. He realized then that my efforts to show her art and dedication had worked. She had been the one to whisper in Hoster's ear, paving the road for this patrol.
"I will be ready. Thank you, Father. Thank you, Catelyn."
He offered a formal bow as the dinner ended. The board was set, the pieces were moving, and in two weeks, He would finally step outside the walls of Riverrun to see the realm he intended to master.