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Grief hung over Riverrun.
Lord Hoster Tully's funeral was held according to the oldest traditions of the Riverlands.
House Tully were the rulers of the Riverlands, their power and their lives bound to the Trident. A water burial meant the dead returned at last to the lifeblood of the land itself.
All waves return to the river.
Lord Hoster's body was laid upon a small boat carved with the trout sigil. His longsword and shield were placed at the prow, and the boat drifted slowly along a tributary of the Tumblestone, carrying him away.
On the bank, the sworn lords and knights of House Tully stood in silence, their black mourning clothes snapping in the river wind.
Edmure Tully stood at the front.
His father was dead. He was the Lord of Riverrun now.
The title sat on him like a mountain, and he could barely breathe beneath it.
By tradition, he would send his father off himself.
A squire handed him a longbow and an arrow with oil-soaked fletching. Edmure took the bow and lit the arrowhead. The dancing flame reflected in his blue eyes, the same blue as Lysa's, but his gaze was utterly empty.
His father's boat had drifted to the middle of the river.
Every eye on the bank was fixed on him.
Edmure drew a slow breath and pulled the bowstring.
WHOOSH—
The arrow left the string.
It traced a wobbly arc through the air and plunged into the river a dozen meters short of the boat, letting out a faint hiss.
...
Dead silence on the bank.
Every man found something to stare at that wasn't Edmure. No one had seen a thing.
The blood rushed to Edmure's face in an instant, darkening it to the color of a bruise. He could feel hundreds of eyes drilling into his back like needles.
He gritted his teeth and practically snatched the second arrow from the squire's hands.
"Brother, don't rush."
Lysa had appeared at his side without him noticing. She was dressed in black, weeping beautifully, her voice carrying just the right measure of grief and tender concern.
"Father is watching us from the heavens. He will understand."
Every word she said made the fire in Edmure's chest burn hotter.
He wrenched the bow up again and drew with everything he had.
WHOOSH—
The arrow flew high and hard.
Then it screamed over the top of his father's boat and landed somewhere on the far bank.
If the first shot was a miss, the second was pure humiliation.
A few coughs escaped from the crowd , the kind no one could quite hold back.
Edmure's ears were ringing. He wanted to find a crack in the earth and disappear into it. He could feel the stare coming from his uncle, not far away — Brynden Tully, the Blackfish, famed for his prowess — a gaze cold enough to freeze him solid.
"I'm just too grief-stricken," Edmure said, his hands trembling as he reached for the third arrow. "I can't control my strength."
"Enough."
The voice behind him was old and hard and flat.
Brynden Tully had seen all he could stand. He walked over without a word, took the bow from Edmure's hands without looking at him, and glanced once at the direction the banners were blowing.
He didn't even bother to aim properly. He just drew and released in one fluid motion.
WHOOSH!
The flaming arrow cut a perfect arc across the sky and landed dead center on the firewood piled in the boat.
WHOOM,
Fire surged up instantly, orange tongues licking hungrily at the hull. Within moments the flames had swallowed the body that had carried half a lifetime of House Tully's glory.
Black smoke rose in a slow, steady column toward the sky.
Brynden didn't glance at Edmure. He tossed the bow back to the squire and walked away.
That silence said more than any reprimand could.
Worth noting: Bran likely inherited his uncle Edmure's spectacular inability with a bow.
Edmure stood rooted to the spot, watching the burning boat drift further away, his hands and feet gone cold.
In name, he was already the new master of Riverrun.
But there was no joy in it , not a shred. Only a fog of confusion and doubt that wouldn't lift.
Father... did he really change his mind?
In his final hours, did he truly agree to Lysa's mad plan?
Edmure asked himself the same questions, over and over. And over and over, his father's words came back to him.
"The words of House Tully are 'Family, Duty, Honor.'"
"She has none of the three."
"Riverrun will not shed a single drop of blood, lose a single man, for her madness!"
That resolve. That fury. Still ringing in his ears.
How could everything have changed so completely in just a few days?
His gaze drifted, without meaning to, toward the figure weeping in the distance.
His sister. Lysa Arryn.
She wore black mourning clothes, her body so slight it looked like the wind might carry her off. She leaned against her handmaid, sobbing until she was nearly senseless. The grief looked so real. So devastating.
It could have moved the Seven to tears.
But Edmure felt a thorn in his chest, working deeper with every look.
He remembered what he'd seen when he burst into his father's bedchamber that day. Lysa draped across the body, wailing. And his father, already still.
It had all happened too fast. Too neatly.
---
The funeral ended. The crowd dispersed.
Lysa had already sent word to Catelyn, a letter telling her to return to Riverrun as soon as possible. As a daughter of House Tully, Catelyn had her obligations. Their father's death, Edmure's succession , she could not refuse.
Edmure went back to the study in the main keep alone.
This room had been his father's place of work. Now it was his.
He sat in his father's chair and looked at the mountain of parchment scrolls heaped across the desk. A pressure unlike anything he'd ever felt settled over him. He didn't know if he could carry this. Didn't know if he could reclaim the authority that had quietly slipped into other lords' hands during Lord Hoster's long illness.
"My lord."
Maester Vyman entered without a sound. His face held the same grief and exhaustion as Edmure's.
"My condolences, my lord."
"Maester Vyman." Edmure looked up. His eyes, the same blue as Lysa's, as Catelyn's, were bloodshot and full of doubt. "My father. When he passed... were you there?"
Something complicated moved through Maester Vyman's clouded eyes. He was quiet for a moment. Then he shook his head.
"His Grace did not call for me. He likely wished to be alone with Lady Lysa."
"But..."
Maester Vyman seemed to reach a decision.
He reached into the folds of his wide robe and drew out a letter sealed with wax.
"His Grace gave me this the night before Lady Lysa arrived. He said he knew his own condition — that his time was short. If anything happened to him, I was to deliver this to you personally, the moment you became master of Riverrun."
Edmure's heart lurched.
He reached out with a trembling hand and took the letter.
The handwriting on the envelope was barely recognizable. His father's script had once been bold and sure. Now it was shaky, uneven. Edmure stared at it and could not fathom what kind of willpower it had taken to write even this much.
To my son, the lawful heir of Riverrun, Edmure Tully.
He broke the seal and unfolded the letter.
It was not what he had imagined. There were no curses. No accusations against Lysa. Only a father's final words to the son who would carry on after him.
---
My son, by the time you read this, I have likely gone to join the ancestors of Riverrun.
Do not grieve for me. Do not weep. Death comes for everyone. I am no one of the Seven, and I am no exception.
I know I was hard on you from the time you were small. It cost you your confidence. But from the moment you hold this letter, you are the master of Riverrun and the protector of the Riverlands. You must shoulder that , and you are obligated to.
The burden is heavy. I know. I never showed you enough faith in you, and that was my failure as a father. I compared you to your sisters too often and forgot that you are the future of House Tully.
Edmure, remember our words.
Family. Our family is not only those of us who carry Tully blood. It is every sworn lord inside and outside Riverrun's walls, every farmer working our lands, every fisherman casting his net in our rivers. Their safety is our safety.
Duty. Your duty is to protect them. Not to lead them into a war with no hope of winning. Not to bleed them dry for a madwoman's ambition. The Riverlands has no natural defenses , it has always been a land fought over from all sides. We have stood for centuries not through brute courage, but through the wisdom to read the moment.
Honor. True honor does not come from an empty victory. It comes from the firm resolve to protect our people. Do not let the banner of House Tully be stained with the blood of the innocent , and never with the blood of allies.
Lysa... hatred and obsession have blinded her. She is a creature driven by desire. Do not believe a single word she tells you. But please , treat her with kindness. Her life has been far too bitter.
My son, go and be a worthy lord. Cherish your people. Keep your promises. That is my final wish for you.
Your loving father, Hoster
---
The letter slipped from Edmure's fingers.
He sat motionless in the chair as tears spilled down his face without a sound.
This was his father's true last will.
Everything Lysa had told him was a lie.
Father never agreed.
To his last breath, he had stood against this war.
The anger of being deceived hit Edmure like a wave, and behind it came fear , the slow, cold kind that arrives too late. It swept through him all at once.
Lysa.
She hadn't just driven their father to his death with rage. She wanted to drag the entire Riverlands down into the grave with her.
This madwoman.
Edmure shoved himself to his feet.
He was going to find Lysa. He was going to expose every lie to her face. He was going to tell everyone that Riverrun would not bleed a single drop for her madness.
He was halfway to the door when it opened quietly.
Lysa walked in.
She had changed out of her mourning clothes into a pale blue gown. The tear tracks on her face had been wiped clean. She still looked haggard, but those blue eyes held a kind of quiet , the stillness that follows a storm.
"Brother."
Her voice was soft. Gentle.
The way it used to sound when she called for him in the gardens of Riverrun, when they were children.
All of Edmure's fury caught in his throat.
He stood there looking at her , at this face that shared his blood , and found he couldn't speak.
"I've been thinking," she said.
She walked to the window and looked out at the Tumblestone rolling past below.
"Father's death... it sobered me."
There was something almost like self-mockery in her voice. Something that sounded like remorse.
"Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps I let hatred drive me somewhere I had no right to go. I shouldn't have dragged everyone into this."
Edmure stared at her.
He couldn't trust his own ears.
Was Lysa... repenting?
"I just loved Petyr too much." She turned from the window. Her beautiful blue eyes had gone glassy with tears. "Now I have nothing. Father is gone. Petyr is gone. I only have you and little Robert left."
Her voice broke.
"Edmure. Let's go out. Just for a little while." She looked at him with something soft and pleading in her eyes. "Like when we were children. We'll ride along the Tumblestone, clear our heads. It's too heavy in here. I can barely breathe."
She held out her hand.
"Just the two of us. Please."
Edmure looked at her. At the fragility in her eyes. At the way she seemed to lean toward him, needing him.
His suspicion wavered. His anger wavered with it.
Maybe their father's death had truly reached her. Maybe she just needed time. Family. Someone to lean on.
He was her brother. Her only blood in this world, besides her son.
And his father had asked him to treat her kindly.
If that was what was needed.
"Alright."
He heard himself say it.
He stepped forward and took her cold hand in his, and they walked out of the room together.
---
Riverrun's drawbridge lowered slowly.
Two horses rode out of the castle, one behind the other.
Edmure kept his pace easy, letting Lysa ride beside him. The afternoon sun was warm on his shoulders. The river breeze moved through the air, carrying the heaviness of the castle away with it.
Something in his chest loosened, just slightly.
He looked over at Lysa. She rode quietly, no trace of the wild desperation he'd seen in her lately , only a grief that had gone still, almost peaceful.
Maybe things really would get better.
He believed that. He needed to.
They were both Tully. The words were carved into their bones.
They rode through a stretch of dense woodland and came out onto an open stretch of riverbank. The water here ran smooth and shallow, clear enough to see the pebbles on the bottom , greens and grays and pale yellows shifting in the current.
"Here." Lysa reined in and swung down from her horse. "You used to love skipping stones here when we were small."
She smiled at him. Fond. Nostalgic.
Edmure smiled back.
He dismounted and walked to the water's edge, crouching to pick up a flat stone. He turned it in his fingers, found the grip he remembered, and sent it skimming across the surface.
One, two, three, four.
Then it sank.
"Your technique has gotten worse, brother."
Lysa's laugh rang out bright and clear.
Edmure laughed too.
That warmth between them , the old, simple kind , felt like it had come back from somewhere far away.
Then hoofbeats broke through the trees behind them.
Edmure turned.
More than a dozen knights in the blue-and-white armor of House Arryn burst from the tree line. They spread out in a half-circle, cutting off the riverbank on every side.
At their head rode "Bronze Yohn," the knight of the Vale.
The smile died on Edmure's face.
"Lysa?" He turned to his sister, a cold weight dropping through his stomach. "What is this—"
Lysa hadn't moved.
The smile was still on her face. Exactly as it had been.
But the warmth was gone from it. Every trace of it. What remained was something cold and sharp that raised the hair on Edmure's arms.
"My foolish brother."
She walked toward him slowly, each step deliberate.
"Did you really think a few tears would make me give up avenging Petyr?" Her voice was calm. Almost amused. "Did you really think I would sit quietly and wait for Robert's blade to fall? Bow my head and let him take it?"
Edmure's mind went blank.
She had called their father an old man. That old man.
He stumbled back a step, staring at the stranger wearing his sister's face.
"You were pretending. The whole time."
"What else would I be doing?"
She laughed , a high, sharp sound, like a hawk's cry.
"You thought I actually wanted to come out here and skip stones with a useless wretch like you?" The lightness left her voice. "Father wouldn't help me. You won't help me. Fine."
Her eyes fixed on him and didn't move.
"From today, Riverrun belongs to me."
She raised her voice.
"Ser Andar!"
The command rang out across the riverbank, hard and absolute.
"Seize the Lord of Riverrun! If he resists, cut him down where he stands!"
Edmure didn't move.
For the first time in his life, he found himself regretting , truly regretting , that he had never bothered to learn how to fight.
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