The Tully family was celebrating a significant milestone. Its youngest member, Edmure, had accomplished the unthinkable: he had defeated every seasoned warrior in Riverrun in single combat. Lord Hoster, Lord Grell, and Ser Desmond—none could match him in the arena. To mark the occasion, Hoster called for a sumptuous family meal, the kind of dinner where everyone offers congratulations on the surface while exchanging pointed glances in private.
"I must write to Brynden," Hoster declared, his joy uncontained. "I look forward to seeing that face of his, always so full of defiance and smirks. I'll make him bow to me and finally get him married this time." Any lingering doubts about Edmure's worthiness as heir had been wiped clean. Hoster was already calculating how to use his son's prowess for political gain, marriage alliances included.
"Father, why must you always go against Uncle?" Catelyn asked softly. "He has stopped visiting entirely since your last quarrel." She had never understood the rift between the two brothers; it wasn't a blood feud, but it was far from a momentary fallout. Brynden bore no malice, but he clearly had no desire for pleasantries.
"I know why," Edmure interjected. He had no real idea, but that didn't stop him from guessing wildly. "I've read plenty of stories lately. Two brothers fall in love with the same girl; she marries the bad apple, and the chivalrous hero leaves the realm in exile."
"You're asking for a beating, boy! Even Brynden isn't as poisonous as you. What kind of nonsense are you reading?" Hoster erupted, though Edmure merely smiled and glanced at Catelyn.
Catelyn, catching her brother's smirk, felt her own temper rise. "Edmure Tully, I haven't settled the account for those scribbles you left in my books! And you still have the nerve to bring that up? Father loves me most, and that will never change. I admit I gave you the books—what of it?"
"Edmure! Stop bullying your sister, keep this up and I'll send you to the Wall even if I have to give everything to Brynden" Hoster barked, rushing to defend his daughter. Nearby, Lysa kept her head down, the only sound coming from her rhythmic scraping of cutlery against her plate. Hoster glanced at his second daughter briefly, but as was his habit, he didn't linger.
He turned back to Edmure. "Your mother had no such emotions for my dastardly brother. He had those rebellious tendencies even in your grandfather's time. If you dare fabricate such lies against her memory, I'll throw you from the battlements myself!"
Hoster's devotion to his late wife, Minisa, was so absolute he didn't even register that his son had just called him the bad apple of the family.
"My mistake. I won't jest further," Edmure said, raising his hands in a peaceful gesture. "As an apology, I present my long-overdue gift to my dearest sister."
At his signal, servants brought in the painting. The room fell silent. Westeros had its share of fine art, but this was different. The realism was startling.
"It looks... real," Catelyn whispered. "Better than real. I don't remember the fading sun ever looking so beautiful. I'll treasure this and carry it with me always."
Hoster couldn't take his eyes off the canvas. To him, the background mattered less than the figures within the frame. "Minisa..." he murmured. "The same hair, the same face. If only... if only." He closed his eyes, lost in the memory of his wife's smile.
The Lord of Riverrun looked so genuinely pitiful that Edmure felt a pang of uncharacteristic sympathy. He usually held onto small grudges—like their first meeting. That time Hoster had eavesdropped on him and scolded him for no reason. But seeing his father so broken softened his resolve. Maybe I, too, pity broken things, Edmure thought as the dinner ended in a heavy, somber atmosphere.
The next morning, neither father nor son felt like facing the other. When Edmure sent word asking for permission to ride outside the castle for practice, he received a positive reply without the usual lecture. He went straight to the stables. His stables.
A few days prior, his Healing skill had surpassed Level 10, granting him an instinctive, near-magical knowledge of all living creatures. After proving his competence to Maester Vyman, Edmure had been given personal charge of the Riverrun stud. Ordinarily, an amateur would never be allowed to handle the knights' most precious assets, but Edmure's results were undeniable. He now supervised every diet, grooming schedule, and medicinal treatment.
"Are there any superior breeds among the stock? Keep an eye out for merchants, I'll personally inspect. " Edmure asked the head groom. Reach keeps the best horses among all realms, Dornish steads are faster and North keeps horses with best endurance. He intended to improve the herd's quality. Even a 10% increase in mount's quality will help House Tully weather next year's war better. Edmure picked a horse for himself for now. He is investing greater resource now in his original pony. In few years she'll become the most famous mount in Westeros.
Edmure set out with Ser Desmond and ten household guards. He planned to spend the entire day getting the lay of the land. From tomorrow on, he would ride daily, taking different men with him each time. He was done being a decoration. He was becoming a real power-holder. As he galloped out of the gates, the people of Riverrun watched their young lord—armed, armored, and in command—begin his claim over the Trident.