The inner keep was a hive of activity from early dawn. Word had spread that Lord Tully was taking the young master on his first official hunt. Guards gathered in full panoply, their banners snapping in the breeze, while Catelyn assumed the duties of hostess to ensure every detail was overseen.
A noble hunt is fundamentally different from hunting for survival; it is a ritualized expression of a lord's duty to protect his people. Consequently, it must be visible and pompous. Soon, the host rode out—a sprawling procession of lords, guards, seasoned hunters, and patrolmen. They were met by the reeve of a nearby village, who brought a levy of villagers, bringing the total number of the party to nearly a hundred.
Edmure was the undeniable center of attention. He donned armor in the Tully colors, the trout leaping across both his shield and his personal standard. He was the heir in all but name, a title to be formally confirmed in a matter of days. He carried a short lance and a sword, while his hunting bow was entrusted to Grell's squire. Within the hour, the group reached the village. Whether the peasants were daunted by the sea of steel or their basic training held true, they remained quiet on the march—something not true for all such levies.
The hunt itself was a swift success. They cornered a pack of a dozen wolves led by an alpha slightly larger than the rest. While dangerous to a lone hunter, the pack was helpless against the coordinated assortment of soldiers. The guards barked orders, keeping the villagers in the rear while a score of riders encircled the predators.
Edmure took six wolves from a distance with his bow before wading into the fray with his lance. Relying on his physical prowess, he preferred the freedom of an open formation. He held his lance in both hands, hunting with the fluid precision of a polo player. Every thrust found its mark; he would ride past smoothly, recovering his weapon in one motion. Once it was confirmed there were no survivors, the hunters signaled the end of the engagement and began gathering the carcasses.
"You did well," Hoster offered as they rode back, his voice thick with pride. "But try not to be so stiff with the smallfolk. Don't be stone-faced."
"They expect their future lord to be daunting," Edmure replied with a mischievous wink. "So, a daunting heir they shall get."
"I realize more and more that you are like your mother," Hoster mused. "Keep the pretense for the others, then."
"Don't be so cheesy, Father," Edmure deflected, preferring a no-nonsense dynamic. "By the way, do we have any private land nearby? An orchard, an apiary, or perhaps a fishery?"
"All that and plenty more," Hoster replied smugly. "I am the Lord Paramount of the Trident. All these millions of smallfolk are my people. What is a mere apiary to me? Speak to that reeve; his village manages one of our honey-holds. In the coming weeks, I'll have our entire demesne reported to you. As long as you don't bankrupt me, I won't meddle in what you do with them."
"Thank you. I'll inspect it tomorrow," Edmure said. "I want to see if I can improve the yield. Honey is a potent balm for battlefield wounds, and who knows if the weather in the Seven Kingdoms might change next year."
"Don't get tired; if such a thing happens, your father will ensure everything is managed," Hoster replied cryptically. The two had discussed many contingencies for the upcoming rebellion in private, but they maintained a calm veneer to avoid drawing the eyes of the Red Keep.
"Don't worry father. My other gift is never getting tired. Even if you ask me to run till the Harrenhal, I can do it without a sweat." Edmure revealed another perk, for him, such timely reveals will both boost his relation with Hoster and show that House Tully doesn't need to work hard. Given time, everything will fall in place.
Their conversation was interrupted by a rider from the castle who whispered to Hoster. Edmure noticed a flicker of tension on his father's face, but since Hoster didn't panic, Edmure assumed it was routine. Hoster departed with a dozen men, leaving Edmure to lead the remaining party back to the village. He instructed the reeve to prepare the apiary for inspection, told the hunters to manage the carcasses, and took the guards for further drills.
After an afternoon of loitering around the countryside, the group returned to castle. There, Edmure was met by a flustered guard.
"Mi'lord, a smallfolk is making a ruckus. He insists of meeting the lord. The captain sent me to talk to you."
"Go on, whats the matter? Tell me correctly and in detail. Who is this person? Is he a man or a woman? What is his grievance?"
"Yes Mi'lord. He is a man, an adult, a person with large build. He claims to be a from nearby village. His dog was injured by our patrol. They were looking for a trace of wolf and they mistook his dog. The patrollers apologised and tried to give him compensation but the man declined and instead got in a fist fight. When we brought him to the castle, the captain heard everything and asked me to go to inner keep to find you."
"Okay. Then flog him as punishment. Have guards give him compensation for injuring his dog. If it's injured too badly then have someone tend it. Give a day off to guards and increase their training, I don't want to see them getting beaten again by a random villager." Edmure gave order and when the guards was about to leave, he added, "Considering this was my first time judging, after flogging, give the man enough silver to last for a season. I don't want Riverrun talking that young heir is cruel." With that, Edmure returned to his solar.
Meanwhile, the man disguised in peasant garb simply squinted into the distance upon hearing the young lord's decision. Petyr Baelish stood next to him, flattering him, calling him 'Uncle Brynden'. It seemed even the ever-paranoid Edmure couldn't imagine his own uncle, the Blackfish, pulling such a stunt right under his nose.