Edmure finally felt his frayed nerves begin to settle. Ever since the incident with the hunting dog—which had bypassed his innate alarm system with terrifying ease—he had lived in a state of quiet agitation. He remembered the shadows of the TV Show: the dark sorcery that would claim Renly Baratheon and the way Bran Stark would eventually reach across time to seize the mind of Hodor. To survive such a world, being a peerless duelist wasn't enough; he had to be a ghost.
For the past week, Edmure had spent his nights stalking the silent corridors of Riverrun. The practice had paid off.
[Stealth: Level 11]
He could now move through the keep with a fluidity that would evade any routine search. He was no longer just a fish in the pond; he was the shadow beneath the reeds.
When he reached the dinner hall, the usual solemn atmosphere had been replaced by the rare sound of his sisters giggling in unison. Edmure expected to see Petyr performing some sleight of hand, but to his surprise, the center of attention was a man with features strikingly similar to Hoster's, though etched with a more rugged defiance.
"Uncle Brynden!" Edmure exclaimed, rushing forward to hug the Blackfish. "What a pleasant surprise. Look how the very air warms in your presence."
Brynden ruffled Edmure's hair with a calloused hand and pulled a heavy parcel from his cloak. "Vyman told me you were hunting for Valyrian texts. I thought I'd bring a gift befitting the new heir. I'm proud of you, lad. Don't let the name down."
"Thank you, Uncle. See? I told you he brings warmth," Edmure teased, glancing toward the chair for the head of the table. "Unlike someone, who hasn't given me so much as a new whetstone despite my progress with the blade."
He was about to continue his playful rambling when he saw Brynden's face twist into a smirk. A split second later, Edmure's danger sense flared. He spun, hand lashing out to catch a heavy object mid-air just inches from his temple. Hoster had arrived unnoticed and, in a mock fit of rage, had hurled an apple at his son's head.
"Ungrateful whelp!" Hoster barked, though his eyes sparkled. "What more do you want? Do you know how I dote on you? Tywin Lannister didn't give his sons a few mines, but I've given you my entire demesne."
The reactions around the table were immediate. Catelyn beamed with pride; Lysa's face clouded with a familiar jealousy; Petyr remained an unreadable mask. Only Brynden understood the sheer weight of the move. For a Lord in his prime to share such political power was nearly unheard of—it was just a step away from making Edmure a co-ruler. It reminded Brynden of the Targaryen style of governance. A practice that currently fueled King Aerys II's paranoia toward his own son, Rhaegar and his wife, Rhaella.
After the feast, the atmosphere shifted. Hoster asked Edmure to remain behind with Brynden. Edmure expected a lecture on how to brew a rebellion, but instead, a heavy silence descended.
"Do you know what you did wrong today?" Hoster asked eventually.
"Nothing, Father," Edmure replied firmly. "My conduct has been beyond reproach."
Brynden sighed, stepping into the light of the hearth. "A lord's primary duty is to hear the pleas of his people. Today, I tested you, and you failed utterly. I was the villager who fought your guards. I was prepared to see you fumble the hearing—that is expected of a young lord. But you? You were self-righteous."
Brynden leaned in, his voice stern. "You didn't even hear the man in person. You made a decision based on a one-sided report and sent orders from on high, expecting the world to sort itself out. I am disappointed, Edmure. For all your capability, you failed a simple test of justice."
"I disagree," Edmure said, his voice cold. "I am an heir. My power is derived from laws and customs first, and people second. I will not flaunt the first two for a commoner in a trivial matter. If I did, the realm would see a boy with dreams of changing the world before he has even sat in the chair."
He stood his ground, drawing on his recent readings. "If it were a woman, a child, or the elderly, I might have found a logical loophole, as Queen Rhaenys did with her 'Rule of Six.' She used the language of the Faith to punish a man who beat his unfaithful wife, framing her mercy within the context of the Seven. But Rhaenys had two things I do not: she was a co-ruler of the Iron Throne, and she had the backing of established custom. Perhaps one day I will change the laws, but today is not that day."
The two older men shared a look of weary exasperation. Seeing that it was becoming a staring contest, Edmure proposed alternative. "Lets all take a step back and be adults. Forget this thing for now, uncle will accompany me on my tours and teach me what you expect from me. No need to make so much fuss."
"Hoster," Brynden muttered, "this boy sounds more like the vipers on the Small Council than a Tully. Have you not taught him our words? Very well. I shall accompany him on his tours and teach him some sense myself."
Meanwhile, in the Red Keep...
"A report on the Tullys, my King," Varys whispered, his soft voice carrying through the gloom of the throne room. "Hoster Tully favors his son and prepares him for the heirship. We should monitor this development."
"Very well," Aerys II muttered from the Iron Throne, his long fingernails scratching against the rusted blades. "Send Rhaegar to Riverrun. He is young, and the Tullys have two daughters. Let him charm them, plant some bastards in their bellies, and keep the Riverlands in line. His friend, Oswell Whent, is their kin, is he not?"
The King spoke with a moment of lucidity, but it vanished as quickly as it had come. His face suddenly contorted, and he shrieked, spittle flying from his lips.
"Not Rhaegar! Not that traitorous spawn of a vile woman! I cannot trust him! Tell Tywin to handle it! Yes... Hand too has a cub of suitable age. Let the Lion deal with the fish!"
Varys, ever the servant of the realm, bowed low. He departed to inform Lord Tywin Lannister that the King required him to send his son to Riverrun.