In the morning, Edmure rode out of the castle once more, his retinue now bolstered by a veteran of many wars. When they were beyond the castle's reach, Edmure began firing questions about the grim realities of warfare.
"Uncle, how much do the quality and condition of gear truly matter in the field? The books say a lord should inspect everything before a campaign, but what is the actual impact? If the armor straps of the levies aren't maintained, can they fix them on the march? Knights have squires to keep their kit in order, so if the knights decide the battle, does a peasant's equipment even matter?"
"You truly have a mind for the marrow of things; Vyman warned me to be prepared," Brynden replied. "Listen well: no matter the training or equipment, a peasant will never stand against a charging knight. Never risk your life on the promise that 'the line will hold, m'lord.' It rarely does."
Brynden shifted in his saddle. "Where preparedness saves you, is on the march. A good lord ensures his wagons don't break down for want of grease. He ensures the smallfolk don't desert or turn to banditry because they missed a meal. He ensures a plague doesn't cripple his host because wounds weren't treated. A good lord makes sure that if the plan is to reach a rallying point in a fortnight, he arrives on the fourteenth day. Fed, healthy, and not relying on an ally to bail him out."
His answer was forged in experience. Westeros had been locked in feudal traditions for so long that alternatives were largely ignored. In Essos, things were different: Dothraki hordes lived on the move, and the imitations of Ghiscari Lockstep Legions fought in formations that were unbreakable from the front.
"How did you manage the landings on the Stepstones without half the army drowning?" Edmure pressed. "What if I wanted to cross a river in a single night with ten thousand men?"
"Ah, the Stepstones," Brynden chuckled. "Even the Lannister boy was more interested in those stories than in our Lysa. The secret was plenty of booze, the dream of Lysene whores, and the promise of Essosi loot. Even then, I had to drag many a dimwit from the surf, including Roger Reyne, the Red Lion of Castamere. Seven bless his soul."
He leveled a look at Edmure. "As for your hypothetical crossing, we'll discuss that in your father's study. Best not to discuss such maneuvers where prying eyes might see." This was a point Edmure had insisted upon with Hoster. He needed to know how to move the armies of the North and the Vale across the Trident without burning every holdfast on the shore. These were Riverland nobles; Edmure would not see them bled by foreign blades, even if those foreigners were allies. Preserving the strength of the Riverlands was a higher priority than simply unseating a Targaryen.
"Fine," Edmure joked, "we'll talk of other things. In your opinion, which brothels are worth the coin?" He has a running wager with Vyman about Brynden's offsprings.
"You little bastard! You dare mock me before you're even a man?" Brynden laughed. "You need a beating. I heard you defeated everyone at the castle and think yourself invincible. Take up arms!"
The guards cheered, quickly forming a circle. Brynden took Edmure seriously, drawing his greatsword. Edmure, in turn, unslung his trusty heater shield and drew his sword. They bowed with formal etiquette, and the duel began.
Brynden tested Edmure's footing and realized his nephew favored defense. He moved to limit Edmure's space, using cornering footwork to trap him against the ring of guards. Seeing Edmure yield the ground, Brynden launched a tentative strike. A heavy overhand swipe. Amateurs usually overreact to such moves, focusing entirely on their heads, leaving them open to a sweep of the legs. Edmure, however, held his shield just steady enough to deflect the blade while keeping his weight centered. When Brynden's follow-up swipe came for his shins, Edmure dodged with effortless grace.
Brynden recovered his poise and decided to overwhelm the boy with force and rhythmic motion. He focused on his breathing, unleashing long, dangerous arcs. It looked like a dance, vast movements demanding a perfect response. In response, Edmure began his own footwork, closing the distance behind his shield and retreating only after delivering short, surgical stabs. To the onlookers, Edmure looked harmless, but Brynden realized with a chill that his nephew could have ended the duel a dozen times over during those counters.
Brynden shifted into life and death mode, trying push Edmure off balance at cost of personal injury. In battle, you hope that someone else will then finish your job. Even then, Edmure's responses remained orthodox and calm. The outcome was clear to everyone; eventually, the Blackfish conceded.
"Uncle, you wander away from us. I'm worried about your safety, I'll train with you often." Edmure said, helping him up as the men began to pitch camp. "I noticed your left shoulder hitching during your swings. I can help heal that. I may not be a surgeon, but my herbal balms are a specialty. Stay with us for a year, and I'll mend it."
"Very well," Brynden grunted. "Unlike your father, I'm not ashamed of my age. I'll oversee your political training, and you can teach me the secrets of the blade."
"It's a deal. Today, we visit the honey-hold. With you there, we can also check the wells, the taxes, and the local grievances. Your word holds more weight than mine." Edmure immediately pivoted back to his favorite subject. "By the way, have you been to the North? How do the commoners survive such a place? Do they have better breeds of sheep? How many cattle to a village? I know Winterfell is on hot springs, but how do the others stay warm? Do they have a better variety of coal? If we want to deepen ties with them, should we prioritize grain trade or herbs?"
Brynden realized exactly what kind of trouble he had walked into. A year of this babbling? Seven save me... I really ought to find a brothel. He chuckled to himself, gathering his thoughts to answer the young man who, in just one day, would officially be named the Heir of Riverrun.