For the next few days, Riverrun was gripped by a peculiar crisis. The new lovebirds, Petyr and Lysa, were so unashamed in their affection that they made the seasoned household staff blush. It reached a point where even Brynden began avoiding his favorite niece to escape the sticky atmosphere. If not for Edmure's stern warning, the guards might have ruffled Petyr's feathers more than once.
Edmure, however, was far too busy to be distracted by romance. He had effectively seized control of the Riverrun armory. Every piece of equipment, every horseshoe, and every strap of leather was subjected to his scrutiny. He began spending his nights in the smithy, working alongside the masters to learn the craft. His accumulated buffs gave him a starting point equivalent to a veteran smith, just a single step below a master craftsman.
"My dear nephew, let us leave for today's patrolling," Brynden pleaded, practically dragging Edmure away from a half-finished shield. "I'm starting to regret not having a wife of my own; at least I could have used her to keep Lysa calm."
"Very well, Uncle, let's ride," Edmure relented. "But during our breaks today, we play a match of Polo. It involves hitting a ball with from horseback, two teams competing to score in the opponent's net. It will build teamwork and precision."
"You and your lectures on formations," Brynden grumbled, swinging into his saddle. "What's wrong with a proper charge? It's worked for a thousand years. Still, I don't believe you can beat me at this ball-game like you did at the quintain."
Twenty men rode out of Riverrun—a sight that had become a daily occurrence. The young heir was energetic to a fault, but the old guard preferred his restless curiosity over a lord who did nothing. At least when he was busy, he wasn't peppering them with non-stop, difficult questions.
The group reached the honey-hold Edmure had previously inspected. Since his last visit, the villagers had installed additional bee stands under his direction. Edmure checked the progress and gathered the reeve.
"From this day forward, the tax to Riverrun may be paid at different kind," Edmure announced. "I will allow ten percent of the grain quota to be substituted with other goods: honey, eggs, cheese, or mutton. I have a preference for tender goats and chicken—bring me nothing else." He took a chisel and carved the decree onto a large, flat rock near the village center. While his Crafting hadn't leveled up yet, his steady hand made the letters clear and imposing.
"You and your fussy eating," Brynden joked, loud enough for the villagers to hear. "Even the Targaryen dragons weren't this demanding." He put on a mock-childish voice: "I am the evil heir of Riverrun! I've come to steal your chicks! Flee, peasants!" The guards erupted in jeers; it was a common joke now that the Tully heir didn't even like the taste of fish.
"Yeah, yeah. A poor boy who grew up with a harsh father can't even eat his fill. What a sin, even the Seven must be worrying about my meals." Edmure shot back with a grin. "Let's play. Change formation! Don't make the same mistakes as yesterday; even the fish in the Red Fork know how to swim in order."
They split into two groups, arranged in Edmure's preferred diamond formation. Edmure led one, Brynden the other. In this setup, the leaders occupied the points, with secondary commanders at the right, left, and rear corners in order of seniority.
They practiced changing direction midway through a gallop; the frontal leader would blow a horn signal to hand the lead to the rider on the right, and the entire diamond would pivot rightward in unison. Each leader too had one horn to pass turns to the next. There was a callback horn to main leader to take over the lead at any moment.
After a heated match of Polo, Brynden conceded defeat. Edmure's movements were unnatural; he always seemed to find the ball just as his opponent thought they had the shot. Brynden realized the game was more than a sport—it trained the men to fight in a loose formation, allowing a knight to exploit an opening for a passing stab without fully committing to a suicidal charge.
The group was resting when Edmure's danger sense suddenly flared. A threat was approaching from the south, still kilometers away.
"Company coming! Get in formation!" Edmure shouted. "Same plan as always. No one takes risks. If it looks grim, we fall back to Riverrun."
The men snapped into their two diamond units. They took the high ground on a small hill, forcing any attacker to face them while squinting into the afternoon sun. Soon, Brynden felt the rhythmic vibration of the earth.
"Cavalry. About thirty. No footmen, no wagons," Brynden estimated as per his experience, his hand going to his hilt. "Check your steel. They'll be here in minutes."
As the banners came into view, the tension peaked. Gleaming armor caught the light, and the red and gold of the West became clear.
"Ride out! With me from the right!" Edmure commanded. "Uncle, take your men from the inside. See if you recognize the faces. They fly Lannister and Lefford banners."
The Tully riders met the Westerland host. The newcomers paused, sensing the discipline of the Riverrun men. Edmure's group began a counter-clockwise circle on the outside while Brynden's men circled clockwise on the inside. The pincer-like movement was suffocating. Brynden recognized Lord Leo Lefford of the Golden Tooth and signaled with his horn. Edmure brought his group to the front.
"Esteemed guests from the West," Edmure called out, his voice steady. "I welcome you to the Riverlands. I am Edmure Tully, heir to Riverrun. We have just finished our inspections. Would you break bread with us?"
A golden-haired boy stepped forward, removing his helmet to reveal a handsome, confident face. "I heard rumors that Riverrun has a fine heir. It seems those rumors had merit," he said, smiling. "We are late for the celebration, but allow me to offer my congratulations. I am Jaime, and this is my brother Tyrion. We are the sons of Tywin Lannister, and friends to Lord Hoster."