When Edmure was scrounging for supplies in the kitchen, he found Catelyn ordering servants about with practiced efficiency. The Lannisters were to be hosted at a grand feast the following day, and Catelyn, being the only one truly capable of managing such logistics, was finalizing the arrangements.
"Add something sweet; I'm craving more," Edmure ordered as Catelyn reviewed the menu.
"I have already included three types of pastries," Catelyn replied, not even looking up from her ledgers. "What would the guests think if we added more? That the Tullys are trying to butter them up?"
"Who cares what they think? Our families won't have much to do with each other anyway. Now that Lysa has bagged Petyr, a marriage alliance with the West is off the table." Edmure spoke through a mouthful of fruit from a nearby platter.
"Do you think they'll be happy?" Catelyn stopped her work, gazing into the distance with a troubled expression. Edmure knew who they were.
"Who knows? Even the gods can't tell if a union will bring a lifetime of happiness. If they could, they would have married thousands of times themselves." Edmure caught the stern gaze of Septa Mordane standing in the doorway and quickly adjusted his tone. "I mean... even if a union is witnessed by the Seven, it is the duty of the couple to honor their vows. The Seven truly bless those who prove their worth through action."
Septa Mordane merely shook her head at his political maneuvering and left the siblings to their talk.
"Why must you always make such remarks?" Catelyn asked. "Do you think I will have a happy life?"
"You mean in the North? It depends on your choice. Of the three Stark brothers, the oldest has a short life. I saw in my dreams that he dies just in a few years. He's popular with women, though; if you like him, I can straighten him out. I could even chain him to your room for his own good.
The second is a bog-standard Stark. The kind who'll stop in the middle of a romance and mutter Winter is Coming. He's honor-bound and loyal, a bit more civilised than northerners. But he'll drop the ball when his honor demands it, doing something incredibly stupid rather than being honest with those closest to him."
"Is this about your gift? Father talks much about your meetings about coming things. He says you talk about everything as if it's meant to be. Not something one is living through. Are we not going to warn Starks? They are our allies after all, how can we watch their deaths?."
"So you took liking to the older? Damn, the allure of bad boys! We can't warn them yet. Starks are sticklers for oaths, and they won't believe a thousand-year-old house trying to play prophet to their six-thousand-year pedigree. Red keep has many spies, we can't rush. I'll try to salvage the best I can if you really took liking to the wild wolf.
But if you want my advice? Always take the most obedient pet. No need to devote our times in training it. If want challenge, gather a few more. No reason to make life hard. We're nobles, our life is meant to be comfortable."
"You and your twisted mind," Catelyn huffed. "I'll decide later."
"Take your time. But I read somewhere, 'using body to tame someone is base, using talent is moderate and using nothing is the best.' I'll write some educational material for you." Edmure decided to compile greatest field guides. Works like 'President fell in love with me: A secretary's glorious life' deserve wider audience.
After his advance payment from the kitchen, Edmure headed to the smithy. Albert the smith and his apprentices were testing a new setup Edmure had designed. A simple mechanical draw-bench to pull uniform wire for chainmail.
"Any luck today, Albert? This setup is simple on paper, but it's a pain in practice."
"It is, my lord. But I don't think these wires are any better than what I can pull by hand," the smith admitted.
"We'll keep tinkering. What about the coal?" Edmure took over the task, starting the tedious work of drawing wire. Chainmail was only expensive because of the thousands of man-hours required to link the rings; technical innovation was the only way to mass-produce it.
"Mi'lord I think coal is not the issue, heating is. The lads can't keep it consistently hot."
"That simply mean you're not thinking hard enough. Never mind. Spread word that heir of Riverrun is looking for good variety of coal. Something that burns cleanly, heat consistently and doesn't get affected by damp too much. I'll offer a thousand silver stags if anyone offers a solution. I don't care if a granny, a child or a labourer comes with it. I'll elevate their social status and reduce taxes of their village."
Edmure reached into his pouch to pay the smiths for their overtime but found it empty. He spotted the captain of the patrol guards passing by. "You! Stop. You fooled me with my Uncle that day. I never settled the score. Empty your pockets; I'm seizing your ill-gotten gains!"
The smithy erupted in laughter as Edmure playfully robbed the guard. "Robbing Peter to pay Paul is a noble virtue," Edmure joked. "Now, find me some scouts. Someone young, literate, and not too full of their own ideas. It'll be dangerous, but I'll train them personally."
Turning back to the forge, Edmure wiped his brow. "The heat... it's inconsistent. I need a thermometer. Judging heat by the color of the glow isn't precise enough for the work I want to do. Albert, find me some mercury and glass vials from the healers. I'll show you the principle for small temperature range. You'll have to change material for making something for smithy. Alcohols, other liquids. In a few months, I'll go to King's Landing to negotiate with the Myrish merchants for better glass."
He pulled another wire through the die, wiped his brows . "Life is meant to be comfortable... my ass!"