"So, Uncle went to a Frey wedding? I was planning to linger in the North for a few weeks before heading east, but that's off the table now. No need to crowd the Twins with too many Tullys at once. That would be like tempting the fate. Who is the unlucky bride, anyway?"
Following the successful bandit hunt, Edmure stood in the solar discussing his next moves with Hoster.
"Do you even care who marries whom?" Hoster avoided answering, his tone a little shifty. "Focus on the East. Our control there is tenuous at best. The Reach, the West, the Vale, the Stormlands and the Crownlands have people in all places."
"Don't worry. I'm playing the part of the eager heir overseeing the renovations at Stoney Sept. I won't touch the politics," Edmure replied. "I'll map the terrain and repair the routes leading from Riverrun. On the surface, it's all for the construction effort; in reality, I'm greasing the wheels for wartime logistics. Send word to Uncle Brynden to keep the North in a lull. In the coming conflict, we don't want our northern vassals acting out. Circulate rumors of Ironborn preparations to keep the Freys and Mallisters pinned to their own shores."
"I can do that," Hoster said, "but what if the Ironborn actually invade while the realm is in rebellion?"
"Then the Tullys will ride out to defend them. We want to contain the influence of our vassals, not exterminate them. I hold no malice toward those houses; I simply want everything under our thumb when the fighting starts. The worst-case scenario is us delivering decisive blows to the Iron Throne only for our ambitious vassals to get carried away chasing glory. This coming war isn't about winning a crown for ourselves; it's about preservation. Whoever wants the Iron Throne is welcome to the headache."
Edmure reiterated the core of Plan Blue, his strategy for managing the northern Riverlands.
"And are you truly prepared to open hostilities from the West as well?" Hoster questioned the validity of Plan Red, which involved using the Lannister threat to keep their southern vassals on a permanent war footing. Only Plan Green was truly offensive, aimed eastward toward the Crownlands.
"Yes. Without stern control, we'll throw away more lives than necessary. Geography dictates that this civil war will bleed our lands first; the rebels will gather here, and the finale will be in the Crownlands. Even in the best case, I estimate fifty to eighty thousand deaths. If we let the vassals fight as they please, that number will triple. And since it won't be our turn to sit on the throne, why bother spending more rivermen lives for someone else's seat?"
Hoster looked at his son, unsettled by the detached, clinical logic. "And the danger of being cornered? South is our heartland, if West occupy few castles rapidly?"
"Don't worry," Edmure said with a cocky half-smile. "Your son could take a castle the size of Riverrun by himself in under an hour. Walls are merely suggestions to me now." His stats had reached a level where such a boast was dangerously close to the truth.
"Fine. Ride out while you still have daylight. Camp in safe places and don't take unnecessary risks while hunting. Let the men do the labor. We'll meet in a month."
"Understood. These are my parting gifts for you and Catelyn," Edmure said, handing over two shields and a stack of books before departing.
The castle soon bade farewell to its heir. Edmure led a massive convoy this time: household knights, mounted guards, and a merchant caravan. A force of over three hundred people, accompanied by wagons and spare horses, rolled out of the gates. A few tender goats walked toward their certain doom in the mess tent, silent and unpitying.
Hoster watched the dust settle from his window before returning to his desk. He picked up a portrait of Minisa and him. "I'll protect him, Minisa. I'll fulfill my promise. I wish you could see him; he's as radiant as you were."
He eventually turned his attention to Edmure's gifts. The two shields were remarkable—far lighter than they looked, yet incredibly strong. Hoster weighed one in his hand. "The boy is obsessed with weight over sturdiness. If I asked, he'd lecture me on how weight matters more on a long march than the thickness of the steel. As if I've never seen a battlefield..."
Then, he looked at the gift for Catelyn. It was a collection of books, but the first page of the top volume caught his eye. It featured a drawing of a girl holding several strings, with men dangling from them like puppets. She looked exactly like Catelyn. The title was a jumble of words, but the subtitle was crystal clear: 'A Guide to Toying with Men Effortlessly.'
"The little bastard!" Hoster fumed, his face reddening. "I should have thrown him from the battlements!" Then, despite this, he began to laugh at the sheer, unbridled audacity of his son.