"Don't keep staring at my blades. You are already trained in the art of the sword; start acting like it. I will use feints to trick you, and since you asked for a difficult spar, don't you dare slack off."
Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, stood poised with two practice swords, lecturing the young Jaime Lannister.
"But if I take my eyes off them for even a second, you'll surprise me," Jaime countered, his breathing heavy.
"I'll do that regardless," Arthur replied smoothly. "Try to read my footwork and my posture instead. Defend the possible angles and wait for your opening. You won't take me down with uncontrolled aggression, Jaime."
"Hey, Arthur! Go easy on the lad!" Oswell Whent shouted from across the training yard. "If you have the time, why not help me beat someone instead? I'm forming a team for a specific job. I'll even pay you a gold dragon."
Arthur swiped Jaime off his feet with a lightning-fast low strike before turning to his brother-in-arms. "Oswell, give your pranks a rest. You've already nabbed half our team from Gold Cloaks for this scheme. What else do you need? A real dragon?"
"Ser Arthur," Jaime said, picking himself up and brushing off the dirt. "If you met this person, you'd want to punch him in the face too. He deserves a thrashing."
"Be that as it may, focus," Arthur told him. "Don't take defeats so personally. At your age, you need tempering of character more than anything else. Remember, Jaime: your greatest opponent is always yourself. Others are just temporary hurdles. Even I have had my fair share of defeats—don't always trust what the bards sing."
"Braggart!" Oswell yelled, turning back to his own drill.
Oswell had gathered twelve veterans—men armed with halberds, crossbows, and swords. He himself held a large, weighted net and a greatsword. Having witnessed Edmure's unnatural capabilities firsthand, Oswell wasn't planning a standard duel. He was training his men to hunt a predator.
"At least I'm not the one training an entire squad just to beat up his own nephew," Arthur jibed.
"You want a fight, Arthur? We dozen could use the practice," Oswell challenged, spinning the net above his head. His plan was clinical: use the crossbows to restrict Edmure, use the net to entangle him, and then finish with the reach of the halberds. Even Arthur or Jon would struggle against such a specialized containment unit. Only Barristan remained a wild card, though the old man could usually be bribed into a demonstration with the promise of a good cask of ale.
"Let's stop for now, Jaime," Arthur said, walking toward the bench to observe. "I want to see if I can crack this formation myself."
Jaime sat beside him, watching the veterans move with practiced cohesion. "Maybe start by attacking Oswell? Cut the leader and the coordination dies. Then you can pick the rest off one by one."
"A wise plan, but one they surely expect," Arthur noted. "Professional guards like us ensure that the loss of a leader doesn't break the group. That is the difference between us and simple bannermen." Arthur watched the drills with a keen eye, resting his hand on the hilt of Dawn. He wanted to see if this Tully boy could truly do what most men needed a Valyrian blade to achieve.
Meanwhile, in Riverrun
"Father, I've decided. I'll marry the second son of the Starks," Catelyn announced, casually nibbling on a honey cake. She had developed a significant sweet tooth recently, a side effect of the many cakes she'd baked for Edmure.
Hoster took a bite of his own cake, wincing as the sugar hit a sensitive tooth. "Whatever you wish, my child. But why? You haven't even met the boys." With Edmure's rapid rise, Hoster felt less pressure to secure a political alliance. If Catelyn wanted to stay single, he would have allowed it; after all, Edmure would surely marry into a Great House anyway.
"It was Edmure," Catelyn paused, taking another bite. "He told me about Brandon's impending death. He said he'd try to warn the Starks, but he didn't seem overly concerned with the man's fate. However, he gives a great deal of attention to Eddard. If I have to marry someone, why not the one my brother values?"
"He dares!" Hoster slammed the table, his face reddening. "You don't have to listen to your brother's grim prophecies. If you like Brandon, I'll make sure Edmure saves him no matter what it takes. I am his father; I still have some prestige in this house!" To Hoster, all of Edmure's genius didn't weigh as much as an iota of Catelyn's happiness.
Catelyn chuckled, a mischievous glint in her eye. "I know you love me most, Father. But I have no feelings for either boy yet. I hope choosing the steadier man will make my future easier."
Her personality had shifted slightly. After reading Edmure's novels, she was becoming less of a lady dreaming of knights and more of a chaos gremlin in training.
In Sunspear, Dorne
"You've got guts, I'll give you that. You destroyed my sister's happiness and now expect her to marry into your house?" Prince Doran Martell's voice was cold as he addressed the Blackfish before the Dornish court.
The marriage proposal was not going well. Voices led by Oberyn Martell were calling for blood, viewing the Tully overture as an insult.
"None at all," Brynden replied, standing firm. "My nephew speaks highly of your warriors; he even wanted to foster here. He heard of Lady Elia's beauty and was adamant about the match. My brother, in his folly, fulfilled the whim in a dishonorable way—but our intentions are true. We are ready to make amends. Edmure has political backing rarely seen in Westeros; Lady Elia would live in unrivaled prestige."
Brynden was mentally prepared to sell out his nephew to get home alive. He cursed Hoster silently for creating a mess and sending him to clean it up. Conscience, what a load of crap!, he thought.
Oberyn stepped forward to challenge him, but a sharp, bitter chuckle rang out. Princess Elia stood, her eyes flashing with rage. "So, a ten-year-old child asked for a bride, and your family decided to purchase me like a doll? Is that it?"
"Not at all, Princess," Brynden said quickly. "Edmure lacks a mother's love, and Hoster compensates by fulfilling his every wish. The child even has hundreds of guards playing at being his bannermen. It is all Hoster's fault; the boy is innocent."
"And I am not!" Elia burst out, before falling into a fit of coughing. "Brother, show the Tully guest why you are called the Red Viper. I, too, am spoiled by my family."
"With pleasure," young Oberyn growled, dragging Brynden toward the combat arena.
Brynden welcomed the change. The arena was safer than the council chamber. Edmure had spent weeks training him, drilling him on how to fight against dirty tricks and poisoned weapons. He was ready for the Viper.