"How curious," the Faceless Man observed, his voice cutting through the morning air as he watched the Tully heir. "The boy is now praying to the Maiden. You have spent more time in prayer than working at your craft since you arrived. Why not ask the Crone? She might beseech wisdom for you. For as the song goes:
'The Crone is very wise and old,
She lifts her lamp of shining gold.'"
He spoke while pointedly ignoring the nauseating stench wafting from Edmure's clothes.
"I would have," Edmure replied, finishing his prayer and rising. "But the old ladies praying before her warned me not to come closer. At least here, I can shoo some young girls away with my unique charm. I'd like to reply with a verse of my own, but I'm sure the Maiden would send those men over to beat me." He gestured toward the group of seasoned soldiers praying before the towering statue of the Warrior.
Just then, Ser Barristan arrived in his beggar's disguise, instinctively pinching his nose. "Did you fall into a sewer, lad? That scent... it's like a brothel where the girls are trying to cover up the night's work with cheap perfume."
"A beggar who knows an awful lot about the inside of brothels," Edmure mocked, waving his hands to disperse the odor.
It had taken him the entire night to locate and neutralize every wildfire cache beneath Visenya's Hill. He was seriously questioning his life choices, considering that tonight he had to tackle Rhaenys' Hill—a place crowned by the sprawling, squalid slums of Flea Bottom. Even bathing thrice hadn't saved his skin from the lingering reek of stagnant waste and sandalwood oil. Tomorrow, he thought, I should just jump into a fire.
"Maybe that's why the good man is still begging," the Faceless Man added, a glimmer of hidden knowledge in his eyes. "Trust me, loving the wrong woman leads to eternal debt."
"I too have heard gossip about a certain Lady of Starfall," Edmure countered, revealing that he was well aware of Ser Selmy's identity. The knight was one of the many who had never truly forgotten Ashara Dayne. "The queue of her lovers is far too long; perhaps you should be the one praying to the Maiden, Ser."
"No thanks," Ser Selmy said, finally straightening his hunched back and abandoning the charade. Marveling at Capital's life, even decades later it still amazes him. Even random priests have intelligence network. Ser Selmy shook away the political calculations, and returned to conversation at hand. "Why do you mix up the Gods so? If you want to learn smithing, why not stick to the Smith?"
"Is the good man also a theologian?" Edmure joked. "There's no reason in particular; just a change of scenery. Besides, they all know what's going on with us mortals. If you're lucky enough to gain their blessing, you won't miss out just because you addressed the wrong statue."
"What makes you so sure?" the Faceless Man asked, his tone shifting. "What if your prayers were heard by the God of Qohor? That city is famed for its smiths and its menacing patron god, the Black Goat."
"It doesn't matter. My prayers will reach exactly where they are supposed to reach."
His answer surprised the assassin. While most Westerosi viewed foreign gods as demons or falsehoods, the Faceless Men worshipped the Many-Faced God—the personification of Death in all its forms. The House of Black and White in Braavos housed statues of every deity known to man, acknowledging them all as masks of the same entity.
Barristan pondered the boy's words. "Do you believe all gods are benevolent, my child? I've seen far too many things to make me believe the contrary."
"No," Edmure paused. "But even the gods cannot escape the way of the world. They, too, are bound by rules. If someone messed with my prayers, that would come back to bite them—whether in this life or the next, in this world or countless others. Let's stop this idle chatter; I feel I've gotten what I wanted."
Edmure departed for Tobho Mott's smithy with Barristan in tow. The Faceless Man remained, contemplating the answer. He felt his time in this skin was drawing to an end. Tomorrow, he might perish—perhaps by the hands of the very two walking away—but he did not fear the Gift of Mercy. It was the fate of all, eventually.
At the Street of Steel, the master smith looked up as they entered. "Lad, did someone puke on you in a brothel?" Tobho Mott laughed, leaning against his anvil. "Considering the stench, I assume it was the largest one in the city? Or was it the Dorne? Hahaha!"
"Dorne? I thought you'd say Lys," Edmure replied. "Surely the women of Dorne are amateurs compared to the courtesans of Lys. The art of lovemaking is on another level in the Free Cities. Or is your wife Lyseni, Master Tobho?"
Edmure's keen senses told him this was not the real Tobho Mott. Something else sat behind those eyes, something potentially not human. He tested it's attitude while readying his Blink ability. If it didn't like the joke, poor Barristan would likely meet a gruesome end.
"Insolent brat," Tobho scolded, its voice carrying an unnatural resonance. "What do you really want from this armor? I have been asked to help you."
"Do you even know smithing?" Edmure asked, getting straight to the point. "I want to know how to make my creations lighter. I can make them stronger, but strength alone is cumbersome."
Barristan, unaware of the tension, chimed in. "Why prioritize lightness? Even if it helps on a long march, light equipment won't win a battle if the other man delivers a killing blow through it."
"Wrong. Someone else can always pick up gear from the dead and keep fighting," Edmure countered. "For me, men are replaceable, but I need my equipment to function regardless of who wears it." His philosophy of war was cold and logistical. He didn't need a host of legendary heroes; he needed marginally better soldiers equipped with vastly superior, sustainable gear.
"Greenhorn," Barristan muttered.
The Tobho figure seemed uninterested in the debate. It only wanted to fulfill the bargain and leave. "Very well, child. I shall show you."
By nightfall, Edmure was packing supplies for his raid on Rhaenys' Hill. The work moved with impossible fluidity, the making potions was much faster.
[Craftsmanship: Level 10] +100% working speed and quality. Unlocked Perk: Assign Attribute.
Level 100: Unlock Divine Craftsmanship
Level 1000: Apotheosis
Meanwhile, in Riverrun
"It seems the Mother has decided to help Edmure," Elaena murmured, looking toward the eastern horizon. She was reading one of the novels Edmure had written—a friendly gesture from Catelyn.
As she turned the page, she hoped her request doesn't affect the fate of the world.