The Gold Cloaks saluted as Ser Barristan passed by, the knight in a jovial mood, softly singing the tune he had heard:
"No reason, to get excited"
The thief, he kindly spoke
"There are many here among us, who feel life's but a joke
But you and I, we've been through that
And this is not our fate
So let us stop talking falsely now
The hour's getting late"
Barristan made his way to the inner sanctum of the Sept to find Edmure. He was growing weary of the beggar's disguise; what had seemed a daring plan in his youth felt beneath him in his prime. He was the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, and it was time the Tully boy showed him the respect his office commanded. However, he found neither the boy nor the peculiar Septon waiting for him.
When Barristan checked Edmure's residence, he found a stone placed prominently at the gate with a message etched into its surface. "Why couldn't he simply write it on parchment? The boy is as pompous as ever," he grumbled. The carving read: Stinking too much, we'll meet at evening.
"How am I supposed to know when evening exactly is? It's a good thing I'm the Lord Commander," Barristan muttered. He returned to the White Sword Tower, offloading the task of monitoring the street to his subordinates. Edmure, while fascinating, was still just a boy. Barristan had weightier concerns; the rumors of the boy's magic were yet to be proven, and the King's moods were darkening.
Meanwhile, Edmure was sneaking through the ancient tunnels beneath the Red Keep. The rumors were true: Aegon the Conqueror really had loved Rhaenys best. A massive, hidden thoroughfare connected Rhaenys's Hill directly to Aegon's High Hill. Not wanting to spend another agonizing day in the stench of the sewers, Edmure decided to finish the job in one sweeping effort.
He spent the morning spoiling the wildfire caches beneath the hills and the entire afternoon bathing. "Let us not jump into the fire," he muttered as he scrubbed. "While fire cleanses all, it purifies offerings for the gods. A burning body is for those ending their earthly attachments. I have plenty to do and many women to marry. Besides, I doubt even my metal-reinforced skin could withstand the Alchemist's spite."
Now that chapter of this mission was closed. Philosophy, he decided, was the most luxurious of intoxicants, and he could not afford to lose himself in it yet.
"The man has come," the Faceless Man said, gesturing toward the shadowed statue of the Stranger. "Let us offer the verses, for it is befitting to end this way."
Barristan was present, though he couldn't fully grasp what was amiss. He felt a sudden, foreboding pressure, a chill like the one he'd felt when he was wounded during the Defiance of Duskendale. Now clad in his splendid white armor, he spoke with an air of cold authority. "I do not remember a verse for the Stranger."
"There is none, yet there are many," the Faceless Man replied in riddles. "In Qohor, he is the Black Goat; in Yi Ti, the Lion of Night; in Westeros, the Stranger. All men must bow to him in the end, whether they worship the Seven or the Lord of Light, the Moon Mother or the Great Shepherd. All mankind belongs to him... otherwise, somewhere in the world, there would be a folk who lived forever. Do you know of any who do?"
He revealed his true mask, smiling a hollow smile at Barristan. The veteran knight flinched, his hand flying to his sword.
"True, but not in its entirety," Edmure commented calmly, stepping from the shadows.
"Why? Is it not obvious?" the assassin asked, ignoring Barristan entirely.
"Death is important, but it is not central," Edmure said. "A wise man once said: Birth, aging, sickness, and death all are but phases in existence; the cycle continues. For that is the way of the world."
"And why do you feel death is not the ultimate way? If the way of the world must be understood in person, then why can't I be more correct than you?"
"The world is not subtle," Edmure answered. "You can feel its way just by living. Perhaps one day death will become the primary path. On that day, we shall drink blood and dance in graves among the dead. But today is not that day. The sun still rises, the sky shelters all and the rain still brings comfort. This is the Way I see."
Barristan stood paralyzed, unable to fathom the tension or the strange theology being traded.
"Perhaps not for you," the Faceless Man mused, his voice dropping. "But I see my path ending here."
"Then go at ease, my friend. Perhaps in the next life, we shall meet again," Edmure said. "But I am a noble, and I cannot let an assassin live in the open."
In the space of a heartbeat, Edmure Blinked behind the Faceless Man and delivered a killing blow. Barristan gasped—he saw it clearly now. A shadow-binder indeed. He readied a strike of his own, but Edmure turned toward him with both hands raised in peace.
"Be at peace, Good Ser. Please, help me care for his body. He was a friend, and he deserves a dignified funeral. I am not familiar with Braavosi customs; surely you can handle it. Report to the Prince and remind him about the books. Meet me this evening at my place; I shall reward your patience with a fine suit of chainmail."
With another sudden blur, Edmure Blinked away. Barristan felt utterly helpless against such speed, but he turned to the task at hand, calling for a Gold Cloak to assist with the body.
Meanwhile, in Riverrun
"Things have turned far worse," Maester Vyman sighed, handing Hoster a letter from Dorne.
Hoster sat in silence for a long moment. "I expected this much. I put Brynden in danger intentionally. This is a test for the boy, to see if he is truly my son, or merely something wearing his skin."
Vyman realized then how much cold calculation Hoster hid behind his talk of conscience. "What shall we do? The Martells are threatening to send Brynden to Ghaston Grey. It is an inhumane prison, a sun-scorched rock cut off from the world."
"Write to Edmure," Hoster ordered. "Tell him that Brynden botched a trade deal with Dorne. Ask him to retrieve his uncle by any means necessary."
As Vyman left, Hoster sat alone, clutching a portrait of his late wife, Minisa. "How the boy resolves this will reveal who he truly is," he whispered. "I wish you were here so I didn't have to use such underhanded methods. Even as thick-headed as he is, I fear Brynden will eventually realize he was set up by his own brother."
[The song is a snippet from the song, 'All along the Watchtower by Bob Dylan.
You can find a version at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bT7Hj-ea0VE]