King's Landing
"Jaime, you don't have to do this. I'll train you personally whenever I can," Ser Arthur Dayne said, trying to convince the young boy.
Jaime had been insistent on joining the Kingsguard. In any other time, Ser Arthur would have been happy to have such a talented junior, but Jaime's request was born entirely of his thirst for revenge against the Tullys. Arthur had seen many warriors lose their path to such pursuits; they were not suitable for the White Cloaks.
"What am I supposed to do? Go home? Then how can I beat him?" Jaime asked.
"Yes, that is exactly what you should do. Inherit your realm; the Westerlands are much stronger than the Riverlands. You personally might not defeat him in a duel, but your muster can crush his."
"Isn't that cowardice? I never thought I would hear something like this from you; it suits Ser Oswell's way of doing things," Jaime said dejectedly.
Ser Arthur simply sighed, stopped his training, and sat next to the boy. "This is how the world works, Jaime; that is statecraft. It is not that only the Rivermen know this, but both of them use it instinctively as their first response. Do you know what Oswell is doing now?"
"Beating some pirates, razing their stronghold, and drinking in the glory?"
"Well, he is probably drinking somewhere," Arthur chuckled. "But he didn't handle the task like you described. He first made a fuss near the Stepstones, riling up the pirates. Then he crushed their first sortie and retreated."
"Why? He won—why not press the advantage?"
"Wars are sometimes not won on the field. What would happen even if he wiped out all the pirates? Nothing. Others would gather afresh, or worse, other realms would start collecting tolls and claiming lands. Instead, Oswell made a show of force, then began visiting the Free Cities one by one to gather support for this righteous cause. He asks them to shoulder the responsibilities and costs, and he will return with more alliances, a fuller treasury, and certainly more glory."
Arthur laughed after describing the plan. "Oswell devised this plan the moment he received the task, as if it were the most obvious thing to do. I have high hopes for you, so try to learn that. That Tully boy or our drunk Oswell are but children compared to your father. So, go home after the tourney and learn from him. In the future, you won't make mistakes in the politics of the realm. And on the battlefield? Edmure is but one man. Westerland knights will smash through a Tully contingent in a single charge."
Arthur handed a sword back to Jaime, and they resumed their sparring.
Dorne
"Wow, that is one ugly piece," Lady Ashara said, pointing to the saddle cloth Edmure had made.
"Where did you find all that junk, anyway?" Brynden added. "I thought you would start anew when you purchased new cloth at the stops, but you just kept stitching the entire thing together. Even I could do better."
Brynden had defeated Lord Dayne multiple times over the past few days, and his mood had returned to that of a jovial veteran. Edmure had sewn the cover from multiple bright-colored cloths, tacking the entire thing with knots, tassels, mirrors, and bells. He had finally used his perk to assign a cooling attribute to the fabric. The camel loved it. Consequently, in the entire company, only the boy and the beast were united in vehement disagreement with the rest of the group.
"What do monkeys know about a camel's stride?" Edmure muttered. He was so successful in his bribe that he could simply loll on the creature without worry.
He had started writing books in the meantime. "But alas, good company does not last for long. I will need to leave him behind; the Trident is no place for a camel. Princess Elia, would you help escort him back to Sunspear? Prince Doran will enjoy the curiosity."
"I will. We can drop him off at the next stop. But can you really let him go?"
"Yes. Friendship starts and ends with fate. If fate allows, we will meet again; if not, the memories will stay with us. Let us not talk of sombre topics. As a gesture of gratitude, I will paint an image of our company. I heard there is a pretty tower in the Prince's Pass—that should work well as our background."
Princess Elia merely nodded, gesturing to Ashara with her eyes as if to say, 'The fool will paint using every bright color he has.'
Edmure trotted next to the mercenary from the Summer Isles and addressed their leader, Lady Xanda. During the travel, they had talked a lot. Edmure had learned of their customs and stories. Lady Xanda had been born Princess Xanda of a city-state but had lost an honor duel back home, resulting in her exile. This was common in the Summer Isles, where wars were highly ritualistic sports.
During their exiles, they work as mercenaries. They are famed for using bows with large arrows. Edmure found fellow connoisseurs of whistling arrows in the team. This kind of specially made arrow makes loud sound during flight. This can scare unsuspecting enemies, forcing them to instinctively duck.
"Lady Xanda, would Summer Islanders be interested in fighting for me?" Edmure's question drew glances from the entire company.
"Are you looking to employ a mercenary band? Or are you besotted by my beauty and want to install a few women in your castle?" Xanda joked, glancing at Princess Elia. She and her company had been sent to Westeros as a diplomatic gesture toward Dorne, and Prince Doran had made them Elia's personal guards. Now this young boy is harboring fantasies. 'My beauty truly brings disaster to me', she mused, shaking her head.
"No, I meant all the warriors. For a battle like none ever seen before. When we need to face a common enemy of all humanity. No innocent lives will be harmed; it is as honorable a fight as it gets."
"What? Are we going to fight off dragons? Or bedbugs in your realm? Your empty words won't fool anyone." Xanda dismissed it as the fancy of youth and rode away.
The rest of the group thought Edmure had simply failed in a clumsy attempt to flirt with a pretty girl. Only Brynden squinted his eyes, gazing toward the North, and shook an ominous conclusion from his mind. Princess Elia noticed the detail but lacked the context to grasp its gravity. Soon, the group reached the tower Edmure had promised to paint: the Tower of Joy. The place where Jon Snow was born in TV show.
Edmure furnished his supplies and with seasoned speed painted the group against the backdrop of ruined tower. For some reason, he grew attached to the contrast. Cacophony of life, smile, rivalry, curiosity of living against the sombre majesty of splendour long past. He got into a trance, painting the people in much brighter tone, while the tower and hill in backgrounded demanded a mute tone. Coming out of stupor, he showed the piece to group, while trying to ponder on the meaning. He doesn't like painting, but was curious if the world wants to send some signal through his art.