The convoy from Dorne traveled for weeks, and Edmure was rarely seen at rest. He was constantly with the patrols, each time a different group. Teaching them formations, stressing the importance of preserving their numbers, and warning against lax discipline. He would shuffle members between groups to ensure cohesion before returning to the Dornish convoy.
His incessant training deeply impressed Lord Dayne; this kind of rigor could catapult a random warband into a formidable professional force in less than a decade. Ulrick began to believe the rumors that the Blackfish had truly been taught by his nephew. The thrashing of the Lannisters seemed obvious now; such monstrous prodigies have always existed beyond the reach of common sense.
Soon, the group encountered another patrol, but this one was truly terrifying. Hundreds of riders approached in a wide formation. The Dornish team took defensive postures. The Summer Isle band attempted to identify leaders to snipe with their superior archery, but the riders were arranged in multiple smaller cells, with leaders embedded throughout the ranks. Lady Xanda estimated dozens of command figures. While not a problem for her team, such density of leadership was unheard of in her experience.
The patrol suddenly picked up its pace and split into two blocks, circling the convoy like vultures. Princess Elia felt the danger, the imagery of predators circling their prey before a dive. Her worries were confirmed as the formations suddenly turned and charged inward.
"Lady Xanda, aim at the ground before their leaders, just as I do. We will show them how dangerous our bows can be," Edmure commanded. He recognized the faces: it was Desmond Grell and the rest of the Riverrun company. Their cockiness irked him; he decided to teach the boys that the teacher is always the teacher. On his command, the women of Xanda's team nocked their arrows.
Extremely loud whistling arrows were let loose. The horses jolted violently at the uncomfortable, piercing sound. Edmure noted to himself that his arrows would soon break the sound barrier; at that point, even a dragon would feel the sting. The women from Summer Isles were also firing with ease. They were part of Red Archer Battalions of the Summer Isles, one of best marines in the world. Used to fighting on stormy seas, a few half-armored horses were no match for their precision.
The effect was instantaneous. Horses broke formation before their riders could react. Men slowed down to avoid collisions. Fewer than five groups managed to maintain their distance before stopping. Fortunately, Grell was among them, or Riverrun might have needed a new Master-at-Arms. Grell cursed his incompetent underlings and approached his heir with a forced, pained smile.
"Why the sour mood, Ser Grell? I thought you wouldn't stop until you saw me bloodied in a melee," Edmure barked with a grin. "Your group has forgotten their beatings—daring to pull my own magic tricks on me! Rule number one of being a monster: don't get scared yourself. Now, reform your men. It's embarrassing."
Ulrick Dayne realized then that being cocky was a common trait in the Riverlands. The ladies felt at ease after the thrill, and Lady Xanda moved her team closer to Princess Elia for added assurance. Now severely inflated in numbers, the group moved toward Riverrun, expecting to arrive within a day.
Elia saw a new facet of Edmure: the relaxed boy was gone, replaced by a mask of stoicism. Constantly tinkering with the formation, barking orders, punishing members. He was a lord in the making; she realized that if her proposal went through, Dorne would not lose out. She doubted if a Dornish muster of thirty thousand could stand against a commander like him in few decades. As for her personal happiness? She has left those fantasies on the sands where she played in her childhood.
The group was eventually stopped by a group of villagers. Thinking they were petitioning, Edmure moved to hear them. He nodded to Brynden remembering the stunt on their first meeting. The village belonged to House Goodbrook, situated on the banks of the Red Fork near the Stone Mill Edmure had previously repaired. They had heard his call for better coal; one family possessed a recipe. They came to see if the heir honours his word.
"Marvelous! Uncle, have this tested," Edmure said. "It looks legitimate. At least making chainmail will be easier for me from now on... I mean, smiths can make chainmail easier." He tried to hide his hobby, forgetting he had spent the journey sewing atop a camel. Ashara would surely spread that gossip. To protect the villagers from the greed of local nobles, Edmure decided to reward them publicly.
Edmure noticed the village was nestled near a hill with an exposed rock face. He took a massive hammer and chisel and walked toward it. To the astonishment of hundreds, he walked vertically up the rock as if by magic. He began chiseling an inscription, each stroke ringing out like hammer on metal. He wrote in giant letters and climbed down effortlessly.
"Grell, handle the Goodbrooks for me. Pay them coins or reduce their levy. I don't want some disgruntled vassal spoil my sister's wedding." He led the group away, while everyone realised just how different he is from mere humans.
The message stood the test of time for thousands of years to come. It read:
Edmure Tully, Beloved of the Gods and He who regards others with Kindness.
In the year 280 AC, Moved by the wisdom bestowed by the Way of the World,
On his supreme authority, He declares the village free of taxes, immune from corvée and billeting.
Those who flout this, Beware His wrath, For the world will punish in His stead.