When Ser Brynden Tully returned to camp, he reeked of wine.
The few guards who had gone into town with him were tipsy, and Brynden’s own face was flushed red.
Even so, he sat straight in his saddle and climbed down from his horse without stumbling.
Edmure Tully handed him a cup of hot herbal tea.
He had brewed a large pot for the men who had eaten too much at the feast.
“Uncle, how was Lord Seaworth’s hospitality?” “He was very welcoming,” Brynden said, taking the hot tea.
He took a small sip and held the cup in both hands to warm his fingers.
“The food was delicious, and the conversation was pleasant.
He is a difficult man to out-drink, though.” “What did you two talk about?” “Lord Seaworth loved our gifts.
He formally introduced me to his eldest daughter and his two-year-old son, asked about the noble houses in the Riverlands, and complained a bit about the troubles of being a parent.” “Is he worried about finding a husband for his daughter?” “Yes.
His daughter, Joryl, is twenty and still not betrothed.
She isn’t stunning, but she isn’t ugly either—just a bit plump.
I couldn’t tell much about her personality because she spent the whole night focused on her food.
Perhaps she is just shy.” As Brynden spoke, he noticed that the young men who had been listening so eagerly around the campfire had suddenly scattered, pretending to be busy with chores.
“Does Lord Seaworth want to marry his daughter into House Tully?” Edmure asked.
He remembered that a previous Lord Seaworth had married a Stark; their ties to the Riverlands were closer than those of most Northern lords.
“He asked about you, but he didn’t push the matter,” Brynden said.
“Besides, she is six years older than you, and your father would never allow it.
House Seaworth simply isn’t powerful enough for a marriage match with us.” Thinking of his elder brother, Lord Hoster, Brynden smiled thinly.
“Edmure, I am the last person who should give advice on marriage, but I know how your father thinks,” Brynden continued, his voice softer now.
“Your future bride will likely come from House Tyrell of Highgarden or House Martell of Dorne.
Right now, there are no available noble ladies of the right age in the Crownlands, the Westerlands, or the Stormlands.” Edmure took a sip of his tea.
“Uncle, if I let you arrange my marriage, what would you do?” “I would take you across the Seven Kingdoms and let you pick a bride yourself,” Brynden answered, sounding a bit talkative from the alcohol.
“Someone virtuous, clever, healthy, and beautiful.
You are the heir to Riverrun, so your wife must be noble, but she doesn’t have to come from the highest house.
That would give you far more choices.” Brynden leaned in and lowered his voice to a whisper.
“Your sisters are already married to powerful lords.
It might be unwise for your father to chase a princess from Highgarden or Dorne for you as well.
You need to think about that.” Edmure nodded.
He agreed with his uncle’s views on marriage, though his own plans were far more ambitious than his elders realized, and he had plenty of time to figure them out.
It was his uncle’s refusal to marry that was the real concern.
“Uncle, it isn’t impossible for Lord Seaworth to want an alliance with us,” Edmure teased.
“Do you think Lady Joryl would be a good match for you?” “She’s fine, I suppose,” Brynden said, smacking his lips.
Then he paused, his eyes narrowing.
“Wait.
Are you poking fun at me, boy?” Brynden looked at him suspiciously.
“Who put you up to this?
Your father?
Your sister?
Or was this your idea?” “I’m not plotting against you, Uncle,” Edmure laughed, putting on a playful grin.
“I just wanted to know what kind of women you like.
You didn’t think much of Lady Seaworth, so clearly a woman needs more than youth and simplicity to catch your eye.” “Hmph.
What does a boy like you know about women?
Don’t waste your time,” Brynden grumbled.
He put on a stern face, drained his tea in one gulp, and walked back to his tent.
Watching him leave, Edmure wondered if he had pushed too far.
He knew how much his uncle hated Lord Hoster’s constant attempts to arrange a marriage for him.
Still, when Edmure eventually became Lord of Riverrun, he would need reliable family members to hold territory and help keep the Riverlands stable.
He hoped to gently help his uncle find a wife he actually liked, regardless of her family’s power.
Lady Seaworth was just a test; Edmure had already written to his sister Catelyn with further plans.
The next morning, the group woke up before dawn to reach Winterfell as quickly as possible.
Edmure crawled out of his warm bed, shivering as he dressed.
Getting out of bed on a midwinter morning was miserable.
Thanks to their preparations, no one was sick or frostbitten, but the relentless cold drained their energy every single day.
Edmure took over the last watch of the night, patrolling the camp with the guards and checking on the horses and mules.
He made sure their wool blankets were dry so they wouldn’t freeze into sheets of ice.
Afterwards, he added wood to the campfire, melted snow in a large pot, mixed in rock salt, and gave the warm salt water to the animals to drink.
By the time the morning sun turned the snow a pale orange, the camp was packed.
They crossed the White Knife River and rode north along the Kingsroad.
By late afternoon, a bustling town appeared on the horizon, with smoke rising from hundreds of chimneys.
“Winterfell Town is just ahead.
Raise the banners!” Ser Brynden ordered.
The guards attached five large banners to long poles, displaying the silver trout of House Tully over red and blue waves.
A young soldier nicknamed Long-Legged Lu rode at the front, holding the main flag high.
Winterfell Town sat just south of the Great Castle.
In the summer, most of its houses were empty, but during the winter, thousands of people packed into the town to seek shelter under the protection of House Stark.
The population swelled to around fifteen thousand people—mostly wealthy merchants, craftsmen, and mountain clansmen who came to trade for food and survive the harsh winter.
As the Riverlands party reached the edge of town, a dozen Stark cavalrymen carrying grey direwolf banners rode out to meet them.
Lord Stark had received word from Seaworth Castle that morning and had ordered his men to guide the guests.
The Kingsroad skirted the edge of the town, but the snow had been trampled into thick, sticky mud by the crowds.
Luckily, the Stark guards cleared a path, allowing Edmure’s group to pass through smoothly.
Past the noisy market stalls and wooden houses of the town, a massive black castle rose up against the grey winter sky.