To prevent famine during the long cold, even Lord Tully’s castle at Riverrun put a strict rationing system in place.
The daily meals for Edmure and his companions were simple, but they provided enough food to keep them full, warm, and energized for their daily training, studies, and work.
Edmure soaked a piece of hard black bread into his vegetable soup.
As he waited for it to soften, he looked around the room.
Bronn was laughing and joking with some of the guards, likely talking about local girls.
Ronald Vance, the oldest of the noble students, was using hand gestures to explain sword fighting to his younger brother, Hugo.
Patrick Mallister was pouring wine into his cup, always complaining that the kitchen didn’t give them enough.
Brynden Blackwood was slowly stirring the beans in his soup while staring intently at a letter.
Finishing the last bite in his bowl, Edmure waited for the others to finish eating before making an announcement.
“I am planning a trip.
First, I want to visit Lord Stark at Winterfell in the North.
Does anyone want to come with me?” Patrick accidentally choked on his wine, spraying it onto the table.
Across from Edmure, Tristan Legg opened his eyes wide in surprise.
“Edmure, are you serious?
It’s winter.
The North is a freezing wasteland of ice and snow.” “Our teachers are away for the season, and we’ve learned almost everything we can from our books,” Edmure explained.
“It’s time to go out and see the world.” Surviving the winter was the top priority across Westeros.
The Maesters and knights who taught at the academy had all returned home to help their own families.
Edmure had left detailed lesson plans so the newer students could keep learning, but the older students who had been there for years needed something more.
“Why go to the North instead of the East, West, or South?” asked Brynden Blackwood, putting his letter down.
“Everyone knows how harsh the Northern winters are, but very few of us have actually seen it,” Edmure replied.
“Northerners think people from the South are soft and fragile.
I want to prove them wrong.” He paused for a moment.
“Besides,” Patrick interrupted with a grin, “the leader of the North, Lord Eddard Stark, is your brother-in-law.
He’ll surely treat you well.” The boys all laughed.
Edmure smiled and corrected him.
“Lord Stark is my brother-in-law, but Northerners can be cold and distant, especially during a hard winter.
Even though our families are allies, I can’t guarantee a warm welcome.” He added, “Also, this winter isn’t too severe yet.
I checked, and the main road to the North isn’t blocked by snow.
If we don’t go now, who knows when we’ll get another chance to see a Northern winter?” “Classic ‘Whimsical’ Edmure,” Ronald sighed, shaking his head with a smile.
Thanks to Lord Hoster’s praise, Edmure was well-known throughout the Riverlands for his kindness, his work with orphans, and his drive to educate others.
But the people who spent time with him daily called him “Whimsical” because he always came up with strange ideas.
For example, he insisted that everyone brush their teeth daily with willow twigs.
He planted willow trees along the river to collect their bark, planted odd crops in the castle gardens to select the best seeds, and ordered local villages to grow large plots of garlic for him to buy.
His most bizarre idea was going out into the fields himself to teach farmers how to mix mud, waste, and manure together to ferment into fertilizer.
At first, people thought it was embarrassing for a noble to do such dirty work.
Only Maester Weyman supported him.
But once the crops grew much larger and healthier, the critics quickly quieted down.
Edmure had also worked with local craftsmen and Maesters to design a lightweight wooden plow.
It was easy to use, but because it required horses or oxen to pull, most poor farmers couldn’t afford it yet.
Because so many of his strange projects actually worked, his friends trusted that Edmure always had a good reason for what he did, even if it seemed odd at first.
“Do you remember the stories of the ‘Winter Wolves’ and Cregan Stark?” Edmure asked, a hint of admiration in his voice.
“My ancestor, Lord Kermit, spoke of them with great respect.
Even Prince Aemon the Dragonknight said Cregan Stark was the best swordsman he ever faced.
Don’t you want to see the land that created warriors like that?” Marko Piper spoke up.
“I’ll go with you!” “How are we traveling?” asked Robb Paige.
“By land, formatted like a normal merchant caravan,” Edmure explained.
“We’ll bring supply wagons and a few guards.
The eastern road is too close to the mountains, where mountain bandits attack travelers during the winter.
Instead, we’ll take the western road through Fairmarket and cross the river at The Twins.” “Disguising ourselves as merchants is clever,” Hendry Bracken agreed.
“We won’t just be disguised—we really will be merchants,” Edmure corrected.
“Supplies are scarce in the North right now.
Gold isn’t useful if there’s nothing to buy, so the Northerners will eagerly trade for any useful goods we bring.” “Can I come too?” young Hugo Vance asked his older brother.
Ronald hesitated.
“Anyone who wants to come must get their father’s permission first,” Edmure said clearly.
“And no one younger than Hugo can join.
Traveling north in winter is dangerous.
I’ve asked my uncle, Ser Brynden Tully, to lead our group.
We leave in twenty days.” When Edmure mentioned his famous uncle, several of the older boys immediately grabbed paper and pens to write letters home to their parents.
Edmure returned to his room to finish an hour of paperwork before heading down to the training grounds with Bronn.
By now, the morning sun had cleared away the cold mist.
Despite the frozen ground, the training yard was full of energy.
Dozens of guards were working hard under their instructor’s supervision.
Edmure warmed up by shooting forty arrows with a bow—twenty with his right hand and twenty with his left.
Then he mounted a horse and shot twenty more arrows using a curved Dornish bow while riding.
Being able to shoot accurately with either hand, both on foot and on horseback, was one of Edmure’s greatest skills.
Next, he took off his cloak, put on a set of dented practice armor, and picked up a blunt sword and wooden shield to spar with Bronn.
Edmure was one of the best fighters among his peers, but Bronn was older, faster, and far more experienced.
Bronn knew that Edmure was already as strong as him, but Edmure lacked speed and real combat experience.
Still, Bronn believed that by the time Edmure turned nineteen, he would be almost impossible to defeat.
The two trained until they were exhausted and drenched in sweat.
Edmure’s daily routine was packed with both studies and physical training.
His afternoons were usually spent practicing mounted combat, spears, axes, and maces.
Because he was naturally strong and recovered from fatigue very quickly, he was able to handle a grueling training schedule that would exhaust most others.
His uncle had once said Edmure was born to be a heavy armored knight.
After finishing his morning routine, Edmure returned to the main keep, sent Bronn away, and walked up a wide spiral staircase.
Guards stood at the top and bottom of the stairs.
At the end of the hall was the top floor of the keep, which contained a study, a bedroom, a washroom, and a large balcony overlooking the river.
This was where his father, Lord Hoster Tully, lived.
Even though the room had large windows and fresh air, it always felt tense and quiet inside.
Two middle-aged men were sitting across from each other in silence.
Accustomed to the mood, Edmure bowed.
“Good day, Father.
Good day, Uncle Brynden.” Both men smiled when Edmure entered, brightening the room.
All three shared the same red hair and blue eyes, but they looked very different from one another.
At fourteen, Edmure was tall, neat, and looked unusually mature and focused for his age.
His uncle, Brynden Tully, was in his early forties with grey hair at his temples.
He wore tough leather armor, stood tall, and had the stern, focused look of a hardened soldier.
Lord Hoster was not yet fifty, but he looked much older and weaker than his younger brother.
His hair was turning grey, his face was pale, and he looked frail under his heavy fur cloak.
His eyes were usually dull, showing only occasional flashes of the clever leader he used to be.
Hoster coughed twice.
“Good day, my son.
Don’t push yourself too hard.
When summer returns, I will call our army together and show our strength to our enemies.” In the original history Edmure remembered, Lord Hoster had accomplished very little during his final years as ruler because of his failing health.
During a major war years ago, he had been severely wounded in battle, and his body had never fully recovered.
“Brother, everyone knows you are a powerful ruler,” Brynden said gently to Hoster.
“But Edmure’s plan is good.
You should let him try.” The two brothers often disagreed.
Years ago, Brynden had refused an arranged marriage set up by Hoster, leading to a massive argument.
Brynden had even changed his personal crest to a black trout to mock his brother calling him the “black sheep” of the family, and he had remained unmarried ever since.
Four years ago, Brynden had left to guard a distant fortress.
If Edmure hadn’t intervened, his uncle would have stayed away for years, leaving the Tully family without a strong military commander.
But Brynden was a legendary hero in the Riverlands, and Edmure knew his uncle’s presence would give their group instant respect.
“Father, don’t worry about me,” Edmure said softly.
“My friends are coming with me, and with Uncle Brynden leading us, our allies will know we are safe.” Edmure had worked hard to bring his father and uncle back together.
He needed both of them if his long-term plan to defeat the untrustworthy House Frey was ever going to work.