Edmure felt intimidated standing before Lord Stark, who was around twenty-five years old.
The difference between them was vast.
At twenty-five, the old Edmure Tully had been an idle, careless youth.
A wandering singer in his fifties had even stolen his favorite bed warmer, leaving Edmure with a lifelong grudge against singers.
And what about Eddard Stark?
At eight years old, he was sent to the Vale as a ward to Jon Arryn, the Lord Paramount of the Eyrie.
At seventeen, after his father and brother were murdered, he snuck back home.
Though he was only a second son, he rallied the Northern lords he hadn’t seen in a decade, raised an army, and set out to avenge his family.
By nineteen, Eddard had fought in the Battle of the Bells, the decisive fight at the Trident, the lifting of the siege at Storm’s End, the taking of King’s Landing, and the Battle at the Tower of Joy.
Throughout it all, he commanded with steady resolve and won the loyalty of his lords.
He played a central role in Robert’s Rebellion.
By twenty, after the Targaryens were overthrown and the Baratheons took the throne, he was already a pillar of the new kingdom.
It was no easy task to convince someone who had achieved such fame and held such power at a young age to take advice.
Worse, Edmure was presenting himself as a fourteen-year-old minor.
That was why he had worked so hard during his visit to prove his worth and earn the Lord of Winterfell’s respect, ensuring he wouldn’t be dismissed as a child.
“Lord Stark, your way of ruling works well in the harsh North.
But if you ever head south, you must be careful.
The South is full of deceit; you cannot trust anyone’s words.
You can only trust yourself and your sword.” “The South?” the Lord of Winterfell said bitterly.
“Too many Northmen have gone south and never returned.
I hope to never go there again.” “Lord Stark, what kind of man was your brother?” Edmure asked as he stood up from the snow.
He had been kneeling before the heart tree for so long that his knees were numb.
“Do you think he was a better man than you?” Brandon Stark was a shadow hanging over Eddard and his wife, Catelyn.
Catelyn Tully had been betrothed to Brandon when she was twelve, and Brandon was meant to inherit Winterfell and become Warden of the North.
Years after his death, Brandon remained an open wound in Eddard’s heart; Ned felt as though he was living the life meant for his brother.
Edmure knew this secret and brought it up intentionally, but Eddard assumed it was just an innocent remark from his young brother-in-law.
“Wasn’t he?” The Lord of Winterfell stood up and looked into the distance, gazing at the moonlight or perhaps the castle walls.
“Brandon always knew what to do.
Whatever he did, he was confident and in control.
Everyone saw him as the true wild wolf.” “Back then, when Rhaegar Targaryen took your sister, Lady Lyanna, your brother rushed to King’s Landing.
He and a few companions foolishly broke into the Red Keep, demanding to duel Prince Rhaegar and take your sister back.” As Edmure spoke, he noticed that although Eddard’s back was turned, his hands were clenched into tight fists.
It was a painful memory, and House Tully was tied to that tragic past as well.
“Lord Stark, do you know how my father reacted when he heard the news?” The silent wolf said nothing.
“Your brother Brandon went to King’s Landing while on his way to Riverrun to marry my sister.
He was practically my father’s son-in-law already.
My father was furious.” Edmure had been eight or nine at the time, and he remembered it clearly.
Lord Hoster was not a quick-tempered man; he was usually careful, calculating, and even soft-hearted.
The lords of the Riverlands often asked him to settle their disputes—even House Blackwood and House Bracken, who had hated each other for thousands of years.
Seeing his father lose his temper in front of others was extremely rare.
“My father called your brother a fool playing the hero.” The Lord of Winterfell turned around, his face expressionless.
His anger was like the winter wind—invisible and sharp—sending a chill through Edmure.
“No one was playing the hero.
He was just a brother trying to bring his sister home.” “The ‘Mad King’ Aerys arrested your brother for treason,” Edmure said gently.
“Then your father was murdered, your sister died, and countless others lost their lives because of it.” Edmure paused, then added, “Forgive my bluntness, but that is the South.
Impulsiveness, naivety, and carelessness will get you killed.
Lord Stark, when you marched south before, you had a massive army at your back.
You only saw a glimpse of what the South is really like.
If you ever return without an army, please remember what happened to your brother.” He offered a faint smile.
“Of course, House Tully and I are your closest family in the South.” Bringing up these old wounds filled the Lord of Winterfell with grief and quiet anger.
He closed his eyes, his breath misting in the cold air.
After a long silence, he said softly, “Lord Edmure, thank you for your advice.” Edmure wasn’t sure how much Ned would take to heart, nor did he expect him to change his mind after a single conversation.
Seeing that Ned was deeply shaken, Edmure stopped poking at the past and brought up his future plans instead.
“Next year, I plan to travel to the South and Dorne.
I will pass by the Tower of Joy.
Lord Stark, I would like to ask your permission for something.” “Speak.” “Willam Dustin, Ethan Glover, Martyn Cassel, Theo Wull, and Mark Ryswell—I want to bring the remains of your five friends back home to the North.” Hearing those names—names he kept buried deep in his heart—the Lord of Winterfell opened his eyes wide, staring at Edmure as if trying to read his mind.
“You know about them?
Still, this is not your concern.
It is kind of you to offer, but no.” “What if I told you someone asked me to do it?” Edmure’s expression remained calm, just as it had been when he made up the story about Jon’s origins to tell the Blackfish and Catelyn.
“Lord Stark, those five men followed you into danger to save your sister.
In the end, Lady Lyanna came home, but your five loyal friends were left buried in a foreign land.
That hardly seems fair to their families.” “This is a private Northern matter, Lord Edmure,” Ned said, suppressing his grief and adopting the stern tone of a ruler wary of outside interference.
“Who asked you to do this?
Aren’t you meddling where you don’t belong?” Ned Stark had managed to hide the truth from almost everyone—his wife, his children, his foster father, his friends, and his enemies.
No one ever doubted his honor.
But his attempt to hide the truth now was useless against Edmure.
Edmure didn’t mind Ned’s defensive reaction, as Edmure was lying anyway.
No one had asked him to bring the bodies back.
However, he knew that a powerful Northern lord secretly resented House Stark over this issue.
If left unaddressed, that anger could grow into a dangerous threat later on.
Every lord in the Seven Kingdoms had vassals with divided loyalties—vassals who waited in the shadows for their liege to show weakness so they could take power, much like House Frey in the Riverlands.
Dealing with them required great care.
A liege lord couldn’t simply execute his bannermen out of suspicion.
The best strategy was always to solve the problem before it grew, using the gentlest means possible.
Edmure had originally planned to fix this issue quietly for House Stark.
The Northern lord who held the grudge didn’t want to overthrow Ned; it was simply a personal grievance.
However, Edmure realized that acting behind Ned’s back might create mistrust between them.
It was better to address it openly.
“Lord Stark, don’t overthink it,” Edmure said, pretending to be relaxed despite Ned’s cold glare.
“Haven’t you seen enough people trying to curry favor and smooth over political relationships?
Some people are too afraid to speak to you—the intimidating Warden of the North—so they came to me instead.
They probably thought I’d be easier to talk to.” He shrugged.
“Besides, bringing their remains home is a simple favor for me to carry out.” Ned remained silent, clearly burdened by heavy thoughts.
Edmure guessed that Ned was worried the truth about what happened at the Tower of Joy might be revealed.
Still, Edmure decided that even if Ned refused, he would see to it that those five noble Northern warriors were returned to their homeland.
Doing so would clear the grudge held by the Northern lord and protect House Stark’s alliance.
Handling it out in the open was far better than acting in secret.
Ned wasn’t going to march to Riverrun to punish him for it, and the Northern lords would likely feel grateful for the gesture.
“I shouldn’t keep my friends from coming home,” the Lord of Winterfell finally admitted with a heavy sigh, unable to ignore his conscience any longer.
“Thank you, Edmure.
I appreciate your help.” Ned slung Ice, his Valyrian steel greatsword, back over his shoulder.
The blade shone cleanly after being washed in the snow.
He gave Edmure a brief nod, signaling the end of their chat, and walked weary and silent toward the main keep, looking like a wounded wolf returning to its den.
“I hope Catelyn doesn’t blame me for upsetting him.
She’ll know how to comfort her husband,” Edmure thought.
He knew that while he had achieved his goal, he had forced Ned to confront painful memories.
Looking at the carved face of the weirwood tree, he muttered, “It’s time for me to leave the North.” The heir to Riverrun bowed to the heart tree, offering a silent farewell to the Greenseer, before turning away and stepping into the warm firelight glowing from the castle.