Outside, the wind rattled the canvas of the tent, but inside it was quiet, warm, and even comfortable—my uncle had done quite well for himself, all things considered. The fire crackled cozily in the hearth, and a pot of bubbling soup hung from a tripod. There was also a large bed covered with skins and screened off by partitions, a table, chairs, and benches. On the table, weighed down by daggers and cups, lay a map of Riverrun and the Riverlands. The floor of the tent was covered with coarse cloth for warmth and comfort. Yes — one could go to war like this.
"Best of luck with Edmure Tully," Daven saluted me with his cup and, grinning, took another deep gulp.
"I won't mind having some," I replied, following his example and sipping the wine—it turned out to be beyond praise. Yes, in war, people could not do without such small pleasures.
Jaime did not drink. Instead, he paced from one end of the tent to the other.
The guards brought in the prisoner, and at Jaime's nod they seated him on a bench, leaning his back against a support post and binding his hands behind him.
Edmure Tully turned out to be a stocky young man with blue eyes, a shaggy mane of uncombed red hair, and a bushy copper-colored beard. He looked far from well—it was obvious that no one had treated him gently during his captivity.
"How many Lannisters…" He looked at us with open hostility from beneath his tangled hair. His voice was hoarse and weary. "There are so many of you, yet you've tied me up. Are you afraid?"
"It's more for your own good, Lord Edmure," I replied serenely, as Jaime frowned. "We wouldn't want anything to interfere with our conversation."
"I'm not going to listen to a boy, let alone speak to him as an equal," Tully snapped.
"One more word in that tone, and I'll shut you up," Jaime said quietly. "You forget that you're speaking to King Joffrey."
"Thank you for your protection, Lord Commander," I said mildly. I was beginning to enjoy the situation. "It's amusing how short our prisoner's memory is. Not so long ago, you not only listened to Robb Stark—you obeyed him. And he was just as much a boy as I am."
"Oh ho ho!" Daven burst out laughing and, of course, choked on his wine. Clearing his throat, he shot me an encouraging wink.
"Well then, Lord Edmure, shall we talk?" I suggested.
"About what?"
"About your future—and the future of your house."
"So now you're going to threaten me…"
"I'm merely going to outline the situation. I hope you don't mind?" And without waiting for his consent, I continued. "The fact is, Lord Edmure, you are a common rebel who rose against his king."
"You are not the rightful king," Tully shot back defiantly, then turned his gaze to Jaime. "You are not the son of Robert Baratheon and therefore have no claim to the Iron Throne."
"Calm yourself, ser," I said, stopping Jaime, who was already drawing back his fist. "So, Lord Tully, you will support only the rightful sovereign?"
"That is correct."
"But even if everything is as you say, I still have a claim to the throne through my mother, Queen Cersei. She is, after all, the living queen. Men with far more distant ties to the Iron Throne have sat upon it before."
"That is not enough."
"Strange, then—why did you not support Stannis or Renly Baratheon in their claims, but instead follow Robb Stark?"
Daven roared with laughter again and, in his excitement, slammed his fist onto the table with such force that the boards cracked.
The guards peered into the tent, drawn by the noise. Jaime cast them a sharp glance, and they scattered as if blown away by the wind.
Edmure Tully hesitated, clearly unsettled. I suspected he was a good and decent man, but also a rather naïve one.
"My house supported the Starks in their struggle for independence," he said at last, trying to justify himself.
"Yes, you supported the rebels and conveniently forgot about Stannis Baratheon. And yet, by your own logic, he is the rightful king," I said, taking another sip of wine before continuing. "Now let us set aside all this verbal clutter—talk of lofty principles and distant ideals—and come to the heart of the matter. Everyone pursues only their own goals and fights for what is closest to them. You fought for your sister, Catelyn Stark, and for the rights of her children—your nephews. That was in your interest. You didn't concern yourself with legality or honor. Isn't that obvious?"
Edmure Tully snorted angrily, but he had nothing to say in response. Silence settled over the tent. Jaime crossed over to Daven, sat beside him, took a goblet, and drained it in a few quick swallows. Daven nodded approvingly and pushed a plate of roast pork, dressed in a thin, spicy sauce, toward him.
"But you lost, Lord Edmure," I went on.
"That doesn't change the question of who is right and who is wrong," he said stubbornly, shaking his head.
(End of Chapter)
Hey! It's a new week! Don't forget, your support is very important.
Please donate power stones, write reviews, and leave comments. It will be a huge help!
🎁 Bonus chapter at 50 power stones!
P.S. If you're into the Harry Potter universe, check out my new work Harry Potter: Richie