"How do you fare, Edmure? Do you truly feel strong enough for the yard?"
Catelyn stood in the doorway, her posture already radiating the poise of a highborn lady. There was a warmth in her eyes, though it was tempered by the duty she felt toward her younger brother.
"Better than I have in weeks, thanks to your care," Edmure replied, offering a practiced smile. "Maester Vyman has given me his blessing."
"Father will be pleased," she said, stepping into the room. "He returns from his inspection in a few days. I hear you've been quite the scholar in his absence. Tell me, if our father weren't visiting a foreign court, where in his own lands might he be?"
Edmure didn't miss a beat. His mind, now an archive of Riverlands geography, laid out the map before him. "He could be at the Twins to the north, visiting the Freys—though 'We Stand Together' is a motto they rarely honor. He might be at Seagard with the Mallisters, watching the sunset for Ironborn sails. Perhaps he's mediating between the Blackwoods and Brackens at Raventree Hall or Stone Hedge, or visiting the Pipers at Pinkmaiden."
He looked at her, expecting praise. Instead, Catelyn chided him with a grin.
"Impressive for a boy who lives in books, Edmure. But you are wrong. Father spends his time among the people—the crossroads inns, the small keeps along the Tumblestone. Not all answers are found on a map. Remember that."
With a playful pat on his shoulder, she departed, leaving Edmure momentarily stunned. The map is not the territory, he reminded himself. Rule one of the game: NPCs have patterns that lore books don't track.The training yard was a cacophony of steel on steel and the barked orders of Ser Desmond Grell, the Master-at-Arms. When Edmure approached, the veteran knight gave him a skeptical look.
"Maester says I'm fit for the grove, Ser. I'd like to resume."
"That you shall, young master," Grell joked, though his eyes were sharp. "Though your posture suggests I'll be earning my keep for years to come. Sword and shield, or just the blade?"
"Shield first," Edmure decided. "I'm still recovering. Flailing a sword will only tire me. I want to learn to defend, to deflect, and to wait for the opening."
"A sound plan," Grell grunted. "And like most plans, it will fail the moment the first blow lands. But very well."
The training was brutal. With his new eidetic memory, Edmure could see the page's wooden sword coming. He could analyze the trajectory and the force. But his body was a "slow PC" running high-end software. His brain sent the command, but the muscles lagged. He took a unilateral beating, the wooden sword clattering against his ribs and arms.
By the end of the hour, his wrists were screaming. The theory of "deflect, don't block" was easy to understand but agonizing to execute.
"My wrists, Ser," Edmure panted as they finished. "And my shoulders."
Grell showed him a series of strengthening exercises and promised an ointment for the swelling. As the knight walked away, Edmure checked his internal display. Nothing. No level-up notification for combat.
I really am a noob, he thought grimly. If I hadn't prioritized Learning first, this would be a story of nothing but sweat and failure.
That evening, he sought out the Maester again, asking to learn the properties of the herbs used in the ointment.
The old man looked at him over his spectacles. "A noble study, young master, but be careful. Highborn lords do not 'dabble' in apothecary work. If you wish to learn, frame it as 'overseeing' the health of your retinue. Your father prefers a son who leads, not one who grinds poultices."
He taught Edmure the basics of common herbs but ended with a stern warning. "Stay clear of sweetsleep, nightshade, and the milk of the poppy. Such things lead to darkness."
"I have no interest in the path of the Boltons, Maester," Edmure assured him. He had seen enough of substance abuse and poison in his previous life to know that "cheats" didn't come in bottles of poppy juice.
Back in his chambers, Edmure turned his room into a laboratory. Under the guise of "supervising" his servants, he was hands-on—grinding leaves, measuring tinctures, and refining the ointment for his aching joints. He wasn't just making medicine; he was grinding XP.
Suddenly, the flicker returned:
[Healing: 1/10 | +10% treatment Effectiveness
Level 10 = +100% Effectiveness. Equivalent to Renowned Healer of the Realms, Encyclopedic knowledge of all plants and animals.
Level 100: +1000% Effectiveness. Magical Healing Unlocked
Level 1000: +10000% Effectivenes. Apotheosis]
"So, I'm a natural at medicine and a disaster with a sword," Edmure muttered, rubbing the homemade salve into his sore wrists. "The only son of the Lord Paramount, preparing to be a world-class punching bag until the numbers go up. Such is life."
He lay back, his body aching but his mind sharp. Tomorrow, the beating would resume. And tomorrow, he would be slightly faster.