The training grounds of Riverrun were swollen with the return of the Lord's retinue. The air was thick with the scent of horse sweat, the rhythmic ring of iron on the anvil, and the boisterous shouts of men-at-arms reunited with their kin.
Ser Desmond Grell was in particularly high spirits, wearing a grin that seemed to suggest he enjoyed seeing the weight of Hoster's temper land solely on Edmure's shoulders. Edmure, however, had no time for the politics of the yard. He offered a curt nod to the guards and immediately set to his laps. He pushed the weight of his pack further, his lungs burning with every stride. He needed that Infinite Stamina perk—and he needed it before his mediocre swordplay became the talk of the Trident.
[Running: 5/10]
When he finally pulled up, gasping for air, Grell approached him. "Young Master, your father has granted leave for you to resume the blade. Shall we dispense with the bow today?"
"No," Edmure panted, wiping sweat from his eyes. "We do everything. Archery first. Set the mark at thirty paces. Don't worry, I won't repeat yesterday's antics. I've had my fill of scolding for one morning; I don't intend to look the fool twice."
"As you wish," Grell replied, his tone shifting to the instructional. "But today, we leave the random shooting in the past. Steady, timed shots. Precision over speed."
For the next hour, the yard echoed with the rhythmic thrum-clank of arrows finding their marks. Edmure worked through a rotation: a wooden shield, a straw dummy, and finally, a suit of old, rusted mail. He was careful now. He suppressed the urge to intentionally overstrain himself to grind his Healing skill; the eyes of Riverrun were upon him, and Hoster was not a man to tolerate perceived fragility.
Besides, Edmure had noticed the detail in morning scolding in the solar. Someone had been feeding Hoster reports of his slacking studies. While he had no proof, his knowledge of the TV show pointed to one shadow: Petyr Baelish. The boy was likely already honing the silver-tongued sabotage that would one day wreck kingdoms. Edmure had no intention of handing Petyr the ammunition to jeopardize his inheritance for the sake of a few skill points.
"Level 4 in Archery," Edmure murmured to himself, feeling the unnatural sharpness of his vision adjust. "I'm now as good as a peasant trained with bow. Now for the real test."
He signaled to Marq Piper to fetch his kit, but Grell stepped forward, swapping his steel for a heavy wooden practice sword.
"I'll be the one to test you, Edmure," Grell said firmly. "We don't need Lord Tully watching a page accidentally bruise his heir. I won't go easy, but I won't humiliate you. We're here to learn the shield, so you don't make a joke of yourself in the years to come."
Grell held the practice sword in one hand, his other kept free. "Pay attention. Always keep the shield between the threat and your vitals. In the chaos of a real fray—when you're blinded by your helm, choked by dust, or the sun is in your eyes—you won't have the luxury of thinking. You must hone the instinct to place the wood where the lethal blow will fall."
The first strike came fast. Thanks to his Archery buffs to reflex and learning feeding into observation, Edmure saw the arc of the wooden blade. He snapped the shield up, catching the blow on the rim rather than the flat. His wrists, though aching, held firm.
"Good," Grell grunted. "Now, angle it. Do not take a blow head-on if the man opposite you is stronger, or he will simply smash the shield into your own face. Deflect. Let his strength work against him."
Grell began to press, eventually shifting to a two-handed grip to increase the force. Thang. Thang. Thang.
A sharp grunt escaped Edmure as a particularly heavy blow rattled his bones. Even with perfect form, his boy's frame lacked the raw mass to completely dissipate the strike of a seasoned knight. But he didn't falter. He stayed in the pocket, his mind recording every vibration, every shift in Grell's weight.
"See?" Grell said, pausing for a moment. "Even in plate, the pain never truly dulls. You simply learn to survive it. Exercise your wrists tonight; it helps in the long run. Again."
For another hour, the household watched as the heir of the Trident was methodically thrashed by the Master-at-Arms. From the gallery, Catelyn watched with growing alarm, pleading with her father to intervene. But Hoster Tully remained motionless, his eyes fixed on his son's struggle.
Suddenly, a flicker of light behind Edmure's eyes signaled the breakthrough.
[Shield: 1/10 | Perk: +10% Threat Detection]
Level 10: Body as tough as cured Leather | Level 100: Body as tough as Steel | Level 1000: Apotheosis
Edmure broke into a sudden, triumphant grin. He had finally escaped the rank of the unskilled.
Thud.
While he was distracted by his success, Grell caught him with a lightning-fast strike to the shoulder. Instinct took over; Edmure's shield snapped into place almost of its own accord, absorbing the brunt of the impact before his mind even registered the move.
From the shadows of the colonnade, Hoster Tully watched the boy recover his footing. A small, almost imperceptible nod followed.
"The boy is teachable," Hoster murmured to himself, his face returning to its stoic, unreadable mask of iron.