The sun rose over a Riverrun that felt fundamentally different. Edmure awoke from a sleep deeper and more restorative than any he had known, the Infinite Stamina perk seemingly having ironed out the residual fatigue of his soul. The atmosphere in his chambers had shifted, too; the servants attending him were no longer the simple castle staff, but the seasoned veterans of his father's personal retinue. They moved with a quiet, lethal efficiency, dressing the undisputed heir in silks that felt like a second skin.
After a breakfast richer than any he'd been served since his fever, Edmure made his way to the solar.
"Look at the shine on our heir's face," Vyman chuckled, looking up from a ledger. "You must have spent the night drowning in honey and dreams of glory, or so the servants whisper."
"One must suffer the burdens of the highborn, Maester," Edmure replied with a dry smirk. "I shall grit my teeth and endure these luxuries so that the common folk need not be troubled by them."
Vyman hid a grin behind a cough. "Well, well. It seems I know the flavor of today's lesson. I shall teach my young lord how to not ruin the fun he has so recently acquired. Do you know how many heirs have blown their chance at a lordship? The reasons are a list as long as the Trident, and I suspect there are many more the histories were too embarrassed to record. I simply hope you won't be the next entry."
"I am all ears," Edmure said, settling into a chair with a relaxed posture that bordered on the cynical. No longer did he feel the need to honey his words for survival; the approval of Hoster Tully had granted him a degree of honesty. "But in my view, there is only one true way to fall: by losing the key to the power that unlocked the door in the first place. For me, that is Father's approval. For a commander, it is the loyalty of his soldiers. For a slaver, it is the chain. Lose the source, lose the seat."
"Largely correct," Vyman conceded. "But you forget the unexpected. The accidents. Things for which there is no reason, only misery. It is my duty to make you wary of those. Do not place your survival in the custody of words, family, or even luck. Guards become assassins; family becomes rivals; stray arrows have a way of finding the hearts of heroes. Look at Daemon Blackfyre—struck down by arrow just moments after showing mercy to an opponent on the field."
"I am thankful for the warning," Edmure said, leaning in as if to spill a secret in a tavern. "But I have a fairly sharp sense for unexpected dangers. And as for leaving my safety to others? I'm no idiot. Between us, I can even tell you that I know exactly where the man who shot Daemon is currently hiding."
Vyman stared at him, then let out a delighted, childish chuckle. "Our wise heir outwits the old man again! Ser Grell will be heartbroken to hear you don't trust his steel, but I shall keep your secret. Are you a member of some society of the omniscient? I thought I was the only soul in the realm who speculated on where Brynden Rivers vanished to. The Citadel is full of theories, some say he's a shadow in Essos, others say he's a ghost on the Wall."
"I could tell you exactly where Bloodraven lives," Edmure said, his voice dropping to a pragmatic, cautious tone. "When the time is right, of course." He didn't want to keep Vyman in suspense, but he knew the Three-Eyed Raven was a creature of ancient, cold magic. Discussing him too loudly felt like inviting a tracing curse.
Vyman watched him for a solid minute, his eyes searching Edmure's face for a hint of a jest. Finding none, he sighed. "Most curious. That he still lives, and a young lord so far away knows it... it seems the magic in the blood of the First Men is more marvelous than us Maesters care to admit."
He cleared his throat, steering the conversation back to the mundane. "Enough of ancient sorcery. Let us speak of a more potent magic: Love. Many great men, including your uncle Brynden Blackfish, broke from their families for it. The allure is irresistible to the strong. Though, I suspect love is a silly concept to someone as cold-hearted as you—a boy who won't even take pity on his teacher's old age."
"On the contrary," Edmure chuckled. "I think love is wonderful. My policy is 'the more, the merrier.'"
"Seven help us!" Vyman exclaimed. "If your father, a man hopelessly in love with the memory of his wife, heard that, he'd beat you all the way to Harrenhall. I remember in our first session, you described yourself as 'a family of First men surrounded by Andals'. Are you planning to go against the Faith? House Tully fought the Faith Militant in the Battle of the Six Kings long ago. Even the Targaryens bled against them. Do you intend to 'right the wrong' and take multiple wives like the conquerors of old?"
"No, no," Edmure clarified, his eyes sharp. "I have habit of simply using any excuse to bend the outcome to my favor. I am ten years old. My first wife won't enjoy her marital bliss for at least eight more years. If, by that time, I have to fight a war just to expand my household, then I would have wasted these eight years of preparation, wouldn't I?"
Vyman stared at him, bewildered. "Ah! Your father must be so proud! An heir working for a decade just so he can spread his bliss like dandelions in the wind. I think I need a moment to digest this session. Go, run your laps. We shall speak of more... pious... matters tomorrow."
With a nod, Edmure left the solar, his body feeling charged with a boundless, tireless energy.