"Maester, do our troops travel by boat within the Riverlands?" Edmure asked Vyman as they reached the first village of the trip.
The settlement was a non-descript place on the Red Fork, situated roughly halfway between Riverrun and Pinkmaiden. Their path followed the river's winding curve, a constant companion to their trek.
"Levies? Perhaps," Vyman replied. "But they are never detached for independent roles away from the larger bannerman host. As for knights? No. The boats on this river are usually grain barges and small cargo ships. They are not suited for knights, their mounts, their squires, and their heavy equipment. The process of embarking and disembarking is far too cumbersome."
Vyman adjusted his seat in the saddle. "Small patrols could use boats in theory, but their duty is to watch the land, not the waterways. Riverrun has remained secure for thousands of years because it is inland; we do not suffer pirate raids. House Mallister of Seagard has a stronger pedigree than we Tullys, but their focus is entirely on fending off Ironborn reavers. Unless we acquire merchant vessels during wartime for a ferry, we have no real waterway culture like the Volantene or the Rhoynar of Essos."
The village consisted of about a hundred souls. Its primary feature was a large watermill situated on the bank. Edmure led Vyman toward it, while Ser Desmond Grell shadowed them closely. Grell's usually cheery face was set in a mask of grim vigilance; Westeros had seen many heirs who never lived to enjoy their inheritance due to accidents on the road.
Edmure had studied sketches of such mills back at Riverrun, but seeing one in person highlighted the flaws in Westerosi drafting. The drawings he had seen were like someone sketching the exterior of a carriage when asked for its design—aesthetic, but functionally useless. The direction of forces, the individual gears, and the placement of bearings were often obscured by decorative flourishes.
Handing his sword to Grell, Edmure decided to produce a proper engineering drawing. He began to climb the mill, an act that drew the stunned gaze of everyone in the party.
He reached the top in a matter of heartbeats. It looked unnatural—not just because of his speed, but because the physical results didn't seem to match his efforts. His jumps gained heights that defied common physics, and his hands found ledges with the ease of a master acrobat. He was layering his Verticality boost with his threat detection perks, feeling out the safest, sturdiest paths.
Once perched at the top, he pulled out his paper and began to document. He drew the flow of the river, the turn of the wheel, the number of teeth on the primary gear, and the thickness of the housing.
His drawings spanned multiple pages. He utilized modern conventions: orthographic projections showing the same object from different angles and exploded views of complex assemblies. While Vyman struggled to interpret the sketches, Edmure added a glossary and potential formulae for gear ratios. He wasn't a master engineer, but he knew that recording these details now would prevent failures later.
Hoster approached, watching his son's madness with quiet curiosity. Seeing that even the Maester was engrossed in the scribbles, he allowed the delay to continue.
"Father," Edmure said as they eventually prepared to leave for Pinkmaiden. "I am not interested in building the world's largest mill. These sketches allow any mason to understand what is truly important. Without guidance, they think the stones and mortar do the work while the wooden gears are mere decorations. These aids mean that for every ten competent builders we have now, we can train eleven more."
He gestured to the surrounding fields. "I plan to document everything: bridges, jetties, and boats. If Riverrun orders a dozen mills built in a single year, we won't need to send a master to inspect them every week. In twenty years, our trade and grain could increase by a quarter, or even half. Imagine, Father, calling double the number of bannermen to your side. You would look quite dashing."
"Save your flattery, boy," Hoster replied, though a spark of interest lit his eyes. "But more swords would be a welcome sight. We Tullys are not the strongest house in the Riverlands. Others are wealthier, others have larger hosts, and some have more ancient names. Twenty years? It seems possible. I might even still be around to see it, along with that idiot brother of mine. Do not let us down, my child."
Hoster clearly preferred his son's wild ambitions for power and growth over his previous interest in painting.